The sun was sinking lower and lower over the dark forest. Cranes flying westwards gave their bugle-like calls as frogs in the swamp by the river began a raucous concert. And the dry hillside at the edge of the forest resounded with the language of Virgil.

Reynevan talked about his recent history and described his adventures. Scharley listened—or at least pretended to. The priory hulk, Samson, was staring vacantly at something or other, and his chubby physiognomy continued to be free of any noteworthy emotions.

Reynevan’s tale was, naturally, only the preamble to the main thrust—another attempt to draw Scharley into armed intervention against the Sterczas. Nothing came of it, naturally. Not even when Reynevan began to tempt the penitent with the prospect of big money—without, of course, any idea where that money would be obtained from. In any case, the issue was purely academic since Scharley rejected the offer. The dispute was revived, with both parties making copious use of classical quotations—from Tacitus to Ecclesiastes.

“Vanitas vanitatum, Reinmar! Vanity of vanities and all is vanity! Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry, ‘for anger resteth in the bosom of fools.’ Remember—melior est canis vivus leone mortuo, a living dog is better than a dead lion.”

“Come again?”

“If you don’t abandon your foolish plans of revenge, you’ll be dead, because those plans mean certain death to you. And even if I’m not killed, I’ll be thrown in gaol again. And not for a vacation in a Carmelite priory this time, but into a dungeon, ad carcerem perpetuum. Or a lengthy term of in pace in the monastery, which they consider merciful. Do you know, Reinmar, what in pace is? It’s being buried alive. In a cellar, in a cell so cramped and low that you can only sit, and as the amount of excrement increases, you have to stoop more and more so as not to scrape your head on the ceiling. You must be out of your mind if you think I’ll risk something like that for your cause. And such a murky cause, to boot.”

“What’s murky about it?” Reynevan asked indignantly. “My brother’s tragic death?”

“The circumstances around it.”

Reynevan pursed his lips and turned his head away. For a while, he looked at the giant Samson sitting on the tree stump. He looks different in some way, he thought. He still has the face of a moron, but something’s changed. What?

“There’s nothing unclear about the events surrounding Peterlin’s death,” Reynevan continued. “Kyrie-eleison murdered him. Kunz Aulock et suos complices. Ex subordinatione and for the Sterczas’ money. So the Sterczas ought to bear—”

“Weren’t you listening to what your relative Dzierżka was saying?” interrupted Scharley.

“I was. But I didn’t attach any weight to it.”