Lesser wonders as to the personality behind the marble mask merged into that aroused by her eyes. Colored like the purpling depths of a midnight sky, they concealed, rather than revealed. From beneath straight brows they gazed forth, not as a hope that is lost in darkness, but as hope resting from its weariness, to rise again at dawn. Over her face they shed a light of mystery that made its beauty negligible--a mystery based neither on courage nor fear, pride nor shame, joy nor dole. They asked what confused the mind and haunted the imagination, that demand of why--_why_--to which only the Creator of souls Himself one day may make satisfactory reply. 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: “Samuel Cummings, N.C.O. In youth deserted when battle was on. Changed his name and lost his identity for a time. Later reënlisted, was wounded in service, but not distinguished. Called from Soldier’s Home.” The cripple’s free hand brushed one ear, as if forcefully to eject the words. “I deserted, yes. But she lay sick abed, my girl bride, and I loved her better than myself. Afterwards not a man in our company fought more careless than Corporal Sam. But we had a saying at the Home that you’ve got to be conscripted into the army of death. Only cowards volunteer.”