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

        PART III: CHAPTER VII.
     THE court-martial was held on Tuesday morning. It  was a very short and
simple affair; a mere formality, occupying barely twenty minutes. There was,
indeed, nothing to spend much  time  over; no  defence  was allowed, and the
only  witnesses  were  the  wounded spy and officer and a few soldiers.  The
sentence  was  drawn  up beforehand; Montanelli  had  sent  in  the  desired
informal  consent;  and the  judges  (Colonel Ferrari, the  local  major  of
dragoons,  and two  officers  of  the  Swiss guards) had little  to do.  The
indictment  was  read  aloud,  the  witnesses  gave their  evidence, and the
signatures  were  affixed  to  the  sentence,  which  was then read  to  the
condemned man  with befitting solemnity. He  listened in silence;  and  when
asked, according to the  usual form, whether he  had anything to say, merely
waved the question  aside with an impatient movement of  his hand. Hidden on
his breast was  the handkerchief which Montanelli had  let fall. It had been
kissed and wept  over all night,  as  though  it were a living thing. Now he
looked  wan and