"First let us drink; and I may thank the Holy Virgin and you—but especially you, I think—that my throat is still sound enough to swallow good liquor—the one thing in life the loss of which makes one think of death regretfully."
And he tossed off a glass of wine.
"Are you wounded?" I asked.
"A scratch somewhere on my arm—may God blight the hand that dealt it!" He changed in a moment from a light tone to one of vehement passion, and then as quickly back again to one of cheery chatter. "If He doesn't, I will; so that's settled. Let's see to the scratch, though." He took off his coat, examined the hurt, and I bathed it and bound it up carefully. "A mere nothing," he said, "for me, that is—not for him."
For a moment or two he moved about the room as if occupied, and then he turned to me, and with a light laugh, but a piercing look from his dark, glittering eyes, he asked:
"And now, tell me, who are you?"
"The Prince von Gramberg," I answered instantly.
I was, indeed, half prepared for the question, for I had been studying him carefully. The answer pleased him.
"Good. You are not afraid to tell me the truth. But I knew it. You had been pointed out to me here in Munich—pointed out, do you understand, for a purpose. And I said to myself, the Prince von Gramberg and Heinrich Fischer are the same person. Why? And when I could not answer the question I thought to myself: I will wait. Here is a secret. It may pay me to keep my tongue still. So you see I know you."
"You were going to tell me about yourself. That will interest me more than your speculations as to my reasons for turning actor for a year or two."