you wrong or in  any way
given you cause for such a feeling."
     Ever done him wrong! The Gadfly put up the bandaged hand to his throat.
"I  must  refer  Your Eminence to Shakspere," he said  with a  little laugh.
"It's as with  the  man who  can't  endure  a harmless,  necessary  cat.  My
antipathy is a priest. The sight of the cassock makes my t-t-teeth ache."
     "Oh, if  it is only that----" Montanelli dismissed the subject  with an
indifferent gesture.
     "Still,"  he  added, "abuse  is  one  thing and  perversion  of fact is
another.  When you stated,  in answer to my sermon, that I knew the identity
of the  anonymous writer, you made a mistake,--I do not accuse you of wilful
falsehood,--and stated what  was untrue. I am  to this day quite ignorant of
his name."
     The Gadfly put his head on one side, like an intelligent robin,  looked
at him for a moment gravely, then suddenly threw himself back and burst into
a peal of laughter.
     "S-s-sancta simplicitas! Oh, you, sweet, innocent, Arcadian people--and
you never guessed! You n-never saw the cloven hoof?"
     Montanelli stood  up.  "Am I to  understand,  Signor  Rivarez, that you
wrote both sides of the controversy yourself?"
     "It was a shame, I know," the Gadfly  answered, looking  up  with wide,
innocent blue eyes. "And you  s-s-swallowed everything whole; just as if  it
had been an oyster. It was very wrong; but oh, it w-w-was so funny!"
     Montanelli  bit his lip and sat down  again.  He had realized  from the
first  that the Gadfly was trying  to make  him lose  his  temper,  and  had
resolved to keep it whatever  happened; but he was beginning to find excuses
for the Governor's exasperation. A man who had been spending two hours a day
for  the last three  weeks in interrogating the  Gadfly might be pardoned an
occasional swear-word.
     "We will drop that subject," he said quietly. "What I wanted to see you
for particularly is this: My position here as Cardinal  gives me some voice,
if  I choose to claim my privilege,  in the question of what  is  to be done
with you. The only use to which I should ever put such a privilege would  be
to  interfere  in  case of  any  violence  to you which was not necessary to
prevent you from doing violence to others. I sent for you, therefore, partly
in order to ask whether you have anything  to complain of,--I will see about
the  irons; but perhaps there is something else,--and  partly because I felt
it right, before giving  my opinion, to see for myself  what sort of man you
are."
     "I have nothing  to complain of, Your Eminence. 'A la guerre comme a la
guerre.' I am  not  a schoolboy, to expect any  government  to pat me on the
head for s-s-smuggling firearms onto its  territory. It's only natural  that
they should hit as hard as they can.  As for what sort of man I am, you have
had a romantic confession of my sins once. Is not that enough;  or w-w-would
you like me to begin again?"
     "I  don't understand you,"  Montanelli said coldly, taking up a  pencil
and twisting it between his fingers.
     "Surely Your Eminence has  not forgotten  old Diego,  the pilgrim?"  He
suddenly  changed his voice and began to  speak as Diego:  "I am a miserable
sinner------"
     The pencil snapped in Montanelli's hand. "That is too much!" he said.
     The Gadfly leaned  his head back with a  soft  little  laugh,  and  sat
watching while the Cardinal paced silently up and down the room.
     "Signor  Rivarez,"  said  Montanelli, stopping at last in front of him,
"you have done a thing  to me  that  a  man  who was  born of a woman should
hesitate to do to his  worst enemy. You have stolen in upon my private grief
and  have made  for  yourself  a  mock and a jest  out  of  the sorrow  of a
fellow-man. I once more beg you to tell  me: Have I ever done you wrong? And
if not, why have you played this heartless trick on me?"
     The Gadfly, leaning back against the chair-cushions, looked up with his
subtle, chilling, inscrutable smile
     "It am-m-mused me, Your Eminence; you took it all so much to heart, and
it rem-m-minded me-- a little bit--of a variety show----"
     Montanelli, white to the very lips, turned away and rang the bell.
     "You can take back the prisoner," he said when the guards came in.
     After  they had  gone he  sat  down at  the table, still trembling with
unaccustomed indignation, and took  up a pile of reports which had been sent
in to him by the parish priests of his diocese.
