For a good two hours they didn’t hear any sounds of pursuers behind them, but in spite of that, Tybald Raabe didn’t dare slow the pace even for a moment, not until the pale sun reached its zenith.

“We’ll stop…” he panted out. “And dismount. We must let the horses rest… I don’t think they’re following us any more… I think we made it. Jutta—”

His voice stuck in his throat. Weronika burst out crying.

“She’s the best rider among us…” uttered the goliard. “The best… She’ll cope…”

Sobs were shaking Weronika’s body.

“We must get help,” Tybald decided. “We are close to the road leading to Kulmbach and Kronach, the Hussites must be nearby. Weronika, please stop…”

Weronika couldn’t. She was sobbing louder and louder. And although tears are usually in vain, offer no help and don’t improve one’s predicament, this time it was different. The bushes rustled. A horse whinnied. And four riders rode into the clearing.

“Reynevan!” yelled the goliard. “Scharley! Samson!”

“That weeping was a good idea,” said the penitent, greeting them. “If you hadn’t been we would have ridden past.”

As he talked, a deathly pallor covered Tybald’s face. But Reynevan stayed calm. Or understood that he couldn’t hold any grudges or grievances against the goliard, or he simply wasn’t in the mood for grudges or grievances. It was probably the latter, for after listening, he instantly leaped to his feet and mounted his horse.

“We must ride!” said Tybald, also springing up. “We must ride to her rescue without delay! I’ll show you the way! Give me one of those spare horses, mine won’t manage even another furlong—”

“What about her?” asked Rixa, pointing at Weronika, face red from crying and nose still running.

“She can ride with us.”

“No!” screamed Weronika of Elsnitz at the top of her voice. “I won’t! Not for anything! I’ve had enough, enough, I can’t take any more! I want to return to my convent! I want to go back to my conveeeent!”

“Very well,” said Tybald, nodding. “Ramusz will accompany you to Cronschwitz. Farewell, Miss.”

“Rescue… Jutta…”

“We shall.”

A fence loomed up in front of Jutta. She urged the horse to jump and cleared it. She landed on a level dirt floor, between the cottages and shacks of a deserted village. On her left she saw a large granary; on her right, the torn sails of a windmill on a hillock showing faintly in the fog.

The horse snorted and wheezed, its bit and bridle entirely covered in froth, its neck hot, wet and slippery. But the pursuers weren’t slowing, the Black Riders’ horses weren’t weakening; she could still hear cries and the tramping of hooves behind her.