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Several days have passed, but nothing has changed. In the mornings, the old doctor came, examined the prisoner's chest and nodded, in every possible way showing that everything was going well. Isstvan's wound had healed, his weakness was almost gone, and he felt great. Only the constant expectation of death unnerved and unsettled. But the Indians did not touch him. From time to time one of them came into the hut, asked something, tried to explain, but Istvan did not understand a word.

He lay for days on end, remembering Agnieszka, Lucrezia, Mario... He saw them equally distant, almost unreal. Here, under a roof of skins, it was almost impossible to believe that his life in Europe was a reality. Istvan was separated from her by thousands of kilometers, but it seemed like thousands of years.

That morning, as usual, the same girl woke him up, she brought breakfast. Istvan ate the corn porridge with pleasure, washed it down with a tart, cloudy liquid, and took up the Bible again. But with