She snatched a mirror from a little ivory table--a modern mirror--bad glass, bad art, bad workmanship, but silver warranted. “Look in it and then at him!” she ordered. But he did not need to look. The man on the bed was not so much like himself as the woman was like her, but the resemblance seemed to grow under his eyes, as such things do. It was helped out by the stain his brother had applied to his face in the Khyber. King was the taller and the younger by several years, but the noses were the same, and the wrinkled fore-heads; both men had the same firm mouth; both looked like Romans. “How did you get that scar?” She came closer and took his hand, holding it in both hers, and he felt the same thrill Samson knew. He steeled himself as Samson did not. “A Mahsudi got me with a martini at long range in the blockade of 1902,” he said dryly. “Look! Did he get his from a spear or from an arrow?” Almost in the same spot, also on the dead man's left hand, was a scar so nearly like it that it needed a third and a fourth glance to tell the difference. They both bent over the bed to see it, and she laid a hand on his shoulder. Touch and scent and confidence, all three were bewitching; all three were calculated, too! He could have killed her, and she knew he could have killed her, just as she knew he would not. Yet what right had she to know it! “Athelstan!” She pronounced his given name as if she loved the word, standing straight again and looking into his eyes. There were high lights in hers that outgleamed the diamonds on her dress. “Your gods and mine have done this, Athelstan. When the gods combine they lay plans well indeed!” “I only know one God,” he answered simply, as a man speaks of the deep things in his heart. “I know of many! They love me! They shall love you, too! Many are better than one! You shall learn to know my gods, for we are to be partners, you and I!” She laughed at him, looking like a goddess herself, but he frowned. And the more he frowned the better she seemed to like him. “Partners in what, Princess?” “Thou--Ismail dubbed thee Ready o' wit!--answer thine own question!” She took his hand again, her eyes burning with excitement and mysticism and ambition like a fever. She seemed to take more than physical possession of him.