     Presently he pushed them away, and, leaning on the table, hid  his face
in  both  hands. The Gadfly  seemed  to  have  left  some terrible shadow of
himself,  some ghostly  trail of  his  personality, to haunt the  room;  and
Montanelli sat trembling and cowering, not  daring to look up lest he should
see  the phantom presence that  he  knew  was not there. The spectre  hardly
amounted to a hallucination.  It was a mere fancy of overwrought nerves; but
he was  seized with  an unutterable dread  of its  shadowy  presence--of the
wounded hand, the smiling, cruel mouth, the mysterious eyes, like  deep  sea
water----
     He shook off the fancy and settled  to  his  work. All day long  he had
scarcely a free moment, and the  thing  did not trouble him; but  going into
his  bedroom late at night, he  stopped on the threshold with a sudden shock
of  fear.  What if  he should  see  it  in  a  dream?  He recovered  himself
immediately and knelt down before the crucifix to pray.
     But he lay awake the whole night through.

        PART III: CHAPTER IV.
     MONTANELLI'S  anger  did  not  make him neglectful of  his  promise. He
protested so  emphatically against the manner in  which  the Gadfly had been
chained  that the unfortunate Governor,  who  by now  was at  his wit's end,
knocked  off all the fetters in  the recklessness  of despair. "How  am I to
know," he grumbled to the adjutant, "what  His Eminence will object to next?
If he  calls  a simple  pair  of handcuffs  'cruelty,' he'll  be  exclaiming
against  the window-bars presently, or wanting me to feed Rivarez on oysters
and truffles. In my young days malefactors were malefactors and were treated
accordingly, and nobody thought a  traitor any better than a thief. But it's
the  fashion  to  be seditious nowadays; and His  Eminence seems inclined to
encourage all the scoundrels in the country."
     "I  don't see  what  business  he  has  got to  interfere at  all," the
adjutant  remarked. "He  is not  a Legate and has  no authority in civil and
military affairs. By law------"
     "What  is  the use of talking about  law?  You can't  expect anyone  to
respect  laws  after the Holy Father has opened the  prisons  and turned the
whole  crew of Liberal scamps loose  on us! It's a  positive infatuation! Of
course  Monsignor Montanelli will  give  himself  airs; he was  quiet enough
under His Holiness  the  late  Pope,  but he's  cock of the walk now. He has
jumped into favour all at once and can do as he pleases. How am  I to oppose
him?  He may have  secret authorization from the Vatican, for  all  I  know.
Everything's topsy-turvy now; you can't tell from day to day what may happen
next. In the good old times one knew what to be at, but nowadays------"
     The  Governor shook  his  head  ruefully. A  world  in which  Cardinals
troubled themselves over  trifles of prison discipline and  talked about the
"rights" of political offenders was a world that was growing too complex for
him.
     The Gadfly, for  his part, had returned  to the fortress in  a state of
nervous excitement bordering on hysteria. The  meeting  with Montanelli  had
strained his endurance almost to  breaking-point;  and his  final  brutality
about the variety show  had been uttered in sheer desperation, merely to cut
short  an  interview which,  in another five  minutes, would have  ended  in
tears.
     Called up for  interrogation in the afternoon of  the same day,  he did
nothing but go  into  convulsions  of laughter at every question put to him;
and  when  the Governor, worried  out of  all patience, lost his  temper and
began to swear,  he only laughed more  immoderately than  ever. The  unlucky
Governor fumed  and  stormed  and  threatened his refractory  prisoner  with
impossible punishments; but finally came, as James Burton had come long ago,
to the conclusion that  it was mere waste of breath and temper to argue with
a person in so unreasonable a state of mind.
     The  Gadfly was once  more taken back to his cell; and  there  lay down
upon the pallet, in the  mood of  black and hopeless depression which always
succeeded  to his boisterous fits.  He  lay  till  evening  without  moving,
without  even  thinking; he  had  passed, after the  vehement emotion of the
morning, into  a strange, half-apathetic state, in which his own misery  was
hardly  more to  him  than a dull  and mechanical  weight, pressing  on some
wooden  thing that had forgotten to be a  soul. In truth, it was  of  little
consequence how all ended; the one thing that mattered to any sentient being
was to be spared unbearable pain,  and whether  the relief came from altered
conditions or from the deadening of the power to feel, was a  question of no
moment. Perhaps he  would  succeed in escaping; perhaps they would kill him;
in any  case  he should never see the Padre again, and it was all vanity and
vexation of spirit.
     One of  the warders brought  in  supper, and the Gadfly looked  up with
heavy-eyed indifference.
     "What time is it?"
     "Six o'clock. Your supper, sir."
     He looked with disgust at the stale, foul-smelling, half-cold mess, and
turned his head away.  He was feeling  bodily ill as well as  depressed; and
the sight of the food sickened him.
     "You will be ill if you don't eat," said the soldier hurriedly. "Take a
bit of bread, anyway; it'll do you good."
