In which there is a discussion about a symbol and its extraordinary import. In which Reynevan, having committed evil, tries to correct his error and wash away his guilt with blood. And Zbigniew Oleśnicki, the Bishop of Krakow, changes the course of history, doing so ad maiorem Dei gloriam.

Thus comes death, thought Parsifal Rachenau, vainly trying to prevail against the overwhelming cold, lethargy and sleepiness. I’m going to die. I’ll part company with life here, in these wild forests, without a priest, without the sacraments and without even a funeral, and neither my father nor my mother will know where my bleached bones are lying. Will the beautiful Ofka of Baruth shed even a single tear for me? Will she think of me longingly? Oh, what an ass I was not to declare my love to her! Why didn’t I fall at her feet…?

And now it is too late. Death approaches. I shan’t ever see Ofka again.

His horse tossed its head and as Parsifal swayed in the saddle, he felt a twinge of pain and became fully awake. It stinks of smoke, he thought. And fire.

Something was burning here…

“Rudki’s just beyond the trees,” said a voice beside him. The rider to whom the voice belonged melted in Parsifal’s feverish eyes into a dark shape, vague and demonic.

“You should find your comrades over there. Keep to the track and don’t fall from the saddle. Farewell, laddie.”

It’s that barber-surgeon, thought Parsifal, making every effort to keep his eyelids from drooping. The physician with the strangely familiar features. He saved me and dressed my wounds… And people said that Huss’s followers are worse than the Saracens, that they show no quarter and kill mercilessly…

“M’Lord… I am grateful… Thank you…”

“Thank the Lord. And say a prayer from time to time. For the lost soul of a sinner.”

Birds sang, frogs croaked, clouds floated across the sky and the Przemsza wound among the wetlands. Reynevan breathed a sigh of relief.

A little prematurely.

There were eight horses in front of the tar kiln, including one beautiful black and one extremely beautiful grey. A thin trickle of smoke curled up from the thatched roof. Reynevan immediately reined around his steed. The eight horses didn’t belong either to the tar maker or to peasants; battleaxes, hatchets and clubs were hanging from the saddles, so their owners were military men. He meant to steal away quietly before they noticed him. But it was too late.