bit
of toffee to suck the day I'm hanged."
     "Oh, do let me find a cardboard box for it, at least, before you put it
in your pocket! You will be so sticky! Shall I put the chocolates in, too?"
     "No, I want to eat them now, with you."
     "But I don't like chocolate, and I want you to come and sit down like a
reasonable  human  being. We very likely  shan't have another chance to talk
quietly before one or other of us is killed, and------"
     "She d-d-doesn't like chocolate!" he murmured under his breath. "Then I
must be greedy all by  myself. This is a case of the hangman's supper, isn't
it? You are going to humour all my whims to-night. First of all, I  want you
to sit on this  easy-chair, and, as  you said I might lie down, I  shall lie
here and be comfortable."
     He threw himself down on  the rug at her feet, leaning his elbow on the
chair and looking up into her face.
     "How pale you are!" he said. "That's  because you take life sadly,  and
don't like chocolate----"
     "Do be serious for just five minutes! After all, it is a matter of life
and death."
     "Not even for two minutes, dear; neither life nor death is worth it."
     He had taken hold of both her hands and was stroking them with the tips
of his fingers.
     "Don't look so grave, Minerva! You'll make me cry in a minute, and then
you'll be sorry. I do wish you'd smile again; you have such a d-delightfully
unexpected  smile. There  now, don't scold me, dear! Let us eat our biscuits
together,  like  two  good  children, without  quarrelling  over them  --for
to-morrow we die."
     He  took  a  sweet  biscuit from the  plate and  carefully  halved  it,
breaking the sugar ornament down the middle with scrupulous exactness.
     "This is a kind of sacrament, like what the goody-goody people have  in
church.  'Take, eat;  this is my body.'  And we must d-drink the wine out of
the   s-s-same  glass,  you   know--yes,  that   is   right.   'Do  this  in
remembrance----'"
     She put down the glass.
     "Don't!" she said, with almost a sob.  He looked up, and took her hands
again.
     "Hush, then! Let us be quiet for a little bit. When one of us dies, the
other will  remember this.  We will  forget this loud, insistent  world that
howls about  our ears; we  will go away together, hand in hand;  we will  go
away into the secret  halls of death, and lie among the poppy-flowers. Hush!
We will be quite still."
     He laid  his  head  down against her  knee and covered his face. In the
silence she bent over him, her  hand on the black head.  So the time slipped
on and on; and they neither moved nor spoke.
     "Dear, it is almost twelve," she said at last. He raised his head.
     "We  have  only a  few  minutes  more; Martini will be  back presently.
Perhaps we shall never see each other again. Have you nothing to say to me?"
     He slowly rose and walked away to the other side of the room. There was
a moment's silence.
     "I have  one thing  to say," he began in  a  hardly audible voice; "one
thing--to tell you----"
     He stopped and sat down by the window, hiding his face in both hands.
     "You have been a long time deciding to be merciful," she said softly.
     "I have not seen  much mercy in  my life; and I thought--at  first--you
wouldn't care----"
     "You don't think that now."
     She  waited  a moment for him to speak and  then  crossed  the room and
stood beside him.
     "Tell  me the truth at last," she whispered. "Think, if  you are killed
and I  not--I should have to go through all my life and never know--never be
quite sure----"
     He took her hands and clasped them tightly.
     "If I am  killed----  You  see, when I went  to  South America----  Ah,
Martini!" He broke away with a  violent start and threw open the door of the
room. Martini was rubbing his boots on the mat.
     "Punctual  to  the  m-m-minute,  as  usual!  You're   an   an-n-nimated
chronometer, Martini. Is that the r-r-riding-cloak?"
     "Yes; and  two or three other things. I  have  kept  them  as dry  as I
could, but it's pouring with  rain. You will have a most uncomfortable ride,
I'm afraid."
     "Oh, that's no matter. Is the street clear?"
     "Yes; all  the  spies  seem to have  gone to bed.  I  don't much wonder
either, on such a villainous night. Is that coffee, Gemma? He ought to  have
something hot before he goes out into the wet, or he will catch cold."
     "It is black coffee, and very strong. I will boil some milk."
     She went into the  kitchen, passionately clenching her teeth and  hands
to keep from breaking down. When she  returned with the milk the Gadfly  had
put on the riding-cloak and was fastening the leather gaiters which  Martini
had  brought.  He  drank  a  cup  of  coffee,  standing,  and  took  up  the
broad-brimmed riding hat.
     "I think it's time to start, Martini; we must make a round before we go
to the barrier,  in case of anything.  Good-bye, for the present, signora; I
shall meet you  at Forli on  Friday, then, unless anything special turns up.
Wait a minute; th-this is the address."
