"Moreover, this I must add--and mind you tell it to your parents when you get home--that nothing is so good in these dangerous times as to drink one glass of brandy in the early morning on an empty stomach, another in the afternoon, a third on lying down, and as many times more as one feels any foreign substance in the stomach. That is the best remedy of all. And, Guszti Klimpa! mind you don't forget to inform your dear father that your schoolmaster, the rector, is very much afraid of the morbus, and that my spirit flask is still with you." Guszti Klimpa's face assumed a pious expression at this reminder, and shoving beneath his hymn-book the shaft of his quill pen out of which he was manufacturing a pocket pistol, he promised to deliver the message at home. "And now let us sing a hymn and say a prayer. And after that there will be no more school till the morbus has departed." Great was the joy of the promising youths at these words. Guszti Klimpa fired off his improvised pistol underneath the bench, and the pellet hit Mr. Kordé full on the nose, whereupon he well trounced Jóska Slipik, though he knew very well that he was not the culprit. Whilst the wrongfully flogged urchin was still howling, the others began singing the hymn. So long as the low notes predominated Mr. Kordé's voice was alone audible, but at the crescendoes the youthful believers had it all their own way, and shrieked till the windows rattled, the rector beating time the while by lightly tapping the heads of the Faithful with his ruler whenever they departed from the impracticable melody. After that, Guszti Klimpa grappled with a prayer, and recited the morning devotions instead of the evening devotions by mistake, a lapse of which the rector, however, took no notice. The Amen was no sooner uttered than the youngsters, with a wild yell, made a solid rush for the door, bearing in mind Mr. Kordé's laudable habit on such occasions of lambing it into the hindermost by way of protesting against the general uproar. When the whole class was fairly out in the street again, its delight at being released from school for some time to come was too much for it, and in the exuberance of its high spirits it fell tooth and nail upon the Lutheran lads who were playing at ball in front of their own church, broke a couple of their heads, scribbled: "Vivat vacatio" on the walls of every house they came to, slammed to every gate they passed, and roused every dog in the village to fury pitch--thus giving the whole world to understand that the rector, Mr. Michael Kordé, had given his promising pupils an extraordinary holiday, because the morbus was coming, and it was not good for people to congregate together at such times. * * * * * And now the village ancients and the women were trooping home from church. Every face was dominated by an expression of dumb terror.