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had been unable to pass himself off to her as Kostandin. No, Stres thought, the reward theory doesn’t stand up. But then why had the unknown man gone to Doruntine in the first place? Was it just a commonplace deception, an attempt to kidnap her and sell her into slavery in some godforsaken land? But that made no sense either, for he had in fact brought her back home. The idea that he had set out with the intention of kidnapping her and had changed his mind en route seemed highly implausible to Stres, who understood the psychology of highwaymen. Unless it was a family feud, some vendetta against her house or her husband’s? But that seemed unlikely as well. Doruntine’s family had been so cruelly stricken by fate that human violence could add nothing to its distress. Nevertheless, a careful consultation of the noble family’s archives – the wills, actsof succession, old court cases – would be wise. Perhaps something could be found that would shed some light on these events. But what if it was only the trick of an adventurer who simply felt like galloping across the plains of Europe with a young woman of twenty-three in the saddle? Stres breathed a deep sigh. His mind’s eye wandered back to the vast expanse he had seen on the one occasion he had crossed it, when his horse’s hooves, as they pounded through puddles, had shattered the image of the sky, the clouds and the church steeples reflected in them, and the trampling of such things in the mud had struck him as so destructive, so apocalyptic that he had gone as far as to cry out to the Lord for forgiveness. A thousand and one thoughts tumbled through his mind, but he kept returning to the same basic question: Who was the night rider? Doruntine claimed she hadn’t seen him clearly at first; she thought he was Kostandin, but he was covered with dust and almost unrecognisable. He had never dismounted, had declined to meet anyone from his brother-in-law’s family (though they knew each other, for they had met at the wedding) and had wanted to travel only by night. So he was determined to keep himself hidden. Stres had forgotten to ask Doruntine whether she had ever caught a glimpse of the man’s face. It was essential that he ask her that question. In any event, it could not reasonably be doubted that the traveller had been careful to conceal his identity. It was insane to imagine that it could really have been Kostandin, although that was by no means the only issue at stake here. Obviously he wasn’t Kostandin, but by this time Stres was even beginning to doubt that the girl was Doruntine.
    He pushed the table away violently, stood up and left in haste, striding across the field. The rain had stopped. Here and there the weeping trees were shaking off the last shining drops. Stres walked with his head down. He reached the door of the Vranaj house in less time than he thought possible, strode through the long corridor where he found even more women attending the afflicted mother and daughter, and entered the room where they both languished. From the door he saw Doruntine’s pale face and her staring eyes, now with blue-black crescents beneath them. How could he have doubted it? Of course it was her, with that look and those same features that her distant marriage hadn’t altered, except perhaps to sprinkle them with the dust of foreignness.
    “How do you feel?” he asked softly as he sat down beside her, already regretting the doubts he had harboured.
    Doruntine’s eyes were riveted on him. There was something unbearable about that ice-cold stare into the abyss, and Stres was the first to look away.
    “I’m sorry to have to ask you this question,” he said, “but it’s very important. Please understand me, Doruntine, it’s important for you, for your mother, for all of us. I want to ask you whether you ever saw the face of the man who brought you back.”
    Doruntine carried on staring at him.
    “No,” she finally answered, in a tiny voice.
    Stres