‘Do you have a looking glass?’

‘I do not,’ he lied.

She looked at him totally clear-headed, possibly for the first time.

‘You mean it’s that bad?’ she asked, cautiously running her fingers over the stitches.

‘It’s a very long cut,’ he mumbled, angry at himself that he was making excuses and justifying himself to a girl. ‘Your face is still swollen. In a few days I shall remove the sutures. Until then I shall be applying wolfsbane and extract of willow. I shall no longer bandage your entire head. It’s healing nicely. Very nicely.’

She did not reply. She moved her mouth and jaw, and wrinkled and contorted her face, testing what the wound permitted and what not.

‘I’ve made pigeon broth. Will you eat some?’

‘I will. But this time I’ll try by myself. It’s humiliating to be spoon-fed when I’m not paralysed.’

Eating took her a long time. She lifted the wooden spoon to her mouth cautiously, using as much effort as if it weighed two pounds. But she managed without the help of Vysogota, who was observing her with interest. Vysogota was inquisitive–and burning with curiosity. He knew that the girl’s return to health would lead to conversations which could throw light on the whole mysterious matter. He knew it and couldn’t wait for that moment. He had lived too long alone in the wilderness.

She finished eating and sank back onto her pillow. For a moment she gazed lifelessly at the ceiling and then turned her head. The extraordinarily large green eyes, Vysogota realised once again, gave her face an innocently childlike expression, now clashing violently with her hideously disfigured cheek. Vysogota knew those looks; a big-eyed, permanent child, were a physiognomy arousing an instinctive sympathetic reaction. A perennial girl, even when her twentieth, thirtieth, why, even fortieth birthday had long ago sunk into oblivion. Yes, Vysogota knew those looks well. His second wife had been like that. And his daughter, too.

‘I must flee from here,’ the girl suddenly said. ‘Urgently. I’m being hunted. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I do,’ he nodded. ‘Those were your first words, which contrary to appearances were not ravings. To be more precise, they were among the first. First you asked about your horse and your sword. In that order. Once I had assured you that your horse and sword were in good hands, you became suspicious that I was the comrade of a certain Bonhart and wasn’t treating you but inflicting the torture of hope. When, not without difficulty, I put you right, you introduced yourself as Falka and thanked me for saving you.’