HEARING the cell-door unlocked, the Gadfly
turned away his eyes with languid indifference.
He supposed that it was only the Governor, coming
to worry him with another interrogation.
Several soldiers mounted the narrow stair, their
carbines clanking against the wall; then a deferential
voice said: "It is rather steep here, Your Eminence."
He started convulsively, and then shrank down,
catching his breath under the stinging pressure of
the straps.
Montanelli came in with the sergeant and three
guards.
"If Your Eminence will kindly wait a moment,"
the sergeant began nervously, "one of my men
will bring a chair. He has just gone to fetch it.
Your Eminence will excuse us--if we had been expecting
you, we should have been prepared."
"There is no need for any preparation. Will
you kindly leave us alone, sergeant; and wait at
the foot of the stairs with your men?"
"Yes, Your Eminence. Here is the chair; shall
I put it beside him?"
The Gadfly was lying with closed eyes; but he
felt that Montanelli was looking at him.
"I think he is asleep, Your Eminence," the sergeant
was beginning, but the Gadfly opened his eyes.
"No," he said.
As the soldiers were leaving the cell they were
stopped by a sudden exclamation from Montanelli;
and, turning back, saw that he was bending
down to examine the straps.
"Who has been doing this?" he asked. The
sergeant fumbled with his cap.
"It was by the Governor's express orders, Your
Eminence."
"I had no idea of this, Signer Rivarez," Montanelli
said in a voice of great distress.
"I told Your Eminence," the Gadfly answered,
with his hard smile, "that I n-n-never expected to
be patted on the head."
"Sergeant, how long has this been going on?"
"Since he tried to escape, Your Eminence."
"That is, nearly a week? Bring a knife and cut
these off at once."
"May it please Your Eminence, the doctor
wanted to take them off, but Colonel Ferrari
wouldn't allow it."
"Bring a knife at once." Montanelli had not
raised his voice, but the soldiers could see that he
was white with anger. The sergeant took a clasp-knife
from his pocket, and bent down to cut the
arm-strap. He was not a skilful-fingered man;
and he jerked the strap tighter with an awkward
movement, so that the Gadfly winced and bit his
lip in spite of all his self-control. Montanelli came
forward at once.
"You don't know how to do it; give me the
knife."
"Ah-h-h!" The Gadfly stretched out his arms
with a long, rapturous sigh as the strap fell off.
The next instant Montanelli had cut the other
one, which bound his ankles.
"Take off the irons, too, sergeant; and then
come here. I want to speak to you."
He stood by the window, looking on, till the
sergeant threw down the fetters and approached him.
"Now," he said, "tell me everything that has
been happening."
The sergeant, nothing loath, related all that he
knew of the Gadfly's illness, of the "disciplinary
measures," and of the doctor's unsuccessful attempt
to interfere.
"But I think, Your Eminence," he added,
"that the colonel wanted the straps kept on as a
means of getting evidence."
"Evidence?"
"Yes, Your Eminence; the day before yesterday
I heard him offer to have them taken off if
he"--with a glance at the Gadfly--"would answer
a question he had asked."
Montanelli clenched his hand on the window-sill,
and the soldiers glanced at one another: they
had never seen the gentle Cardinal angry before.
As for the Gadfly, he had forgotten their existence;
he had forgotten everything except the
physical sensation of freedom. He was cramped
in every limb; and now stretched, and turned, and
twisted about in a positive ecstasy of relief.
"You can go now, sergeant," the Cardinal said.
"You need not feel anxious about having committed
a breach of discipline; it was your duty to
tell me when I asked you. See that no one disturbs
us. I will come out when I am ready."
When the door had closed behind the soldiers,
he leaned on the window-sill and looked for a while
at the sinking sun, so as to leave the Gadfly a little
more breathing time.
"I have heard," he said presently, leaving the
window, and sitting down beside the pallet, "that
you wish to speak to me alone. If you feel well
enough to tell me what you wanted to say, I am
at your service."
He spoke very coldly, with a stiff, imperious
manner that was not natural to him. Until the
straps were off, the Gadfly was to him simply a
grievously wronged and tortured human being;
but now he recalled their last interview, and the
deadly insult with which it had closed. The Gadfly
looked up, resting his head lazily on one arm.
