CHAPTER I.

Produced by Judy Boss

THE GADFLY

By E. L. Voynich

“What have we to do with Thee, Thou Jesus of Nazareth?”

AUTHOR'S PREFACE.

MY most cordial thanks are due to the many

persons who helped me to collect, in Italy, the

materials for this story. I am especially indebted

to the officials of the Marucelliana Library of

Florence, and of the State Archives and Civic

Museum of Bologna, for their courtesy and

kindness.

THE GADFLY

PART I.

CHAPTER I.

Arthur sat in the library of the theological seminary at Pisa, looking

through a pile of manuscript sermons. It was a hot evening in June, and

the windows stood wide open, with the shutters half closed for coolness.

The Father Director, Canon Montanelli, paused a moment in his writing to

glance lovingly at the black head bent over the papers.

“Can't you find it, carino? Never mind; I must rewrite the passage.

Possibly it has got torn up, and I have kept you all this time for

nothing.”

Montanelli's voice was rather low, but full and resonant, with a silvery

purity of tone that gave to his speech a peculiar charm. It was the

voice of a born orator, rich in possible modulations. When he spoke to

Arthur its note was always that of a caress.

“No, Padre, I must find it; I'm sure you put it here. You will never

make it the same by rewriting.”

Montanelli went on with his work. A sleepy cockchafer hummed drowsily

outside the window, and the long, melancholy call of a fruitseller

echoed down the street: “Fragola! fragola!”

“'On the Healing of the Leper'; here it is.” Arthur came across the room

with the velvet tread that always exasperated the good folk at home.

He was a slender little creature, more like an Italian in a

sixteenth-century portrait than a middle-class English lad of the

thirties. From the long eyebrows and sensitive mouth to the small hands

and feet, everything about him was too much chiseled, overdelicate.

Sitting still, he might have been taken for a very pretty girl

masquerading in male attire; but when he moved, his lithe agility

suggested a tame panther without the claws.

“Is that really it? What should I do without you, Arthur? I should

always be losing my things. No, I am not going to write any more now.

Come out into the garden, and I will help you with your work. What is

the bit you couldn't understand?”

They went out into the still, shadowy cloister garden. The seminary

occupied the buildings of an old Dominican monastery, and two hundred

years ago the square courtyard had been stiff and trim, and the rosemary

and lavender had grown in close-cut bushes between the straight box

edgings. Now the white-robed monks who had tended them were laid away

and forgotten; but the scented herbs flowered still in the gracious

mid-summer evening, though no man gathered their blossoms for simples

any more. Tufts of wild parsley and columbine filled the cracks between

the flagged footways, and the well in the middle of the courtyard was

given up to ferns and matted stone-crop. The roses had run wild, and

their straggling suckers trailed across the paths; in the box borders

flared great red poppies; tall foxgloves drooped above the tangled

grasses; and the old vine, untrained and barren of fruit, swayed from

the branches of the neglected medlar-tree, shaking a leafy head with

slow and sad persistence.

In one corner stood a huge summer-flowering magnolia, a tower of dark

foliage, splashed here and there with milk-white blossoms. A rough

wooden bench had been placed against the trunk; and on this Montanelli

sat down. Arthur was studying philosophy at the university; and,

coming to a difficulty with a book, had applied to “the Padre” for an

explanation of the point. Montanelli was a universal encyclopaedia to

him, though he had never been a pupil of the seminary.

“I had better go now,” he said when the passage had been cleared up;

“unless you want me for anything.”

“I don't want to work any more, but I should like you to stay a bit if

you have time.”

“Oh, yes!” He leaned back against the tree-trunk and looked up through

the dusky branches at the first faint stars glimmering in a quiet

sky. The dreamy, mystical eyes, deep blue under black lashes, were an

inheritance from his Cornish mother, and Montanelli turned his head

away, that he might not see them.

“You are looking tired, carino,” he said.

“I can't help it.” There was a weary sound in Arthur's voice, and the

Padre noticed it at once.

“You should not have gone up to college so soon; you were tired out with

sick-nursing and being up at night. I ought to have insisted on your

taking a thorough rest before you left Leghorn.”

“Oh, Padre, what's the use of that? I couldn't stop in that miserable

house after mother died. Julia would have driven me mad!”

Julia was his eldest step-brother's wife, and a thorn in his side.

“I should not have wished you to stay with your relatives,” Montanelli

answered gently. “I am sure it would have been the worst possible thing

for you. But I wish you could have accepted the invitation of your

English doctor friend; if you had spent a month in his house you would

have been more fit to study.”

“No, Padre, I shouldn't indeed! The Warrens are very good and kind, but

they don't understand; and then they are sorry for me,--I can see it

in all their faces,--and they would try to console me, and talk about

mother. Gemma wouldn't, of course; she always knew what not to say, even

when we were babies; but the others would. And it isn't only that----”

“What is it then, my son?”

Arthur pulled off some blossoms from a drooping foxglove stem and

crushed them nervously in his hand.

“I can't bear the town,” he began after a moment's pause. “There are the

shops where she used to buy me toys when I was a little thing, and the

walk along the shore where I used to take her until she got too ill.

Wherever I go it's the same thing; every market-girl comes up to me

with bunches of flowers--as if I wanted them now! And there's the

church-yard--I had to get away; it made me sick to see the place----”

He broke off and sat tearing the foxglove bells to pieces. The silence

was so long and deep that he looked up, wondering why the Padre did

not speak. It was growing dark under the branches of the magnolia, and

everything seemed dim and indistinct; but there was light enough to show

the ghastly paleness of Montanelli's face. He was bending his head

down, his right hand tightly clenched upon the edge of the bench. Arthur

looked away with a sense of awe-struck wonder. It was as though he had

stepped unwittingly on to holy ground.

“My God!” he thought; “how small and selfish I am beside him! If my

trouble were his own he couldn't feel it more.”

Presently Montanelli raised his head and looked round. “I won't press

you to go back there; at all events, just now,” he said in his most

caressing tone; “but you must promise me to take a thorough rest when

your vacation begins this summer. I think you had better get a holiday

right away from the neighborhood of Leghorn. I can't have you breaking

down in health.”

“Where shall you go when the seminary closes, Padre?”

“I shall have to take the pupils into the hills, as usual, and see them

settled there. But by the middle of August the subdirector will be

back from his holiday. I shall try to get up into the Alps for a little

change. Will you come with me? I could take you for some long mountain

rambles, and you would like to study the Alpine mosses and lichens. But

perhaps it would be rather dull for you alone with me?”

“Padre!” Arthur clasped his hands in what Julia called his

“demonstrative foreign way.” “I would give anything on earth to go away

with you. Only--I am not sure----” He stopped.

“You don't think Mr. Burton would allow it?”

“He wouldn't like it, of course, but he could hardly interfere. I

am eighteen now and can do what I choose. After all, he's only my

step-brother; I don't see that I owe him obedience. He was always unkind

to mother.”

“But if he seriously objects, I think you had better not defy his

wishes; you may find your position at home made much harder if----”

“Not a bit harder!” Arthur broke in passionately. “They always did hate

me and always will--it doesn't matter what I do. Besides, how can James

seriously object to my going away with you--with my father confessor?”

“He is a Protestant, remember. However, you had better write to him, and

we will wait to hear what he thinks. But you must not be impatient, my

son; it matters just as much what you do, whether people hate you or

love you.”

The rebuke was so gently given that Arthur hardly coloured under it.

“Yes, I know,” he answered, sighing; “but it is so difficult----”

“I was sorry you could not come to me on Tuesday evening,” Montanelli

said, abruptly introducing a new subject. “The Bishop of Arezzo was

here, and I should have liked you to meet him.”

“I had promised one of the students to go to a meeting at his lodgings,

and they would have been expecting me.”

“What sort of meeting?”

Arthur seemed embarrassed by the question. “It--it was n-not a r-regular

meeting,” he said with a nervous little stammer. “A student had come

from Genoa, and he made a speech to us--a-a sort of--lecture.”

“What did he lecture about?”

Arthur hesitated. “You won't ask me his name, Padre, will you? Because I

promised----”

“I will ask you no questions at all, and if you have promised secrecy of

course you must not tell me; but I think you can almost trust me by this

time.”

“Padre, of course I can. He spoke about--us and our duty to the

people--and to--our own selves; and about--what we might do to help----”

“To help whom?”

“The contadini--and----”

“And?”

“Italy.”

There was a long silence.

“Tell me, Arthur,” said Montanelli, turning to him and speaking very

gravely, “how long have you been thinking about this?”

“Since--last winter.”

“Before your mother's death? And did she know of it?”

“N-no. I--I didn't care about it then.”

“And now you--care about it?”

Arthur pulled another handful of bells off the foxglove.

“It was this way, Padre,” he began, with his eyes on the ground. “When I

was preparing for the entrance examination last autumn, I got to know

a good many of the students; you remember? Well, some of them began to

talk to me about--all these things, and lent me books. But I didn't care

much about it; I always wanted to get home quick to mother. You see, she

was quite alone among them all in that dungeon of a house; and Julia's

tongue was enough to kill her. Then, in the winter, when she got so ill,

I forgot all about the students and their books; and then, you know, I

left off coming to Pisa altogether. I should have talked to mother if

I had thought of it; but it went right out of my head. Then I found out

that she was going to die----You know, I was almost constantly with her

towards the end; often I would sit up the night, and Gemma Warren would

come in the day to let me get to sleep. Well, it was in those long

nights; I got thinking about the books and about what the students had

said--and wondering--whether they were right and--what--Our Lord would

have said about it all.”

“Did you ask Him?” Montanelli's voice was not quite steady.

“Often, Padre. Sometimes I have prayed to Him to tell me what I must do,

or to let me die with mother. But I couldn't find any answer.”

“And you never said a word to me. Arthur, I hoped you could have trusted

me.”

“Padre, you know I trust you! But there are some things you can't talk

about to anyone. I--it seemed to me that no one could help me--not even

you or mother; I must have my own answer straight from God. You see, it

is for all my life and all my soul.”

Montanelli turned away and stared into the dusky gloom of the magnolia

branches. The twilight was so dim that his figure had a shadowy look,

like a dark ghost among the darker boughs.

“And then?” he asked slowly.

“And then--she died. You know, I had been up the last three nights with

her----”

He broke off and paused a moment, but Montanelli did not move.

“All those two days before they buried her,” Arthur went on in a lower

voice, “I couldn't think about anything. Then, after the funeral, I was

ill; you remember, I couldn't come to confession.”

“Yes; I remember.”

“Well, in the night I got up and went into mother's room. It was all

empty; there was only the great crucifix in the alcove. And I thought

perhaps God would help me. I knelt down and waited--all night. And in

the morning when I came to my senses--Padre, it isn't any use; I can't

explain. I can't tell you what I saw--I hardly know myself. But I know

that God has answered me, and that I dare not disobey Him.”

For a moment they sat quite silent in the darkness. Then Montanelli

turned and laid his hand on Arthur's shoulder.

“My son,” he said, “God forbid that I should say He has not spoken to

your soul. But remember your condition when this thing happened, and do

not take the fancies of grief or illness for His solemn call. And if,

indeed, it has been His will to answer you out of the shadow of death,

be sure that you put no false construction on His word. What is this

thing you have it in your heart to do?”

Arthur stood up and answered slowly, as though repeating a catechism:

“To give up my life to Italy, to help in freeing her from all this

slavery and wretchedness, and in driving out the Austrians, that she may

be a free republic, with no king but Christ.”

“Arthur, think a moment what you are saying! You are not even an

Italian.”

“That makes no difference; I am myself. I have seen this thing, and I

belong to it.”

There was silence again.

“You spoke just now of what Christ would have said----” Montanelli began

slowly; but Arthur interrupted him:

“Christ said: 'He that loseth his life for my sake shall find it.'”

