that sort of  trick played  on
him."
     "I thought myself he seemed fairly decent," the Gadfly lazily assented.
     "Nonsense, Sandro!  We don't  want Cardinals  here!"  said Domenichino.
"And if Monsignor Montanelli had taken  that  post in  Rome when he  had the
chance of  getting it, Rivarez couldn't have fooled him." "He wouldn't  take
it because he didn't want to leave his work here."
     "More  likely   because  he  didn't  want  to  get  poisoned   off   by
Lambruschini's agents. They've got  something against him,  you  may  depend
upon it. When a Cardinal, especially  such a  popular one, 'prefers to stay'
in a God-forsaken little hole  like this, we all know what that means--don't
we, Rivarez?"
     The  Gadfly  was making  smoke-rings.  "Perhaps  it is a  c-c-case of a
'b-b-broken  and  contrite heart,'"  he remarked,  leaning his head back  to
watch them float away. "And now, men, let us get to business."
     They began to discuss in detail the various plans which had been formed
for the smuggling and concealment of weapons. The Gadfly  listened with keen
attention,  interrupting  every  now  and  then   to  correct  sharply  some
inaccurate  statement or  imprudent  proposal.  When everyone  had  finished
speaking, he made  a few practical  suggestions, most of  which were adopted
without discussion. The meeting then broke up. It had been resolved that, at
least until he  was safely back in Tuscany, very late meetings, which  might
attract  the  notice of the police, should be avoided. By a little after ten
o'clock all had dispersed except  the  doctor, the  Gadfly, and Domenichino,
who remained as a sub-committee for the discussion of  special points. After
a long and hot dispute, Domenichino looked up at the clock.
     "Half-past eleven; we mustn't stop any longer or the night-watchman may
see us."
     "When does he pass?" asked the Gadfly.
     "About  twelve  o'clock;  and  I  want  to  be home  before  he  comes.
Good-night, Giordani. Rivarez, shall we walk together?"
     "No; I think we are safer apart. Then I shall see you again?"
     "Yes;  at Castel  Bolognese. I don't  know yet what disguise I shall be
in, but you have the passWord. You leave here to-morrow, I think?"
     The  Gadfly was  carefully putting  on  his  beard  and  wig before the
looking-glass.
     "To-morrow  morning, with the pilgrims. On the next day I fall  ill and
stop behind in a shepherd's hut, and then take a short cut across the hills.
I shall be down there before you will. Good-night!"
     Twelve o'clock was striking from the Cathedral bell-tower as the Gadfly
looked in at the door  of the great empty barn which had been thrown open as
a lodging for the pilgrims. The  floor was covered with clumsy figures, most
of which were snoring lustily, and the air was  insufferably close and foul.
He drew  back  with a little shudder  of repugnance; it would  be useless to
attempt to sleep in there; he would take a  walk, and then find some shed or
haystack which would, at least, be clean and quiet.
     It  was  a glorious night, with a great full moon gleaming in  a purple
sky.  He began  to wander  through the  streets in  an aimless way, brooding
miserably over  the  scene  of  the morning, and wishing  that  he had never
consented to Domenichino's plan of holding the meeting in Brisighella. If at
the beginning he had declared the project too  dangerous,  some  other place
would have been  chosen; and both he and Montanelli would  have been  spared
this ghastly, ridiculous farce.
     How changed the Padre was! And yet his voice was not changed at all; it
was just the same as in the old days, when he used to say: "Carino."
     The  lantern  of the night-watchman appeared  at the  other  end of the
street, and  the Gadfly turned down a narrow, crooked alley. After walking a
few  yards he found  himself in the Cathedral Square, close to the left wing
of the episcopal  palace. The square was  flooded with moonlight, and  there
was no one in sight; but  he noticed that a side door  of the Cathedral  was
ajar. The sacristan must have forgotten  to shut it. Surely nothing could be
going on there so late at night. He might as well go in and sleep on one  of
the  benches  instead  of in the stifling barn; he  could  slip  out  in the
morning before the  sacristan came;  and  even if  anyone  did find him, the
natural supposition would be that mad Diego  had been saying his  prayers in
some corner, and had got shut in.
     He listened  a moment at the  door, and then entered with the noiseless
step that  he  had  retained  notwithstanding  his  lameness.  The moonlight
streamed through the windows, and lay in broad bands on the marble floor. In
the chancel, especially, everything was as clearly visible  as  by daylight.
At the foot of the altar steps Cardinal Montanelli knelt alone, bare-headed,
with clasped hands.
