“Jeg forstar ikke” to show that I didn’t understand, and it sounded so hellish flat I could have burst into tears. Slowly an ugly look came over his fair young face.

“Ny,” he said slowly. “De forstar my ikke.” He turned to them, and said in a voice that shook: “He may be the devil himself. It is the Prince’s face and body. But it is not Carl Gustaf—my life on it!”

There wasn’t a sound in the clearing, except for my own croaking breaths. Then Sapten put his pipe in his pocket.

“So,” says he. “Right, my lad, into that hut with you, and if you make a wrong move, you’re with your Maker. Jacob,” he shouted. “Sling a noose over the branch yonder.”

Chapter 8

Cowards, as Shakespeare has wisely observed, die many times before their deaths, but not many of them can have expired in spirit more often than I. And I’ve seldom had better reason than when Sapten threw that order to his followers; there was an air of grim purpose about the man that told you he would do exactly what he promised, and that offhand instruction was more terrible than any mere threat could have been. I stumbled into the hut and collapsed on a bench, and the three followed me and closed the door.

“Now,” says Sapten, folding his arms, “who are you?”

There was no question of brazening it out, any more than there was hope of making a run for it. My only chance lay in talking my way out of the noose—not that the three grim faces offered any encouragement. But anyway, here goes, thought I, reminding myself that there’s no lie ever invented that’s as convincing as half-truth.

“Gentlemen,” I began, “believe me, I can explain this whole fearful business. You’re quite right; I am not Prince Carl Gustaf. But I most solemnly assure you that these past few days I have had no choice but to pretend that I was that man. No choice—and I believe when you have heard me out you will agree that the true victim of this abominable hoax is my unhappy self.”

“Like enough,” says Sapten, “since you’ll certainly hang for it.”

“No, no!” I protested. “You must hear me out. I can prove what I say. I was forced to it—dreadfully forced, but you must believe me innocent.”

“Where is the Prince?” burst out Hansen. “Tell us that, you liar!”

I ignored this, for a good reason. “My name is Arnold—Captain Thomas Arnold. I’m a British Army officer”—and my idiot tongue nearly added “of no fixed abode”—“and I have been kidnapped and tricked into this by enemies of Strackenz.”

That threw them into a talking; both Grundvig and Hansen started volleying questions at me, but Sapten cut them off.

“British Army, eh?” says he. “How many regiments of foot guards have you?—quick, now.”

“Why, three.”