     He tore a leaf out of his pocket-book and wrote a few words in pencil.
     "I have it already," she said in a dull, quiet voice.
     "H-have you? Well, there  it is, anyway. Come, Martini. Sh-sh-sh! Don't
let the door creak!"
     They  crept softly downstairs. When the street door clicked behind them
she went back  into the room and mechanically  unfolded the paper he had put
into her hand. Underneath the address was written:
     "I will tell you everything there."

        PART III: CHAPTER II.
     IT was market-day in Brisighella, and the country folk had come in from
the villages  and hamlets of the district with their pigs and poultry, their
dairy produce and droves of half-wild  mountain cattle. The market-place was
thronged with a perpetually shifting crowd, laughing, joking, bargaining for
dried  figs,  cheap  cakes, and  sunflower  seeds.  The  brown,  bare-footed
children  sprawled, face  downward, on  the  pavement in the hot sun,  while
their mothers sat under the trees with their baskets of butter and eggs.
     Monsignor Montanelli, coming out to wish the people "Good-morning," was
at once surrounded by  a clamourous  throng of  children, holding up for his
acceptance  great bunches of  irises and scarlet  poppies  and  sweet  white
narcissus  from the  mountain slopes.  His  passion  for  wild  flowers  was
affectionately tolerated  by  the people, as one of the little follies which
sit  gracefully  on very wise  men.  If anyone less  universally beloved had
filled his  house with weeds and grasses they would have laughed at him; but
the "blessed Cardinal" could afford a few harmless eccentricities.
     "Well, Mariuccia," he  said, stopping to pat one of the children on the
head;  "you have grown  since I saw you  last.  And how is the grandmother's
rheumatism?"
     "She's been better lately, Your Eminence; but mother's bad now."
     "I'm sorry to hear that; tell the mother to come down here some day and
see  whether Dr. Giordani can do anything for her. I will find  somewhere to
put her up; perhaps  the change  will do her  good.  You are looking better,
Luigi; how are your eyes?"
     He passed on, chatting with the mountaineers. He always remembered  the
names  and ages  of the children, their troubles and those of their parents;
and would stop to inquire, with sympathetic  interest, for the health of the
cow that fell sick at Christmas, or of the rag-doll that was crushed under a
cart-wheel last market-day.
     When he returned to the  palace  the marketing began.  A  lame man in a
blue shirt, with a shock of black hair hanging into his eyes and a deep scar
across the  left cheek, lounged up to  one of  the booths  and, in  very bad
Italian, asked for a drink of lemonade.
     "You're  not  from these  parts,"  said the  woman  who poured it  out,
glancing up at him.
     "No. I come from Corsica."
     "Looking for work?"
     "Yes; it will be hay-cutting time soon, and a gentleman that has a farm
near Ravenna came across to Bastia the other day and  told me there's plenty
of work to be got there."
     "I hope you'll find it so, I'm sure, but times are bad hereabouts."
     "They're worse in Corsica,  mother. I don't know what  we poor folk are
coming to."
     "Have you come over alone?"
     "No, my mate is with me; there he is, in the red shirt. Hola, Paolo!"
     Michele hearing himself called, came lounging up with  his hands in his
pockets. He made a fairly good Corsican, in spite  of  the  red wig which he
had  put on to  render himself  unrecognizable. As for the Gadfly, he looked
his part to perfection.
     They  sauntered through  the market-place together,  Michele  whistling
between  his  teeth,  and the  Gadfly trudging along with  a bundle over his
shoulder,  shuffling his  feet  on the  ground to render  his  lameness less
observable. They were waiting for  an emissary, to whom important directions
had to be given.
     "There's  Marcone, on  horseback,  at that  corner," Michele  whispered
suddenly.  The  Gadfly,  still carrying his  bundle,  shuffled  towards  the
horseman.
     "Do you happen to be wanting a hay-maker, sir?" he  said, touching  his
ragged cap and running one finger along the bridle. It was the signal agreed
upon,  and  the rider,  who from  his  appearance  might have been a country
squire's bailiff, dismounted and threw the reins on the horse's neck.
     "What sort of work can you do, my man?"
     The Gadfly fumbled with his cap.
     "I  can cut  grass, sir,  and  trim hedges"--he began;  and without any
break in his voice, went straight on: "At one in the morning at the mouth of
the round cave. You must have two good horses and a cart. I shall be waiting
inside the cave---- And then I can dig, sir, and----"
     "That  will do, I only want  a grass-cutter.  Have  you  ever  been out
before?"
     "Once,  sir.  Mind,  you  must come well-armed;  we may  meet  a flying
squadron.  Don't go by the wood-path; you're safer on the other side. If you
meet a spy, don't stop to argue with him;  fire at once---- I should be very
glad of work, sir."
     "Yes, I dare say, but I want an experienced grass-cutter. No, I haven't
got any coppers to-day."
     A  very  ragged beggar  had  slouched  up  to  them,  with  a  doleful,
monotonous whine.
     "Have pity on a poor blind man, in the name of the Blessed Virgin------
Get out  of this  place  at once; there's a flying squadron coming along----
Most  Holy Queen  of  Heaven,  Maiden  undefiled--  It's you they're  after,
Rivarez; they'll be here in two  minutes---- And so may  the  saints  reward
you----  You'll  have  to make a dash  for it; there are  spies  at all  the
corners. It's no use trying to slip away without being seen."
     Marcone slipped the reins into the Gadfly's hand.
     "Make haste! Ride out to the bridge and let the horse go;  you can hide
in the ravine. We're all armed; we can keep them back for ten minutes."
     "No. I won't  have you fellows taken. Stand together,  all of you,  and
fire after me in order. Move up towards our horses; there they are, tethered
by the  palace steps; and have  your knives  ready. We retreat fighting, and
when I throw my cap down, cut the halters and jump every man  on the nearest
horse. We may all reach the wood that way."
     They  had  spoken  in so  quiet  an  undertone  that even  the  nearest
bystanders had not  supposed their  conversation to  refer to  anything more
dangerous than grass-cutting. Marcone,  leading  his own mare by the bridle,
walked towards  the tethered horses, the Gadfly slouching along  beside him,
and the  beggar following them with an  outstretched  hand  and a persistent
whine. Michele came up whistling; the beggar  had warned him in passing, and
he quietly handed on the news to three countrymen who were eating raw onions
under a  tree. They immediately  rose and followed him;  and before anyone's
notice had been attracted to them, the whole seven were standing together by
the steps of the palace, each  man  with one hand on  the hidden pistol, and
the tethered horses within easy reach.
     "Don't  betray  yourselves till  I move," the  Gadfly  said softly  and
clearly. "They may not recognize us. When I fire, then begin in order. Don't
fire at  the men; lame their horses--then they can't follow us. Three of you
fire, while  the other  three  reload. If anyone  comes  between you and our
horses, kill him. I take the roan.  When I throw down my cap,  each man  for
himself; don't stop for anything."
     "Here they  come," said Michele;  and  the Gadfly turned round, with an
air of naive and  stupid wonder, as the  people suddenly broke off  in their
bargaining.
     Fifteen  armed  men  rode slowly into the marketplace. They  had  great
difficulty to get  past the throng of people at all, and,  but for the spies
at the corners of the square, all the  seven conspirators could have slipped
quietly away while the  attention  of the crowd was fixed upon the soldiers.
Michele moved a little closer to the Gadfly.
     "Couldn't we get away now?"
     "No; we're surrounded with spies, and one of them has recognized me. He
has just sent a man to tell the captain where  I am.  Our only  chance is to
lame their horses."
     "Which is the spy?"
     "The  first man I fire at. Are you all  ready? They have made a lane to
us; they are going to come with a rush."
     "Out  of  the way  there!" shouted  the captain. "In  the  name  of His
Holiness!"
     The crowd had drawn back, startled and wondering; and the soldiers made
a  quick  dash towards  the little group  standing  by the palace steps. The
Gadfly drew a pistol from his blouse and fired, not at the advancing troops,
but  at  the spy, who was  approaching the  horses, and who fell back with a
broken collar-bone. Immediately after the report, six  more shots were fired
in  quick succession,  as  the  conspirators  moved  steadily  closer to the
tethered horses.
     One  of the cavalry  horses stumbled  and plunged; another fell  to the
ground with a fearful cry. Then, through the shrieking of the panic-stricken
people, came  the loud,  imperious voice of  the officer in command, who had
risen in the stirrups and was holding a sword above his head.
     "This way, men!"
     He swayed  in the saddle and sank back; the Gadfly had fired again with
his deadly aim. A little  stream of blood was  trickling down  the captain's
uniform; but he steadied himself with a  violent effort,  and, clutching  at
his horse's mane, cried out fiercely:
     "Kill that lame devil if you can't take him alive! It's Rivarez!"
     "Another pistol, quick!" the Gadfly called to his men; "and go!"
     He flung down his cap. It was only just in time, for the swords of  the
now infuriated soldiers were flashing close in front of him.
     "Put down your weapons, all of you!"
     Cardinal  Montanelli had stepped suddenly  between the combatants;  and
one of the soldiers cried out in a voice sharp with terror:
     "Your Eminence! My God, you'll be murdered!"