     The  Gadfly drew  back into the  shadow.  Should  he  slip away  before
Montanelli saw him? That, no doubt, would be the wisest thing to do--perhaps
the  most merciful. And  yet,  what harm could  it do for him  to go  just a
little nearer--to look at the Padre's face once more, now that the crowd was
gone,  and  there was no need to keep up the hideous comedy  of the morning?
Perhaps it  would  be  his last chance--and the  Padre need not see  him; he
would steal up  softly and look-- just this once.  Then he would go  back to
his work.
     Keeping in the shadow of the pillars, he crept softly up to the chancel
rails, and  paused at the  side  entrance, close to the altar. The shadow of
the episcopal throne was broad enough to cover him,  and he crouched down in
the darkness, holding his breath.
     "My poor boy! Oh, God; my poor boy!"
     The  broken  whisper was full of such endless despair that  the  Gadfly
shuddered  in spite of himself. Then came deep, heavy, tearless sobs; and he
saw Montanelli wring his hands together like a man in bodily pain.
     He had not thought it would be so bad as this. How often had he said to
himself with bitter assurance:  "I need not trouble about it; that wound was
healed long  ago."  Now, after all these years, it was laid bare before him,
and he saw it bleeding  still.  And how easy it would  be to heal it now  at
last! He need only  lift his  hand--only step forward and say: "Padre, it is
I." There was Gemma,  too, with that white streak across her hair. Oh, if he
could but forgive! If he could but cut out from his memory the past that was
burned  into  it  so  deep--the Lascar, and the  sugar-plantation,  and  the
variety show! Surely there was no other misery  like this--to be willing  to
forgive, to long to forgive; and to know that it was hopeless--that he could
not, dared not forgive.
     Montanelli rose at last, made the sign of  the cross,  and  turned away
from the altar. The Gadfly shrank  further  back  into the shadow, trembling
with fear lest he should be seen, lest the very beating of  his heart should
betray him; then he drew a long breath of relief. Montanelli had passed him,
so close that the violet robe had brushed against his cheek,--had passed and
had not seen him.
     Had  not seen him----  Oh, what  had he done? This  had  been  his last
chance--this one precious moment--and he had let it slip away. He started up
and stepped into the light.
     "Padre!"
     The sound of his own voice, ringing up and dying away along the  arches
of the roof, filled him with fantastic terror. He shrank back again into the
shadow.  Montanelli stood  beside  the  pillar,  motionless,  listening with
wide-open eyes, full of the horror of death. How long the silence lasted the
Gadfly could  not tell;  it might have been  an instant, or an eternity.  He
came to his senses with a sudden shock. Montanelli was beginning to  sway as
though he would fall, and his lips moved, at first silently.
     "Arthur!" the low whisper came at last; "yes, the water is deep----"
     The Gadfly came forward.
     "Forgive me, Your Eminence! I thought it was one of the priests."
     "Ah,  it  is  the  pilgrim?"  Montanelli  had  at  once  recovered  his
self-control,  though the Gadfly could see, from the restless glitter of the
sapphire on  his  hand, that he was  still  trembling. "Are you in  need  of
anything, my friend? It is late, and the Cathedral is closed at night."
     "I  beg pardon, Your  Eminence, if I  have  done wrong. I saw  the door
open,  and  came in  to  pray, and when  I  saw a priest, as  I thought,  in
meditation, I waited to ask a blessing on this."
     He held up the little  tin  cross that he had bought from  Domenichino.
Montanelli took it from his hand, and, re-entering the chancel, laid it  for
a moment on the altar.
     "Take it, my son," he said, "and be at rest, for the Lord is tender and
pitiful.  Go to Rome, and ask the blessing of His minister, the Holy Father.
Peace be with you!"
     The Gadfly bent his head  to receive the benediction, and turned slowly
away.
     "Stop!" said Montanelli.
     He was standing with one hand on the chancel rail.
     "When you receive the Holy Eucharist in Rome,"  he said,  "pray for one
in deep affliction-- for one on whose soul the hand of the Lord is heavy."
     There  were  almost  tears  in his voice, and  the  Gadfly's resolution
wavered.  Another instant and  he  would  have  betrayed himself.  Then  the
thought of the variety-show  came  up  again, and he remembered, like Jonah,
that he did well to be angry.
     "Who am I, that He should hear my prayers? A leper and an outcast! If I
could bring to His throne,  as  Your  Eminence can,  the  offering of a holy
life--of a soul without spot or secret shame------"
     Montanelli turned abruptly away.
     "I have only one offering to give," he said; "a broken heart."
     . . . . .