He possessed the gift of slipping into graceful attitudes;
and when his face was in shadow no one
would have guessed through what deep waters he
had been passing. But, as he looked up, the clear
evening light showed how haggard and colourless
he was, and how plainly the trace of the last few
days was stamped on him. Montanelli's anger
died away.
"I am afraid you have been terribly ill," he said.
"I am sincerely sorry that I did not know of all
this. I would have put a stop to it before."
The Gadfly shrugged his shoulders. "All's fair
in war," he said coolly. "Your Eminence objects
to straps theoretically, from the Christian standpoint;
but it is hardly fair to expect the colonel
to see that. He, no doubt, would prefer not to
try them on his own skin--which is j-j-just my
case. But that is a matter of p-p-personal convenience.
At this moment I am undermost--
w-w-what would you have? It is very kind of
Your Eminence, though, to call here; but perhaps
that was done from the C-c-christian standpoint,
too. Visiting prisoners--ah, yes! I forgot.
'Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the l-least of
these'--it's not very complimentary, but one of
the least is duly grateful."
"Signor Rivarez," the Cardinal interrupted, "I
have come here on your account--not on my own.
If you had not been 'undermost,' as you call it, I
should never have spoken to you again after what
you said to me last week; but you have the double
privilege of a prisoner and a sick man, and I could
not refuse to come. Have you anything to say
to me, now I am here; or have you sent for me
merely to amuse yourself by insulting an old man?"
There was no answer. The Gadfly had turned.
away, and was lying with one hand across his eyes.
"I am--very sorry to trouble you," he said at
last, huskily; "but could I have a little water?"
There was a jug of water standing by the window,
and Montanelli rose and fetched it. As he
slipped his arm round the Gadfly to lift him, he
suddenly felt the damp, cold fingers close over
his wrist like a vice.
"Give me your hand--quick--just a moment,"
the Gadfly whispered. "Oh, what difference does
it make to you? Only one minute!"
He sank down, hiding his face on Montanelli's
arm, and quivering from head to foot.
"Drink a little water," Montanelli said after a
moment. The Gadfly obeyed silently; then lay
back on the pallet with closed eyes. He himself
could have given no explanation of what had happened
to him when Montanelli's hand had touched
his cheek; he only knew that in all his life there
had been nothing more terrible.
Montanelli drew his chair closer to the pallet
and sat down. The Gadfly was lying quite motionless,
like a corpse, and his face was livid and
drawn. After a long silence, he opened his eyes,
and fixed their haunting, spectral gaze on the Cardinal.
"Thank you," he said. "I--am sorry. I think
--you asked me something?"
"You are not fit to talk. If there is anything
you want to say to me, I will try to come again
to-morrow."
"Please don't go, Your Eminence--indeed,
there is nothing the matter with me. I--I have
been a little upset these few days; it was half of
it malingering, though--the colonel will tell you
so if you ask him."
"I prefer to form my own conclusions," Montanelli
answered quietly.
"S-so does the colonel. And occasionally, do
you know, they are rather witty. You w-w-wouldn't
think it to look at him; but s-s-sometimes he
gets hold of an or-r-riginal idea. On
Friday night, for instance--I think it was Friday,
but I got a l-little mixed as to time towards the
end--anyhow, I asked for a d-dose of opium--I
remember that quite distinctly; and he came in
here and said I m-might h-h-have it if I would
tell him who un-l-l-locked the gate. I remember
his saying: 'If it's real, you'll consent; if you
don't, I shall look upon it as a p-proof that you are
shamming.' It n-n-never oc-c-curred to me before
how comic that is; it's one of the f-f-funniest things----"
He burst into a sudden fit of harsh, discordant
laughter; then, turning sharply on the silent Cardinal,
went on, more and more hurriedly, and
stammering so that the words were hardly intelligible:
"You d-d-don't see that it's f-f-funny? Of
c-course not; you r-religious people n-n-never have
any s-sense of humour--you t-take everything
t-t-tragically. F-for instance, that night in the
Cath-thedral--how solemn you were! By the way
--w-what a path-thetic figure I must have c-cut
as the pilgrim! I d-don't believe you e-even see
anything c-c-comic in the b-business you have
c-come about this evening."
Montanelli rose.
"I came to hear what you have to say; but I
think you are too much excited to say it to-night.
The doctor had better give you a sedative, and we
will talk to-morrow, when you have had a night's
sleep."