     Montanelli only moved a step nearer, and faced the Gadfly's pistol.
     Five  of the conspirators were already on horseback and dashing  up the
hilly  street. Marcone sprang on to the back of his mare. In the  moment  of
riding away, he glanced back to see whether his leader was  in need of help.
The roan was close at hand, and in another instant all would have been safe;
but as the  figure  in  the  scarlet cassock  stepped  forward,  the  Gadfly
suddenly wavered and the hand with the pistol sank down. The instant decided
everything. Immediately he was surrounded and flung violently to the ground,
and  the weapon  was dashed  out of his hand by  a blow  from the  flat of a
soldier's sword. Marcone struck his mare's flank with the stirrup; the hoofs
of the cavalry horses were thundering  up the hill behind him;  and it would
have been worse than useless to stay and be taken too. Turning in the saddle
as he  galloped  away, to  fire  a  last shot  in the teeth  of  the nearest
pursuer, he saw the  Gadfly, with blood on his face, trampled under the feet
of horses and  soldiers  and spies;  and heard  the  savage  curses  of  the
captors, the yells of triumph and rage.
     Montanelli did not notice what had happened; he had moved away from the
steps, and was trying to calm the terrified people. Presently, as he stooped
over the wounded spy, a startled movement of the crowd made him look up. The
soldiers were crossing the square, dragging their prisoner after them by the
rope  with  which his  hands were  tied.  His  face was  livid with pain and
exhaustion, and  he panted fearfully  for breath; but he looked round at the
Cardinal, smiling with white lips, and whispered:
     "I c-cong-gratulate your Eminence."
     . . . . .
     Five days later Martini  reached Forli. He had received from  Gemma  by
post a bundle of  printed circulars, the signal agreed  upon in  case of his
being needed  in any special emergency; and, remembering the conversation on
the terrace,  he guessed the truth at once. All through the  journey he kept
repeating to himself that there was no reason for supposing anything to have
happened to the Gadfly, and  that  it was absurd to attach any importance to
the childish superstitions of so nervous and fanciful a person; but the more
he reasoned with himself  against  the  idea,  the more firmly  did  it take
possession of his mind.
     "I  have guessed what it is:  Rivarez is taken, of course?" he said, as
he came into Gemma's room.
     "He was  arrested last  Thursday, at Brisighella.  He  defended himself
desperately and wounded the captain of the squadron and a spy."
     "Armed resistance; that's bad!"
     "It makes no  difference; he  was too deeply compromised already for  a
pistol-shot more or less to affect his position much."
     "What do you think they are going to do with him?"
     She grew a shade paler even than before.
     "I think," she said; "that we must not wait to find out what they  mean
to do."
     "You think we shall be able to effect a rescue?"
     "We MUST."
     He  turned away and began to whistle,  with his  hands behind his back.
Gemma let  him think  undisturbed. She  was  sitting still, leaning her head
against the back of the  chair, and  looking out into vague  distance with a
fixed and  tragic absorption. When her  face wore that  expression, it had a
look of Durer's "Melancolia."
     "Have you seen him?" Martini asked, stopping for a moment in his tramp.
     "No; he was to have met me here the next morning."
     "Yes, I remember. Where is he?"
     "In the fortress; very strictly guarded, and, they say, in chains."
     He made a gesture of indifference.
     "Oh, that's  no  matter;  a  good file will  get  rid  of any number of
chains. If only he isn't wounded----"
     "He seems  to have been  slightly hurt, but  exactly how much we  don't
know. I think you had better hear the account of it from Michele himself; he
was present at the arrest."
     "How does he come not to have been taken too? Did he run away and leave
Rivarez in the lurch?"
     "It's not his fault; he fought as long as anybody did, and followed the
directions given him to the letter.  For that matter, so did they  all.  The
only  person who seems to  have forgotten, or  somehow made a mistake at the
last  minute,  is Rivarez himself. There's  something inexplicable about  it
altogether. Wait a moment; I will call Michele."
     She  went out  of the room, and presently came back with Michele  and a
broad-shouldered mountaineer.
     "This is  Marco," she said. "You have  heard of  him; he is one of  the
smugglers. He  has just got here, and perhaps will be  able to tell us more.
Michele, this is  Cesare Martini,  that I spoke to you  about. Will you tell
him what happened, as far as you saw it?"
     Michele gave a short account of the skirmish with the squadron.
     "I  can't  understand how  it  happened," he concluded. "Not one of  us
would have left him if we had thought  he would be taken; but his directions
were quite precise, and it never occurred to us, when he threw down his cap,
that he would wait to let them surround him. He was close beside the roan--I
saw  him cut  the tether--and I handed him  a loaded pistol myself  before I
mounted. The  only thing I can suppose is that he missed his footing,--being
lame,--in trying to mount. But even then, he could have fired."