     A few  days later the Gadfly returned to Florence in the diligence from
Pistoja. He  went straight to Gemma's lodgings,  but she was  out. Leaving a
message  that he would return  in the morning he went home, sincerely hoping
that he  should  not  again find  his  study  invaded by Zita.  Her  jealous
reproaches  would  act  on  his nerves, if  he  were to  hear  much  of them
to-night, like the rasping of a dentist's file.
     "Good-evening, Bianca,"  he said when the maid-servant opened the door.
"Has Mme. Reni been here to-day?"
     She stared at him blankly
     "Mme. Reni? Has she come back, then, sir?"
     "What do you mean?" he asked with a frown, stopping short on the mat.
     "She went away  quite suddenly, just after  you  did, and left  all her
things behind her. She never so much as said she was going."
     "Just after I did? What, a f-fortnight ago?"
     "Yes,   sir,  the   same  day;   and   her   things   are  lying  about
higgledy-piggledy. All the neighbours are talking about it."
     He  turned  away from the door-step  without speaking, and went hastily
down the lane to the house where Zita had been lodging. In her rooms nothing
had been touched; all the presents that he had given her were in their usual
places; there was no letter or scrap of writing anywhere.
     "If you please,  sir,"  said  Bianca,  putting her head in at the door,
"there's an old woman----"
     He turned round fiercely.
     "What do you want here--following me about?"
     "An old woman wishes to see you."
     "What does she want? Tell her I c-can't see her; I'm busy."
     "She has been coming nearly  every evening since you  went  away,  sir,
always asking when you would come back."
     "Ask her w-what her  business is. No; never  mind; I  suppose I must go
myself."
     The  old woman  was waiting  at  his  hall  door. She was  very  poorly
dressed,  with   a  face  as   brown  and  wrinkled  as  a  medlar,   and  a
bright-coloured scarf  twisted round her  head. As he came  in she  rose and
looked at him with keen black eyes.
     "You are the lame gentleman," she said, inspecting him critically  from
head to foot. "I have brought you a message from Zita Reni."
     He opened the study door, and held it for her to pass in; then followed
her and shut the door, that Bianca might not hear.
     "Sit down, please. N-now, tell me who you are."
     "It's no business of yours who  I am. I have come to tell you that Zita
Reni has gone away with my son."
     "With--your--son?"
     "Yes,  sir; if you don't know how to keep your mistress when you've got
her, you can't complain  if  other  men  take her.  My son has blood in  his
veins, not milk and water; he comes of the Romany folk."
     "Ah, you are a gipsy! Zita has gone back to her own people, then?"
     She looked at him  in amazed contempt. Apparently, these Christians had
not even manhood enough to be angry when they were insulted.
     "What sort of stuff are you made of, that she should stay with you? Our
women may  lend themselves to  you a bit for a girl's  fancy, or if you  pay
them well; but the Romany blood comes back to the Romany folk."
     The Gadfly's face remained as cold and steady as before.
     "Has she gone away with a gipsy camp, or merely to live with your son?"
     The woman burst out laughing.
     "Do  you  think  of following  her and trying to win her back? It's too
late, sir; you should have thought of that before!"
     "No; I only want to know the truth, if you will tell it to me."
     She shrugged her shoulders; it was hardly worth while to abuse a person
who took it so meekly.
     "The truth, then, is that she met my son  in the  road the day you left
her, and spoke to  him in the Romany tongue; and when he saw  she was one of
our folk, in spite of her fine clothes, he fell in love with her bonny face,
as OUR men fall  in love, and  took  her  to our  camp. She told  us all her
trouble, and sat crying and sobbing,  poor lassie, till our hearts were sore
for her. We  comforted her as best we could; and  at  last she took off  her
fine clothes and put on the things our lasses wear, and gave  herself to  my
son, to be his woman and  to have him  for her  man. He won't say to her: 'I
don't love you,' and: 'I've other things to do.' When  a woman is young, she
wants a man; and what sort of  man  are  you,  that you  can't even  kiss  a
handsome girl when she puts her arms round your neck?"
     "You  said,"  he  interrupted,  "that you had brought me a message from
her."
     "Yes; I  stopped behind when the camp went on, so  as  to give it.  She
told me to say that she has had enough of your folk and their hair-splitting
and their sluggish  blood; and that  she wants to get back to her own people
and be free. 'Tell him,' she said, 'that I am a woman, and that I loved him;
and that is why  I would not be his harlot any longer.' The lassie was right
to come  away. There's no harm in a  girl getting a bit  of money out of her
good looks if she can--that's what good looks are for; but a Romany lass has
nothing to do with LOVING a man of your race."
     The Gadfly stood up.
     "Is  that all the message?" he said. "Then  tell  her,  please, that  I
think she has done right, and that I  hope she will be happy.  That is all I
have to say. Good-night!"
     He stood  perfectly still until the garden gate closed behind her; then
he sat down and covered his face with both hands.
     Another blow on the cheek! Was no rag of pride to be left him--no shred
of self-respect? Surely he had suffered everything that  man can endure; his
very heart had been dragged in  the mud and trampled under the feet  of  the
passers-by; there was no spot in  his soul where someone's contempt  was not
branded  in,  where someone's  mockery had not left its  iron trace. And now
this gipsy girl, whom  he  had picked up by the  wayside-- even she  had the
whip in her hand.
     Shaitan whined at the door, and the Gadfly rose to let him in.  The dog
rushed  up to his master with  his  usual frantic manifestations of delight,
but soon, understanding that something was wrong, lay down on the rug beside
him, and thrust a cold nose into the listless hand.
     An hour later  Gemma came  up  to  the front door. No  one appeared  in
answer to  her  knock;  Bianca, finding that  the  Gadfly  did not  want any
dinner, had  slipped out to visit a neighbour's  cook. She had left the door
open, and  a light burning  in the hall. Gemma, after waiting for some time,
decided to  enter  and try if she could  find the Gadfly, as  she wished  to
speak to  him about an important  message which had  come  from Bailey.  She
knocked at the study door, and the Gadfly's voice answered from within: "You
can go away, Bianca. I don't want anything."
     She softly opened the door. The  room was  quite dark,  but the passage
lamp threw a long  stream of light across it as she entered, and she saw the
Gadfly sitting alone, his head sunk on his breast, and the dog asleep at his
feet.
     "It is I," she said.
     He started up. "Gemma,---- Gemma! Oh, I have wanted you so!"
     Before she could speak he was  kneeling  on  the floor at her  feet and
hiding his face in the folds of her dress. His whole body was shaken with  a
convulsive tremor that was worse to see than tears.
     She stood still. There was nothing  she could do to  help him--nothing.
This was the bitterest thing of all. She must stand by and look on passively
--  she who would have died to  spare him pain. Could she but dare  to stoop
and clasp her arms about him, to hold him close against her heart and shield
him, were it with her own  body, from all further harm or wrong; surely then
he would  be Arthur to her  again;  surely then the day would  break and the
shadows flee away.
     Ah, no, no! How could he  ever forget? Was it not she  who had cast him
into hell--she, with her own right hand?
     She had let  the  moment slip by. He rose  hastily and sat down by  the
table, covering his  eyes with one hand and biting his  lip as if  he  would
bite it through.
     Presently he looked up and said quietly:
     "I am afraid I startled you."
     She  held  out  both her hands to  him. "Dear,"  she said, "are we  not
friends enough by now for you to trust me a little bit? What is it?"
     "Only a  private  trouble  of my own.  I  don't see  why you  should be
worried over it."
     "Listen  a  moment," she  went on,  taking his hand in  both of hers to
steady its convulsive trembling. "I have  not tried  to lay hands on a thing
that is not mine to touch.  But now that you have given me, of your own free
will, so much of your confidence, will you not give me a little more--as you
would  do if I were  your sister. Keep the mask on your  face,  if it is any
consolation to you, but don't wear a mask on your soul, for your own sake."
     He bent his  head lower. "You must be patient with me," he  said. "I am
an unsatisfactory sort  of  brother  to  have,  I'm afraid;  but if you only
knew----  I  have been nearly mad this  last  week.  It has been like  South
America again. And somehow the devil gets into me and----" He broke off.
     "May I not have my share in your trouble?" she whispered at last.
     His head sank down on her arm. "The hand of the Lord is heavy."



        PART III: CHAPTER I.
     THE next five  weeks  were spent by Gemma and the Gadfly in a whirl  of
excitement and overwork  which  left them little time or energy for thinking
about their personal affairs. When  the  arms had been safely  smuggled into
Papal territory  there remained  a still  more difficult and dangerous task:
that of  conveying  them unobserved  from the secret  stores in the mountain
caverns and ravines to  the various local centres and thence to the separate
villages.  The whole district was  swarming with  spies; and Domenichino, to
whom the Gadfly had intrusted the ammunition, sent into Florence a messenger
with an urgent appeal for either help or extra time. The Gadfly had insisted
that the work should be finished by  the middle  of  June; and what with the
difficulty  of conveying heavy  transports over bad  roads,  and the endless
hindrances  and  delays  caused  by  the  necessity  of continually  evading
observation, Domenichino  was  growing  desperate. "I am between Scylla  and
Charybdis," he wrote. "I dare not work quickly, for fear of detection, and I
must not work slowly if we are to be ready in time. Either send me efficient
help at once, or let the Venetians know that  we shall not be ready till the
first week in July."