"S-sleep? Oh, I shall s-sleep well enough, Your
Eminence, when you g-give your c-consent to the
colonel's plan--an ounce of l-lead is a s-splendid
sedative."
"I don't understand you," Montanelli said,
turning to him with a startled look.
The Gadfly burst out laughing again.
"Your Eminence, Your Eminence, t-t-truth
is the c-chief of the Christian virtues! D-d-do
you th-th-think I d-d-don't know how hard the
Governor has been trying to g-get your consent to
a court-martial? You had b-better by half g-give
it, Your Eminence; it's only w-what all your
b-brother prelates would do in your place. 'Cosi
fan tutti;' and then you would be doing s-such a
lot of good, and so l-little harm! Really, it's n-not
worth all the sleepless nights you have been spending
over it!"
"Please stop laughing a minute," Montanelli
interrupted, "and tell me how you heard all this.
Who has been talking to you about it?"
"H-hasn't the colonel e-e-ever told you I am
a d-d-devil--not a man? No? He has t-told me
so often enough! Well, I am devil enough to
f-find out a little bit what p-people are thinking
about. Your E-eminence is thinking that I'm a
conf-founded nuisance, and you wish s-somebody
else had to settle what's to be done with me, without
disturbing your s-sensitive conscience. That's
a p-pretty fair guess, isn't it?"
"Listen to me," the Cardinal said, sitting down
again beside him, with a very grave face. "However
you found out all this, it is quite true.
Colonel Ferrari fears another rescue attempt on
the part of your friends, and wishes to forestall it
in--the way you speak of. You see, I am quite
frank with you."
"Your E-eminence was always f-f-famous for
truthfulness," the Gadfly put in bitterly.
"You know, of course," Montanelli went on,
"that legally I have no jurisdiction in temporal
matters; I am a bishop, not a legate. But I have
a good deal of influence in this district; and the
colonel will not, I think, venture to take so extreme
a course unless he can get, at least, my tacit
consent to it. Up till now I have unconditionally
opposed the scheme; and he has been trying
very hard to conquer my objection by assuring me
that there is great danger of an armed attempt
on Thursday when the crowd collects for the procession
--an attempt which probably would end
in bloodshed. Do you follow me?"
The Gadfly was staring absently out of the
window. He looked round and answered in a
weary voice:
"Yes, I am listening."
"Perhaps you are really not well enough to
stand this conversation to-night. Shall I come
back in the morning? It is a very serious matter,
and I want your whole attention."
"I would rather get it over now," the Gadfly
answered in the same tone. "I follow everything
you say."
"Now, if it be true," Montanelli went on, "that
there is any real danger of riots and bloodshed on
account of you, I am taking upon myself a tremendous
responsibility in opposing the colonel;
and I believe there is at least some truth in what
he says. On the other hand, I am inclined to
think that his judgment is warped, to a certain
extent, by his personal animosity against you, and
that he probably exaggerates the danger. That
seems to me the more likely since I have seen this
shameful brutality." He glanced at the straps and
chains lying on the floor, and went on:
"If I consent, I kill you; if I refuse, I run the
risk of killing innocent persons. I have considered
the matter earnestly, and have sought with
all my heart for a way out of this dreadful alternative.
And now at last I have made up my mind."
"To kill me and s-save the innocent persons,
of course--the only decision a Christian man
could possibly come to. 'If thy r-right hand
offend thee,' etc. I have n-not the honour to be
the right hand of Your Eminence, and I have
offended you; the c-c-conclusion is plain. Couldn't
you tell me that without so much preamble?"
The Gadfly spoke with languid indifference and
contempt, like a man weary of the whole subject.
"Well?" he added after a little pause. "Was
that the decision, Your Eminence?"
"No."
The Gadfly shifted his position, putting both
hands behind his head, and looked at Montanelli
with half-shut eyes. The Cardinal, with his head
sunk down as in deep thought, was softly beating
one hand on the arm of his chair. Ah, that old,
familiar gesture!
"I have decided," he said, raising his head at
last, "to do, I suppose, an utterly unprecedented
thing. When I heard that you had asked to see
me, I resolved to come here and tell you everything,
as I have done, and to place the matter in
your own hands."
"In--my hands?"