     "No, it wasn't that," Marcone interposed. "He didn't  attempt to mount.
I  was the last one to go, because my mare shied at the firing; and I looked
round to see whether he  was  safe. He would have got off clear if it hadn't
been for the  Cardinal." "Ah!" Gemma  exclaimed softly; and Martini repeated
in amazement: "The Cardinal?"
     "Yes; he threw himself in front of the pistol-- confound him! I suppose
Rivarez must have been startled, for he dropped his pistol-hand  and put the
other one  up  like  this"--laying the  back of his left  wrist  across  his
eyes--"and of course they all rushed on him."
     "I can't make that out,"  said Michele. "It's not like  Rivarez to lose
his head at a crisis."
     "Probably he lowered  his pistol  for fear  of killing an unarmed man,"
Martini put in. Michele shrugged his shoulders.
     "Unarmed men shouldn't poke their noses into the middle of a fight. War
is war.  If  Rivarez had put a bullet into His Eminence, instead  of letting
himself be caught like a tame rabbit, there'd be one honest man the more and
one priest the less."
     He turned  away, biting  his  moustache.  His  anger was  very near  to
breaking down in tears.
     "Anyway," said Martini, "the  thing's done, and there's no use  wasting
time in discussing how it happened. The question now is how we're to arrange
an escape for him. I suppose you're all willing to risk it?"
     Michele did not even condescend to answer the superfluous question, and
the smuggler only remarked with a little  laugh: "I'd shoot my own  brother,
if he weren't willing."
     "Very well, then---- First thing; have you got a plan of the fortress?"
     Gemma unlocked a drawer and took out several sheets of paper.
     "I have  made  out  all  the  plans. Here is  the ground floor  of  the
fortress; here are the upper and lower stories  of the towers,  and here the
plan  of the  ramparts. These are  the roads leading to the valley, and here
are  the paths  and  hiding-places  in  the mountains,  and  the underground
passages."
     "Do you know which of the towers he is in?"
     "The east one, in the round room with the grated window. I  have marked
it on the plan."
     "How did you get your information?"
     "From a  man  nicknamed  'The Cricket,' a soldier of the guard.  He  is
cousin to one of our men--Gino."
     "You have been quick about it."
     "There's no time  to lose. Gino went into Brisighella at once; and some
of the  plans we already had. That list of hiding-places was made by Rivarez
himself; you can see by the handwriting."
     "What sort of men are the soldiers of the guard?"
     "That we have not  been able to find out yet; the Cricket has only just
come to the place, and knows nothing about the other men."
     "We  must  find out  from  Gino  what  the Cricket  himself is like. Is
anything known of the government's intentions? Is Rivarez likely to be tried
in Brisighella or taken in to Ravenna?"
     "That we don't know.  Ravenna, of  course,  is  the  chief  town of the
Legation  and  by law cases of importance  can be  tried  only there, in the
Tribunal of  First Instance.  But law  doesn't  count for  much in the  Four
Legations; it depends on the personal fancy of anybody who happens to be  in
power."
     "They won't take him in to Ravenna," Michele interposed.
     "What makes you think so?"
     "I   am  sure  of  it.  Colonel  Ferrari,  the  military   Governor  at
Brisighella, is uncle to the officer that Rivarez wounded; he's a vindictive
sort of brute and won't give up a chance to spite an enemy."
     "You think he will try to keep Rivarez here?"
     "I think he will try to get him hanged."
     Martini glanced  quickly at Gemma. She  was very pale, but her face had
not changed at the words. Evidently the idea was no new one to her.
     "He  can hardly do that without some formality," she said quietly; "but
he  might  possibly get up  a  court-martial  on some pretext  or other, and
justify himself afterwards by  saying that the  peace of the  town  required
it."
     "But what about the Cardinal? Would he consent to things of that kind?"
     "He has no jurisdiction in military affairs."
     "No, but  he has great influence. Surely the Governor would not venture
on such a step without his consent?"
     "He'll never  get  that," Marcone interrupted.  "Montanelli  was always
against  the  military commissions, and everything  of the kind. So  long as
they keep him in Brisighella nothing serious  can happen; the Cardinal  will
always  take the part  of any  prisoner. What I am afraid of is their taking
him to Ravenna. Once there, he's lost."
     "We  shouldn't let him get there,"  said  Michele.  "We  could manage a
rescue  on the road; but to  get  him out of the fortress  here  is  another
matter."