     The Gadfly  carried the  letter to Gemma  and,  while  she read it, sat
frowning at the floor and stroking the cat's fur the wrong way.
     "This is bad," she said. "We can  hardly keep the Venetians waiting for
three weeks."
     "Of  course   we  can't;  the  thing  is  absurd.  Domenichino  m-might
unders-s-stand  that. We must follow the  lead of the  Venetians,  not  they
ours."
     "I  don't see  that Domenichino is  to blame; he has evidently done his
best, and he can't do impossibilities."
     "It's not  in Domenichino that the fault lies; it's in the fact of  his
being one person instead of  two. We ought  to have at least one responsible
man  to guard the store  and another to see the transports off. He is  quite
right; he must have efficient help."
     "But what help are we going to give him? We  have no one in Florence to
send."
     "Then I m-must go myself."
     She leaned back in her chair and looked at him with a little frown.
     "No, that won't do; it's too risky."
     "It will  have to  do if we can't f-f-find  any other way  out  of  the
difficulty."
     "Then we  must find  another way, that's all. It's  out of the question
for you to go again just now."
     An obstinate line appeared at the corners of his under lip.
     "I d-don't see that it's out of the question."
     "You will see if you think about  the thing calmly for a minute. It  is
only  five weeks since you got back; the police are on  the scent about that
pilgrim business, and scouring the country to  find a  clue. Yes, I know you
are clever at disguises; but remember what a lot of people saw you, both  as
Diego and  as the countryman;  and you  can't  disguise your lameness or the
scar on your face."
     "There are p-plenty of lame people in the world."
     "Yes, but there are not  plenty of  people  in the Romagna with  a lame
foot and a sabre-cut across the cheek and a left arm injured like yours, and
the combination of blue eyes with such dark colouring."
     "The eyes don't matter; I can alter them with belladonna."
     "You can't alter the other things. No, it won't do. For you to go there
just now, with all your identification-marks, would be to walk into  a  trap
with your eyes open. You would certainly be taken."
     "But s-s-someone must help Domenichino."
     "It will be no help to him to have you caught at a critical moment like
this. Your arrest would mean the failure of the whole thing."
     But the  Gadfly was difficult to  convince, and the  discussion went on
and  on without coming nearer to any  settlement.  Gemma  was  beginning  to
realize  how nearly inexhaustible was  the  fund of quiet obstinacy  in  his
character;  and, had the matter  not been one about which she felt strongly,
she would probably  have yielded for the sake of peace. This, however, was a
case  in  which  she  could  not  conscientiously give  way;  the  practical
advantage  to  be  gained  from  the proposed  journey  seemed  to  her  not
sufficiently  important to  be  worth  the  risk,  and  she could  not  help
suspecting that his desire to go was prompted less by a conviction of  grave
political necessity than by a  morbid  craving for the excitement of danger.
He had got into the habit of risking his neck, and his tendency  to run into
unnecessary peril seemed to  her  a  form of intemperance  which  should  be
quietly but steadily resisted. Finding all her arguments unavailing  against
his dogged resolve to go his own way, she fired her last shot.
     "Let us  be honest about it, anyway,"  she  said;  "and call things  by
their  true  names. It  is not  Domenichino's  difficulty that makes  you so
determined to go. It is your own personal passion for----"
     "It's  not true!" he interrupted vehemently. "He  is nothing  to me;  I
don't care if I never see him again." He broke off, seeing in her  face that
he  had betrayed himself. Their eyes met  for an instant, and  dropped;  and
neither of them uttered the name that was in both their minds.
     "It--it is not Domenichino  I want to save," he stammered at last, with
his face  half  buried in  the  cat's  fur; "it is that  I--I understand the
danger of the work failing if he has no help."
     She passed over the feeble little subterfuge,  and went  on as if there
had been no interruption:
     "It is your passion for running  into danger which makes you want to go
there. You  have  the  same craving for danger when you are worried that you
had for opium when you were ill."
     "It was not I that asked for the opium," he said defiantly; "it was the
others who insisted on giving it to me."
     "I dare say. You plume yourself  a little on your stoicism, and to  ask
for physical  relief would have hurt your pride;  but it is rather flattered
than otherwise when you risk  your  life to relieve the irritation  of  your
nerves. And yet, after all, the distinction is a merely conventional one."
     He drew the cat's head back and looked down into the round, green eyes.