Montanelli leaned his arm against a branch, and shaded his eyes with one

hand.

“Sit down a moment, my son,” he said at last.

Arthur sat down, and the Padre took both his hands in a strong and

steady clasp.

“I cannot argue with you to-night,” he said; “this has come upon me so

suddenly--I had not thought--I must have time to think it over. Later on

we will talk more definitely. But, for just now, I want you to remember

one thing. If you get into trouble over this, if you--die, you will

break my heart.”

“Padre----”

“No; let me finish what I have to say. I told you once that I have no

one in the world but you. I think you do not fully understand what that

means. It is difficult when one is so young; at your age I should not

have understood. Arthur, you are as my--as my--own son to me. Do you

see? You are the light of my eyes and the desire of my heart. I would

die to keep you from making a false step and ruining your life. But

there is nothing I can do. I don't ask you to make any promises to me; I

only ask you to remember this, and to be careful. Think well before

you take an irrevocable step, for my sake, if not for the sake of your

mother in heaven.”

“I will think--and--Padre, pray for me, and for Italy.”

He knelt down in silence, and in silence Montanelli laid his hand on the

bent head. A moment later Arthur rose, kissed the hand, and went softly

away across the dewy grass. Montanelli sat alone under the magnolia

tree, looking straight before him into the blackness.

“It is the vengeance of God that has fallen upon me,” he thought, “as it

fell upon David. I, that have defiled His sanctuary, and taken the Body

of the Lord into polluted hands,--He has been very patient with me, and

now it is come. 'For thou didst it secretly, but I will do this thing

before all Israel, and before the sun; THE CHILD THAT IS BORN UNTO THEE

SHALL SURELY DIE.'”

CHAPTER II.

MR. JAMES BURTON did not at all like the idea of his young step-brother

“careering about Switzerland” with Montanelli. But positively to forbid

a harmless botanizing tour with an elderly professor of theology would

seem to Arthur, who knew nothing of the reason for the prohibition,

absurdly tyrannical. He would immediately attribute it to religious or

racial prejudice; and the Burtons prided themselves on their

enlightened tolerance. The whole family had been staunch Protestants

and Conservatives ever since Burton & Sons, ship-owners, of London and

Leghorn, had first set up in business, more than a century back. But

they held that English gentlemen must deal fairly, even with Papists;

and when the head of the house, finding it dull to remain a widower, had

married the pretty Catholic governess of his younger children, the two

elder sons, James and Thomas, much as they resented the presence of

a step-mother hardly older than themselves, had submitted with sulky

resignation to the will of Providence. Since the father's death the

eldest brother's marriage had further complicated an already difficult

position; but both brothers had honestly tried to protect Gladys, as

long as she lived, from Julia's merciless tongue, and to do their duty,

as they understood it, by Arthur. They did not even pretend to like the

lad, and their generosity towards him showed itself chiefly in providing

him with lavish supplies of pocket money and allowing him to go his own

way.

In answer to his letter, accordingly, Arthur received a cheque to

cover his expenses and a cold permission to do as he pleased about

his holidays. He expended half his spare cash on botanical books and

pressing-cases, and started off with the Padre for his first Alpine

ramble.

Montanelli was in lighter spirits than Arthur had seen him in for a long

while. After the first shock of the conversation in the garden he had

gradually recovered his mental balance, and now looked upon the case

more calmly. Arthur was very young and inexperienced; his decision could

hardly be, as yet, irrevocable. Surely there was still time to win him

back by gentle persuasion and reasoning from the dangerous path upon

which he had barely entered.

They had intended to stay a few days at Geneva; but at the first sight

of the glaring white streets and dusty, tourist-crammed promenades,

a little frown appeared on Arthur's face. Montanelli watched him with

quiet amusement.

“You don't like it, carino?”

“I hardly know. It's so different from what I expected. Yes, the lake is

beautiful, and I like the shape of those hills.” They were standing on

Rousseau's Island, and he pointed to the long, severe outlines of

the Savoy side. “But the town looks so stiff and tidy, somehow--so

Protestant; it has a self-satisfied air. No, I don't like it; it reminds

me of Julia.”

Montanelli laughed. “Poor boy, what a misfortune! Well, we are here for

our own amusement, so there is no reason why we should stop. Suppose we

take a sail on the lake to-day, and go up into the mountains to-morrow

morning?”

“But, Padre, you wanted to stay here?”

“My dear boy, I have seen all these places a dozen times. My holiday is

to see your pleasure. Where would you like to go?”

“If it is really the same to you, I should like to follow the river back

to its source.”

“The Rhone?”

“No, the Arve; it runs so fast.”

“Then we will go to Chamonix.”

They spent the afternoon drifting about in a little sailing boat. The

beautiful lake produced far less impression upon Arthur than the gray

and muddy Arve. He had grown up beside the Mediterranean, and was

accustomed to blue ripples; but he had a positive passion for swiftly

moving water, and the hurried rushing of the glacier stream delighted

him beyond measure. “It is so much in earnest,” he said.

Early on the following morning they started for Chamonix. Arthur was in

very high spirits while driving through the fertile valley country;

but when they entered upon the winding road near Cluses, and the great,

jagged hills closed in around them, he became serious and silent.

From St. Martin they walked slowly up the valley, stopping to sleep at

wayside chalets or tiny mountain villages, and wandering on again as

their fancy directed. Arthur was peculiarly sensitive to the influence

of scenery, and the first waterfall that they passed threw him into

an ecstacy which was delightful to see; but as they drew nearer to

the snow-peaks he passed out of this rapturous mood into one of dreamy

exaltation that Montanelli had not seen before. There seemed to be a

kind of mystical relationship between him and the mountains. He would

lie for hours motionless in the dark, secret, echoing pine-forests,

looking out between the straight, tall trunks into the sunlit outer

world of flashing peaks and barren cliffs. Montanelli watched him with a

kind of sad envy.

“I wish you could show me what you see, carino,” he said one day as he

looked up from his book, and saw Arthur stretched beside him on the moss

in the same attitude as an hour before, gazing out with wide, dilated

eyes into the glittering expanse of blue and white. They had turned

aside from the high-road to sleep at a quiet village near the falls

of the Diosaz, and, the sun being already low in a cloudless sky, had

mounted a point of pine-clad rock to wait for the Alpine glow over the

dome and needles of the Mont Blanc chain. Arthur raised his head with

eyes full of wonder and mystery.

“What I see, Padre? I see a great, white being in a blue void that has

no beginning and no end. I see it waiting, age after age, for the coming

of the Spirit of God. I see it through a glass darkly.”

Montanelli sighed.

“I used to see those things once.”

“Do you never see them now?”

“Never. I shall not see them any more. They are there, I know; but I

have not the eyes to see them. I see quite other things.”

“What do you see?”

“I, carino? I see a blue sky and a snow-mountain--that is all when I

look up into the heights. But down there it is different.”

He pointed to the valley below them. Arthur knelt down and bent over

the sheer edge of the precipice. The great pine trees, dusky in the

gathering shades of evening, stood like sentinels along the narrow banks

confining the river. Presently the sun, red as a glowing coal, dipped

behind a jagged mountain peak, and all the life and light deserted the

face of nature. Straightway there came upon the valley something

dark and threatening--sullen, terrible, full of spectral weapons. The

perpendicular cliffs of the barren western mountains seemed like the

teeth of a monster lurking to snatch a victim and drag him down into the

maw of the deep valley, black with its moaning forests. The pine

trees were rows of knife-blades whispering: “Fall upon us!” and in the

gathering darkness the torrent roared and howled, beating against its

rocky prison walls with the frenzy of an everlasting despair.

“Padre!” Arthur rose, shuddering, and drew back from the precipice. “It

is like hell.”

“No, my son,” Montanelli answered softly, “it is only like a human

soul.”

“The souls of them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death?”

“The souls of them that pass you day by day in the street.”

Arthur shivered, looking down into the shadows. A dim white mist was

hovering among the pine trees, clinging faintly about the desperate

agony of the torrent, like a miserable ghost that had no consolation to

give.

“Look!” Arthur said suddenly. “The people that walked in darkness have

seen a great light.”

Eastwards the snow-peaks burned in the afterglow. When the red light had

faded from the summits Montanelli turned and roused Arthur with a touch

on the shoulder.

“Come in, carino; all the light is gone. We shall lose our way in the

dark if we stay any longer.”

“It is like a corpse,” Arthur said as he turned away from the spectral

face of the great snow-peak glimmering through the twilight.

They descended cautiously among the black trees to the chalet where they

were to sleep.

As Montanelli entered the room where Arthur was waiting for him at the

supper table, he saw that the lad seemed to have shaken off the ghostly

fancies of the dark, and to have changed into quite another creature.

“Oh, Padre, do come and look at this absurd dog! It can dance on its

hind legs.”

He was as much absorbed in the dog and its accomplishments as he

had been in the after-glow. The woman of the chalet, red-faced and

white-aproned, with sturdy arms akimbo, stood by smiling, while he put

the animal through its tricks. “One can see there's not much on his mind

if he can carry on that way,” she said in patois to her daughter. “And

what a handsome lad!”

Arthur coloured like a schoolgirl, and the woman, seeing that he had

understood, went away laughing at his confusion. At supper he talked

of nothing but plans for excursions, mountain ascents, and botanizing

expeditions. Evidently his dreamy fancies had not interfered with either

his spirits or his appetite.

When Montanelli awoke the next morning Arthur had disappeared. He had

started before daybreak for the higher pastures “to help Gaspard drive

up the goats.”

Breakfast had not long been on the table, however, when he came tearing

into the room, hatless, with a tiny peasant girl of three years old

perched on his shoulder, and a great bunch of wild flowers in his hand.

Montanelli looked up, smiling. This was a curious contrast to the grave

and silent Arthur of Pisa or Leghorn.

“Where have you been, you madcap? Scampering all over the mountains

without any breakfast?”

“Oh, Padre, it was so jolly! The mountains look perfectly glorious at

sunrise; and the dew is so thick! Just look!”

He lifted for inspection a wet and muddy boot.

“We took some bread and cheese with us, and got some goat's milk up

there on the pasture; oh, it was nasty! But I'm hungry again, now; and I

want something for this little person, too. Annette, won't you have some

honey?”

He had sat down with the child on his knee, and was helping her to put

the flowers in order.

“No, no!” Montanelli interposed. “I can't have you catching cold. Run

and change your wet things. Come to me, Annette. Where did you pick her

up?”

“At the top of the village. She belongs to the man we saw yesterday--the

man that cobbles the commune's boots. Hasn't she lovely eyes? She's got

a tortoise in her pocket, and she calls it 'Caroline.'”

When Arthur had changed his wet socks and came down to breakfast he

found the child seated on the Padre's knee, chattering volubly to him

about her tortoise, which she was holding upside down in a chubby hand,

that “monsieur” might admire the wriggling legs.

“Look, monsieur!” she was saying gravely in her half-intelligible

patois: “Look at Caroline's boots!”

Montanelli sat playing with the child, stroking her hair, admiring her

darling tortoise, and telling her wonderful stories. The woman of the

chalet, coming in to clear the table, stared in amazement at the sight

of Annette turning out the pockets of the grave gentleman in clerical

dress.

“God teaches the little ones to know a good man,” she said. “Annette is

always afraid of strangers; and see, she is not shy with his reverence

at all. The wonderful thing! Kneel down, Annette, and ask the good

monsieur's blessing before he goes; it will bring thee luck.”

“I didn't know you could play with children that way, Padre,” Arthur

said an hour later, as they walked through the sunlit pasture-land.

“That child never took her eyes off you all the time. Do you know, I

think----”

“Yes?”