     "I think," said Gemma; "that it would be quite useless to wait for  the
chance  of his being  transferred  to Ravenna. We must  make  the attempt at
Brisighella, and we  have no time  to lose. Cesare, you and I  had better go
over  the  plan of the  fortress together, and see whether  we can think out
anything. I have an idea in my head, but I can't get over one point."
     "Come, Marcone," said Michele, rising; "we will leave them to think out
their  scheme. I have to go across to Fognano this afternoon, and I want you
to come with me. Vincenzo hasn't  sent those cartridges,  and  they ought to
have been here yesterday."
     When the two  men had gone, Martini went up  to Gemma and silently held
out his hand. She let her fingers lie in his for a moment.
     "You were always a  good friend, Cesare," she said at last; "and a very
present help  in  trouble. And  now let  us discuss plans."PART III: CHAPTER
III.
     "AND I once more most earnestly assure Your Eminence that your  refusal
is endangering the peace of the town."
     The  Governor tried to  preserve  the respectful  tone due  to  a  high
dignitary of the Church; but there was audible irritation in  his voice. His
liver was out of order, his wife was running up heavy bills, and his  temper
had been sorely tried  during  the  last three weeks. A sullen,  disaffected
populace,  whose  dangerous  mood  grew  daily  more  apparent;  a  district
honeycombed with plots  and bristling  with hidden  weapons;  an inefficient
garrison, of whose loyalty he was more than doubtful, and a Cardinal whom he
had pathetically described to his adjutant as the "incarnation of immaculate
pig-headedness," had already reduced him to the verge of desperation. Now he
was  saddled  with  the  Gadfly, an  animated quintessence  of the spirit of
mischief.
     Having begun by disabling  both the Governor's favourite nephew and his
most valuable spy, the "crooked Spanish devil" had followed up  his exploits
in  the market-place  by suborning the guards, browbeating the interrogating
officers, and "turning the prison into a bear-garden." He had now been three
weeks in the fortress, and the authorities of Brisighella were heartily sick
of   their  bargain.  They   had  subjected   him   to  interrogation   upon
interrogation;  and after employing,  to  obtain admissions from  him, every
device of  threat,  persuasion,  and stratagem  which their  ingenuity could
suggest, remained  just as wise as on the day of his capture. They had begun
to  realize that it  would perhaps have been better to send him into Ravenna
at  once. It was, however,  too late to  rectify the mistake.  The Governor,
when sending in to the  Legate his report of  the arrest,  had begged, as  a
special  favour, permission  to superintend personally the  investigation of
this case; and, his request having been graciously acceded to, he  could not
now withdraw without a humiliating confession that he was overmatched.
     The idea of settling the difficulty by a courtmartial had, as Gemma and
Michele had  foreseen,  presented  itself  to  him as the only  satisfactory
solution; and Cardinal Montanelli's stubborn refusal to countenance this was
the last drop which made the cup of his vexations overflow.
     "I  think,"  he said,  "that  if  Your  Eminence  knew  what I  and  my
assistants  have put up with from this  man you would feel differently about
the matter. I  fully understand  and respect  the conscientious objection to
irregularities in judicial proceedings; but this is  an exceptional case and
calls for exceptional measures."
     "There is  no case,"  Montanelli answered, "which  calls for injustice;
and to condemn  a civilian by  the judgment of a secret military tribunal is
both unjust and illegal."
     "The case amounts  to this, Your Eminence: The  prisoner is  manifestly
guilty of several capital crimes. He joined the infamous attempt of Savigno,
and the military commission  nominated by  Monsignor Spinola would certainly
have had  him  shot or  sent  to  the galleys then, had  he not succeeded in
escaping to  Tuscany. Since  that time  he has never ceased plotting.  He is
known  to be  an  influential  member  of one  of the most pestilent  secret
societies in the country. He is gravely suspected of having consented to, if
not inspired, the  assassination  of  no less than three confidential police
agents.  He has been caught-- one might almost say--in the act of  smuggling
firearms into the Legation. He has offered armed resistance to authority and
seriously wounded two officials in the discharge  of their  duty,  and he is
now a standing menace to the peace and order of the town. Surely,  in such a
case, a court-martial is justifiable."
     "Whatever the  man has done," Montanelli replied, "he has  the right to
be judged according to law."
     "The ordinary course of law involves delay, Your Eminence, and in  this
case every moment is precious.  Besides everything else,  I  am  in constant
terror of his escaping."
     "If  there is any danger of that, it rests with  you to guard him  more
closely."
     "I do my best, Your Eminence, but I am dependent upon the prison staff,
and the man  seems to have bewitched them all. I have changed the guard four
times within three weeks; I  have  punished the soldiers till I am tired  of
it,  and  nothing is  of  any use. I can't  prevent  their carrying  letters
backwards and forwards.  The  fools are in love with  him  as if he  were  a
woman."
