“No, no!” said Maurice, “you can't get information out of a dead man.”
“It's all up with me,” groaned the Lieutenant. “I'll ask for my discharge. I could hit nothing, my hand trembled. I was afraid of shooting into the carriage.”
Maurice turned his attention to the man beneath him. “Now, you devil,” he cried, “a clean breast of it, or off the board you go. O!” suddenly peering down. “By the Lord, so it is you—you—you!” savagely bumping the fellow's head against the earth. “Spy!”
“You are killing me!”
“Small matter. Who is this fellow?” asked Maurice.
“Johann Kopf, a spy, a police rat, and God knows what else,” answered von Mitter, limping toward the carriage. “Curse the leg!” He forced the door and peered inside. “Fainted! I thought as much.” He lifted the inanimate bundle which lay huddled in between the seats and carried it to the side of the road, where he tenderly laid it. He rubbed the girl's wrists, unmindful of the blood which fell from his face and left dark stains on her dress. “Thank God,” heartily, “that her Royal Highness was suffering from a headache. She would have died from fright.”
Maurice felt the straining cords in the prisoner's neck grow limp. The rascal had fainted.
“Not her Highness?” Maurice asked, the weight of dread lifting from his heart.
“No. Her Royal Highness sent Camille, her maid of honor, veiled and dressed like herself, to play an innocent jest on her old nurse. Some one shall account for this; for they mistook Camille for her Highness. I'm going to wade out into the water,” von Mitter added, staggering to his feet.
“You'll never get off your boot,” said Maurice.