“I was only going to say--it seems to me almost a pity that the Church

should forbid priests to marry. I cannot quite understand why. You see,

the training of children is such a serious thing, and it means so much

to them to be surrounded from the very beginning with good influences,

that I should have thought the holier a man's vocation and the purer his

life, the more fit he is to be a father. I am sure, Padre, if you had

not been under a vow,--if you had married,--your children would have

been the very----”

“Hush!”

The word was uttered in a hasty whisper that seemed to deepen the

ensuing silence.

“Padre,” Arthur began again, distressed by the other's sombre look, “do

you think there is anything wrong in what I said? Of course I may be

mistaken; but I must think as it comes natural to me to think.”

“Perhaps,” Montanelli answered gently, “you do not quite realize the

meaning of what you just said. You will see differently in a few years.

Meanwhile we had better talk about something else.”

It was the first break in the perfect ease and harmony that reigned

between them on this ideal holiday.

From Chamonix they went on by the Tete-Noire to Martigny, where they

stopped to rest, as the weather was stiflingly hot. After dinner they

sat on the terrace of the hotel, which was sheltered from the sun and

commanded a good view of the mountains. Arthur brought out his specimen

box and plunged into an earnest botanical discussion in Italian.

Two English artists were sitting on the terrace; one sketching, the

other lazily chatting. It did not seem to have occurred to him that the

strangers might understand English.

“Leave off daubing at the landscape, Willie,” he said; “and draw that

glorious Italian boy going into ecstasies over those bits of ferns. Just

look at the line of his eyebrows! You only need to put a crucifix for

the magnifying-glass and a Roman toga for the jacket and knickerbockers,

and there's your Early Christian complete, expression and all.”

“Early Christian be hanged! I sat beside that youth at dinner; he was

just as ecstatic over the roast fowl as over those grubby little weeds.

He's pretty enough; that olive colouring is beautiful; but he's not half

so picturesque as his father.”

“His--who?”

“His father, sitting there straight in front of you. Do you mean to say

you've passed him over? It's a perfectly magnificent face.”

“Why, you dunder-headed, go-to-meeting Methodist! Don't you know a

Catholic priest when you see one?”

“A priest? By Jove, so he is! Yes, I forgot; vow of chastity, and all

that sort of thing. Well then, we'll be charitable and suppose the boy's

his nephew.”

“What idiotic people!” Arthur whispered, looking up with dancing eyes.

“Still, it is kind of them to think me like you; I wish I were really

your nephew----Padre, what is the matter? How white you are!”

Montanelli was standing up, pressing one hand to his forehead. “I am a

little giddy,” he said in a curiously faint, dull tone. “Perhaps I was

too much in the sun this morning. I will go and lie down, carino; it's

nothing but the heat.”

*****

After a fortnight beside the Lake of Lucerne Arthur and Montanelli

returned to Italy by the St. Gothard Pass. They had been fortunate as

to weather and had made several very pleasant excursions; but the

first charm was gone out of their enjoyment. Montanelli was continually

haunted by an uneasy thought of the “more definite talk” for which this

holiday was to have been the opportunity. In the Arve valley he had

purposely put off all reference to the subject of which they had spoken

under the magnolia tree; it would be cruel, he thought, to spoil the

first delights of Alpine scenery for a nature so artistic as Arthur's by

associating them with a conversation which must necessarily be painful.

Ever since the day at Martigny he had said to himself each morning; “I

will speak to-day,” and each evening: “I will speak to-morrow;” and now

the holiday was over, and he still repeated again and again: “To-morrow,

to-morrow.” A chill, indefinable sense of something not quite the same

as it had been, of an invisible veil falling between himself and

Arthur, kept him silent, until, on the last evening of their holiday, he

realized suddenly that he must speak now if he would speak at all. They

were stopping for the night at Lugano, and were to start for Pisa next

morning. He would at least find out how far his darling had been drawn

into the fatal quicksand of Italian politics.

“The rain has stopped, carino,” he said after sunset; “and this is the

only chance we shall have to see the lake. Come out; I want to have a

talk with you.”

They walked along the water's edge to a quiet spot and sat down on a

low stone wall. Close beside them grew a rose-bush, covered with scarlet

hips; one or two belated clusters of creamy blossom still hung from an

upper branch, swaying mournfully and heavy with raindrops. On the green

surface of the lake a little boat, with white wings faintly fluttering,

rocked in the dewy breeze. It looked as light and frail as a tuft of

silvery dandelion seed flung upon the water. High up on Monte Salvatore

the window of some shepherd's hut opened a golden eye. The roses hung

their heads and dreamed under the still September clouds, and the water

plashed and murmured softly among the pebbles of the shore.

“This will be my only chance of a quiet talk with you for a long time,”

Montanelli began. “You will go back to your college work and friends;

and I, too, shall be very busy this winter. I want to understand quite

clearly what our position as regards each other is to be; and so, if

you----” He stopped for a moment and then continued more slowly: “If you

feel that you can still trust me as you used to do, I want you to tell

me more definitely than that night in the seminary garden, how far you

have gone.”

Arthur looked out across the water, listened quietly, and said nothing.

“I want to know, if you will tell me,” Montanelli went on; “whether you

have bound yourself by a vow, or--in any way.”

“There is nothing to tell, dear Padre; I have not bound myself, but I am

bound.”

“I don't understand------”

“What is the use of vows? They are not what binds people. If you feel

in a certain way about a thing, that binds you to it; if you don't feel

that way, nothing else can bind you.”

“Do you mean, then, that this thing--this--feeling is quite irrevocable?

Arthur, have you thought what you are saying?”

Arthur turned round and looked straight into Montanelli's eyes.

“Padre, you asked me if I could trust you. Can you not trust me, too?

Indeed, if there were anything to tell, I would tell it to you; but

there is no use in talking about these things. I have not forgotten what

you said to me that night; I shall never forget it. But I must go my way

and follow the light that I see.”

Montanelli picked a rose from the bush, pulled off the petals one by

one, and tossed them into the water.

“You are right, carino. Yes, we will say no more about these things;

it seems there is indeed no help in many words----Well, well, let us go

in.”

CHAPTER III.

THE autumn and winter passed uneventfully. Arthur was reading hard and

had little spare time. He contrived to get a glimpse of Montanelli once

or oftener in every week, if only for a few minutes. From time to time

he would come in to ask for help with some difficult book; but on these

occasions the subject of study was strictly adhered to. Montanelli,

feeling, rather than observing, the slight, impalpable barrier that

had come between them, shrank from everything which might seem like an

attempt to retain the old close relationship. Arthur's visits now caused

him more distress than pleasure, so trying was the constant effort to

appear at ease and to behave as if nothing were altered. Arthur, for his

part, noticed, hardly understanding it, the subtle change in the Padre's

manner; and, vaguely feeling that it had some connection with the vexed

question of the “new ideas,” avoided all mention of the subject with

which his thoughts were constantly filled. Yet he had never

loved Montanelli so deeply as now. The dim, persistent sense of

dissatisfaction, of spiritual emptiness, which he had tried so hard to

stifle under a load of theology and ritual, had vanished into nothing at

the touch of Young Italy. All the unhealthy fancies born of loneliness

and sick-room watching had passed away, and the doubts against which he

used to pray had gone without the need of exorcism. With the awakening

of a new enthusiasm, a clearer, fresher religious ideal (for it was more

in this light than in that of a political development that the

students' movement had appeared to him), had come a sense of rest and

completeness, of peace on earth and good will towards men; and in this

mood of solemn and tender exaltation all the world seemed to him full of

light. He found a new element of something lovable in the persons whom

he had most disliked; and Montanelli, who for five years had been his

ideal hero, was now in his eyes surrounded with an additional halo, as

a potential prophet of the new faith. He listened with passionate

eagerness to the Padre's sermons, trying to find in them some trace of

inner kinship with the republican ideal; and pored over the Gospels,

rejoicing in the democratic tendencies of Christianity at its origin.

One day in January he called at the seminary to return a book which he

had borrowed. Hearing that the Father Director was out, he went up to

Montanelli's private study, placed the volume on its shelf, and was

about to leave the room when the title of a book lying on the table

caught his eyes. It was Dante's “De Monarchia.” He began to read it and

soon became so absorbed that when the door opened and shut he did not

hear. He was aroused from his preoccupation by Montanelli's voice behind

him.

“I did not expect you to-day,” said the Padre, glancing at the title of

the book. “I was just going to send and ask if you could come to me this

evening.”

“Is it anything important? I have an engagement for this evening; but I

will miss it if------”

“No; to-morrow will do. I want to see you because I am going away on

Tuesday. I have been sent for to Rome.”

“To Rome? For long?”

“The letter says, 'till after Easter.' It is from the Vatican. I would

have let you know at once, but have been very busy settling up things

about the seminary and making arrangements for the new Director.”

“But, Padre, surely you are not giving up the seminary?”

“It will have to be so; but I shall probably come back to Pisa, for some

time at least.”

“But why are you giving it up?”

“Well, it is not yet officially announced; but I am offered a

bishopric.”

“Padre! Where?”

“That is the point about which I have to go to Rome. It is not yet

decided whether I am to take a see in the Apennines, or to remain here

as Suffragan.”

“And is the new Director chosen yet?”

“Father Cardi has been nominated and arrives here to-morrow.”

“Is not that rather sudden?”

“Yes; but----The decisions of the Vatican are sometimes not communicated

till the last moment.”

“Do you know the new Director?”

“Not personally; but he is very highly spoken of. Monsignor Belloni, who

writes, says that he is a man of great erudition.”

“The seminary will miss you terribly.”

“I don't know about the seminary, but I am sure you will miss me,

carino; perhaps almost as much as I shall miss you.”

“I shall indeed; but I am very glad, for all that.”

“Are you? I don't know that I am.” He sat down at the table with a weary

look on his face; not the look of a man who is expecting high promotion.

“Are you busy this afternoon, Arthur?” he said after a moment. “If not,

I wish you would stay with me for a while, as you can't come to-night.

I am a little out of sorts, I think; and I want to see as much of you as

possible before leaving.”

“Yes, I can stay a bit. I am due at six.”

“One of your meetings?”

Arthur nodded; and Montanelli changed the subject hastily.

“I want to speak to you about yourself,” he said. “You will need another

confessor in my absence.”

“When you come back I may go on confessing to you, may I not?”

“My dear boy, how can you ask? Of course I am speaking only of the three

or four months that I shall be away. Will you go to one of the Fathers

of Santa Caterina?”

“Very well.”

They talked of other matters for a little while; then Arthur rose.

“I must go, Padre; the students will be waiting for me.”

The haggard look came back to Montanelli's face.

“Already? You had almost charmed away my black mood. Well, good-bye.”

“Good-bye. I will be sure to come to-morrow.”

“Try to come early, so that I may have time to see you alone. Father

Cardi will be here. Arthur, my dear boy, be careful while I am gone;

don't be led into doing anything rash, at least before I come back. You

cannot think how anxious I feel about leaving you.”

“There is no need, Padre; everything is quite quiet. It will be a long

time yet.”

“Good-bye,” Montanelli said abruptly, and sat down to his writing.

The first person upon whom Arthur's eyes fell, as he entered the room

where the students' little gatherings were held, was his old playmate,

Dr. Warren's daughter. She was sitting in a corner by the window,

listening with an absorbed and earnest face to what one of the

“initiators,” a tall young Lombard in a threadbare coat, was saying to

her. During the last few months she had changed and developed greatly,

and now looked a grown-up young woman, though the dense black plaits

still hung down her back in school-girl fashion. She was dressed all in

black, and had thrown a black scarf over her head, as the room was cold

and draughty. At her breast was a spray of cypress, the emblem of Young

Italy. The initiator was passionately describing to her the misery

of the Calabrian peasantry; and she sat listening silently, her chin

resting on one hand and her eyes on the ground. To Arthur she seemed

a melancholy vision of Liberty mourning for the lost Republic.

(Julia would have seen in her only an overgrown hoyden, with a sallow

complexion, an irregular nose, and an old stuff frock that was too short

for her.)