"Is it  true, Pasht?" he  said. "Are all these unkind things true  that your
mistress is  s-saying  about me?  Is it a case of  mea  culpa; mea  m-maxima
culpa? You wise beast, you never  ask for opium, do you? Your ancestors were
gods  in Egypt, and  no man t-trod on  their  tails. I wonder,  though, what
would become of your calm superiority to earthly ills if I were to take this
paw of yours and hold it in the c-candle. Would  you ask  me for opium then?
Would you? Or perhaps--for death? No, pussy, we have no right to die for our
personal  convenience. We may spit and s-swear a bit, if it consoles us; but
we mustn't pull the paw away."
     "Hush!"  She took the cat off his knee and put it down on  a footstool.
"You and I will have time for thinking about those  things later on. What we
have  to think of now is how to  get Domenichino out of his difficulty. What
is it, Katie; a visitor? I am busy."
     "Miss Wright has sent you this, ma'am, by hand."
     The packet, which was carefully  sealed, contained  a letter, addressed
to Miss  Wright,  but  unopened and  with  a Papal stamp. Gemma's old school
friends still lived in Florence, and her more important  letters  were often
received, for safety, at their address.
     "It is  Michele's mark,"  she  said, glancing quickly  over the letter,
which  seemed to  be about  the summer-terms  at  a  boarding  house in  the
Apennines, and pointing to two  little blots on a corner of the page. "It is
in chemical ink; the reagent is  in  the  third drawer of the writing-table.
Yes; that is it."
     He laid the letter open on the desk and passed a little  brush over its
pages. When  the  real message stood out on the  paper in  a  brilliant blue
line, he leaned back in his chair and burst out laughing.
     "What is it?" she asked hurriedly. He handed her the paper.
     "DOMENICHINO HAS BEEN ARRESTED. COME AT ONCE."
     She sat down with the paper in her hand  and stared hopelessly  at  the
Gadfly.
     "W-well?"  he  said  at last, with  his soft, ironical drawl;  "are you
satisfied now that I must go?"
     "Yes, I suppose you must," she answered, sighing. "And I too."
     He looked up with a little start. "You too? But----"
     "Of course. It will be very awkward, I know, to be left without  anyone
here  in  Florence;  but  everything  must go to  the wall  now  except  the
providing of an extra pair of hands."
     "There are plenty of hands to be got there."
     "They don't belong to people whom you can trust thoroughly, though. You
said yourself just now that there must be two responsible persons in charge;
and if Domenichino couldn't manage alone it is evidently  impossible for you
to do so.  A person as desperately  compromised  as  you  are  is  very much
handicapped, remember, in work of that kind, and more dependent on help than
anyone else would be. Instead of you and Domenichino, it must be you and I."
     He considered for a moment, frowning.
     "Yes, you are quite right," he said; "and  the sooner we go the better.
But we must not start together. If I go off to-night, you can take, say, the
afternoon coach to-morrow."
     "Where to?"
     "That  we  must discuss.  I think I had  b-b-better  go straight  in to
Faenza. If I start late to-night and ride to  Borgo San Lorenzo I can get my
disguise arranged there and go straight on."
     "I don't see what else we can  do,"  she said,  with an  anxious little
frown; "but it is very risky, your going off in such a hurry and trusting to
the smugglers finding you a  disguise at Borgo. You ought to have  at  least
three clear days to double on your trace before you cross the frontier."
     "You needn't be afraid," he answered, smiling; "I may get taken further
on, but not at the frontier. Once in the hills I am as safe as here; there's
not a smuggler in the Apennines  that would betray  me. What I am  not quite
sure about is how you are to get across."
     "Oh, that is very simple! I shall take Louisa Wright's passport  and go
for a holiday. No one knows me in the Romagna, but every spy knows you."
     "F-fortunately, so does every smuggler."
     She took out her watch.
     "Half-past two. We have the afternoon and evening, then,  if you are to
start to-night."
     "Then the best thing  will be for me  to go  home and settle everything
now, and arrange about a good horse. I shall ride in to San Lorenzo; it will
be safer."
     "But it won't be safe at all to hire a horse. The owner will-----"
     "I shan't hire one. I know  a man that will  lend me a horse, and  that
can be trusted. He has done things for me  before. One of the shepherds will
bring it back  in a fortnight. I shall  be here again by  five or half-past,
then; and while I am gone, I w-want you to go and find Martini and exp-plain
everything to him."
     "Martini!" She turned round and looked at him in astonishment.
     "Yes; we must take him into confidence--unless you  can think of anyone
else."
     "I don't quite understand what you mean."
     "We must have someone here whom we  can  trust, in case of  any special
difficulty; and of  all the set here Martini is the man in  whom I have most
confidence. Riccardo would  do anything he  could  for us, of  course; but I
think Martini  has a steadier head. Still, you know him better than I do; it
is as you think."
