It was a very hot evening.
The sun had set in a pink haze which was now turning to an unhealthy gray, and spreading over the face of the western sky like the shadow of death across the human countenance.
The starosta shook his head forebodingly.

It was cholera weather.
Cholera had come to Osterno.

Had come, the starosta thought, to stay.

It had settled down in Osterno, and nothing but the winter frosts would kill it, when hunger-typhus would undoubtedly succeed it.
Therefore the starosta shook his head at the sunset, and forgot to regret the badness of the times from a commercial point of view.

He had done all he could.