nstant he tore at it
angrily, and was minded to destroy it, but the sense of familiarity held
him. He wrapped it about him slowly and, with bent head, again seated
himself upon the floor.

The rain now fell in quivering wires of dull light. The world was strung
with them like a harp, and upon them the wind played a monotonous
refrain. Against the wall near Tatsu stood a light framework of wood
with the silk already stretched and dried for painting. At his other
hand a brush slanted sidewise from a bowl of liquid ink. The boy's
pulses leaped toward these things even while his lips curled in disdain
at the shallow decoy. "So they expect to trap me, these geese and
jailers who have temporary dominance over my life," thought he, in scorn.
No, even though he now desired it of himself, he would not paint! Let
him but gain his bride--then nothing should have power to sting or fret
him. But, oh, these endless days and hours of waiting! They corroded
his very thought as acid corrodes new metal. He felt the eating of it
now.

A spasm of pain and anger distorted his face. He gave a cry, caught up
suddenly the thick hake brush, and hurled it across the room toward the
upright frame of silk. It struck the surface midway, a little to the
left; pressed and worked against it as though held by a ghost, and then,
falling, dragged lessening echoes of stain.

Tatsu's mirthless laugh rang out against the sound of dripping rain. The
childish outburst had been of some relief. He looked defiantly toward
the white rectangle he had just defaced. Defaced? The boy caught in his
breath. He thrust his head forward, leaning on one hand to stare. That
bold and unpremeditated stroke had become a shadowed peak; the trailing
marks of ink a splendid slope. Had he not seen just such a one in Kiu
Shiu,--had he not scaled it, crying aloud upon its summit to the gods to
yield him there his bride?

Trembling now, and weak, he crawled on hands and knees toward the frame.
He had forgotten Kano, Uchida, Mata,--forgotten even Ume-ko. Fingers not
his own lifted the fallen brush. The wonderful cold wind of a dawning
frenzy swept clean his soul. He shivered; then a sirocco of fire
followed the void of the wind. The spot where his random blow had struck
still gleamed transparent jet. He dragged the blackened brush through a
vessel of clear water, then brandished it like the madman Mata thought
him. With the soft tuft of camel hair he blurr