Then she put it all aside and laughed and jested with the King and did indeed for a time forget, for she loved him for his black-browed beauty and his courage and royalty and the childlike trust and the man’s passion that mingled in him for her. Daily and nightly such prayers as she made to strange gods were that she might bear a son, true son of his.
Next day, in the noonday stillness when all slept, she led her young son by the hand to her secret chamber, and, holding him upon her knees in that rich and golden place, she lifted his face to hers and stared into his eyes. And so unwavering was her gaze, so mighty the hard, unblinking stare that his own was held against it, and he stared back as the earth stares breathless at the moon. Gradually the terror faded out of his eyes; they glazed as if in a trance; his head fell stupidly against her bosom; his spirit stood on the borderland of being and waited.
Seeing this, she took his palm and, molding it like wax, into the cup of it she dropped clear fluid from a small vessel of pottery with the fylfot upon its side and the disks of the god Shiva. And strange it was to see that lore of India in the palace where the Blessed Law reigned in peace. Then, fixing her eyes with power upon Mindon, she bade him, a pure child, see for her in its clearness.
“Only virgin-pure can see!” she muttered, staring into his eyes. “See! See!”
The eyes of Mindon were closing. He half opened them and looked dully at his palm. His face was pinched and yellow.
“A woman—a child, on a long couch. Dead! I see!”
“See her face. Is her head crowned with the Queen’s jewels? See!”
“Jewels. I cannot see her face. It is hidden.”
“Why is it hidden?”
“A robe across her face. Oh, let me go!”