"Signor Rivarez, I have not come to you as
cardinal, or as bishop, or as judge; I have come
to you as one man to another. I do not ask you
to tell me whether you know of any such scheme
as the colonel apprehends. I understand quite
well that, if you do, it is your secret and you will
not tell it. But I do ask you to put yourself in
my place. I am old, and, no doubt, have not much
longer to live. I would go down to my grave
without blood on my hands."
"Is there none on them as yet, Your Eminence?"
Montanelli grew a shade paler, but went on
quietly:
"All my life I have opposed repressive measures
and cruelty wherever I have met with them.
I have always disapproved of capital punishment
in all its forms; I have protested earnestly and
repeatedly against the military commissions in the
last reign, and have been out of favour on account
of doing so. Up till now such influence and power
as I have possessed have always been employed on
the side of mercy. I ask you to believe me, at
least, that I am speaking the truth. Now, I am
placed in this dilemma. By refusing, I am exposing
the town to the danger of riots and all their
consequences; and this to save the life of a man
who blasphemes against my religion, who has
slandered and wronged and insulted me personally
(though that is comparatively a trifle), and
who, as I firmly believe, will put that life to a bad
use when it is given to him. But--it is to save a
man's life."
He paused a moment, and went on again:
"Signor Rivarez, everything that I know of
your career seems to me bad and mischievous; and
I have long believed you to be reckless and violent
and unscrupulous. To some extent I hold that
opinion of you still. But during this last fortnight
you have shown me that you are a brave
man and that you can be faithful to your friends.
You have made the soldiers love and admire you,
too; and not every man could have done that. I
think that perhaps I have misjudged you, and that
there is in you something better than what you
show outside. To that better self in you I appeal,
and solemnly entreat you, on your conscience, to
tell me truthfully--in my place, what would you do?"
A long silence followed; then the Gadfly looked up.
"At least, I would decide my own actions for
myself, and take the consequences of them. I
would not come sneaking to other people, in the
cowardly Christian way, asking them to solve my
problems for me!"
The onslaught was so sudden, and its extraordinary
vehemence and passion were in such startling
contrast to the languid affectation of a
moment before, that it was as though he had
thrown off a mask.
"We atheists," he went on fiercely, "understand
that if a man has a thing to bear, he must
bear it as best he can; and if he sinks under it--
why, so much the worse for him. But a Christian
comes whining to his God, or his saints; or, if they
won't help him, to his enemies--he can always
find a back to shift his burdens on to. Isn't there
a rule to go by in your Bible, or your Missal, or
any of your canting theology books, that you
must come to me to tell you what to do?
Heavens and earth, man! Haven't I enough as
it is, without your laying your responsibilities on
my shoulders? Go back to your Jesus; he exacted
the uttermost farthing, and you'd better do
the same. After all, you'll only be killing an
atheist--a man who boggles over 'shibboleth'; and
that's no great crime, surely!"
He broke off, panting for breath, and then
burst out again:
"And YOU to talk of cruelty! Why, that
p-p-pudding-headed ass couldn't hurt me as much as you
do if he tried for a year; he hasn't got the brains.
All he can think of is to pull a strap tight, and
when he can't get it any tighter he's at the end
of his resources. Any fool can do that! But
you---- 'Sign your own death sentence, please;
I'm too tender-hearted to do it myself.' Oh! it
would take a Christian to hit on that--a gentle,
compassionate Christian, that turns pale at the
sight of a strap pulled too tight! I might have
known when you came in, like an angel of mercy--
so shocked at the colonel's 'barbarity'--that the
real thing was going to begin! Why do you look
at me that way? Consent, man, of course, and
go home to your dinner; the thing's not worth all
this fuss. Tell your colonel he can have me shot,
or hanged, or whatever comes handiest--roasted
alive, if it's any amusement to him--and be done
with it!"
The Gadfly was hardly recognizable; he was
beside himself with rage and desperation, panting
and quivering, his eyes glittering with green reflections
like the eyes of an angry cat.
Montanelli had risen, and was looking down at
him silently. He did not understand the drift of
the frenzied reproaches, but he understood out of
what extremity they were uttered; and, understanding
that, forgave all past insults.
"Hush!" he said. "I did not want to hurt you
so. Indeed, I never meant to shift my burden
on to you, who have too much already. I have
never consciously done that to any living creature----"
"It's a lie!" the Gadfly cried out with blazing
eyes. "And the bishopric?"