     "That is very curious. There must be something remarkable about him."
     "There's a remarkable amount of  devilry--I beg pardon,  Your Eminence,
but really  this man is enough to try the patience of  a saint. It's  hardly
credible,  but I  have to  conduct  all the interrogations  myself,  for the
regular officer cannot stand it any longer."
     "How is that?"
     "It's difficult to explain. Your Eminence, but you would understand  if
you had once heard  the  way he goes on.  One  might think the interrogating
officer were the criminal and he the judge."
     "But  what is there so terrible that he can do? He can refuse to answer
your questions, of course; but he has no weapon except silence."
     "And a tongue like a razor. We are all mortal, Your Eminence, and  most
of  us have  made mistakes in  our time that we don't want  published on the
house-tops. That's only human nature,  and it's hard  on  a man to  have his
little slips of twenty years ago raked up and thrown in his teeth----"
     "Has  Rivarez brought  up  some  personal  secret  of the interrogating
officer?"
     "Well, really--the  poor fellow  got into  debt when  he was a  cavalry
officer, and borrowed a little sum from the regimental funds----"
     "Stole public money that had been intrusted to him, in fact?"
     "Of  course it  was very  wrong, Your Eminence; but his friends paid it
back at once, and the affair was hushed up,--he comes of a good family,--and
ever since then he has been irreproachable. How Rivarez found out about it I
can't conceive; but the first thing he did at interrogation was  to bring up
this old scandal--before the subaltern, too! And with as innocent  a face as
if he were saying his prayers! Of course  the story's all  over the Legation
by now. If Your Eminence would only be present at one of the interrogations,
I am sure you would realize---- He needn't know anything about it. You might
overhear him from------"
     Montanelli turned round and looked at  the Governor with  an expression
which his face did not often wear.
     "I  am  a  minister  of  religion," he  said; "not  a  police-spy;  and
eavesdropping forms no part of my professional duties."
     "I--I didn't mean to give offence------"
     "I think  we shall not get  any  good  out  of discussing this question
further. If you will send the prisoner here, I will have a talk with him."
     "I venture very respectfully to advise Your Eminence not to attempt it.
The  man is perfectly incorrigible. It  would be  both safer  and  wiser  to
overstep the letter of the law  for  this once, and get rid of him before he
does any more mischief. It is with great diffidence  that I venture to press
the point after what Your Eminence  has said; but after all I am responsible
to Monsignor the Legate for the order of the town------"
     "And I,"  Montanelli  interrupted,  "am  responsible  to  God  and  His
Holiness that there shall  be no underhand dealing  in my diocese. Since you
press me  in  the matter,  colonel, I take  my  stand upon my  privilege  as
Cardinal.  I  will  not  allow  a  secret  court-martial  in  this  town  in
peace-time. I  will receive the prisoner  here, and alone,  at ten to-morrow
morning."
     "As  Your   Eminence   pleases,"  the   Governor  replied   with  sulky
respectfulness; and went away, grumbling to himself: "They're  about a pair,
as far as obstinacy goes."
     He told no one of the  approaching interview till it  was actually time
to knock  off the  prisoner's chains and start  for the palace. It was quite
enough, as he remarked to his wounded nephew, to have this Most  Eminent son
of  Balaam's ass laying  down  the  law,  without running  any risk  of  the
soldiers plotting with Rivarez and his friends  to effect an escape  on  the
way.
     When  the  Gadfly,  strongly guarded, entered the room where Montanelli
was writing  at a table covered with papers, a sudden recollection came over
him, of a hot midsummer  afternoon  when he  had sat turning over manuscript
sermons  in  a study much like  this. The shutters had been  closed, as they
were here,  to keep out the  heat,  and  a fruitseller's  voice outside  had
called: "Fragola! Fragola!"
     He  shook the  hair  angrily back from his eyes and set his  mouth in a
smile.
     Montanelli looked up from his papers.
     "You can wait in the hall," he said to the guards.
     "May it please Your Eminence,"  began the sergeant, in a lowered  voice
and  with evident  nervousness, "the  colonel thinks  that  this prisoner is
dangerous and that it would be better------"
     A sudden flash came into Montanelli's eyes.
     "You  can wait in  the  hall,"  he  repeated quietly; and the sergeant,
saluting  and  stammering excuses with a frightened face, left the room with
his men.
     "Sit down, please,"  said the Cardinal,  when  the door was  shut.  The
Gadfly obeyed in silence.
     "Signor Rivarez," Montanelli began after a pause, "I wish  to ask you a
few  questions,  and shall  be very much obliged  to you if you will  answer
them."
