"Something I have not dared tell till this moment,"—miserably.
"Curse it, you are keeping us waiting!" The duke kicked about the shattered bits of porcelain.
"I used to play with the—the young prince," began Arnheim. "Your Highness will recollect that I did." Arnheim went over to Max. "Take off your coat." Max did so, wondering. "Roll up your sleeve." Again Max obeyed, and his wonder grew. "See!" cried the colonel in a high, unnatural voice, due to his unusual excitement. "Oh, there can be no doubt! It is your son!"
The duke and the prince bumped against each other in their mad rush to inspect Max's arm. Arnheim's finger rested upon the peculiar scar I have mentioned.
"Lord help us, it's your wine-case brand!" gasped the duke.
"My wine case!" The prince was almost on the verge of tears.
The girl sat perfectly quiet.
"Explain, explain!" said Max.
"Yes, yes! How did this come?—put there?" spluttered the prince.
"Your Highness, we—your son—we were playing in the wine-cellars that day," stammered the unhappy Arnheim. "I saw … the hot iron … I was a boy of no more than five … I branded the prince on the arm. He cried so that I was frightened and ran and hid. When I went to look for him he was gone. Oh, I know; it is your son."