“Dog and son of a dog!” Zara cried, furiously.  “May curses light upon him in the hour of his birth, and upon all who bear his hated name!  Say, Pietro, why didst thou not strangle the little viper as you would any other poisonous reptile?”

“My Zara, I did not even see him.  He lies cradled in rose leaves, no doubt, and the singing of the west wind is not sweet enough for his lullaby.  No profane eye must rest on this sacred treasure fresh from the hands of the gods!  Is he not the heir of Kingsland?  But Achmet the Astrologer has cast his horoscope, and Achmet, and Zara, his wife, wilt see that the starry destiny is fulfilled.  Shall we not?”

“If I only had him here,” Zara cried, clawing the air with her two hands, “I would throttle the baby snake, and fling him dead in his father’s face.  And that father!  Oh, burning alive would be far too merciful for him!”

Achmet smiled, and drew her long black braids caressingly through his fingers.

“You know how to hate, and you will teach our little one.  Yes, the fate I have foretold shall come to pass, and the son of Sir Jasper will live to curse the day of his birth.  And now I will remove my disguise, and wash and breakfast, for I feel the calls of hunger.”

The lower apartment of the hut on the heath was the very picture of abject poverty and dreary desolation.  The earthen floor was broken and rough; the sunlight came sifting through the chinks in the broken walls.  A smoky fire of wet driftwood smoldered, under a pot on the crook.  There was neither table nor chairs.  A straw pallet with a wretched coverlet lay in one corner; a few broken stools were scattered around; a few articles of clothing hung on the wall.  That was all.

“The little one sleeps,” the man said, casting a swift glance over at the pallet.  “Our pretty baby, Zara.  Ah, if Sir Jasper Kingsland loves his first-born son as we love our child, or half so well, we are almost avenged already!”

“He had need to love it better than his first-born daughter!” Zara said, fiercely.  “The lion loves its whelp, the tiger its cub; but he, less human than the brutes, casts off his offspring in the hour of its birth!”

“Meaning yourself, my Zara?” the man said, with his slow, soft smile.  “What would you have, degraded daughter of a degraded mother—­his toy of an hour?  And there is another daughter—­a fair-haired, insipid nonentity of a dozen years, no more like our beautiful one here than a farthing rush-light is like the stars of heaven.”

He drew down the tattered quilt, and gazed with shining eyes of love and admiration at the sleeping face of a child, a baby girl of scarce two years, the cherub face rosy with sleep, smiling in her dreams; the long, silky black lashes sweeping the flushed cheek; the abundant, feathery, jet-black curls floating loosely about—­an exquisite picture of blooming, healthful, beautiful childhood.