“You here, Jim!” he said, coming up to her when the initiator had been

called to the other end of the room. “Jim” was a childish corruption of

her curious baptismal name: Jennifer. Her Italian schoolmates called her

“Gemma.”

She raised her head with a start.

“Arthur! Oh, I didn't know you--belonged here!”

“And I had no idea about you. Jim, since when have you----?”

“You don't understand!” she interposed quickly. “I am not a member.

It is only that I have done one or two little things. You see, I met

Bini--you know Carlo Bini?”

“Yes, of course.” Bini was the organizer of the Leghorn branch; and all

Young Italy knew him.

“Well, he began talking to me about these things; and I asked him to

let me go to a students' meeting. The other day he wrote to me to

Florence------Didn't you know I had been to Florence for the Christmas

holidays?”

“I don't often hear from home now.”

“Ah, yes! Anyhow, I went to stay with the Wrights.” (The Wrights were

old schoolfellows of hers who had moved to Florence.) “Then Bini wrote

and told me to pass through Pisa to-day on my way home, so that I could

come here. Ah! they're going to begin.”

The lecture was upon the ideal Republic and the duty of the young to

fit themselves for it. The lecturer's comprehension of his subject was

somewhat vague; but Arthur listened with devout admiration. His mind at

this period was curiously uncritical; when he accepted a moral ideal

he swallowed it whole without stopping to think whether it was quite

digestible. When the lecture and the long discussion which followed it

were finished and the students began to disperse, he went up to Gemma,

who was still sitting in the corner of the room.

“Let me walk with you, Jim. Where are you staying?”

“With Marietta.”

“Your father's old housekeeper?”

“Yes; she lives a good way from here.”

They walked for some time in silence. Then Arthur said suddenly:

“You are seventeen, now, aren't you?”

“I was seventeen in October.”

“I always knew you would not grow up like other girls and begin wanting

to go to balls and all that sort of thing. Jim, dear, I have so often

wondered whether you would ever come to be one of us.”

“So have I.”

“You said you had done things for Bini; I didn't know you even knew

him.”

“It wasn't for Bini; it was for the other one.”

“Which other one?”

“The one that was talking to me to-night--Bolla.”

“Do you know him well?” Arthur put in with a little touch of jealousy.

Bolla was a sore subject with him; there had been a rivalry between them

about some work which the committee of Young Italy had finally intrusted

to Bolla, declaring Arthur too young and inexperienced.

“I know him pretty well; and I like him very much. He has been staying

in Leghorn.”

“I know; he went there in November------”

“Because of the steamers. Arthur, don't you think your house would be

safer than ours for that work? Nobody would suspect a rich shipping

family like yours; and you know everyone at the docks----”

“Hush! not so loud, dear! So it was in your house the books from

Marseilles were hidden?”

“Only for one day. Oh! perhaps I oughtn't to have told you.”

“Why not? You know I belong to the society. Gemma, dear, there is

nothing in all the world that would make me so happy as for you to join

us--you and the Padre.”

“Your Padre! Surely he----”

“No; he thinks differently. But I have sometimes fancied--that

is--hoped--I don't know----”

“But, Arthur! he's a priest.”

“What of that? There are priests in the society--two of them write in

the paper. And why not? It is the mission of the priesthood to lead the

world to higher ideals and aims, and what else does the society try

to do? It is, after all, more a religious and moral question than a

political one. If people are fit to be free and responsible citizens, no

one can keep them enslaved.”

Gemma knit her brows. “It seems to me, Arthur,” she said, “that there's

a muddle somewhere in your logic. A priest teaches religious doctrine. I

don't see what that has to do with getting rid of the Austrians.”

“A priest is a teacher of Christianity, and the greatest of all

revolutionists was Christ.”

“Do you know, I was talking about priests to father the other day, and

he said----”

“Gemma, your father is a Protestant.”

After a little pause she looked round at him frankly.

“Look here, we had better leave this subject alone. You are always

intolerant when you talk about Protestants.”

“I didn't mean to be intolerant. But I think Protestants are generally

intolerant when they talk about priests.”

“I dare say. Anyhow, we have so often quarreled over this subject

that it is not worth while to begin again. What did you think of the

lecture?”

“I liked it very much--especially the last part. I was glad he spoke so

strongly about the need of living the Republic, not dreaming of it. It

is as Christ said: 'The Kingdom of Heaven is within you.'”

“It was just that part that I didn't like. He talked so much of the

wonderful things we ought to think and feel and be, but he never told us

practically what we ought to do.”

“When the time of crisis comes there will be plenty for us to do; but we

must be patient; these great changes are not made in a day.”

“The longer a thing is to take doing, the more reason to begin at once.

You talk about being fit for freedom--did you ever know anyone so fit

for it as your mother? Wasn't she the most perfectly angelic woman you

ever saw? And what use was all her goodness? She was a slave till the

day she died--bullied and worried and insulted by your brother James and

his wife. It would have been much better for her if she had not been so

sweet and patient; they would never have treated her so. That's just the

way with Italy; it's not patience that's wanted--it's for somebody to

get up and defend themselves------”

“Jim, dear, if anger and passion could have saved Italy she would have

been free long ago; it is not hatred that she needs, it is love.”

As he said the word a sudden flush went up to his forehead and died out

again. Gemma did not see it; she was looking straight before her with

knitted brows and set mouth.

“You think I am wrong, Arthur,” she said after a pause; “but I am right,

and you will grow to see it some day. This is the house. Will you come

in?”

“No; it's late. Good-night, dear!”

He was standing on the doorstep, clasping her hand in both of his.

“For God and the people----”

Slowly and gravely she completed the unfinished motto:

“Now and forever.”

Then she pulled away her hand and ran into the house. When the door had

closed behind her he stooped and picked up the spray of cypress which

had fallen from her breast.

CHAPTER IV.

ARTHUR went back to his lodgings feeling as though he had wings. He was

absolutely, cloudlessly happy. At the meeting there had been hints of

preparations for armed insurrection; and now Gemma was a comrade, and he

loved her. They could work together, possibly even die together, for the

Republic that was to be. The blossoming time of their hope was come, and

the Padre would see it and believe.

The next morning, however, he awoke in a soberer mood and remembered

that Gemma was going to Leghorn and the Padre to Rome. January,

February, March--three long months to Easter! And if Gemma should

fall under “Protestant” influences at home (in Arthur's vocabulary

“Protestant” stood for “Philistine”)------No, Gemma would never learn to

flirt and simper and captivate tourists and bald-headed shipowners, like

the other English girls in Leghorn; she was made of different stuff. But

she might be very miserable; she was so young, so friendless, so utterly

alone among all those wooden people. If only mother had lived----

In the evening he went to the seminary, where he found Montanelli

entertaining the new Director and looking both tired and bored. Instead

of lighting up, as usual, at the sight of Arthur, the Padre's face grew

darker.

“This is the student I spoke to you about,” he said, introducing Arthur

stiffly. “I shall be much obliged if you will allow him to continue

using the library.”

Father Cardi, a benevolent-looking elderly priest, at once began talking

to Arthur about the Sapienza, with an ease and familiarity which showed

him to be well acquainted with college life. The conversation soon

drifted into a discussion of university regulations, a burning question

of that day. To Arthur's great delight, the new Director spoke strongly

against the custom adopted by the university authorities of constantly

worrying the students by senseless and vexatious restrictions.

“I have had a good deal of experience in guiding young people,” he said;

“and I make it a rule never to prohibit anything without a good reason.

There are very few young men who will give much trouble if proper

consideration and respect for their personality are shown to them. But,

of course, the most docile horse will kick if you are always jerking at

the rein.”

Arthur opened his eyes wide; he had not expected to hear the students'

cause pleaded by the new Director. Montanelli took no part in the

discussion; its subject, apparently, did not interest him. The

expression of his face was so unutterably hopeless and weary that Father

Cardi broke off suddenly.

“I am afraid I have overtired you, Canon. You must forgive my

talkativeness; I am hot upon this subject and forget that others may

grow weary of it.”

“On the contrary, I was much interested.” Montanelli was not given to

stereotyped politeness, and his tone jarred uncomfortably upon Arthur.

When Father Cardi went to his own room Montanelli turned to Arthur with

the intent and brooding look that his face had worn all the evening.

“Arthur, my dear boy,” he began slowly; “I have something to tell you.”

“He must have had bad news,” flashed through Arthur's mind, as he looked

anxiously at the haggard face. There was a long pause.

“How do you like the new Director?” Montanelli asked suddenly.

The question was so unexpected that, for a moment, Arthur was at a loss

how to reply to it.

“I--I like him very much, I think--at least--no, I am not quite sure

that I do. But it is difficult to say, after seeing a person once.”

Montanelli sat beating his hand gently on the arm of his chair; a habit

with him when anxious or perplexed.

“About this journey to Rome,” he began again; “if you think there is

any--well--if you wish it, Arthur, I will write and say I cannot go.”

“Padre! But the Vatican------”

“The Vatican will find someone else. I can send apologies.”

“But why? I can't understand.”

Montanelli drew one hand across his forehead.

“I am anxious about you. Things keep coming into my head--and after all,

there is no need for me to go------”

“But the bishopric----”

“Oh, Arthur! what shall it profit me if I gain a bishopric and lose----”

He broke off. Arthur had never seen him like this before, and was

greatly troubled.

“I can't understand,” he said. “Padre, if you could explain to me

more--more definitely, what it is you think------”

“I think nothing; I am haunted with a horrible fear. Tell me, is there

any special danger?”

“He has heard something,” Arthur thought, remembering the whispers of

a projected revolt. But the secret was not his to tell; and he merely

answered: “What special danger should there be?”

“Don't question me--answer me!” Montanelli's voice was almost harsh in

its eagerness. “Are you in danger? I don't want to know your secrets;

only tell me that!”

“We are all in God's hands, Padre; anything may always happen. But I

know of no reason why I should not be here alive and safe when you come

back.”

“When I come back----Listen, carino; I will leave it in your hands. You

need give me no reason; only say to me, 'Stay,' and I will give up this

journey. There will be no injury to anyone, and I shall feel you are

safer if I have you beside me.”

This kind of morbid fancifulness was so foreign to Montanelli's

character that Arthur looked at him with grave anxiety.

“Padre, I am sure you are not well. Of course you must go to Rome,

and try to have a thorough rest and get rid of your sleeplessness and

headaches.”

“Very well,” Montanelli interrupted, as if tired of the subject; “I will

start by the early coach to-morrow morning.”

Arthur looked at him, wondering.

“You had something to tell me?” he said.

“No, no; nothing more--nothing of any consequence.” There was a

startled, almost terrified look in his face.

A few days after Montanelli's departure Arthur went to fetch a book from

the seminary library, and met Father Cardi on the stairs.

“Ah, Mr. Burton!” exclaimed the Director; “the very person I wanted.

Please come in and help me out of a difficulty.”

He opened the study door, and Arthur followed him into the room with

a foolish, secret sense of resentment. It seemed hard to see this dear

study, the Padre's own private sanctum, invaded by a stranger.

“I am a terrible book-worm,” said the Director; “and my first act when I

got here was to examine the library. It seems very interesting, but I do

not understand the system by which it is catalogued.”

“The catalogue is imperfect; many of the best books have been added to

the collection lately.”

“Can you spare half an hour to explain the arrangement to me?”

They went into the library, and Arthur carefully explained the

catalogue. When he rose to take his hat, the Director interfered,

laughing.

“No, no! I can't have you rushing off in that way. It is Saturday, and

quite time for you to leave off work till Monday morning. Stop and have

supper with me, now I have kept you so late. I am quite alone, and shall

be glad of company.”

His manner was so bright and pleasant that Arthur felt at ease with him

at once. After some desultory conversation, the Director inquired how

long he had known Montanelli.

