Another figure crept out of the shadows and drew near. Twisted and bent,
it stood beside the bold, upright form and lifted its face, hate-filled,
to the pale light of the stars.
"Nehal Singh, Nehal Singh--oh, my son!"
The prince turned coldly.
"Is it thou? Hast thou a dagger in thy hand?"
"I have no dagger--would to God I had! Nehal Singh, I have seen mine
enemy's face."
"How meanest thou? Thy enemy is dead."
"Nevertheless, his face is among the living. As a servant, I crept among
the strangers, and saw him straight in the eyes. He has grown younger, but
it is he. It is the body of the son, but the soul of his father in his
eyes--and, father or son, their blood is poison to me."
Nehal Singh knit his brows.
"Knowest thou his name?"
"Ay, now I know his name. It came back to me when I saw his face. Stafford
he was called--Stafford!" He crept closer, his thin hand fell like a vise
on Nehal's arm. "Kill him!" he whispered. "Kill him--the son of thy
father's betrayer!"
Nehal Singh shook himself free.
"I can not," he answered proudly, and a warm thrill of enthusiasm rang in
his voice. "I can not. They are all my brothers. I can not take my
brother's blood."
With a moan of anger the twisted figure crept back into the shadow, and
once more Nehal Singh stood alone.
Unconsciously he had accepted and proclaimed Beatrice Cary's ideal as his
own. The hour of bloodshed was gone, mercy and justice called him in its
stead.
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