“Yes,” she murmured, “I was hoping you would perceive that.  I myself noticed how very like me is the famous Ziska-Charmazel, and that is just why I dressed in her fashion for the fancy ball the other evening.  It seemed to me the best thing to do, as I wanted to choose an ancient period, and then, you know, I bear half her name.”

Dr. Dean looked at her keenly, and a somewhat grim smile wrinkled his lips.

“You could not have done better,” he declared.  “You and the dancing-girl of Araxes might be twin sisters.”

He lowered the taper he held that it might more strongly illumine her face, and as the outline of her head and throat and bust was thrown into full relief, Gervase, staring at her, was again conscious of that sudden, painful emotion of familiarity which had before overwhelmed him, and he felt that in all the world he had no such intimate knowledge of any woman as he had of Ziska.  He knew her!  Ah!—­how did he not know her?  Every curve of that pliant form was to him the living memory of something once possessed and loved, and he pressed his hand heavily across his eyes for a moment to shut out the sight of all the exquisite voluptuous grace which shook his self-control and tempted him almost beyond man’s mortal endurance.

“Are you not well, Monsieur Gervase?” said Dr. Dean, observing him closely, and handing back the lighted taper to the Egyptian servant who waited to receive it.  “The portraits on this old carving have perhaps affected you unpleasantly?  Yet there is really nothing of importance in such a coincidence.”

“Nothing of importance, perhaps, but surely something of singularity,” interrupted Denzil Murray, “especially in the resemblance between the Princess and the dancing-girl of that ancient period,—­their features are positively line for line alike.”

The Princess laughed.

“Yes, is it not curious?” she said, and, taking the taper from her servant, she sprang lightly on one of the benches near the wall and leaned her beautiful head on the entablature, so that her profile stood out close against that of the once reputed Ziska-Charmazel.  “We are, as Dr. Dean says, twins!”

Several of the guests had now gathered together in that particular part of the room, and they all looked up at her as she stood thus, in silent and somewhat superstitious wonderment.  The fascinating dancer, famed in ages past, and the lovely, living charmeresse of the present were the image of each other, and so extraordinary was the resemblance that it was almost what some folks would term “uncanny.”  The fair Ziska did not, however, give her acquaintances time for much meditation or surprise concerning the matter, for she soon came down from her elevation near the sculptured frieze and, extinguishing the taper she held, she said lightly: 

“As Dr. Dean has remarked, there is really nothing of importance in the coincidence.  Ages ago, in the time of Araxes, roses must have bloomed; and who shall say that a rose in to-day’s garden is not precisely the same in size, scent and color as one that Araxes himself plucked at his palace gates?  Thus, if flowers are born alike in different ages, why not women and men?”