“For about seven years. He came back from China when I was twelve years

old.”

“Ah, yes! It was there that he gained his reputation as a missionary

preacher. Have you been his pupil ever since?”

“He began teaching me a year later, about the time when I first

confessed to him. Since I have been at the Sapienza he has still gone on

helping me with anything I wanted to study that was not in the regular

course. He has been very kind to me--you can hardly imagine how kind.”

“I can well believe it; he is a man whom no one can fail to admire--a

most noble and beautiful nature. I have met priests who were out in

China with him; and they had no words high enough to praise his energy

and courage under all hardships, and his unfailing devotion. You are

fortunate to have had in your youth the help and guidance of such a man.

I understood from him that you have lost both parents.”

“Yes; my father died when I was a child, and my mother a year ago.”

“Have you brothers and sisters?”

“No; I have step-brothers; but they were business men when I was in the

nursery.”

“You must have had a lonely childhood; perhaps you value Canon

Montanelli's kindness the more for that. By the way, have you chosen a

confessor for the time of his absence?”

“I thought of going to one of the fathers of Santa Caterina, if they

have not too many penitents.”

“Will you confess to me?”

Arthur opened his eyes in wonder.

“Reverend Father, of course I--should be glad; only----”

“Only the Director of a theological seminary does not usually receive

lay penitents? That is quite true. But I know Canon Montanelli takes

a great interest in you, and I fancy he is a little anxious on your

behalf--just as I should be if I were leaving a favourite pupil--and

would like to know you were under the spiritual guidance of his

colleague. And, to be quite frank with you, my son, I like you, and

should be glad to give you any help I can.”

“If you put it that way, of course I shall be very grateful for your

guidance.”

“Then you will come to me next month? That's right. And run in to see

me, my lad, when you have time any evening.”

*****

Shortly before Easter Montanelli's appointment to the little see of

Brisighella, in the Etruscan Apennines, was officially announced. He

wrote to Arthur from Rome in a cheerful and tranquil spirit; evidently

his depression was passing over. “You must come to see me every

vacation,” he wrote; “and I shall often be coming to Pisa; so I hope to

see a good deal of you, if not so much as I should wish.”

Dr. Warren had invited Arthur to spend the Easter holidays with him and

his children, instead of in the dreary, rat-ridden old place where Julia

now reigned supreme. Enclosed in the letter was a short note, scrawled

in Gemma's childish, irregular handwriting, begging him to come if

possible, “as I want to talk to you about something.” Still more

encouraging was the whispered communication passing around from student

to student in the university; everyone was to be prepared for great

things after Easter.

All this had put Arthur into a state of rapturous anticipation, in which

the wildest improbabilities hinted at among the students seemed to him

natural and likely to be realized within the next two months.

He arranged to go home on Thursday in Passion week, and to spend the

first days of the vacation there, that the pleasure of visiting the

Warrens and the delight of seeing Gemma might not unfit him for the

solemn religious meditation demanded by the Church from all her children

at this season. He wrote to Gemma, promising to come on Easter Monday;

and went up to his bedroom on Wednesday night with a soul at peace.

He knelt down before the crucifix. Father Cardi had promised to receive

him in the morning; and for this, his last confession before the Easter

communion, he must prepare himself by long and earnest prayer. Kneeling

with clasped hands and bent head, he looked back over the month, and

reckoned up the miniature sins of impatience, carelessness, hastiness

of temper, which had left their faint, small spots upon the whiteness of

his soul. Beyond these he could find nothing; in this month he had

been too happy to sin much. He crossed himself, and, rising, began to

undress.

As he unfastened his shirt a scrap of paper slipped from it and

fluttered to the floor. It was Gemma's letter, which he had worn all

day upon his neck. He picked it up, unfolded it, and kissed the

dear scribble; then began folding the paper up again, with a dim

consciousness of having done something very ridiculous, when he noticed

on the back of the sheet a postscript which he had not read before.

“Be sure and come as soon as possible,” it ran, “for I want you to meet

Bolla. He has been staying here, and we have read together every day.”

The hot colour went up to Arthur's forehead as he read.

Always Bolla! What was he doing in Leghorn again? And why should Gemma

want to read with him? Had he bewitched her with his smuggling? It had

been quite easy to see at the meeting in January that he was in love

with her; that was why he had been so earnest over his propaganda. And

now he was close to her--reading with her every day.

Arthur suddenly threw the letter aside and knelt down again before the

crucifix. And this was the soul that was preparing for absolution, for

the Easter sacrament--the soul at peace with God and itself and all the

world! A soul capable of sordid jealousies and suspicions; of selfish

animosities and ungenerous hatred--and against a comrade! He covered his

face with both hands in bitter humiliation. Only five minutes ago he

had been dreaming of martyrdom; and now he had been guilty of a mean and

petty thought like this!

When he entered the seminary chapel on Thursday morning he found Father

Cardi alone. After repeating the Confiteor, he plunged at once into the

subject of his last night's backsliding.

“My father, I accuse myself of the sins of jealousy and anger, and of

unworthy thoughts against one who has done me no wrong.”

Farther Cardi knew quite well with what kind of penitent he had to deal.

He only said softly:

“You have not told me all, my son.”

“Father, the man against whom I have thought an unchristian thought is

one whom I am especially bound to love and honour.”

“One to whom you are bound by ties of blood?”

“By a still closer tie.”

“By what tie, my son?”

“By that of comradeship.”

“Comradeship in what?”

“In a great and holy work.”

A little pause.

“And your anger against this--comrade, your jealousy of him, was called

forth by his success in that work being greater than yours?”

“I--yes, partly. I envied him his experience--his usefulness. And

then--I thought--I feared--that he would take from me the heart of the

girl I--love.”

“And this girl that you love, is she a daughter of the Holy Church?”

“No; she is a Protestant.”

“A heretic?”

Arthur clasped his hands in great distress. “Yes, a heretic,” he

repeated. “We were brought up together; our mothers were

friends--and I--envied him, because I saw that he loves her, too, and

because--because----”

“My son,” said Father Cardi, speaking after a moment's silence, slowly

and gravely, “you have still not told me all; there is more than this

upon your soul.”

“Father, I----” He faltered and broke off again.

The priest waited silently.

“I envied him because the society--the Young Italy--that I belong

to------”

“Yes?”

“Intrusted him with a work that I had hoped--would be given to me, that

I had thought myself--specially adapted for.”

“What work?”

“The taking in of books--political books--from the steamers that bring

them--and finding a hiding place for them--in the town------”

“And this work was given by the party to your rival?”

“To Bolla--and I envied him.”

“And he gave you no cause for this feeling? You do not accuse him of

having neglected the mission intrusted to him?”

“No, father; he has worked bravely and devotedly; he is a true patriot

and has deserved nothing but love and respect from me.”

Father Cardi pondered.

“My son, if there is within you a new light, a dream of some great work

to be accomplished for your fellow-men, a hope that shall lighten the

burdens of the weary and oppressed, take heed how you deal with the most

precious blessing of God. All good things are of His giving; and of His

giving is the new birth. If you have found the way of sacrifice, the way

that leads to peace; if you have joined with loving comrades to bring

deliverance to them that weep and mourn in secret; then see to it that

your soul be free from envy and passion and your heart as an altar where

the sacred fire burns eternally. Remember that this is a high and holy

thing, and that the heart which would receive it must be purified from

every selfish thought. This vocation is as the vocation of a priest;

it is not for the love of a woman, nor for the moment of a fleeting

passion; it is FOR GOD AND THE PEOPLE; it is NOW AND FOREVER.”

“Ah!” Arthur started and clasped his hands; he had almost burst out

sobbing at the motto. “Father, you give us the sanction of the Church!

Christ is on our side----”

“My son,” the priest answered solemnly, “Christ drove the moneychangers

out of the Temple, for His House shall be called a House of Prayer, and

they had made it a den of thieves.”

After a long silence, Arthur whispered tremulously:

“And Italy shall be His Temple when they are driven out----”

He stopped; and the soft answer came back:

“'The earth and the fulness thereof are mine, saith the Lord.'”

CHAPTER V.

THAT afternoon Arthur felt the need of a long walk. He intrusted his

luggage to a fellow-student and went to Leghorn on foot.

The day was damp and cloudy, but not cold; and the low, level country

seemed to him fairer than he had ever known it to look before. He had a

sense of delight in the soft elasticity of the wet grass under his

feet and in the shy, wondering eyes of the wild spring flowers by the

roadside. In a thorn-acacia bush at the edge of a little strip of wood

a bird was building a nest, and flew up as he passed with a startled cry

and a quick fluttering of brown wings.

He tried to keep his mind fixed upon the devout meditations proper to

the eve of Good Friday. But thoughts of Montanelli and Gemma got so

much in the way of this devotional exercise that at last he gave up the

attempt and allowed his fancy to drift away to the wonders and glories

of the coming insurrection, and to the part in it that he had allotted

to his two idols. The Padre was to be the leader, the apostle, the

prophet before whose sacred wrath the powers of darkness were to flee,

and at whose feet the young defenders of Liberty were to learn

afresh the old doctrines, the old truths in their new and unimagined

significance.

And Gemma? Oh, Gemma would fight at the barricades. She was made of the

clay from which heroines are moulded; she would be the perfect comrade,

the maiden undefiled and unafraid, of whom so many poets have dreamed.

She would stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder, rejoicing under the

winged death-storm; and they would die together, perhaps in the moment

of victory--without doubt there would be a victory. Of his love he would

tell her nothing; he would say no word that might disturb her peace or

spoil her tranquil sense of comradeship. She was to him a holy thing,

a spotless victim to be laid upon the altar as a burnt-offering for the

deliverance of the people; and who was he that he should enter into the

white sanctuary of a soul that knew no other love than God and Italy?

God and Italy----Then came a sudden drop from the clouds as he entered

the great, dreary house in the “Street of Palaces,” and Julia's butler,

immaculate, calm, and politely disapproving as ever, confronted him upon

the stairs.

“Good-evening, Gibbons; are my brothers in?”

“Mr. Thomas is in, sir; and Mrs. Burton. They are in the drawing room.”

Arthur went in with a dull sense of oppression. What a dismal house

it was! The flood of life seemed to roll past and leave it always just

above high-water mark. Nothing in it ever changed--neither the people,

nor the family portraits, nor the heavy furniture and ugly plate, nor

the vulgar ostentation of riches, nor the lifeless aspect of everything.

Even the flowers on the brass stands looked like painted metal flowers

that had never known the stirring of young sap within them in the warm

spring days. Julia, dressed for dinner, and waiting for visitors in the

drawing room which was to her the centre of existence, might have sat

for a fashion-plate just as she was, with her wooden smile and flaxen

ringlets, and the lap-dog on her knee.

“How do you do, Arthur?” she said stiffly, giving him the tips of her

fingers for a moment, and then transferring them to the more congenial

contact of the lap-dog's silken coat. “I hope you are quite well and

have made satisfactory progress at college.”

Arthur murmured the first commonplace that he could think of at the

moment, and relapsed into uncomfortable silence. The arrival of

James, in his most pompous mood and accompanied by a stiff, elderly

shipping-agent, did not improve matters; and when Gibbons announced that

dinner was served, Arthur rose with a little sigh of relief.

“I won't come to dinner, Julia. If you'll excuse me I will go to my

room.”

“You're overdoing that fasting, my boy,” said Thomas; “I am sure you'll

make yourself ill.”

“Oh, no! Good-night.”

In the corridor Arthur met the under housemaid and asked her to knock at

his door at six in the morning.

“The signorino is going to church?”

“Yes. Good-night, Teresa.”

