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!"