     The man spoke with a  curious earnestness of  tone,  lifting a piece of
sodden bread from the plate and putting it down  again. All  the conspirator
awoke in the Gadfly;  he had guessed at once that there was something hidden
in the bread.
     "You can leave it; I'll eat  a bit by and by," he said  carelessly. The
door was open, and he knew that  the sergeant on the stairs could hear every
word spoken between them.
     When  the door  was locked on  him again, and he had satisfied  himself
that no one was watching at the spy-hole, he took up  the piece of bread and
carefully crumbled it away. In the middle  was the thing he  had expected, a
bundle of small  files. It  was wrapped  in a  bit of paper, on  which a few
words  were written. He smoothed  the paper out carefully and  carried it to
what little light there was. The writing was crowded into so narrow a space,
and on such thin paper, that it was very difficult to read.
     "The  door is unlocked, and there  is no moon.  Get the filing done  as
fast as possible, and come by  the passage  between  two and three.  We  are
quite ready and may not have another chance."
     He crushed the paper  feverishly in his hand. All the preparations were
ready, then, and he had only to file  the window bars; how lucky it was that
the chains were off! He  need not stop about filing them. How many bars were
there? Two, four; and each must be filed in two  places: eight. Oh, he could
manage that in the course of the night  if he made haste----  How had  Gemma
and  Martini  contrived  to  get  everything  ready  so  quickly--disguises,
passports,  hiding-places? They  must  have  worked  like cart-horses to  do
it---- And it  was her plan that had been adopted  after  all.  He laughed a
little to himself at his own foolishness; as if it mattered whether the plan
was hers  or not, once it  was a good one!  And yet he could not help  being
glad  that  it was  she  who had  struck  on the idea  of his  utilizing the
subterranean passage, instead  of letting  himself down by a rope-ladder, as
the  smugglers  had  at first  suggested.  Hers  was  the  more  complex and
difficult plan, but did not involve, as the other did, a risk to the life of
the sentinel on duty  outside the east wall. Therefore, when the two schemes
had been laid before him, he had unhesitatingly chosen Gemma's.
     The arrangement was that the friendly guard who went by the nickname of
"The  Cricket" should seize  the first opportunity of unlocking, without the
knowledge of his fellows, the iron gate leading from the  courtyard into the
subterranean  passage  underneath  the ramparts, and should then replace the
key  on its nail  in the guard-room. The Gadfly, on receiving information of
this, was to file through the bars of his window, tear his shirt into strips
and plait them  into a rope,  by means of which he could let himself down on
to the  broad east wall of the courtyard. Along this wall he was to creep on
hands  and knees while the sentinel was looking  in the opposite  direction,
lying  flat upon the masonry whenever  the  man turned  towards  him. At the
southeast corner was a half-ruined turret. It was upheld, to some extent, by
a thick growth of ivy; but great masses of crumbling stone had fallen inward
and lay in  the  courtyard, heaped against the wall. From this turret he was
to  climb down by the ivy and the heaps  of stone  into the  courtyard; and,
softly opening the unlocked gate,  to  make his way along the passage  to  a
subterranean  tunnel communicating with it.  Centuries  ago  this tunnel had
formed  a  secret  corridor  between   the  fortress  and  a  tower  on  the
neighbouring hill; now it was quite disused  and  blocked  in many places by
the falling  in of  the rocks.  No one but the smugglers  knew of  a certain
carefully-hidden hole  in the mountain-side which they had bored through  to
the tunnel; no one suspected that stores of forbidden merchandise were often
kept, for weeks  together, under the very ramparts of  the  fortress itself,
while  the customs-officers  were vainly searching the houses of the sullen,
wrathful-eyed mountaineers. At this hole the Gadfly  was to creep out on  to
the hillside, and  make his  way in the dark to a lonely spot where  Martini
and a smuggler would be waiting for him. The one  great difficulty was  that
opportunities  to unlock  the  gate after  the evening patrol  did not occur
every night, and the descent from the window could not be made in very clear
weather without too great a risk of being observed by the sentinel. Now that
there was really a fair chance of success, it must not be missed.
     He sat  down  and began to  eat some of the bread. It at least did  not
disgust him like the rest  of the prison  food, and he must eat something to
keep up his strength.
     He  had better lie down a bit,  too, and  try to get a little sleep; it
would not be safe to begin  filing  before ten  o'clock, and he would have a
hard night's work.
     And so,  after all, the Padre had been thinking of letting  him escape!
That was  like the  Padre. But he, for his part, would  never consent to it.
Anything rather than that! If he escaped, it should  be  his own  doing  and
that of his comrades; he would have no favours from priests.