     "I have  not  the slightest doubt  as to Martini's  trustworthiness and
efficiency in every respect; and I think he  would probably consent  to give
us any help he could. But----"
     He understood at once.
     "Gemma, what would you  feel if you found out that  a comrade in bitter
need had not asked you for help you might have given, for fear of hurting or
distressing you? Would you say there was any true kindness in that?"
     "Very well," she said, after a little  pause; "I will send  Katie round
at once  and ask him to come; and while she is gone I will  go to Louisa for
her passport; she promised to lend it whenever I want one. What about money?
Shall I draw some out of the bank?"
     "No; don't waste  time on that;  I  can draw enough from  my account to
last us for a bit. We will  fall back on  yours later  on if my balance runs
short.  Till half-past  five, then; I  shall  be sure to  find  you here, of
course?"
     "Oh, yes! I shall be back long before then."
     Half  an hour after the appointed time he returned, and found Gemma and
Martini  sitting  on  the  terrace  together.  He  saw  at  once  that their
conversation  had been  a  distressing  one; the traces  of  agitation  were
visible in both of them, and Martini was unusually silent and glum.
     "Have you arranged everything?" she asked, looking up.
     "Yes; and I have brought you some money for the journey. The horse will
be ready for me at the Ponte Rosso barrier at one in the night."
     "Is not that  rather late? You ought to get into San Lorenzo before the
people are up in the morning."
     "So I shall; it's a very fast horse; and I don't  want  to  leave  here
when  there's  a chance of  anyone  noticing me. I shan't go  home any more;
there's a spy watching at the door, and he thinks me in."
     "How did you get out without his seeing you?"
     "Out  of  the  kitchen  window  into  the  back  garden  and  over  the
neighbour's orchard wall; that's what makes me so  late; I had to dodge him.
I left the owner of the horse to  sit in the study  all the evening with the
lamp lighted. When the spy sees the light in the window and a  shadow on the
blind he will be quite satisfied that I am writing at home this evening."
     "Then you will stay here till it is time to go to the barrier?"
     "Yes; I don't want to be seen in the street  any  more to-night. Have a
cigar, Martini? I know Signora Bolla doesn't mind smoke."
     "I shan't be here to mind; I must go downstairs and help Katie with the
dinner."
     When she had  gone Martini got up and began to pace to and fro with his
hands behind  his back. The Gadfly sat smoking and looking  silently out  at
the drizzling rain.
     "Rivarez!" Martini began,  stopping in front of  him,  but  keeping his
eyes on the ground; "what sort of thing are you going to drag her into?"
     The Gadfly took the cigar from  his mouth and blew away a long trail of
smoke.
     "She has chosen for herself," he said, "without compulsion  on anyone's
part."
     "Yes, yes--I know. But tell me----"
     He stopped.
     "I will tell you anything I can."
     "Well, then--I  don't know much about the  details of these  affairs in
the hills,--are you going to take her into any very serious danger?"
     "Do you want the truth?"
     "Yes."
     "Then--yes."
     Martini  turned away  and went  on  pacing up  and down.  Presently  he
stopped again.
     "I want to  ask you another question. If you don't choose to answer it,
you needn't, of course; but if you do answer, then answer  honestly. Are you
in love with her?"
     The Gadfly  deliberately knocked the  ash from  his  cigar and  went on
smoking in silence.
     "That means--that you don't choose to answer?"
     "No; only that I think I have a right to know why you ask me that."
     "Why? Good God, man, can't you see why?"
     "Ah!" He laid down  his cigar and looked steadily at Martini. "Yes," he
said at last,  slowly and softly. "I  am in  love with  her. But you needn't
think I am going to  make love to her, or  worry about it. I am  only  going
to----"
     His  voice died  away in a strange, faint whisper. Martini  came a step
nearer.
     "Only going--to----"
     "To die."
     He  was staring straight before  him  with a cold, fixed look, as if he
were  dead already. When he spoke again his voice was curiously lifeless and
even.
     "You needn't worry her about it beforehand,"  he said; "but there's not
the ghost of a chance for me. It's dangerous for everyone; that she knows as
well as I do;  but the smugglers will  do their best to prevent  her getting
taken. They are good  fellows,  though they are a bit  rough. As for me, the
rope is round my neck, and when I cross the frontier I pull the noose."
     "Rivarez, what do you mean? Of course it's dangerous,  and particularly
so for  you;  I understand that; but you  have  often  crossed the  frontier
before and always been successful."
     "Yes, and this time I shall fail."
     "But why? How can you know?"