"The--bishopric?"
"Ah! you've forgotten that? It's so easy to
forget! 'If you wish it, Arthur, I will say I cannot
go. I was to decide your life for you--I, at
nineteen! If it weren't so hideous, it would be funny."
"Stop!" Montanelli put up both hands to his
head with a desperate cry. He let them fall again,
and walked slowly away to the window. There he
sat down on the sill, resting one arm on the bars,
and pressing his forehead against it. The Gadfly
lay and watched him, trembling.
Presently Montanelli rose and came back, with
lips as pale as ashes.
"I am very sorry," he said, struggling piteously
to keep up his usual quiet manner, "but I must
go home. I--am not quite well."
He was shivering as if with ague. All the Gadfly's
fury broke down.
"Padre, can't you see----"
Montanelli shrank away, and stood still.
"Only not that!" he whispered at last. "My
God, anything but that! If I am going mad----"
The Gadfly raised himself on one arm, and took
the shaking hands in his.
"Padre, will you never understand that I am
not really drowned?"
The hands grew suddenly cold and stiff. For a
moment everything was dead with silence, and
then Montanelli knelt down and hid his face on
the Gadfly's breast.
. . . . .
When he raised his head the sun had set, and
the red glow was dying in the west. They had
forgotten time and place, and life and death; they
had forgotten, even, that they were enemies.
"Arthur," Montanelli whispered, "are you
real? Have you come back to me from the dead?"
"From the dead----" the Gadfly repeated,
shivering. He was lying with his head on Montanelli's
arm, as a sick child might lie in its mother's embrace.
"You have come back--you have come back
at last!"
The Gadfly sighed heavily. "Yes," he said;
"and you have to fight me, or to kill me."
"Oh, hush, carino! What is all that now? We
have been like two children lost in the dark,
mistaking one another for phantoms. Now we have
found each other, and have come out into the
light. My poor boy, how changed you are--how
changed you are! You look as if all the ocean of
the world's misery had passed over your head--
you that used to be so full of the joy of life!
Arthur, is it really you? I have dreamed so often
that you had come back to me; and then have
waked and seen the outer darkness staring in
upon an empty place. How can I know I shall
not wake again and find it all a dream? Give
me something tangible--tell me how it all happened."
"It happened simply enough. I hid on a goods
vessel, as stowaway, and got out to South America."
"And there?"
"There I--lived, if you like to call it so, till--
oh, I have seen something else besides theological
seminaries since you used to teach me philosophy!
You say you have dreamed of me--yes, and
much! You say you have dreamed of me--yes,
and I of you----"
He broke off, shuddering.
"Once," he began again abruptly, "I was working
at a mine in Ecuador----"
"Not as a miner?"
"No, as a miner's fag--odd-jobbing with the
coolies. We had a barrack to sleep in at the pit's
mouth; and one night--I had been ill, the same
as lately, and carrying stones in the blazing
sun--I must have got light-headed, for I saw you
come in at the door-way. You were holding a
crucifix like that one on the wall. You were praying,
and brushed past me without turning. I
cried out to you to help me--to give me poison or
a knife--something to put an end to it all before I
went mad. And you--ah------!"
He drew one hand across his eyes. Montanelli
was still clasping the other.
"I saw in your face that you had heard, but you
never looked round; you went on with your prayers.
When you had finished, and kissed the crucifix,
you glanced round and whispered: 'I am
very sorry for you, Arthur; but I daren't show it;
He would be angry.' And I looked at Him, and
the wooden image was laughing.
"Then, when I came to my senses, and saw the
barrack and the coolies with their leprosy, I understood.
I saw that you care more to curry favour
with that devilish God of yours than to save me
from any hell. And I have remembered that. I
forgot just now when you touched me; I--have
been ill, and I used to love you once. But there
can be nothing between us but war, and war,
and war. What do you want to hold my hand for?
Can't you see that while you believe in your Jesus
we can't be anything but enemies?"
Montanelli bent his head and kissed the mutilated hand.
"Arthur, how can I help believing in Him? If
I have kept my faith through all these frightful
years, how can I ever doubt Him any more, now
that He has given you back to me? Remember,
I thought I had killed you."
"You have that still to do."