     How hot  it was! Surely  it  must  be going to thunder; the air was  so
close and oppressive. He moved restlessly on the pallet and put the bandaged
right  hand  behind  his head for a pillow;  then drew it away again. How it
burned and  throbbed! And all the old wounds were  beginning to ache, with a
dull, faint persistence. What was the matter  with them? Oh, absurd! It  was
only the thundery weather. He would go to sleep and get a little rest before
beginning his filing.
     Eight bars, and all so thick and strong! How many  more were there left
to file? Surely not many. He must have been filing for hours,-- interminable
hours--yes, of course, that was what made his arm ache---- And how it ached;
right through to the very bone! But  it could hardly be the filing that made
his side ache so; and the throbbing, burning pain in  the lame leg--was that
from filing?
     He started up. No, he had not been  asleep;  he had  been dreaming with
open eyes--dreaming of filing, and it  was all still to  do. There stood the
window-bars, untouched, strong and firm as ever. And there was  ten striking
from the clock-tower in the distance. He must get to work.
     He  looked through the  spy-hole, and, seeing that no one was watching,
took one of the files from his breast.
     . . . . .
     No,  there  was  nothing  the  matter with him--  nothing!  It  was all
imagination. The pain in his side was indigestion, or a  chill, or some such
thing; not much wonder, after  three weeks of this insufferable prison  food
and air. As for the  aching  and throbbing all  over,  it was partly nervous
trouble and partly  want of exercise. Yes, that was it, no  doubt;  want  of
exercise. How absurd not to have thought of that before!
     He would sit down a  little bit, though, and let  it pass before he got
to work. It would be sure to go over in a minute or two.
     To sit still was worse than all. When he sat still he was at its mercy,
and  his face grew gray with  fear. No, he must  get up and set to work, and
shake it off. It should  depend upon his will to feel or not to feel; and he
would not feel, he would force it back.
     He stood up again and spoke to himself, aloud and distinctly:
     "I am not ill; I have no time to be ill. I have those bars to file, and
I am not going to be ill."
     Then he began to file.
     A quarter-past ten--half-past ten--a quarter to eleven---- He filed and
filed,  and  every  grating scrape  of  the iron was as  though someone were
filing on his body and  brain. "I wonder which will be filed through first,"
he said  to himself with  a little laugh; "I  or  the bars?"  And he set his
teeth and went on filing.
     Half-past  eleven. He was still filing, though the hand  was stiff  and
swollen and would hardly grasp the tool. No,  he  dared not stop to rest; if
he once  put the horrible  thing down he  should  never have  the courage to
begin again.
     The sentinel moved  outside  the door, and  the butt end of his carbine
scratched against the lintel.  The Gadfly stopped and looked round, the file
still in his lifted hand. Was he discovered?
     A little round pellet had been shot through  the spy-hole and was lying
on the floor. He  laid down the file and stooped to pick up the round thing.
It was a bit of rolled paper.
     . . . . .
     It was a  long way to go down and  down, with the  black  waves rushing
about him--how they roared----!
     Ah,  yes! He was only stooping down to pick up  the paper. He was a bit
giddy;  many people are when they stoop. There was nothing the  matter  with
him--nothing.
     He picked it up, carried it to the light, and unfolded it steadily.
     "Come  to-night,  whatever  happens;  the Cricket  will  be transferred
to-morrow to another service. This is our only chance."
     He  destroyed the paper as  he  had done the  former one, picked up his
file again, and went back to work, dogged and mute and desperate.
     One  o'clock. He had  been working for three hours now, and  six of the
eight bars were filed. Two more, and then, to climb------
     He began to recall the former occasions when these terrible attacks had
come on. The last had  been the one  at New Year;  and  he  shuddered  as he
remembered those five nights. But that time it  had not come on so suddenly;
he had never known it so sudden.
     He  dropped the file and flung out  both hands blindly, praying, in his
utter desperation, for the first time since he had been an  atheist; praying
to anything--to nothing--to everything.
     "Not to-night!  Oh,  let  me be ill  to-morrow!  I  will bear  anything
to-morrow--only not to-night!"
     He stood still for a moment, with both hands up to his temples; then he
took up the file once more, and once more went back to his work.
     Half-past one. He  had  begun  on  the last  bar.  His shirt-sleeve was
bitten to rags; there was blood on his lips and a red  mist before his eyes,
and the sweat poured from his forehead as he filed, and filed, and filed----
     . . . . .
     After sunrise Montanelli fell asleep. He was utterly worn out  with the
restless misery of the night and slept for a  little while quietly; then  he
began to dream.