He went into his room. It had belonged to his mother, and the alcove

opposite the window had been fitted up during her long illness as an

oratory. A great crucifix on a black pedestal occupied the middle of the

altar; and before it hung a little Roman lamp. This was the room where

she had died. Her portrait was on the wall beside the bed; and on the

table stood a china bowl which had been hers, filled with a great bunch

of her favourite violets. It was just a year since her death; and the

Italian servants had not forgotten her.

He took out of his portmanteau a framed picture, carefully wrapped up.

It was a crayon portrait of Montanelli, which had come from Rome only a

few days before. He was unwrapping this precious treasure when Julia's

page brought in a supper-tray on which the old Italian cook, who had

served Gladys before the harsh, new mistress came, had placed such

little delicacies as she considered her dear signorino might permit

himself to eat without infringing the rules of the Church. Arthur

refused everything but a piece of bread; and the page, a nephew of

Gibbons, lately arrived from England, grinned significantly as he

carried out the tray. He had already joined the Protestant camp in the

servants' hall.

Arthur went into the alcove and knelt down before the crucifix, trying

to compose his mind to the proper attitude for prayer and meditation.

But this he found difficult to accomplish. He had, as Thomas said,

rather overdone the Lenten privations, and they had gone to his head

like strong wine. Little quivers of excitement went down his back, and

the crucifix swam in a misty cloud before his eyes. It was only after a

long litany, mechanically repeated, that he succeeded in recalling his

wandering imagination to the mystery of the Atonement. At last sheer

physical weariness conquered the feverish agitation of his nerves, and

he lay down to sleep in a calm and peaceful mood, free from all unquiet

or disturbing thoughts.

He was fast asleep when a sharp, impatient knock came at his door. “Ah,

Teresa!” he thought, turning over lazily. The knock was repeated, and he

awoke with a violent start.

“Signorino! signorino!” cried a man's voice in Italian; “get up for the

love of God!”

Arthur jumped out of bed.

“What is the matter? Who is it?”

“It's I, Gian Battista. Get up, quick, for Our Lady's sake!”

Arthur hurriedly dressed and opened the door. As he stared in perplexity

at the coachman's pale, terrified face, the sound of tramping feet and

clanking metal came along the corridor, and he suddenly realized the

truth.

“For me?” he asked coolly.

“For you! Oh, signorino, make haste! What have you to hide? See, I can

put----”

“I have nothing to hide. Do my brothers know?”

The first uniform appeared at the turn of the passage.

“The signor has been called; all the house is awake. Alas! what a

misfortune--what a terrible misfortune! And on Good Friday! Holy Saints,

have pity!”

Gian Battista burst into tears. Arthur moved a few steps forward and

waited for the gendarmes, who came clattering along, followed by a

shivering crowd of servants in various impromptu costumes. As the

soldiers surrounded Arthur, the master and mistress of the house

brought up the rear of this strange procession; he in dressing gown and

slippers, she in a long peignoir, with her hair in curlpapers.

“There is, sure, another flood toward, and these couples are coming to

the ark! Here comes a pair of very strange beasts!”

The quotation flashed across Arthur's mind as he looked at the

grotesque figures. He checked a laugh with a sense of its jarring

incongruity--this was a time for worthier thoughts. “Ave Maria, Regina

Coeli!” he whispered, and turned his eyes away, that the bobbing of

Julia's curlpapers might not again tempt him to levity.

“Kindly explain to me,” said Mr. Burton, approaching the officer of

gendarmerie, “what is the meaning of this violent intrusion into a

private house? I warn you that, unless you are prepared to furnish me

with a satisfactory explanation, I shall feel bound to complain to the

English Ambassador.”

“I presume,” replied the officer stiffly, “that you will recognize this

as a sufficient explanation; the English Ambassador certainly will.”

He pulled out a warrant for the arrest of Arthur Burton, student of

philosophy, and, handing it to James, added coldly: “If you wish for

any further explanation, you had better apply in person to the chief of

police.”

Julia snatched the paper from her husband, glanced over it, and flew at

Arthur like nothing else in the world but a fashionable lady in a rage.

“So it's you that have disgraced the family!” she screamed; “setting all

the rabble in the town gaping and staring as if the thing were a show?

So you have turned jail-bird, now, with all your piety! It's what we

might have expected from that Popish woman's child----”

“You must not speak to a prisoner in a foreign language, madam,” the

officer interrupted; but his remonstrance was hardly audible under the

torrent of Julia's vociferous English.

“Just what we might have expected! Fasting and prayer and saintly

meditation; and this is what was underneath it all! I thought that would

be the end of it.”

Dr. Warren had once compared Julia to a salad into which the cook had

upset the vinegar cruet. The sound of her thin, hard voice set Arthur's

teeth on edge, and the simile suddenly popped up in his memory.

“There's no use in this kind of talk,” he said. “You need not be afraid

of any unpleasantness; everyone will understand that you are all quite

innocent. I suppose, gentlemen, you want to search my things. I have

nothing to hide.”

While the gendarmes ransacked the room, reading his letters, examining

his college papers, and turning out drawers and boxes, he sat waiting

on the edge of the bed, a little flushed with excitement, but in no

way distressed. The search did not disquiet him. He had always burned

letters which could possibly compromise anyone, and beyond a few

manuscript verses, half revolutionary, half mystical, and two or three

numbers of Young Italy, the gendarmes found nothing to repay them for

their trouble. Julia, after a long resistance, yielded to the entreaties

of her brother-in-law and went back to bed, sweeping past Arthur with

magnificent disdain, James meekly following.

When they had left the room, Thomas, who all this while had been

tramping up and down, trying to look indifferent, approached the officer

and asked permission to speak to the prisoner. Receiving a nod in

answer, he went up to Arthur and muttered in a rather husky voice:

“I say; this is an infernally awkward business. I'm very sorry about

it.”

Arthur looked up with a face as serene as a summer morning. “You have

always been good to me,” he said. “There's nothing to be sorry about. I

shall be safe enough.”

“Look here, Arthur!” Thomas gave his moustache a hard pull and plunged

head first into the awkward question. “Is--all this anything to do

with--money? Because, if it is, I----”

“With money! Why, no! What could it have to do----”

“Then it's some political tomfoolery? I thought so. Well, don't you get

down in the mouth--and never mind all the stuff Julia talks. It's only

her spiteful tongue; and if you want help,--cash, or anything,--let me

know, will you?”

Arthur held out his hand in silence, and Thomas left the room with a

carefully made-up expression of unconcern that rendered his face more

stolid than ever.

The gendarmes, meanwhile, had finished their search, and the officer in

charge requested Arthur to put on his outdoor clothes. He obeyed at once

and turned to leave the room; then stopped with sudden hesitation. It

seemed hard to take leave of his mother's oratory in the presence of

these officials.

“Have you any objection to leaving the room for a moment?” he asked.

“You see that I cannot escape and that there is nothing to conceal.”

“I am sorry, but it is forbidden to leave a prisoner alone.”

“Very well, it doesn't matter.”

He went into the alcove, and, kneeling down, kissed the feet and

pedestal of the crucifix, whispering softly: “Lord, keep me faithful

unto death.”

When he rose, the officer was standing by the table, examining

Montanelli's portrait. “Is this a relative of yours?” he asked.

“No; it is my confessor, the new Bishop of Brisighella.”

On the staircase the Italian servants were waiting, anxious and

sorrowful. They all loved Arthur for his own sake and his mother's, and

crowded round him, kissing his hands and dress with passionate grief.

Gian Battista stood by, the tears dripping down his gray moustache. None

of the Burtons came out to take leave of him. Their coldness accentuated

the tenderness and sympathy of the servants, and Arthur was near to

breaking down as he pressed the hands held out to him.

“Good-bye, Gian Battista. Kiss the little ones for me. Good-bye, Teresa.

Pray for me, all of you; and God keep you! Good-bye, good-bye!”

He ran hastily downstairs to the front door. A moment later only a

little group of silent men and sobbing women stood on the doorstep

watching the carriage as it drove away.

CHAPTER VI.

ARTHUR was taken to the huge mediaeval fortress at the harbour's mouth.

He found prison life fairly endurable. His cell was unpleasantly damp

and dark; but he had been brought up in a palace in the Via Borra, and

neither close air, rats, nor foul smells were novelties to him. The

food, also, was both bad and insufficient; but James soon obtained

permission to send him all the necessaries of life from home. He was

kept in solitary confinement, and, though the vigilance of the

warders was less strict than he had expected, he failed to obtain any

explanation of the cause of his arrest. Nevertheless, the tranquil frame

of mind in which he had entered the fortress did not change. Not being

allowed books, he spent his time in prayer and devout meditation, and

waited without impatience or anxiety for the further course of events.

One day a soldier unlocked the door of his cell and called to him: “This

way, please!” After two or three questions, to which he got no answer

but, “Talking is forbidden,” Arthur resigned himself to the inevitable

and followed the soldier through a labyrinth of courtyards, corridors,

and stairs, all more or less musty-smelling, into a large, light room in

which three persons in military uniform sat at a long table covered with

green baize and littered with papers, chatting in a languid, desultory

way. They put on a stiff, business air as he came in, and the oldest of

them, a foppish-looking man with gray whiskers and a colonel's uniform,

pointed to a chair on the other side of the table and began the

preliminary interrogation.

Arthur had expected to be threatened, abused, and sworn at, and had

prepared himself to answer with dignity and patience; but he was

pleasantly disappointed. The colonel was stiff, cold and formal,

but perfectly courteous. The usual questions as to his name, age,

nationality, and social position were put and answered, and the replies

written down in monotonous succession. He was beginning to feel bored

and impatient, when the colonel asked:

“And now, Mr. Burton, what do you know about Young Italy?”

“I know that it is a society which publishes a newspaper in Marseilles

and circulates it in Italy, with the object of inducing people to revolt

and drive the Austrian army out of the country.”

“You have read this paper, I think?”

“Yes; I am interested in the subject.”

“When you read it you realized that you were committing an illegal

action?”

“Certainly.”

“Where did you get the copies which were found in your room?”

“That I cannot tell you.”

“Mr. Burton, you must not say 'I cannot tell' here; you are bound to

answer my questions.”

“I will not, then, if you object to 'cannot.'”

“You will regret it if you permit yourself to use such expressions,”

remarked the colonel. As Arthur made no reply, he went on:

“I may as well tell you that evidence has come into our hands proving

your connection with this society to be much more intimate than is

implied by the mere reading of forbidden literature. It will be to your

advantage to confess frankly. In any case the truth will be sure to come

out, and you will find it useless to screen yourself behind evasion and

denials.”

“I have no desire to screen myself. What is it you want to know?”

“Firstly, how did you, a foreigner, come to be implicated in matters of

this kind?”

“I thought about the subject and read everything I could get hold of,

and formed my own conclusions.”

“Who persuaded you to join this society?”

“No one; I wished to join it.”

“You are shilly-shallying with me,” said the colonel, sharply; his

patience was evidently beginning to give out. “No one can join a society

by himself. To whom did you communicate your wish to join it?”

Silence.

“Will you have the kindness to answer me?”

“Not when you ask questions of that kind.”

Arthur spoke sullenly; a curious, nervous irritability was taking

possession of him. He knew by this time that many arrests had been made

in both Leghorn and Pisa; and, though still ignorant of the extent of

the calamity, he had already heard enough to put him into a fever of

anxiety for the safety of Gemma and his other friends. The studied

politeness of the officers, the dull game of fencing and parrying, of

insidious questions and evasive answers, worried and annoyed him, and

the clumsy tramping backward and forward of the sentinel outside the

door jarred detestably upon his ear.

“Oh, by the bye, when did you last meet Giovanni Bolla?” asked the

colonel, after a little more bandying of words. “Just before you left

Pisa, was it?”

“I know no one of that name.”

“What! Giovanni Bolla? Surely you know him--a tall young fellow, closely

shaven. Why, he is one of your fellow-students.”

“There are many students in the university whom I don't know.”

