“Yes, mother.”
“And will they trust in you?”
“I do not know, mother. If we had been living a thousand years earlier, I should, perhaps, set out on the high road, with pilgrim’s staff and cockle hat, and seek the way to the Holy Land of my belief, not returning home until I had cooled my feet, hot from wandering, in the Jordan, and, in the places of redemption, had prayed to the Redeemer. And, if I were not the man I am, it might come to pass that I should set out on a journey along the roads of those who walk in the shadow. I should, perhaps, sit with them in the corners of misery and learn to comprehend their groans and their curses into which a life of hell has transformed their prayers.... For, from comprehension comes love, and I am longing to love mankind, mother.... But I believe that acting is better than making pilgrimages, and that a good deed is worth more than the best of words. I believe, too, that I shall find the way to do so, for there are two standing by me, who wish to help me....”
“Three, Joh....”
The eyes of the son sought the gaze of the mother.
“Who is the third?”
“Hel....”
“... Hel—?...”
“Yes, child.”
Joh Fredersen remained silent.