the vagabond tramp--the sunburned gypsy, with stolen hares to eat, and
rags to wear, and a hut to lodge in--would not exchange places with you
this bright March day. We have sworn vendetta to you and all of your
blood, and we will keep our vow!"

His swarthy face darkened with passionate vindictiveness as he arose.

"'As a man sows so shall he reap,'" he muttered between his clinched
teeth, setting his face toward Kingsland Court. "You, my Lord of
Kingsland, have sown the wind. You shall learn what it is to reap the
whirlwind!"

"Pietro! Pietro!" crowed a little voice, gleefully. "Papa Pietro!
take Sunbeam!"

The little sleeper in the bed had sat up, her bright, dark face
sparkling, two little dimpled arms outstretched.

The man turned, his vindictive face growing radiant.

"Papa Pietro's darling! his life! his angel! And how does the little
Sunbeam?"

He caught her up, covering her face with kisses.

"My love! my life! my darling! When Pietro is dead, and Zara is old
and feeble, and Zenith dust and ashes, you will live, my radiant angel,
my black-eyed beauty, to perpetuate the malediction. When his son is a
man, you will be a woman, with all a woman's subtle power and more than
a woman's beauty, and you will be his curse, and his bane, and his