"Arthur!" It was a cry of actual terror; but
the Gadfly went on, unheeding:
"Let us be honest, whatever we do, and not
shilly-shally. You and I stand on two sides of a
pit, and it's hopeless trying to join hands across
it. If you have decided that you can't, or won't,
give up that thing"--he glanced again at the
crucifix on the wall--"you must consent to what
the colonel----"
"Consent! My God--consent--Arthur, but I
love you!"
The Gadfly's face contracted fearfully.
"Which do you love best, me or that thing?"
Montanelli slowly rose. The very soul in him
withered with dread, and he seemed to shrivel up
bodily, and to grow feeble, and old, and wilted,
like a leaf that the frost has touched. He had
awaked out of his dream, and the outer darkness
was staring in upon an empty place.
"Arthur, have just a little mercy on me----"
"How much had you for me when your lies
drove me out to be slave to the blacks on the
sugar-plantations? You shudder at that--ah,
these tender-hearted saints! This is the man
after God's own heart--the man that repents of
his sin and lives. No one dies but his son. You
say you love me,--your love has cost me dear
enough! Do you think I can blot out everything,
and turn back into Arthur at a few soft
words--I, that have been dish-washer in filthy
half-caste brothels and stable-boy to Creole farmers
that were worse brutes than their own cattle?
I, that have been zany in cap and bells for
a strolling variety show--drudge and Jack-of-all-trades
to the matadors in the bull-fighting
ring; I, that have been slave to every black
beast who cared to set his foot on my neck;
I, that have been starved and spat upon and
trampled under foot; I, that have begged for
mouldy scraps and been refused because the dogs
had the first right? Oh, what is the use of all this!
How can I TELL you what you have brought on me?
And now--you love me! How much do you love
me? Enough to give up your God for me? Oh,
what has He done for you, this everlasting Jesus,
--what has He suffered for you, that you should
love Him more than me? Is it for the pierced
hands He is so dear to you? Look at mine!
Look here, and here, and here----"
He tore open his shirt and showed the ghastly scars.
"Padre, this God of yours is an impostor, His
wounds are sham wounds, His pain is all a farce!
It is I that have the right to your heart! Padre,
there is no torture you have not put me to; if
you could only know what my life has been! And
yet I would not die! I have endured it all, and
have possessed my soul in patience, because I
would come back and fight this God of yours. I
have held this purpose as a shield against my
heart, and it has saved me from madness, and from
the second death. And now, when I come back,
I find Him still in my place--this sham victim that
was crucified for six hours, forsooth, and rose
again from the dead! Padre, I have been crucified
for five years, and I, too, have risen from the
dead. What are you going to do with me?
What are you going to do with me?"
He broke down. Montanelli sat like some
stone image, or like a dead man set upright. At
first, under the fiery torrent of the Gadfly's despair,
he had quivered a little, with the automatic
shrinking of the flesh, as under the lash
of a whip; but now he was quite still. After a
long silence he looked up and spoke, lifelessly,
patiently:
"Arthur, will you explain to me more clearly?
You confuse and terrify me so, I can't understand.
What is it you demand of me?"
The Gadfly turned to him a spectral face.
"I demand nothing. Who shall compel love?
You are free to choose between us two the one
who is most dear to you. If you love Him best,
choose Him."
"I can't understand," Montanelli repeated
wearily. "What is there I can choose? I cannot
undo the past."
"You have to choose between us. If you love
me, take that cross off your neck and come away
with me. My friends are arranging another
attempt, and with your help they could manage
it easily. Then, when we are safe over the frontier,
acknowledge me publicly. But if you don't
love me enough for that,--if this wooden idol is
more to you than I,--then go to the colonel and
tell him you consent. And if you go, then go at
once, and spare me the misery of seeing you. I
have enough without that."
Montanelli looked up, trembling faintly. He
was beginning to understand.
"I will communicate with your friends, of
course. But--to go with you--it is impossible--
I am a priest."
"And I accept no favours from priests. I will
have no more compromises, Padre; I have had
enough of them, and of their consequences. You
must give up your priesthood, or you must give
up me."
"How can I give you up? Arthur, how can I
give you up?"
"Then give up Him. You have to choose between
us. Would you offer me a share of your
love--half for me, half for your fiend of a God?
I will not take His leavings. If you are His, you
are not mine."
