She tried to gain comfort from the answering thought that old Konrad Kurt had been worthy. "There are good qualities in the Kurt family; seeds of good which perhaps will grow again in the child which will be born. Even if the good be not unmixed--I do not ask so much--but if it may be the stronger." She prayed for it--ah! how she prayed!--until she remembered that it was too late!--it had been decided long ago. She constantly saw the back of a neck brooding over her--the neck in the picture of the first Kurt. She used her old power, to call up images of her own people against it, but the fair race would not shine. The neck remained. It had no right to be there, it was no longer in the Kurt family; neither Konrad Kurt had it, nor John. "Take away that neck," she cried to those near her. And with the sound of "Away, take it away," new fancies shaped themselves around her. John Kurt appeared, to tell her that he would never go away. She would never, by all the devils, get rid of him. His white forehead gleamed, and he swore till nothing but r-r-r-r thrilled and drummed close up beside her cheek. To such a degree was she exhausted by this inward struggle, that it was a relief when the birth-pains began in reality, imperiously commanding all else to stand aside. All fever had left her, and she bravely gathered her strength together, but it was less than any one supposed. Therefore it was a long time before she heard a feeble cry, and "A son, Frue, you have a son," and afterwards, gently and kindly, "Tomasine, you have a son." A gentle peace had filled her. It was soon broken. She collected her thoughts at the word "son"--she had a son. The wave of peace broke against a wave of dread. "His hair?" she contrived to whisper. She could not say more. "Red, Frue." She had a dim idea that that might be either dark or light, perhaps more likely dark. It was not clear--it was---- And everything passed away from her. For some time those near did not notice her. No one imagined that this powerful woman could be fainting, and therefore some time elapsed before she was brought round, and there was some alarm. It was only by degrees that she realised what had happened--what the whimpering was she heard somewhere--why she had a remembrance of pain. The child was now clothed, and they lifted it up to her, but still not near enough. She could not see it properly. She wished to sign to them to bring it nearer, but it was difficult; she could neither do it with her voice, nor by moving her head, and she did not think of her hand, or perhaps she could not move it. But some one was there who understood, and held the baby up to her, so that it touched her cheek, just where she had felt its father's breath. She felt something soft, something warm, something delicate, the softest thing she had ever touched. She heard a cluck, a whimper, and now she saw--the eyebrows, they were her own, her family's light sparse bristles.