Like a slow fire it burned in her soul, and the face of the
Blessed One was hidden from her, and she had forgotten His peace.
In that atmosphere of hate her life dwindled. Her son's dwindled
also, and there was talk among the women of some potion that
Dwaymenau had been seen to drop into his noontide drink as she
went swiftly by. That might he the gossip of malice, but he
pined. His eyes were large like a young bird's; his hands like
little claws. They thought the departing year would take him with
it. What harm? Very certainly the King would shed no tear.
It was a sweet and silent afternoon and she wandered in the great
and lonely hall, sickened with the hate in her soul and her fear
for her boy. Suddenly she heard flying footsteps - a boy's,
running in mad haste in the outer hall, and, following them, bare
feet, soft, thudding.
She stopped dead and every pulse cried - Danger! No time to think
or breathe when Mindon burst into sight, wild with terror and
following close beside him a man - a madman, a short bright dah
in his grasp, his jaws grinding foam, his wild eyes starting -
one passion to murder.
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