M. de Lambert and Touchet both turned at the sound of our voices; the former understood the Swedish tongue more perfectly than I did.
“I have it,” he exclaimed, “he mistook me for the Polish envoy; it was my cloak that he seized first.”
“Ay,” I replied significantly, “the envoy had papers. We have here a pretty bird.”
The fellow eyed me sullenly, the color rising to his fair hair. The more I examined his face the more satisfied I became that he was no common miscreant, and his evident youth appealed to me. Touchet had departed with the envoy’s cloak, and M. de Lambert sat down beside me at the table, shading the taper so that he threw the light full on the face of the Swede.
“What was the motive of your attack on a Frenchman, knave?” he asked, addressing the prisoner.
The man looked at him strangely for a moment, and then seemed to come to a sudden determination.
“I made a mistake, your Worship,” he replied hoarsely. “I pray you, pardon me and let me go. I took you for an enemy of mine.”
“A likely story,” said M. de Lambert; “why should I not rather believe you a common thief? You tried to drag my cloak from my shoulders, and wellnigh strangled me to boot.”
“I made a mistake,” the man protested stolidly.
“You made a mistake only in the person,” I remarked dryly, “you intended either to rob or stab some one—you admit that. Why should we let you go?”