“Oh, but you must know Bolla, surely! Look, this is his handwriting. You

see, he knows you well enough.”

The colonel carelessly handed him a paper headed: “Protocol,” and

signed: “Giovanni Bolla.” Glancing down it Arthur came upon his own

name. He looked up in surprise. “Am I to read it?”

“Yes, you may as well; it concerns you.”

He began to read, while the officers sat silently watching his face. The

document appeared to consist of depositions in answer to a long string

of questions. Evidently Bolla, too, must have been arrested. The first

depositions were of the usual stereotyped character; then followed

a short account of Bolla's connection with the society, of the

dissemination of prohibited literature in Leghorn, and of the students'

meetings. Next came “Among those who joined us was a young Englishman,

Arthur Burton, who belongs to one of the rich shipowning families.”

The blood rushed into Arthur's face. Bolla had betrayed him! Bolla, who

had taken upon himself the solemn duties of an initiator--Bolla, who had

converted Gemma--who was in love with her! He laid down the paper and

stared at the floor.

“I hope that little document has refreshed your memory?” hinted the

colonel politely.

Arthur shook his head. “I know no one of that name,” he repeated in a

dull, hard voice. “There must be some mistake.”

“Mistake? Oh, nonsense! Come, Mr. Burton, chivalry and quixotism are

very fine things in their way; but there's no use in overdoing them.

It's an error all you young people fall into at first. Come, think! What

good is it for you to compromise yourself and spoil your prospects in

life over a simple formality about a man that has betrayed you? You see

yourself, he wasn't so particular as to what he said about you.”

A faint shade of something like mockery had crept into the colonel's

voice. Arthur looked up with a start; a sudden light flashed upon his

mind.

“It's a lie!” he cried out. “It's a forgery! I can see it in your face,

you cowardly----You've got some prisoner there you want to compromise,

or a trap you want to drag me into. You are a forger, and a liar, and a

scoundrel----”

“Silence!” shouted the colonel, starting up in a rage; his two

colleagues were already on their feet. “Captain Tommasi,” he went on,

turning to one of them, “ring for the guard, if you please, and have

this young gentleman put in the punishment cell for a few days. He wants

a lesson, I see, to bring him to reason.”

The punishment cell was a dark, damp, filthy hole under ground. Instead

of bringing Arthur “to reason,” it thoroughly exasperated him. His

luxurious home had rendered him daintily fastidious about personal

cleanliness, and the first effect of the slimy, vermin-covered walls,

the floor heaped with accumulations of filth and garbage, the fearful

stench of fungi and sewage and rotting wood, was strong enough to have

satisfied the offended officer. When he was pushed in and the door

locked behind him he took three cautious steps forward with outstretched

hands, shuddering with disgust as his fingers came into contact with

the slippery wall, and groped in the dense blackness for some spot less

filthy than the rest in which to sit down.

The long day passed in unbroken blackness and silence, and the night

brought no change. In the utter void and absence of all external

impressions, he gradually lost the consciousness of time; and when,

on the following morning, a key was turned in the door lock, and the

frightened rats scurried past him squeaking, he started up in a sudden

panic, his heart throbbing furiously and a roaring noise in his ears, as

though he had been shut away from light and sound for months instead of

hours.

The door opened, letting in a feeble lantern gleam--a flood of blinding

light, it seemed to him--and the head warder entered, carrying a piece

of bread and a mug of water. Arthur made a step forward; he was quite

convinced that the man had come to let him out. Before he had time to

speak, the warder put the bread and mug into his hands, turned round and

went away without a word, locking the door again.

Arthur stamped his foot upon the ground. For the first time in his life

he was savagely angry. But as the hours went by, the consciousness of

time and place gradually slipped further and further away. The blackness

seemed an illimitable thing, with no beginning and no end, and life had,

as it were, stopped for him. On the evening of the third day, when the

door was opened and the head warder appeared on the threshold with a

soldier, he looked up, dazed and bewildered, shading his eyes from the

unaccustomed light, and vaguely wondering how many hours or weeks he had

been in this grave.

“This way, please,” said the cool business voice of the warder. Arthur

rose and moved forward mechanically, with a strange unsteadiness,

swaying and stumbling like a drunkard. He resented the warder's attempt

to help him up the steep, narrow steps leading to the courtyard; but as

he reached the highest step a sudden giddiness came over him, so that he

staggered and would have fallen backwards had the warder not caught him

by the shoulder.

*****

“There, he'll be all right now,” said a cheerful voice; “they most of

them go off this way coming out into the air.”

Arthur struggled desperately for breath as another handful of water

was dashed into his face. The blackness seemed to fall away from him

in pieces with a rushing noise; then he woke suddenly into full

consciousness, and, pushing aside the warder's arm, walked along the

corridor and up the stairs almost steadily. They stopped for a moment in

front of a door; then it opened, and before he realized where they were

taking him he was in the brightly lighted interrogation room, staring in

confused wonder at the table and the papers and the officers sitting in

their accustomed places.

“Ah, it's Mr. Burton!” said the colonel. “I hope we shall be able to

talk more comfortably now. Well, and how do you like the dark cell? Not

quite so luxurious as your brother's drawing room, is it? eh?”

Arthur raised his eyes to the colonel's smiling face. He was seized by

a frantic desire to spring at the throat of this gray-whiskered fop and

tear it with his teeth. Probably something of this kind was visible in

his face, for the colonel added immediately, in a quite different tone:

“Sit down, Mr. Burton, and drink some water; you are excited.”

Arthur pushed aside the glass of water held out to him; and, leaning his

arms on the table, rested his forehead on one hand and tried to

collect his thoughts. The colonel sat watching him keenly, noting with

experienced eyes the unsteady hands and lips, the hair dripping with

water, the dim gaze that told of physical prostration and disordered

nerves.

“Now, Mr. Burton,” he said after a few minutes; “we will start at the

point where we left off; and as there has been a certain amount of

unpleasantness between us, I may as well begin by saying that I, for my

part, have no desire to be anything but indulgent with you. If you will

behave properly and reasonably, I assure you that we shall not treat you

with any unnecessary harshness.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Arthur spoke in a hard, sullen voice, quite different from his natural

tone.

“I only want you to tell us frankly, in a straightforward and honourable

manner, what you know of this society and its adherents. First of all,

how long have you known Bolla?”

“I never met him in my life. I know nothing whatever about him.”

“Really? Well, we will return to that subject presently. I think you

know a young man named Carlo Bini?”

“I never heard of such a person.”

“That is very extraordinary. What about Francesco Neri?”

“I never heard the name.”

“But here is a letter in your handwriting, addressed to him. Look!”

Arthur glanced carelessly at the letter and laid it aside.

“Do you recognize that letter?”

“No.”

“You deny that it is in your writing?”

“I deny nothing. I have no recollection of it.”

“Perhaps you remember this one?”

A second letter was handed to him, and he saw that it was one which he

had written in the autumn to a fellow-student.

“No.”

“Nor the person to whom it is addressed?”

“Nor the person.”

“Your memory is singularly short.”

“It is a defect from which I have always suffered.”

“Indeed! And I heard the other day from a university professor that you

are considered by no means deficient; rather clever in fact.”

“You probably judge of cleverness by the police-spy standard; university

professors use words in a different sense.”

The note of rising irritation was plainly audible in Arthur's voice. He

was physically exhausted with hunger, foul air, and want of sleep; every

bone in his body seemed to ache separately; and the colonel's voice

grated on his exasperated nerves, setting his teeth on edge like the

squeak of a slate pencil.

“Mr. Burton,” said the colonel, leaning back in his chair and speaking

gravely, “you are again forgetting yourself; and I warn you once more

that this kind of talk will do you no good. Surely you have had enough

of the dark cell not to want any more just for the present. I tell you

plainly that I shall use strong measures with you if you persist in

repulsing gentle ones. Mind, I have proof--positive proof--that some

of these young men have been engaged in smuggling prohibited literature

into this port; and that you have been in communication with them. Now,

are you going to tell me, without compulsion, what you know about this

affair?”

Arthur bent his head lower. A blind, senseless, wild-beast fury was

beginning to stir within him like a live thing. The possibility of

losing command over himself was more appalling to him than any threats.

For the first time he began to realize what latent potentialities may

lie hidden beneath the culture of any gentleman and the piety of any

Christian; and the terror of himself was strong upon him.

“I am waiting for your answer,” said the colonel.

“I have no answer to give.”

“You positively refuse to answer?”

“I will tell you nothing at all.”

“Then I must simply order you back into the punishment cell, and keep

you there till you change your mind. If there is much more trouble with

you, I shall put you in irons.”

Arthur looked up, trembling from head to foot. “You will do as you

please,” he said slowly; “and whether the English Ambassador will stand

your playing tricks of that kind with a British subject who has not been

convicted of any crime is for him to decide.”

At last Arthur was conducted back to his own cell, where he flung

himself down upon the bed and slept till the next morning. He was not

put in irons, and saw no more of the dreaded dark cell; but the

feud between him and the colonel grew more inveterate with every

interrogation. It was quite useless for Arthur to pray in his cell for

grace to conquer his evil passions, or to meditate half the night long

upon the patience and meekness of Christ. No sooner was he brought again

into the long, bare room with its baize-covered table, and confronted

with the colonel's waxed moustache, than the unchristian spirit would

take possession of him once more, suggesting bitter repartees and

contemptuous answers. Before he had been a month in the prison the

mutual irritation had reached such a height that he and the colonel

could not see each other's faces without losing their temper.

The continual strain of this petty warfare was beginning to tell heavily

upon his nerves. Knowing how closely he was watched, and remembering

certain dreadful rumours which he had heard of prisoners secretly

drugged with belladonna that notes might be taken of their ravings, he

gradually became afraid to sleep or eat; and if a mouse ran past him in

the night, would start up drenched with cold sweat and quivering with

terror, fancying that someone was hiding in the room to listen if he

talked in his sleep. The gendarmes were evidently trying to entrap him

into making some admission which might compromise Bolla; and so great

was his fear of slipping, by any inadvertency, into a pitfall, that he

was really in danger of doing so through sheer nervousness. Bolla's name

rang in his ears night and day, interfering even with his devotions, and

forcing its way in among the beads of the rosary instead of the name of

Mary. But the worst thing of all was that his religion, like the outer

world, seemed to be slipping away from him as the days went by. To this

last foothold he clung with feverish tenacity, spending several hours

of each day in prayer and meditation; but his thoughts wandered more and

more often to Bolla, and the prayers were growing terribly mechanical.

His greatest comfort was the head warder of the prison. This was a

little old man, fat and bald, who at first had tried his hardest to wear

a severe expression. Gradually the good nature which peeped out of every

dimple in his chubby face conquered his official scruples, and he began

carrying messages for the prisoners from cell to cell.

One afternoon in the middle of May this warder came into the cell with a

face so scowling and gloomy that Arthur looked at him in astonishment.

“Why, Enrico!” he exclaimed; “what on earth is wrong with you to-day?”

“Nothing,” said Enrico snappishly; and, going up to the pallet, he began

pulling off the rug, which was Arthur's property.

“What do you want with my things? Am I to be moved into another cell?”

“No; you're to be let out.”

“Let out? What--to-day? For altogether? Enrico!”

In his excitement Arthur had caught hold of the old man's arm. It was

angrily wrenched away.

“Enrico! What has come to you? Why don't you answer? Are we all going to

be let out?”

A contemptuous grunt was the only reply.

“Look here!” Arthur again took hold of the warder's arm, laughing.

“It is no use for you to be cross to me, because I'm not going to get

offended. I want to know about the others.”

“Which others?” growled Enrico, suddenly laying down the shirt he was

folding. “Not Bolla, I suppose?”

“Bolla and all the rest, of course. Enrico, what is the matter with

you?”

“Well, he's not likely to be let out in a hurry, poor lad, when a

comrade has betrayed him. Ugh!” Enrico took up the shirt again in

disgust.

