s the interloper, the witch-woman, the out-land
upstart. Only the fear of the King guarded her and her boy, but that
was strong. The boys played together sometimes, Mindon tyrannizing and
cruel, Ananda fearing and complying, broken in spirit.

Maya the Queen walked daily in the long and empty Golden Hall of
Audience, where none came now that the King was gone, pacing up and
down, gazing wearily at the carved screens and all their woodland beauty
of gods that did not hear, of happy spirits that had no pity. Like
a spirit herself she passed between the red pillars, appearing and
reappearing with steps that made no sound, consumed with hate of the
evil woman that had stolen her joy. 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. So
sometimes from the Nats comes pitiless fury, and men run mad and kill
and none knows why.

Maya the Queen stiffened to meet the danger. Joy swept through her soul;
her weariness was gone. A fierce smile showed her teeth--a smile
of hate, as she stood there and drew her dagger for defense. For
defense--the man would rend the boy and turn on her and she would not
die. She would live to triumph that the mongrel was dead, and her son,
the Prince again and his father's joy--for his heart would turn to the
child most surely. Justice was rushing on its victim. She would see it
and live content, the long years of agony wiped out in blood, as was
fit