     At first he dreamed vaguely, confusedly; broken fragments of images and
fancies  followed each other, fleeting  and incoherent, but  all filled with
the  same  dim  sense  of struggle and pain,  the same shadow of indefinable
dread. Presently he began  to dream  of  sleeplessness;  the old, frightful,
familiar  dream  that  had  been a  terror to him for years.  And even as he
dreamed he recognized that he had been through it all before.
     He  was wandering  about in a great  empty place,  trying  to find some
quiet spot where he could lie down and  sleep. Everywhere there were people,
walking up  and down;  talking, laughing, shouting; praying,  ringing bells,
and clashing metal  instruments  together. Sometimes  he would get away to a
little distance from the noise, and would lie down, now on the grass, now on
a wooden bench, now on some  slab of stone. He would shut his eyes and cover
them with both hands to keep out the light; and would say to himself: "Now I
will get to sleep." Then the crowds would come sweeping up to him, shouting,
yelling, calling him by name, begging him: "Wake up! Wake up, quick; we want
you!"
     Again: he was in a great palace,  full of gorgeous rooms, with beds and
couches and low soft lounges. It was night,  and he said  to himself: "Here,
at last, I shall find a quiet place to sleep." But when he chose a dark room
and lay down, someone came in with a lamp, flashing the merciless light into
his eyes, and said: "Get up; you are wanted."
     He  rose  and wandered  on, staggering and stumbling  like  a  creature
wounded to  death; and heard  the clocks strike one, and knew that  half the
night was  gone already--the precious night  that was so short.  Two, three,
four,  five--by six o'clock the whole town would wake up and there would  be
no more silence.
     He went  into  another  room and would have lain  down on  a  bed,  but
someone  started up from the pillows, crying out: "This bed is mine!" and he
shrank away with despair in his heart.
     Hour after hour struck, and still he  wandered on and  on, from room to
room, from house to house, from corridor to corridor. The horrible gray dawn
was creeping near and nearer;  the clocks  were striking five; the night was
gone and he had found no rest. Oh, misery! Another day --another day!
     He was in a long, subterranean  corridor, a low,  vaulted  passage that
seemed to have no end. It  was  lighted with glaring lamps and  chandeliers;
and through its grated  roof came the  sounds  of dancing  and  laughter and
merry music.  Up  there, in the world of the live people overhead, there was
some  festival, no doubt. Oh,  for  a place to hide and  sleep;  some little
place, were it even a grave! And as he spoke he stumbled over an open grave.
An  open grave, smelling of death and  rottenness---- Ah, what matter, so he
could but sleep!
     "This grave is mine!" It was Gladys; and she raised her head and stared
at  him over the rotting shroud. Then  he knelt down  and stretched  out his
arms to her.
     "Gladys! Gladys!  Have  a little pity on me;  let me  creep  into  this
narrow space and  sleep. I do not ask you for your  love; I  will not  touch
you, will not speak to you;  only let me  lie down beside you and sleep! Oh,
love, it is so long since I have slept! I cannot bear another day. The light
glares in upon my soul; the noise is  beating my  brain to dust. Gladys, let
me come in here and sleep!"
     And  he  would have drawn her  shroud  across  his eyes. But she shrank
away, screaming:
     "It is sacrilege; you are a priest!"
     On and on he wandered, and came out upon the  sea-shore,  on the barren
rocks where  the  fierce light struck down, and the  water  moaned  its low,
perpetual wail of unrest. "Ah!" he said; "the sea will be more merciful; it,
too, is wearied unto death and cannot sleep."
     Then Arthur rose up from the deep, and cried aloud:
     "This sea is mine!"
     . . . . .
     "Your Eminence! Your Eminence!"
     Montanelli awoke with a start. His servant was knocking at the door. He
rose mechanically  and opened  it,  and the  man saw how wild  and scared he
looked.
     "Your Eminence--are you ill?"
     He drew both hands across his forehead.
     "No; I was asleep, and you startled me."
     "I am very sorry; I thought I had heard you moving early this  morning,
and I supposed------"
     "Is it late now?"
     "It  is  nine o'clock, and the Governor has called. He says he has very
important business, and knowing Your Eminence to be an early riser------"
     "Is he downstairs? I will come presently."
     He dressed and went downstairs.
     "I  am afraid this is an unceremonious way to call upon Your Eminence,"
the Governor began.
     "I hope there is nothing the matter?"
     "There is  very  much  the matter.  Rivarez  has all  but  succeeded in
escaping."
     "Well, so long as he has not quite succeeded there is no harm done. How
was it?"
     "He  was  found in the courtyard, right against  the  little iron gate.
When the patrol  came  in  to inspect the  courtyard  at three  o'clock this
morning one of the men stumbled  over something on the ground; and when they
brought  the light  up they found Rivarez lying across the path unconscious.
They  raised an alarm  at once and called me up; and  when I went to examine
his  cell I found all the window-bars filed through and a rope made of  torn
body-linen hanging from one  of  them.  He had let himself down and  climbed
along the wall. The  iron gate, which leads  into the subterranean  tunnels,
was found to be unlocked. That looks as if the guards had been suborned."
     "But how did he come to be lying across the path? Did he fall from  the
rampart and hurt himself?"
     "That is what I thought at first. Your Eminence; but the prison surgeon
can't find any  trace of a fall.  The soldier who was on duty yesterday says
that Rivarez looked very ill last  night when he brought in the  supper, and
did not eat anything. But  that must be nonsense; a  sick man couldn't  file
those bars through and climb along that roof. It's not in reason."
     "Does he give any account of himself?"
     "He is unconscious, Your Eminence."
     "Still?"
     "He just half comes to himself from time to  time and  moans,  and then
goes off again."
     "That is very strange. What does the doctor think?"
     "He doesn't know what to think. There is no trace of heart-disease that
he can find to account for the  thing; but whatever is the matter  with him,
it is something  that must have come  on suddenly, just when  he  had nearly
managed to  escape. For my  part, I believe he was struck down by the direct
intervention of a merciful Providence."
     Montanelli frowned slightly.
     "What are you going to do with him?" he asked.
     "That is a question  I shall settle in a very few days. In the meantime
I have had a good lesson. That is  what comes of taking  off the irons--with
all due respect to Your Eminence."
     "I hope,"  Montanelli interrupted, "that you will at least  not replace
the fetters while he is ill. A man in the condition you  describe can hardly
make any more attempts to escape."
     "I shall take good  care he  doesn't," the Governor muttered to himself
as he went out. "His Eminence can go hang with his  sentimental scruples for
all I care. Rivarez is chained pretty  tight  now, and is  going to stop so,
ill or not."
     . . . . .
     "But  how can it have happened? To faint  away at the last moment, when
everything  was ready; when he  was at the very gate! It's like some hideous
joke."
     "I tell you," Martini answered, "the only thing I can think  of is that
one  of these attacks must  have  come on,  and that he  must have struggled
against  it  as  long  as his  strength  lasted and  have fainted from sheer
exhaustion when he got down into the courtyard."
     Marcone knocked the ashes savagely from his pipe.
     "Well. anyhow, that's the end of it; we  can't do anything for him now,
poor fellow."
     "Poor fellow!"  Martini  echoed, under his breath. He was beginning  to
realise that to him, too, the  world would look empty and dismal without the
Gadfly.
     "What does she  think?" the smuggler asked, glancing  towards the other
end of the room, where Gemma sat alone, her hands lying idly in her lap, her
eyes looking straight before her into blank nothingness.
     "I have not asked her; she has not spoken since I brought her the news.
We had best not disturb her just yet."
     She did not appear to be conscious of  their  presence, but  they  both
spoke with lowered voices, as  though they were looking at a corpse. After a
dreary little pause, Marcone rose and put away his pipe.
     "I will come  back this evening," he said; but Martini stopped him with
a gesture.
     "Don't  go yet;  I  want to speak to  you." He dropped  his voice still
lower and continued in almost a whisper:
     "Do you believe there is really no hope?"
     "I don't see  what hope there can  be now. We  can't attempt it  again.
Even if he were  well enough to manage his part of the thing, we couldn't do
our share.  The sentinels are all  being changed, on  suspicion. The Cricket
won't get another chance, you may be sure."
     "Don't  you think," Martini  asked suddenly;  "that,  when he recovers,
something might be done by calling off the sentinels?"
     "Calling off the sentinels? What do you mean?"
     "Well, it has occurred  to me that if I  were to  get in the Governor's
way when the  procession passes close by the fortress  on Corpus  Domini day
and  fire in  his face, all the sentinels  would come rushing to get hold of
me, and some of you fellows could perhaps help Rivarez out in the confusion.
It really hardly amounts to a plan; it only came into my head."
     "I doubt whether it  could  be managed," Marcone  answered with  a very
grave face.  "Certainly it would want a lot of  thinking out for anything to
come  of it.  But"--he  stopped  and  looked  at  Martini--"if it  should be
possible-- would you do it?"
     Martini was a  reserved  man  at  ordinary times;  but this was not  an
ordinary time. He looked straight into the smuggler's face.
     "Would I do it?" he repeated. "Look at her!"
