When the door was closed again his mother explained.  She explained at length, concisely, standing quite still, with one frail, fine hand worrying the locket she wore at her throat.  Nelson stood quite still too, his attention engrossed in his candle-wicks.  And Christopher stood quite still, and all their shadows—­That man was the caretaker, the man, Christopher was to understand, who had been looking after the place.  His name was Sanderson.  He had fallen ill, very ill.  In fact, he was dying.  And that was why his mother had had to come down, post-haste, without warning.  To see about some papers.  Some papers.  Christopher was to understand—­

Christopher understood.  Indeed there was not much to understand.  And yet, when they had gone on, he was bothered by it.  Already, so young he was, so ruthless, and so romantic, he had begun to be a little ashamed of that fading, matter-of-fact world of Concord Street.  And it was with just that world which he wished to forget, that the man lying ill in the candle-lit chamber was linked in Christopher’s memory.  For it was the same man he had seen in the doorway that morning months ago, with a brown hat in one hand and a thorn stick in the other.

Even a thing like that may be half put aside, though—­for a while.  And by the time Christopher went to his room for the night the thought of the interloper had retired into the back of his mind, and they were all Kains there on the Hill, inheritors of romance.  He found himself bowing to his mother with a courtliness he had never known, and an “I wish you a good night,” sounding a century old on his lips.  He saw the remote, patrician figure bow as gravely in return, a petal of colour as hard as paint on the whiteness of either cheek.  He did not see her afterward, though, when the merciful door was closed.

Before he slept he explored the chamber, touching old objects with reverent finger-tips.  He came on a leather case like an absurdly overgrown beetle, hidden in a corner, and a violoncello was in it.  He had seen such things before, but he had never touched one, and when he lifted it from the case he had a moment of feeling very odd at the pit of his stomach.  Sitting in his underthings on the edge of the bed, he held the wine-coloured creature in the crook of his arm for a long time, the look in his round eyes, half eagerness, half pain, of one pursuing the shadow of some ghostly and elusive memory.

He touched the C-string by and by with an adventuring thumb.  I have heard “Ugo” sing, myself, and I know what Christopher meant when he said that the sound did not come out of the instrument, but that it came in to it, sweeping home from all the walls and corners of the chamber, a slow, rich, concentric wind of tone.  He felt it about him, murmurous, pulsating, like the sound of surf borne from some far-off coast.

And then it was like drums, still farther off.  And then it was the feet of marching men, massive, dark, grave men with luminous eyes, and the stamp on their faces of an imperishable youth.