     The Gadfly  smiled. "My ch-ch-chief occupation at  p-p-present is to be
asked questions."
     "And--not to answer them? So  I have heard; but these questions are put
by officials who are investigating your case  and whose  duty is to use your
answers as evidence."
     "And th-those of Your Eminence?" There was a covert insult in the  tone
more than in the words, and the Cardinal understood it at once; but his face
did not lose its grave sweetness of expression.
     "Mine," he said, "whether you  answer them or not,  will remain between
you and me. If they should trench upon your political secrets, of course you
will not answer. Otherwise, though we are complete strangers to  each other,
I hope that you will do so, as a personal favour to me."
     "I am ent-t-tirely at the service of Your Eminence." He said it with  a
little bow, and a face that would have taken the heart to ask favours out of
the daughters of the horse-leech.
     "First,  then, you  are said to have been  smuggling firearms into this
district. What are they wanted for?"
     "T-t-to k-k-kill rats with."
     "That is a terrible answer.  Are all your fellow-men rats in your  eyes
if they cannot think as you do?"
     "S-s-some of them."
     Montanelli leaned back in his chair and looked at him  in silence for a
little while.
     "What is that on your hand?" he asked suddenly.
     The Gadfly glanced at  his left hand. "Old m-m-marks from  the teeth of
some of the rats."
     "Excuse me; I was speaking of the other hand. That is a fresh hurt."
     The slender,  flexible  right hand was badly cut and grazed. The Gadfly
held  it up. The wrist was swollen,  and across it ran a deep and long black
bruise.
     "It is a  m-m-mere trifle, as you  see," he  said. "When I was arrested
the  other day,--thanks to Your Eminence,"--he  made another  little  bow,--
"one of the soldiers stamped on it."
     Montanelli took the wrist and examined it closely. "How does it come to
be in such a state now, after three weeks?" he asked. "It is all inflamed."
     "Possibly the p-p-pressure of the iron has not done it much good."
     The Cardinal looked up with a frown.
     "Have they been putting irons on a fresh wound?"
     "N-n-naturally, Your Eminence; that is what  fresh  wounds are for. Old
wounds are not much use.  They will only ache; you c-c-can't make them  burn
properly."
     Montanelli  looked at him again  in the same close,  scrutinizing  way;
then rose and opened a drawer full of surgical appliances.
     "Give me the hand," he said.
     The Gadfly, with a face as hard as beaten iron, held out the hand,  and
Montanelli,  after bathing the injured place, gently  bandaged it. Evidently
he was accustomed to such work.
     "I will speak about  the irons,"  he said. "And now I  want  to ask you
another question: What do you propose to do?"
     "Th-th-that is very simply answered, Your Eminence. To escape if I can,
and if I can't, to die."
     "Why 'to die'?"
     "Because if the Governor doesn't succeed in getting me shot, I shall be
sent to the galleys, and for me that c-c-comes to the same thing. I have not
got the health to live through it."
     Montanelli rested  his  arm  on  the table  and pondered silently.  The
Gadfly did not disturb him. He was leaning  back with half-shut eyes, lazily
enjoying the delicious physical sensation of relief from the chains.
     "Supposing,"  Montanelli  began  again,  "that you were  to  succeed in
escaping; what should you do with your life?"
     "I have already told Your Eminence; I should k-k-kill rats."
     "You would kill rats. That is to say, that  if I were to let you escape
from  here now,--supposing  I had the power to  do so,--you would  use  your
freedom to foster violence and bloodshed instead of preventing them?"
     The Gadfly raised his eyes to  the crucifix on the wall.  "'Not  peace,
but  a sword';--at l-least I  should be in good  company. For  my  own part,
though, I prefer pistols."
     "Signor Rivarez," said the  Cardinal  with unruffled composure, "I have
not insulted you as yet,  or  spoken slightingly of your beliefs or friends.
May I not expect  the  same courtesy from you, or do you  wish me to suppose
that an atheist cannot be a gentleman?"
     "Ah, I q-quite forgot.  Your Eminence places courtesy  high  among  the
Christian virtues. I remember your sermon in Florence, on the occasion of my
c-controversy with your anonymous defender."
     "That is  one  of the subjects about which I  wished  to speak to  you.
Would  you mind explaining to me  the  reason of the peculiar bitterness you
seem to feel against  me? If  you have  simply picked me out as a convenient
target, that  is  another  matter. Your methods of political controversy are
your own affair, and we are not  discussing politics now.  But I fancied  at
the time that  there was some  personal animosity towards  me;  and if so, I
should be  glad to know whether  I have ever  done