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a fact of which no one in Rosenheim was yet aware, Stefan was returning home when his horse shied away from something lying in the ditch. Bringing the cart to a halt, Stefan set the brake and climbed down to see what had startled the animal. What he found was a man, clothed in little more than rags and so bruised about the face that at first he appeared to be dead. But as Stefan dragged the body from the ditch, ready to bring it to the undertaker, the stranger opened his eyes.
    ‘Don’t hit me again,’ he pleaded deliriously, his lips split and teeth stained red.
    ‘There is nothing to fear,’ Stefan assured him as he wiped the man’s face with a handkerchief. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Who did this to you?’
    The man said his name was Anatoli Bolotov and that he was a pilgrim from the village of Markha, near the city of Irkutsk in Siberia. Judging from the state of his clothes and the fact that his only possession was a Bible, Stefan had little reason to doubt that the pilgrim was telling the truth. After two years of wandering the country, Bolotov had just begun his journey home when he walked into the town of Krasnoyar.
    There, while begging for food, he had been set upon, beaten senseless and heaved into a ditch on the outskirts of the town by some of the same people who had made a sport of beating Stefan Kohl.
    Recalling the times he had stopped on this same road to wipe the blood from his own face, Stefan lifted Bolotov on to the cart, since the man was too weak to climb aboard himself. Then he brought the pilgrim into Rosenheim and presented the man to his father.
    After hearing Bolotov’s story, and seeing the Bible he clutched against his chest, Viktor Kohl warily agreed to feed him and put a roof over his head for the night. ‘But only one night!’ he decreed.
    At the table, while they ate, Bolotov spoke of his travels across Russia.
    At first, Viktor Kohl seemed to warm to the man, impressed by his ability to quote so freely from the Scriptures, but there came a point in the evening, as Bolotov began to speak about the details of his faith, that the look in Viktor’s eyes began to change.
    ‘It is on our own flesh,’ said Bolotov, ‘that we must inscribe our dedication to the Lord.’
    ‘And what is meant by that?’ demanded Viktor Kohl.
    ‘The end is near,’ explained Bolotov, ‘and we must abandon not only the consolations of the flesh, but the things that make such consolation possible.’
    Viktor Kohl set down his knife and fork. Slowly, he pushed his plate away and rose to his feet, watched by his wife, Christiana, and his son, neither of whom had yet fathomed the meaning of those words.
    ‘I know you now,’ whispered Viktor Kohl. ‘I know what group of outlaws you belong to and I will not foul the air in this house by even mentioning their name.’
    ‘I will not deny it to a fellow man of God,’ replied Bolotov.
    ‘There is no fellowship between a man like me,’ said Viktor, his lip curling in disgust, ‘and one who does what you have done in the name of Jesus Christ.’
    ‘These are they,’ Bolotov answered defiantly, ‘who follow the Lamb wheresoever he goeth. These alone are redeemed.’
    ‘Do not obscure your deeds with holy words!’ shouted Viktor, aiming a finger at the door. ‘Now get out!’
    ‘You promised to take him in,’ argued Stefan. ‘What has he done to offend you, except to speak his mind?’
    But Bolotov was already on his feet, a look of tired resignation on his face. He turned to Christiana, who by now could only stare at him in uncomprehending fear. ‘I thank you for the meal,’ he told her quietly.
    ‘You can’t just throw him out into the night!’ Stefan protested.
    ‘He is no stranger to the darkness, I assure you,’ answered Viktor.
    As Bolotov left the house, Stefan followed him out.
    It was raining and the air was raw and cold, although Bolotov barely seemed to notice.
    ‘Forgive my father, please,’ begged Stefan.
    ‘Do not blame