Intently as the spirit-girl studied the new arbiter of her sorry fate was he studying her. At first he did not move. Then the finger-tips of his one hand sought those of the other. As they met, the ruby-red setting of his signet ring discharged a spark.
“The sight of you sounds like some song of Destiny,” said he.
“And only Destiny could be accountable for her present plight.” The crippled soldier, handling his crutch with the skill of long practice, approached the throne. His one heel clicked against the floor in a salute peculiar to the wars of yester-year. “Might I say a few words, sir, for this young mother? I got to know her well on the awful journey into Shadow Land.”
Satan, turning to him, saw that age had not blurred a youthful eagerness in his parchment face and the faded blue of his eyes.
“And why,” he scoffed, “should you speak a few words for her, or a couple, or even one—you, a mere piece of a man?”
“That you will know, sir, after you know her. A mere girl she is. Nothing truthful, I’m sure, could be written against her account in the records of Earth.”
“You evade my question.” Royal annoyance over the interruption was turned from him to his sponsors. “Why, you imperfect seven, a one-legged veteran of a past decade?”
The prime minister intervened. “Old One-leg here is not so weak a new idea as he looks. While he has not fought in the latest battles of Earth, he has been absorbed in them, he says, and theoretically knows all there is to be known of modern tactics.”
His Highness’ shoulders shrugged. “None can say that I am not glad to believe the worst of every man. Has he a passport?”
Aloud he read the soldier-shade’s card: