The door slammed behind them, and I was left alone with my thoughts. Not pleasant ones, but they could have been worse. They seemed to have accepted my story, and I was pretty sure that the fictitious parts of it would defy their efforts to pick holes—they weren’t important lies, anyway, but merely colour to enhance my character of innocent-in-the-grip-of-cruel-fate. Best of all, I was reasonably sure they weren’t going to hang me. Sapten was the strong mind among them, and while I read him as one who wouldn’t think twice about taking human life if he had to, there didn’t seem any good reason why they should do away with me. He was a realist, and not swayed by emotion like Grundvig and Hansen. But Grundvig, too, I believed would stop short of murder—he seemed a decent, sensitive sort of fool. Hansen was the one I offended most, probably because he was the Prince’s close friend. He would have slaughtered me for old time’s sake, so to speak, but I fancied he would be out-voted.

So there I was, with nothing to do but wait and think. At least I was safe from Bismarck’s bravos, which was something. If these were the Sons of the Volsungs—the clandestine Danish sympathisers whom Rudi had spoken of with contempt—I couldn’t be in better hands, from that point of view. Rudi, it seemed to me, had underestimated them; I had no idea what they could do about rescuing their precious prince from Jotunberg, and didn’t care either, but they looked a lively and workmanlike lot. It was pleasant to think that they might put a spoke in bloody Otto’s little wheel, after all—Sapten was just the man for that, if I knew anything. He was steady, and saw quickly to the heart of things, and seemed to be full of all the best virtues, like resolution and courage and what-not, without being over-hampered by scruple. Given him on the retreat from Kabul our army would have got home safe enough, and probably brought all the loot of the Bala Hissar into the bargain.

Anyway, I wasn’t too displeased with my own situation, and passed the time wondering when they would let me go. God knows why I was so optimistic—reaction, possibly, after having escaped unpleasant death twice in one day—but I ought to have known better. If I had been thinking clearly I’d have realised that from their point of view, the safest place for me was six feet under, where I couldn’t cause any scandal. As it was, what they got me into was very nearly as bad, and caused me to die several more of Shakespeare’s deaths.