SABOR, the lioness, suckled her young—a single fuzzy ball, spotted¹ like Sheeta, the leopard². She lay in the warm sunshine before the rocky cavern⁴ that was her lair⁵, stretched out upon her side with half closed eyes, yet Sabor was alert. There had been three of these little, fuzzy balls at first—two daughters and a son—and Sabor and Numa, their sire, had been proud of them; proud and happy. But kills had not been plentiful⁶, and Sabor, undernourished, had been unable to produce sufficient milk to nourish properly three lusty cubs⁷, and then a cold rain had come, and the little ones had sickened. Only the strongest survived—the two daughters had died. Sabor had mourned, pacing to and fro beside the pitiful bits of bedraggled fur, whining⁹ and moaning. Now and again she would nose them with her muzzle¹⁰ as though she would awaken¹¹ them from the long sleep that knows no waking. At last, however, she abandoned her efforts, and now her whole savage¹² heart was filled with concern for the little male cub⁸ that remained to her. That was why Sabor was more alert than usual.