"Would you have me tear my heart in two?
Arthur! Arthur! Do you want to drive me
mad?"
The Gadfly struck his hand against the wall.
"You have to choose between us," he repeated
once more.
Montanelli drew from his breast a little case
containing a bit of soiled and crumpled paper.
"Look!" he said.
"I believed in you, as I believed in God. God is
a thing made of clay, that I can smash with a hammer;
and you have fooled me with a lie."
The Gadfly laughed and handed it back. "How
d-d-delightfully young one is at nineteen! To
take a hammer and smash things seems so easy.
It's that now--only it's I that am under the hammer.
As for you, there are plenty of other people
you can fool with lies--and they won't even find
you out."
"As you will," Montanelli said. "Perhaps in
your place I should be as merciless as you--God
knows. I can't do what you ask, Arthur; but I
will do what I can. I will arrange your escape,
and when you are safe I will have an accident in
the mountains, or take the wrong sleeping-draught
by mistake--whatever you like to choose.
Will that content you? It is all I can do. It is a
great sin; but I think He will forgive me. He is
more merciful------"
The Gadfly flung out both hands with a sharp cry.
"Oh, that is too much! That is too much!
What have I done that you should think of me
that way? What right have you---- As if I
wanted to be revenged on you! Can't you see
that I only want to save you? Will you never
understand that I love you?"
He caught hold of Montanelli's hands and
covered them with burning kisses and tears.
"Padre, come away with us! What have you
to do with this dead world of priests and idols?
They are full of the dust of bygone ages; they are
rotten; they are pestilent and foul! Come out of
this plague-stricken Church--come away with us
into the light! Padre, it is we that are life and
youth; it is we that are the everlasting springtime;
it is we that are the future! Padre, the dawn is
close upon us--will you miss your part in the sunrise?
Wake up, and let us forget the horrible
nightmares,--wake up, and we will begin our life
again! Padre, I have always loved you--always,
even when you killed me--will you kill me again?"
Montanelli tore his hands away. "Oh, God
have mercy on me!" he cried out. "YOU HAVE
YOUR MOTHER'S EYES!"
A strange silence, long and deep and sudden, fell
upon them both. In the gray twilight they
looked at each other, and their hearts stood still
with fear.
"Have you anything more to say?" Montanelli
whispered. "Any--hope to give me?"
"No. My life is of no use to me except to
fight priests. I am not a man; I am a knife. If
you let me live, you sanction knives."
Montanelli turned to the crucifix. "God!
Listen to this----"
His voice died away into the empty stillness
without response. Only the mocking devil awoke
again in the Gadfly.
"'C-c-call him louder; perchance he s-s-sleepeth'----"
Montanelli started up as if he had been struck.
For a moment he stood looking straight before
him;--then he sat down on the edge of the pallet,
covered his face with both hands, and burst into
tears. A long shudder passed through the Gadfly,
and the damp cold broke out on his body. He
knew what the tears meant.
He drew the blanket over his head that he might
not hear. It was enough that he had to die--he
who was so vividly, magnificently alive. But he
could not shut out the sound; it rang in his
ears, it beat in his brain, it throbbed in all his
pulses. And still Montanelli sobbed and sobbed,
and the tears dripped down between his fingers.
He left off sobbing at last, and dried his eyes
with his handkerchief, like a child that has been
crying. As he stood up the handkerchief slipped
from his knee and fell to the floor.
"There is no use in talking any more," he said.
"You understand?"
"I understand," the Gadfly answered, with dull
submission. "It's not your fault. Your God is
hungry, and must be fed."
Montanelli turned towards him. The grave
that was to be dug was not more still than they
were. Silent, they looked into each other's eyes,
as two lovers, torn apart, might gaze across the
barrier they cannot pass.
It was the Gadfly whose eyes sank first. He
shrank down, hiding his face; and Montanelli
understood that the gesture meant "Go!" He
turned, and went out of the cell. A moment
later the Gadfly started up.
"Oh, I can't bear it! Padre, come back!
Come back!"
The door was shut. He looked around him
slowly, with a wide, still gaze, and understood that
all was over. The Galilean had conquered.
All night long the grass waved softly in the
courtyard below--the grass that was so soon to
wither, uprooted by the spade; and all night long
the Gadfly lay alone in the darkness, and sobbed.
