The traveller Urban Horn mentioned turned out to be a priest, a fat man with a high tonsure, wearing a cloak trimmed with polecat fur, driving a large wagon.

The priest reined in his horse, listened to their account from the box seat, examined the wagon with the broken axle, scrutinised each of the three people standing imploringly before him, and finally understood what they were asking.

“You want a ride?” he finally said in great disbelief. “To Strzelin? On my wagon?”

The three of them struck even more imploring poses.

“I, Filip Granciszek of Oława, parish priest of Our Lady of Consolation, a good Christian and Catholic, am to invite onto my wagon a Jew, a whore and a vagabond?”

Reynevan, Dorota Faber and Rabbi Hiram ben Eliezer looked at each other bashfully.

“Oh, get on,” the priest finally announced dryly. “I’d look a right twat if I didn’t.”

Not an hour had passed before Beelzebub, shining with dew, ran up beside the dun gelding pulling the priest’s wagon. And a little later, Urban Horn appeared on the road on his black horse.

“I’ll ride with you as far as Strzelin,” he announced. “If, naturally, you have nothing against it.”

No one did.

No one asked about the fate of the rogues. And Beelzebub’s wise eyes gave away nothing.

Or everything.

They rode along the Strzelin highway, along the Oława valley, now among dense forests, now across moors and vast meadows. The mastiff Beelzebub ran in front like a footman, patrolling the road, occasionally vanishing into the forest where he ferreted around in the undergrowth. The black dog didn’t chase or bark at hares or jays, however, since that was clearly beneath him. Urban Horn, the mysterious stranger with the cold eyes riding alongside the wagon on his black horse, never had to call or rebuke the dog.

Dorota Faber drove the priest’s wagon, which was being pulled by a dun gelding. The red-haired harlot from Brzeg begged the parish priest to let her and evidently regarded it as a kind of payment for the ride. And she drove splendidly, with great skill. Thus, Father Filip Granciszek, who was sitting beside her on the coachman’s seat, could doze or converse without worrying about the conveyance. Reynevan and Rabbi Hiram ben Eliezer sat on sacks of oats and dozed or chatted.

The Jew’s scrawny mare shambled at the rear.

Thus, they rode, dozed, conversed, took breaks, conversed and dozed. They ate this and that. They downed a clay pitcher of vodka that Father Granciszek found among his chests. They drank another that Rabbi Hiram pulled from his overcoat.