The witch at length had her desire, for witches often get what they
want: a splendid boy was born to the fair Aurora. Just as the sun rose,
he opened his eyes. Watho carried him immediately to a distant part of
the castle, and persuaded the mother that he never cried but once, dying
the moment he was born. Overcome with grief, Aurora left the castle as
soon as she was able, and Watho never invited her again.
[Illustration: "ALL DAY HE BASKED IN THE FULL SPLENDOR OF THE SUN."]
And now the witch's care was that the child should not know darkness.
Persistently she trained him, until at last he never slept during the
day, and never woke during the night. She never let him see anything
black, and even kept all dull colors out of his way. Never, if she could
help it, would she let a shadow fall upon him, watching against shadows
as if they had been live things that would hurt him. All day he basked
in the full splendor of the sun, in the same large rooms his mother had
occupied. Watho used him to the sun until he could bear more of it than
any dark-skinned African. In the hottest of every day she stripped him
and laid him in it, that he might ripen like a peach; and the boy
rejoiced in it, and would resist being dressed again. She brought all
her knowledge to bear on making his muscles strong and elastic and
swiftly responsive--that his soul, she said, laughing, might sit in
every fibre, be all in every part, and awake the moment of call. His
hair was of the red gold, but his eyes grew darker as he grew, until
they were as black as Vesper's. He was the merriest of creatures, always
laughing, always loving, for a moment raging, then laughing afresh.
Watho called him Photogen.