“Tell me what?” he laughed. “What?”

And abruptly he slept, sprawled crosswise on the covers, half-clothed, dishevelled, triumphant.

* * * * *

It was not the same night, but another; whether the next or the next but one, or two, Christopher can not say.  But he was out of doors.

He had escaped from the house at dusk; he knew that.

He had run away, through the hedge and down the back side of the hill, torn between the two, the death, warm and red like life, and the birth, pale, chill, and inexorable as death.

Most of that daft night-running will always be blank in Christopher’s mind; moments and moments, like islands of clarity, remain.  He brings back one vivid interval when he found himself seated on his father’s gravestone among the whispering grasses, staring down into the pallid bowl of the world.  And in that moment he knew what Daniel Kain had felt, and Maynard Kain before him; a passionate and contemptuous hatred for all the dullards in the world who never dreamed dreams or saw visions or sang wordless songs or ran naked-hearted in the flood of the full-blown moon.  He hated them because they could not by any possibility comprehend his magnificent separation, his starry sanity, his kinship with the gods.  And he had a new thirst to obliterate the whole creeping race of dust-dwellers with one wide, incomparably bloody gesture.

It was late when he found himself back again before the house, and an ink-black cloud touched the moon’s edge.  After the airless evening a wind had sprang up in the east; it thrashed among the lilac-stems as he came through them and across the turf, silent-footed as an Indian.  In his right hand he had a bread-knife, held butt to thumb, dagger-wise.  Where he had come by the rust-bitten thing no one knows, least of all himself.  In the broken light his eyes shone with a curious luminosity of their own, absorbed, introspective.

All the windows were dark, and the entrance-hall, when he slipped in between the pillars, but across its floor he saw light thrown in a yellow ribbon from the half-closed door of the drawing-room.

It took his attention, laid hands on his imagination.  He began to struggle against it.

He would not go into that room.  He was going to another room.  To stay him, he made a picture of the other room in his tumbled mind—­the high, bleak walls, the bureau with the three candles burning wanly, the bed, the face of the man on the bed.  And when his rebellious feet, surrendering him up to the lure of that beckoning ribbon, had edged as far as the door, and he had pushed it a little further ajar to get his head in, he saw that the face itself was there in the drawing-room.

He stood there for some time, his shoulder pressed against the door-jamb, his eyes blinking.

His slow attention moved from the face to the satin pillows that wedged it in, and then to the woman that must have been his mother, kneeling beside the casket with her arms crooked on the shining cover and her head down between them.  And across from her leaned “Ugo,” the ’cello, come down from his chamber to stand vigil at the other shoulder of the dead.