     The Gadfly smiled drearily.
     "Do you remember the German legend of the man that died when he met his
own  Double? No? It appeared to him at night in a lonely place, wringing its
hands in despair. Well, I met mine  the  last time I was in  the hills;  and
when I cross the frontier again I shan't come back."
     Martini came up to him and put a hand on the back of his chair.
     "Listen,  Rivarez;  I don't understand a word  of all this metaphysical
stuff, but I do understand one thing: If you feel about it that way, you are
not  in  a fit state to  go. The  surest  way to get taken is to  go with  a
conviction that you will be taken. You must be ill, or out of sorts somehow,
to get maggots of that kind into your head. Suppose I go instead of  you?  I
can do any practical work there is to be done, and you can send a message to
your men, explaining------"
     "And let you get killed instead? That would be very clever."
     "Oh, I'm not likely to  get killed! They  don't know me as they do you.
And, besides, even if I did------"
     He stopped,  and  the Gadfly looked  up with  a  slow,  inquiring gaze.
Martini's hand dropped by his side.
     "She very likely wouldn't miss me as much as she would you," he said in
his most matter-of-fact voice. "And then, besides,  Rivarez, this  is public
business, and we have to look at it from the  point of view of  utility--the
greatest good of the  greatest number. Your 'final value'---isn't  that what
the economists call it?--is higher  than mine; I have  brains  enough to see
that, though I haven't any  cause  to be particularly fond of you. You are a
bigger man than I am; I'm  not sure that you are a better  one, but  there's
more of you, and your death would be a greater loss than mine."
     From the way he spoke he might have been discussing the value of shares
on the Exchange. The Gadfly looked up, shivering as if with cold.
     "Would you have me wait till my grave opens of itself to swallow me up?
     "If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride----
     Look here, Martini, you and I are talking nonsense."
     "You are, certainly," said Martini gruffly.
     "Yes, and so are you. For Heaven's sake, don't let's go in for romantic
self-sacrifice, like Don Carlos  and  Marquis Posa.  This is the  nineteenth
century; and if it's my business to die, I have got to do it."
     "And if it's my business to live,  I have  got  to  do that, I suppose.
You're the lucky one, Rivarez."
     "Yes," the Gadfly assented laconically; "I was always lucky."
     They  smoked  in silence for  a few  minutes, and then began to talk of
business details. When Gemma came up to call them to dinner, neither of them
betrayed  in  face or manner that  their conversation had been  in  any  way
unusual.  After  dinner  they  sat  discussing plans  and  making  necessary
arrangements till eleven o'clock, when Martini rose and took his hat.
     "I will go home and fetch that riding-cloak  of mine, Rivarez.  I think
you will  be  less recognizable in  it  than in your  light suit. I  want to
reconnoitre a bit, too, and  make sure  there are  no spies  about before we
start."
     "Are you coming with me to the barrier?"
     "Yes; it's safer to have four eyes than two in case of anyone following
you.  I'll be back by  twelve. Be sure  you don't start without  me.  I  had
better take the key, Gemma, so as not to wake anyone by ringing."
     She  raised her eyes to  his  face as he  took the keys. She understood
that he had invented a pretext in order to leave her alone with the Gadfly.
     "You and I will talk to-morrow," she  said.  "We shall have time in the
morning, when my packing is finished."  "Oh, yes! Plenty of time. There  are
two or three little things I want to ask you about, Rivarez; but we can talk
them over on our way  to  the  barrier.  You had  better send Katie  to bed,
Gemma; and be as quiet as you can, both of you. Good-bye till twelve, then."
     He went away with a little nod and smile, banging the door after him to
let the neighbours hear that Signora Bolla's visitor was gone.
     Gemma went out into  the kitchen to say good-night to  Katie,  and came
back with black coffee on a tray.
     "Would you like to lie down a bit?" she said. "You won't have any sleep
the rest of the night."
     "Oh, dear no! I shall sleep at San Lorenzo while the men are getting my
disguise ready."
     "Then  have  some coffee.  Wait  a  minute;  I  will  get  you out  the
biscuits."
     As  she  knelt down at  the  side-board he  suddenly  stooped  over her
shoulder.
     "Whatever have you got there? Chocolate creams and English toffee! Why,
this is l-luxury for a king!"
     She looked up, smiling faintly at his enthusiastic tone.
     "Are you fond of sweets? I always keep them for Cesare; he is a perfect
baby over any kind of lollipops."
     "R-r-really? Well, you must get him s-some more  to-morrow and  give me
these to take with me. No, let me p-p-put the  toffee in my pocket; it  will
console me for all the lost joys of life.  I d-do hope they'll give me a