Watho 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.
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 colours 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 splendour 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-blooded African. In the hottest of every
day, she stript 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.