     There was no  need for further explanations; in saying that he had said
all. Marcone turned and looked across the room.
     She had not moved since  their  conversation began. There was no doubt,
no fear, even  no grief in her face; there was nothing in it  but the shadow
of death. The smuggler's eyes filled with tears as he looked at her.
     "Make haste,  Michele!"  he said, throwing  open the verandah door  and
looking out. "Aren't you nearly done, you two? There are a hundred and fifty
things to do!"
     Michele, followed by Gino, came in from the verandah.
     "I am ready now," he said. "I only want to ask the signora----"
     He was moving towards her when Martini caught him by the arm.
     "Don't disturb her; she's better alone."
     "Let her  be!" Marcone added.  "We shan't do any good by  meddling. God
knows, it's hard enough on all of us; but it's worse for her, poor soul!"

        PART III: CHAPTER V.
     FOR a week the Gadfly lay  in a fearful state. The attack was a violent
one, and the Governor, rendered brutal by fear and perplexity, had not  only
chained him hand and foot, but had insisted on his being bound to his pallet
with  leather straps,  drawn so tight that  he could not move  without their
cutting into  the flesh.  He  endured  everything  with  his dogged,  bitter
stoicism till  the end  of the sixth day. Then his pride broke  down, and he
piteously entreated the prison doctor  for a dose  of opium. The  doctor was
quite willing to give  it; but the Governor, hearing of the request, sharply
forbade "any such foolery."
     "How do you know  what he wants it for?" he said.  "It's just as likely
as not that he's shamming all the time and  wants to  drug  the sentinel, or
some such devilry. Rivarez is cunning enough for anything."
     "My giving  him  a dose would hardly  help  him to  drug the sentinel,"
replied the doctor, unable  to  suppress a  smile.  "And  as for  shamming--
there's not much fear of that. He is as likely as not to die."
     "Anyway, I won't have it given. If a man wants to be tenderly  treated,
he  should  behave  accordingly.  He has thoroughly  deserved a little sharp
discipline. Perhaps it  will be a  lesson to him not to play tricks with the
window-bars again."
     "The  law does  not  admit of torture, though,"  the doctor ventured to
say; "and this is coming perilously near it."
     "The  law says  nothing  about  opium,  I  think,"  said  the  Governor
snappishly.
     "It is for you to decide, of course,  colonel; but I hope you will  let
the straps be taken off at any rate. They are a  needless aggravation of his
misery. There's no fear of his escaping  now. He  couldn't stand if you  let
him go free."
     "My good sir, a doctor may make a mistake like other people, I suppose.
I have got him safe strapped now, and he's going to stop so."
     "At  least, then, have the straps a  little loosened.  It  is downright
barbarity to keep them drawn so tight."
     "They will stop exactly as they are; and I will  thank you, sir, not to
talk about barbarity to me. If I do a thing, I have a reason for it."
     So  the  seventh night passed  without  any  relief,  and  the  soldier
stationed  on  guard at the  cell door crossed himself, shuddering, over and
over again,  as  he listened  all  night  long to  heart-rending moans.  The
Gadfly's endurance was failing him at last.
     At six  in  the  morning  the  sentinel, just before  going  off  duty,
unlocked  the  door  softly  and  entered  the  cell.  He knew that  he  was
committing  a serious breach  of discipline, but could not bear  to go  away
without offering the consolation of a friendly word.
     He found the Gadfly lying still, with closed eyes  and parted  lips. He
stood silent for a moment; then stooped down and asked:
     "Can I do anything for you, sir? I have only a minute."
     The  Gadfly  opened  his  eyes. "Let  me alone!"  he  moaned.  "Let  me
alone----"
     He was asleep almost before the soldier had slipped back to his post.
     Ten  days afterwards the Governor called again at the palace, but found
that the Cardinal had gone  to visit a sick  man  at Pieve d'Ottavo, and was
not expected home till the  afternoon. That evening, just as he  was sitting
down to dinner, his servant came in to announce:
     "His Eminence would like to speak to you."
     The Governor, with  a hasty glance into the looking glass, to make sure
that his uniform  was in order, put on his most dignified air, and went into
the reception room, where Montanelli was sitting, beating his hand gently on
the arm of  the  chair and looking  out of the  window with an  anxious line
between his brows.
     "I heard that you called to-day," he said, cutting short the Governor's
polite speeches with a slightly imperious manner which  he never  adopted in
speaking to the country folk. "It was probably on the business about which I
have been wishing to speak to you."
     "It was about Rivarez, Your Eminence."
     "So I  supposed.  I  have been thinking the matter over  these last few
days.  But before  we go into that, I should  like to hear whether  you have
anything new to tell me."
