bitter, defiant.

"It's not his! It's mine! It's--it's--_ours!_"

And then he fled out into the dark of the entrance-hall and up the black
stairs. In his room there was no moonlight now, for the cloud ran over
the sky and the rain had come.

"It isn't so, it isn't so!" It was like a sob in his throat.

He struck on the full strings. And listening breathless through the
dying discord he heard the liquid whispers of the rain, nothing more. He
lashed with a wild bow, time and again. But something was broken,
something was lost: out of the surf of sound he could no longer fashion
the measure of marching feet. The mad Kains had found him out, and cast
him out. No longer could he dream them in dreams or run naked-hearted
with them in the flood of the moon, for he was no blood of theirs, and
they were gone. And huddling down on the edge of the bed, he wept.

The tears washed his eyes and falling down bathed his strengthless
hands. And beyond the phantom windows, over the marsh and the moor and
the hill that were not his, the graves of strangers and the lost Willow
Wood, lay the healing rain. He heard it in gurgling rivulets along the
gutters overhead. He heard the soft impact, like a kiss, brushing the
reedy cheeks of the marsh, the showery shouldering of branches, the
aspiration of myriad drinking grasses, the far whisper of waters coming
home to the waters of the sea--the long, low melody of the rain.

And by and by he found it was "Ugo," the 'cello, and he was playing.