Samson walked slowly between the two units, leading the children. As he walked, weapons were lowered before him, were laid down at his feet. At first seemingly unwillingly, then more and more eagerly. The murderous blades of halberds and gisarmes, the blades of voulges and partisans, the blades of bear spears and corseques, the blades of spears and the slender points of pikes were lowered, clinking against the cobbles. They were lowered before Samson. They bowed down before him. Honouring him. In complete silence.

Walking through the iron avenue, Samson reached the gate. Scharley, Reynevan and several Czechs ran forwards, seized the children and pulled them away. Samson stood up straight and sighed deeply, with relief.

It was as if the spell had fallen from the men fighting by the gatehouse and they fell on each other again, yelling. And one of the gunners in a window hooked his gun onto a windowsill and brought the smouldering fuse to the touch hole.

Samson staggered and groaned softly. And tumbled to the ground. Face down.

A single glance was enough for Reynevan. He raised his head. And shook it. Feeling his lips beginning to tremble uncontrollably.

“Dammit, Samson!” yelled Scharley, kneeling beside him. “Don’t do this to me! Don’t do it to me, dammit! Don’t you dare!”

Samson’s eyes glazed over. Blood spouted in pulses from the wound, staining the snow.

That same Sunday, Father Homolka, parish priest of Saint John the Baptist’s in Šumperk, chose as the topic of his sermon the story of Tobias of Nineveh, Tobias ever faithful to God, Tobias the old and blind. The parish priest talked about how the son of Tobit, Tobias the Younger, was sent by his father to the town of Rages in Media, and not knowing the route journeyed there with a hired guide and a dog.

Mrs. Blažena Pospíchalová yawned furtively. Hearing a sigh, she glanced over at Marketa, who was standing beside her. The red-headed girl had her mouth slightly open and appeared to be drinking in the preacher’s every word. Didn’t she know the Book of Tobit? Was it really the first time she’d heard that parable? No, thought Mistress Blažena, she simply enjoys stories like that. Long, complicated and charming stories about journeys and obstacles being overcome. Parables, fables, fairy tales that—though terrible on the face of it—always end well. Plenty of folk like listening to such tales, and not without reason do priests choose them for their sermons. People aren’t so bored by them.