     The Governor pulled his moustaches with an embarrassed air.
     "The fact is, I came to know whether Your Eminence had anything to tell
me. If you still have an objection to the course I proposed taking, I should
be  sincerely glad of your advice in the matter; for, honestly, I don't know
what to do."
     "Is there any new difficulty?"
     "Only  that next Thursday  is  the 3d of  June,  --Corpus  Domini,--and
somehow or other the matter must be settled before then."
     "Thursday  is Corpus Domini,  certainly;  but  why must it  be  settled
especially before then?"
     "I am exceedingly sorry, Your Eminence, if I  seem to oppose you, but I
can't undertake to be responsible for the peace  of  the town  if Rivarez is
not got rid  of before then. All the roughest set in the hills collects here
for that day, as Your Eminence knows, and it is more than probable that they
may  attempt  to break  open the fortress gates and take him out. They won't
succeed; I'll take care of that, if I have to sweep them from the gates with
powder  and  shot.  But we are very likely  to have something  of that  kind
before  the  day is over.  Here in  the  Romagna there is bad  blood  in the
people, and when once they get out their knives----"
     "I think  with a little  care we can  prevent  matters going as far  as
knives. I have always found the people of this district easy to get on with,
if they are reasonably treated. Of course, if you  once begin to threaten or
coerce  a  Romagnol  he becomes  unmanageable. But have you  any reason  for
supposing a new rescue scheme is intended?"
     "I heard, both this morning and yesterday, from confidential agents  of
mine,  that a great many rumours are circulating all over  the district  and
that the  people are evidently up  to  some mischief or other. But one can't
find  out the details; if one  could it would be easier to take precautions.
And for my part, after the  fright we  had the other day, I prefer to  be on
the safe side. With such a cunning fox as Rivarez one can't be too careful."
     "The last  I  heard about  Rivarez was that he was too ill  to move  or
speak. Is he recovering, then?"
     "He seems much better now, Your  Eminence. He certainly has  been  very
ill--unless he was shamming all the time."
     "Have you any reason for supposing that likely?"
     "Well, the doctor  seems convinced that  it was all genuine; but it's a
very  mysterious kind  of  illness.  Any way, he  is  recovering,  and  more
intractable than ever."
     "What has he done now?"
     "There's  not much  he can  do,  fortunately,"  the Governor  answered,
smiling as  he  remembered  the  straps.  "But  his  behaviour is  something
indescribable. Yesterday  morning I went into  the  cell to  ask  him a  few
questions; he  is  not well enough yet to come  to me for interrogation--and
indeed, I thought it best not to run any risk of the people seeing him until
he recovers. Such absurd stories always get about at once."
     "So you went there to interrogate him?"
     "Yes, Your Eminence. I hoped he would be more amenable to reason now."
     Montanelli looked  him  over  deliberately,  almost as if he  had  been
inspecting a new and disagreeable animal. Fortunately, however, the Governor
was fingering his sword-belt, and did not see the look. He went on placidly:
     "I have not subjected him to any particular severities, but I have been
obliged to  be  rather strict  with  him--especially as  it  is  a  military
prison--and  I thought  that perhaps  a little  indulgence might have a good
effect. I offered to relax the discipline considerably if he would behave in
a reasonable manner; and how does  Your  Eminence suppose he answered me? He
lay  looking at  me  a minute, like a wolf in a  cage, and  then said  quite
softly: 'Colonel, I can't get up and  strangle you; but  my teeth are pretty
good; you had better take your throat a little further off.' He is as savage
as a wild-cat."
     "I  am not surprised to hear it," Montanelli  answered quietly. "But  I
came to ask you  a question.  Do  you  honestly believe that the presence of
Rivarez in the prison here constitutes a  serious danger to the peace of the
district?"
     "Most certainly I do, Your Eminence."
     "You  think that,  to prevent the risk of bloodshed,  it  is absolutely
necessary that he should somehow be got rid of before Corpus Domini?"
     "I can only repeat that if he is here on Thursday,  I do not expect the
festival to pass over without a fight, and I think it likely to be a serious
one."
     "And you think that if he were not here there would be no such danger?"
     "In that case, there would either be no disturbance at all, or at  most
a little shouting and stone-throwing. If Your Eminence can find some way  of
getting  rid  of  him,  I  will  undertake that  the  peace shall  be  kept.
Otherwise, I expect most serious trouble.  I am convinced  that a new rescue
plot is  on hand, and  Thursday is the  day  when we may expect the attempt.
Now, if  on  that very morning they suddenly  find  that  he is