It was the wreck of a woman who, in the days gone by, must have been gloriously beautiful; who was beautiful still, despite the ravages years, sickness, and poverty had wrought.
The eyes that blazed brilliant and black were the eyes of Zara--the eyes of the baby Sunbeam below--and this woman was the mother of one, the grandmother of the other.
Pietro knelt by the pallet and tenderly kissed one transparent hand.
The great black eyes turned upon him wild and wide.
"Thou hast seen him, Pietro ?" in a breathless sort of way.

"Zara says so." "I have seen him, my mother; I have spoken to him.

I spent hours with Sir Jasper Kingsland last night." "Thou didst ?" Her words came pantingly, while passion throbbed in every line of her face.

"And there is a son--an heir ?" "There is." She snatched her hand away and threw up her withered arms with a vindictive shriek.
"And I lie here, a helpless log, and he triumphs! I, Zenith, the Queen of the Tribe--I, once beautiful and powerful, happy and free! I lie here, a withered hulk, what he has made me! And a son and heir is born to him!" As if the thought had goaded her to madness, she leaped up in bed, tossing her gaunt arms and shrieking madly: "Take me to him--take me to him! Zara! Pietro! Take me to him, if ye are children of mine, that I may hurl my burning curse upon him and his son before I die!" She fell back with an impotent scream, and the man Pietro caught her in his arms.

Quivering and convulsed, she writhed in an epileptic fit.
"She will kill herself yet," Pietro said.