Princess Aziza Nurmahal, accompanied by Ayesha Zemzem, had entered the audience hall and was looking at him.
Long she looked, and steadily.
Hector Wade was in a quandary. By all the laws and rules of the land, it was his duty to sentence these two men to death.
Tollemache was his brother.
He said so to the princess, in a whisper.
“He is my brother, Aziza Nurmahal.”
“Then he, too, is of the blood of the Gengizkhani—”
“Yes …”
“And,” continued the princess, dreamily, “he, too, is the 'Expected One' …”
Hector had not heard her last remark. He did not know what to do or say.
Tollemache! His brother! He himself, on the other hand, was the regent of Tamerlanistan. There was his responsibility, his duty, toward the land, the princess.
His duty! Here it flooded through the mists of his brotherly affection—for he loved Tollemache, card scandal or no card scandal—like a naked, lonely hulk on a gray sea.
Yes, whatever his love for his brother, his duty came first. He couldn't help Tollemache. No! He couldn't help him—he repeated the words to himself over and over again—he couldn't help him, and no mistake.
He rose, about to pass sentence; and then, before he could speak, the princess raised her scepter.
