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 want you,” he roared, for he was afraid that there would be pain again, but the butcher only placed his head on his chest and breathed heavily. In front of him he saw a pair of dark and angry eyes which fascinated him. The butcher got up and said to somebody behind: “Influenza and pneumonia. Take Her Excellence away. It’s infectious.” Some one spoke as if under water and the doctor answered: “If it develops into inflammation of the lungs—then” Prokop realized that he was lost and that he would die, but the knowledge left him completely indifferent; he had never imagined that it would be so simple. “A hundred and five,” said the doctor. Prokop had one wish: that they would let him sleep until the time came for him to die, but instead they wrapped him up in something cold,—ough! At last they began to whisper. Prokop closed his eyes and knew no more about anything.

When he woke up, two dark, elderly gentlemen were standing over him. He felt very much better. “Good-morning,” he said and tried to raise himself up. “You mustn’t move,” said one of the gentlemen and gently pushed him back into the pillows. Prokop obediently lay still. “But I’m better, am I not?” he asked contentedly. “Naturally,” said the other gentleman evasively, “but you mustn’t move about. Quietness, you understand?”

“Where’s Holz?” asked Prokop suddenly.

“Here,” came a voice from the corner, and Mr. Holz appeared at the end of the bed with a terrible scratch and a blue mark on his face, but otherwise as dry and skinny as ever. And behind him was Krafft, Krafft, who had been forgotten in the bathing-place,