Zebulon racked his brains for a plan of escape from his illustrious patron, but all in vain. The patron was too fond of him. He had even tried to pick a quarrel with Rideghváry; but the other would not so much as lose his temper. Since their last talk, however, Zebulon was more than ever determined to shake off his affectionate friend. "If you won't let me run away from you," said he to himself, "I will make you run away from me." He had been pondering a scheme of his own ever since he chanced to see a Cossack eating raw cucumbers on an empty stomach. The Cossack plucked the cucumbers in a garden, and munched them with the greatest apparent relish. The plan was further developed as he watched the preparation of a dainty dish for the epicures of the Russian camp. Turnips and beets were cut up together, mixed with bran, and then boiled in an immense kettle, the finishing touch being added by dipping a pound of tallow candles into the steaming mixture. The candles came out thinner, to be sure, but were still serviceable for illumination, while the stew was rendered perfect. Zebulon's scheme attained to full development when the cholera broke out so fiercely in the Russian army that even a disastrous battle could hardly have wrought greater havoc. Rideghváry was mortally afraid of the cholera, carried in his bosom a little bag of camphor, wore flannel over his abdomen, shook flowers of sulphur into his boots, always disinfected his room with chloride of lime, drank red wine in the evening and arrack in the morning, and chewed juniper berries during the day. On this weakness of the illustrious man Zebulon counted largely for the success of his scheme. Entering a druggist's shop one evening, he asked for an ounce of tartar emetic. The apothecary was disinclined to furnish the drug without a physician's order, but Zebulon cut his objection short. "Doctor's prescription not necessary," said he sharply. "I prescribe for myself--exceptional case. If I say I must have it, that's enough." And he received his _tartarus emeticus_, divided into small doses. In the night, while Rideghváry was asleep, Zebulon took two doses of his emetic. Honour to whom honour is due! Every man has his own peculiar kind of heroism. In Zebulon it was an heroic deed to bring on himself an artificial attack of cholera at a critical time like that. But his scheme worked admirably. The audible results of the double dose of tartar emetic awakened Rideghváry from his slumbers. With one leap from his bed, he landed in the middle of the room, and ran into the passageway, shouting: "The cholera is here! the cholera is here!" He left his clothes lying in the room, and procured fresh ones to put on. Whatever luggage and papers of his were in the bedchamber, he ordered to be fumigated before he would touch them. Then, calling for his carriage, he drove out of the town in all haste.