But even so, it seemed that I had reached her--that in some way akin to that in which Croft had assured me he would be able to follow my mental direction while working, she had sensed my meaning and intention. Women are intuitive by nature, more susceptible to the waves of a personal or thought vibration. Her lips moved again as I ceased speaking. "Azil," she whispered. "But--that new soul is so long in passing, my friend." I turned to Croft. "Come," I hurled my thought force toward him. "Let us spare her more bodily anguish than must be endured. Let us make an end." Of what followed I shall say no word. Suffice it to state that Jason Croft labored, grim of lips and pallid of feature; that I sat in that weirdest position of assistance capable of conception; that the lights burned on in that room where the pale form of Azil spread his wings on the pedestal of wine-red wood; that the eyes of Naia of Aphur widened until they were two dark pools no more than fringed by the purple iris; that the two female attendants waited, intent on naught save the catching, the rendering of obedience to each of Croft's intense though low-pitched words. And then suddenly the man turned to me a face transfigured past anything I had ever pictured--a thread of sound--a wailing, trailing vibration--the first note of waking vocal strings, pulsed through the room--and Jason Croft the physician, the father, was kneeling beside that couch of copper, no longer the iron-nerved worker, the laborer for unborn life, but the husband, the lover, clasping the slender body of Naia of Aphur in his arms, and shaken by a strong man's sobs. I turned away my eyes. And then his voice boomed out, strangely exalted and triumphant: "Murray--we win--win, man--thanks to you and--God!" I turned back. Croft spoke to one of the attendants. She crossed to a curtained doorway and lifted the purple drapings. There stole into the room a girl of Mazzeria--a graceful creature, for all the odd blue color of her skin. Twin braids of ruddy hair fell from her head to her waist. Her figure held all the untrammeled litheness of a panther as she advanced. Across her outstretched arms she bore a pure white cloth. Upon it, the child of Jason Croft and Naia of Aphur was placed. She wrapped the fabric about it, cradling it against her breast. She turned to Naia, smiling, sinking down beside her on her supple rounded thighs. And then--for one brief instant I saw the light of the Madonna flame in those wonderful eyes--the light with which Naia the mother looked first on Jason's--son. Croft addressed me. "Maia," he said softly. "I've described her to you before if you remember, Murray. She asked that you might be permitted to attend the--the little one."