You look at Baldwin, and your hands are shaking, as if a little more and you will cry, feeling a terrible mental heaviness in your own hands. The blood on your hands is bright, bitter, sacrificial, thoughts get confused in your head, and you catch yourself thinking that you are unthinkable, unbearably afraid for him. He, he holds the whole world in his hands, his world filled with faith, filled with his suffering, and these damn hard days spent hiking.

Scarlet, crimson, sacrificial blood pours from your hands, flows down in thin paths, streams, through your fingers, as if a couple of minutes ago the blood of a holy martyr sprinkled him in the hot air of Jerusalem — but you feel that the air is incredibly hot today, that it is difficult for him to breathe, incredibly painful, and you look at him, with trembling hands, fingering imaginary rosaries.

The lamb of God, the sacrifice, the deity — everything is blurred in a single moment, you have blood on your face, small droplets, dripping with sweat, and, by God, it seems to you that these are tears, slipping from your long eyelashes, and your look is painful, that you don't need words.

"I didn't want to kill them." But I'll kill anyone for you. Baldwin turns his warm eyes, one of which is damaged by leprosy and it is visible even through his mask, looking into your tangle of doubts — the heart, the knot that does not want to breathe — into the soul itself, naked and shameless. There is something divine about it. Great and divine, by no means connected with the forgiving father of all living things.

"You have fulfilled the will of God." His shoulders were not too wide, the Сross on his back — subcutaneously everyone was afraid of him, anticipating a wolf in sheep's clothing, but as time went on, his gaze became softer and softer, and looking at you caused him a short, barely noticeable smile on his expressive lips. Even though you couldn't see it, you could feel it.