“Betrayed him? A comrade? Oh, how dreadful!” Arthur's eyes dilated with

horror. Enrico turned quickly round.

“Why, wasn't it you?”

“I? Are you off your head, man? I?”

“Well, they told him so yesterday at interrogation, anyhow. I'm very

glad if it wasn't you, for I always thought you were rather a decent

young fellow. This way!” Enrico stepped out into the corridor and Arthur

followed him, a light breaking in upon the confusion of his mind.

“They told Bolla I'd betrayed him? Of course they did! Why, man, they

told me he had betrayed me. Surely Bolla isn't fool enough to believe

that sort of stuff?”

“Then it really isn't true?” Enrico stopped at the foot of the stairs

and looked searchingly at Arthur, who merely shrugged his shoulders.

“Of course it's a lie.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear it, my lad, and I'll tell him you said so. But

you see what they told him was that you had denounced him out of--well,

out of jealousy, because of your both being sweet on the same girl.”

“It's a lie!” Arthur repeated the words in a quick, breathless whisper.

A sudden, paralyzing fear had come over him. “The same girl--jealousy!”

How could they know--how could they know?

“Wait a minute, my lad.” Enrico stopped in the corridor leading to the

interrogation room, and spoke softly. “I believe you; but just tell me

one thing. I know you're a Catholic; did you ever say anything in the

confessional------”

“It's a lie!” This time Arthur's voice had risen to a stifled cry.

Enrico shrugged his shoulders and moved on again. “You know best, of

course; but you wouldn't be the only young fool that's been taken in

that way. There's a tremendous ado just now about a priest in Pisa that

some of your friends have found out. They've printed a leaflet saying

he's a spy.”

He opened the door of the interrogation room, and, seeing that Arthur

stood motionless, staring blankly before him, pushed him gently across

the threshold.

“Good-afternoon, Mr. Burton,” said the colonel, smiling and showing his

teeth amiably. “I have great pleasure in congratulating you. An order

for your release has arrived from Florence. Will you kindly sign this

paper?”

Arthur went up to him. “I want to know,” he said in a dull voice, “who

it was that betrayed me.”

The colonel raised his eyebrows with a smile.

“Can't you guess? Think a minute.”

Arthur shook his head. The colonel put out both hands with a gesture of

polite surprise.

“Can't guess? Really? Why, you yourself, Mr. Burton. Who else could know

your private love affairs?”

Arthur turned away in silence. On the wall hung a large wooden crucifix;

and his eyes wandered slowly to its face; but with no appeal in them,

only a dim wonder at this supine and patient God that had no thunderbolt

for a priest who betrayed the confessional.

“Will you kindly sign this receipt for your papers?” said the colonel

blandly; “and then I need not keep you any longer. I am sure you must be

in a hurry to get home; and my time is very much taken up just now with

the affairs of that foolish young man, Bolla, who tried your Christian

forbearance so hard. I am afraid he will get a rather heavy sentence.

Good-afternoon!”

Arthur signed the receipt, took his papers, and went out in dead

silence. He followed Enrico to the massive gate; and, without a word of

farewell, descended to the water's edge, where a ferryman was waiting to

take him across the moat. As he mounted the stone steps leading to

the street, a girl in a cotton dress and straw hat ran up to him with

outstretched hands.

“Arthur! Oh, I'm so glad--I'm so glad!”

He drew his hands away, shivering.

“Jim!” he said at last, in a voice that did not seem to belong to him.

“Jim!”

“I've been waiting here for half an hour. They said you would come

out at four. Arthur, why do you look at me like that? Something has

happened! Arthur, what has come to you? Stop!”

He had turned away, and was walking slowly down the street, as if he

had forgotten her presence. Thoroughly frightened at his manner, she ran

after him and caught him by the arm.

“Arthur!”

He stopped and looked up with bewildered eyes. She slipped her arm

through his, and they walked on again for a moment in silence.

“Listen, dear,” she began softly; “you mustn't get so upset over this

wretched business. I know it's dreadfully hard on you, but everybody

understands.”

“What business?” he asked in the same dull voice.

“I mean, about Bolla's letter.”

Arthur's face contracted painfully at the name.

“I thought you wouldn't have heard of it,” Gemma went on; “but I suppose

they've told you. Bolla must be perfectly mad to have imagined such a

thing.”

“Such a thing----?”

“You don't know about it, then? He has written a horrible letter,

saying that you have told about the steamers, and got him arrested. It's

perfectly absurd, of course; everyone that knows you sees that; it's

only the people who don't know you that have been upset by it. Really,

that's what I came here for--to tell you that no one in our group

believes a word of it.”

“Gemma! But it's--it's true!”

She shrank slowly away from him, and stood quite still, her eyes wide

and dark with horror, her face as white as the kerchief at her neck. A

great icy wave of silence seemed to have swept round them both, shutting

them out, in a world apart, from the life and movement of the street.

“Yes,” he whispered at last; “the steamers--I spoke of that; and I said

his name--oh, my God! my God! What shall I do?”

He came to himself suddenly, realizing her presence and the mortal

terror in her face. Yes, of course, she must think------

“Gemma, you don't understand!” he burst out, moving nearer; but she

recoiled with a sharp cry:

“Don't touch me!”

Arthur seized her right hand with sudden violence.

“Listen, for God's sake! It was not my fault; I----”

“Let go; let my hand go! Let go!”

The next instant she wrenched her fingers away from his, and struck him

across the cheek with her open hand.

A kind of mist came over his eyes. For a little while he was conscious

of nothing but Gemma's white and desperate face, and the right hand

which she had fiercely rubbed on the skirt of her cotton dress. Then

the daylight crept back again, and he looked round and saw that he was

alone.

CHAPTER VII.

IT had long been dark when Arthur rang at the front door of the great

house in the Via Borra. He remembered that he had been wandering about

the streets; but where, or why, or for how long, he had no idea. Julia's

page opened the door, yawning, and grinned significantly at the haggard,

stony face. It seemed to him a prodigious joke to have the young master

come home from jail like a “drunk and disorderly” beggar. Arthur went

upstairs. On the first floor he met Gibbons coming down with an air of

lofty and solemn disapproval. He tried to pass with a muttered “Good

evening”; but Gibbons was no easy person to get past against his will.

“The gentlemen are out, sir,” he said, looking critically at Arthur's

rather neglected dress and hair. “They have gone with the mistress to an

evening party, and will not be back till nearly twelve.”

Arthur looked at his watch; it was nine o'clock. Oh, yes! he would have

time--plenty of time------

“My mistress desired me to ask whether you would like any supper, sir;

and to say that she hopes you will sit up for her, as she particularly

wishes to speak to you this evening.”

“I don't want anything, thank you; you can tell her I have not gone to

bed.”

He went up to his room. Nothing in it had been changed since his arrest;

Montanelli's portrait was on the table where he had placed it, and

the crucifix stood in the alcove as before. He paused a moment on the

threshold, listening; but the house was quite still; evidently no one

was coming to disturb him. He stepped softly into the room and locked

the door.

And so he had come to the end. There was nothing to think or trouble

about; an importunate and useless consciousness to get rid of--and

nothing more. It seemed a stupid, aimless kind of thing, somehow.

He had not formed any resolve to commit suicide, nor indeed had he

thought much about it; the thing was quite obvious and inevitable. He

had even no definite idea as to what manner of death to choose; all that

mattered was to be done with it quickly--to have it over and forget. He

had no weapon in the room, not even a pocketknife; but that was of no

consequence--a towel would do, or a sheet torn into strips.

There was a large nail just over the window. That would do; but it must

be firm to bear his weight. He got up on a chair to feel the nail; it

was not quite firm, and he stepped down again and took a hammer from a

drawer. He knocked in the nail, and was about to pull a sheet off his

bed, when he suddenly remembered that he had not said his prayers. Of

course, one must pray before dying; every Christian does that. There are

even special prayers for a departing soul.

He went into the alcove and knelt down before the crucifix. “Almighty

and merciful God----” he began aloud; and with that broke off and said

no more. Indeed, the world was grown so dull that there was nothing left

to pray for--or against. And then, what did Christ know about a trouble

of this kind--Christ, who had never suffered it? He had only been

betrayed, like Bolla; He had never been tricked into betraying.

Arthur rose, crossing himself from old habit. Approaching the table,

he saw lying upon it a letter addressed to him, in Montanelli's

handwriting. It was in pencil:

“My Dear Boy: It is a great disappointment to me that I cannot see you

on the day of your release; but I have been sent for to visit a dying

man. I shall not get back till late at night. Come to me early to-morrow

morning. In great haste,

“L. M.”

He put down the letter with a sigh; it did seem hard on the Padre.

How the people had laughed and gossiped in the streets! Nothing was

altered since the days when he had been alive. Not the least little one

of all the daily trifles round him was changed because a human soul, a

living human soul, had been struck down dead. It was all just the same

as before. The water had plashed in the fountains; the sparrows had

twittered under the eaves; just as they had done yesterday, just as they

would do to-morrow. And as for him, he was dead--quite dead.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, crossed his arms along the

foot-rail, and rested his forehead upon them. There was plenty of time;

and his head ached so--the very middle of the brain seemed to ache; it

was all so dull and stupid--so utterly meaningless----

*****

The front-door bell rang sharply, and he started up in a breathless

agony of terror, with both hands at his throat. They had come back--he

had sat there dreaming, and let the precious time slip away--and now

he must see their faces and hear their cruel tongues--their sneers and

comments--If only he had a knife------

He looked desperately round the room. His mother's work-basket stood

in a little cupboard; surely there would be scissors; he might sever an

artery. No; the sheet and nail were safer, if he had time.

He dragged the counterpane from his bed, and with frantic haste began

tearing off a strip. The sound of footsteps came up the stairs. No; the

strip was too wide; it would not tie firmly; and there must be a noose.

He worked faster as the footsteps drew nearer; and the blood throbbed

in his temples and roared in his ears. Quicker--quicker! Oh, God! five

minutes more!

There was a knock at the door. The strip of torn stuff dropped from his

hands, and he sat quite still, holding his breath to listen. The handle

of the door was tried; then Julia's voice called:

“Arthur!”

He stood up, panting.

“Arthur, open the door, please; we are waiting.”

He gathered up the torn counterpane, threw it into a drawer, and hastily

smoothed down the bed.

“Arthur!” This time it was James who called, and the door-handle was

shaken impatiently. “Are you asleep?”

Arthur looked round the room, saw that everything was hidden, and

unlocked the door.

“I should think you might at least have obeyed my express request that

you should sit up for us, Arthur,” said Julia, sweeping into the room in

a towering passion. “You appear to think it the proper thing for us to

dance attendance for half an hour at your door----”

“Four minutes, my dear,” James mildly corrected, stepping into the room

at the end of his wife's pink satin train. “I certainly think, Arthur,

that it would have been more--becoming if----”

“What do you want?” Arthur interrupted. He was standing with his hand

upon the door, glancing furtively from one to the other like a trapped

animal. But James was too obtuse and Julia too angry to notice the look.

Mr. Burton placed a chair for his wife and sat down, carefully pulling

up his new trousers at the knees. “Julia and I,” he began, “feel it to

be our duty to speak to you seriously about----”

“I can't listen to-night; I--I'm not well. My head aches--you must

wait.”

Arthur spoke in a strange, indistinct voice, with a confused and

rambling manner. James looked round in surprise.

“Is there anything the matter with you?” he asked anxiously, suddenly

remembering that Arthur had come from a very hotbed of infection. “I

hope you're not sickening for anything. You look quite feverish.”

“Nonsense!” Julia interrupted sharply. “It's only the usual theatricals,

because he's ashamed to face us. Come here and sit down, Arthur.” Arthur

slowly crossed the room and sat down on the bed. “Yes?” he said wearily.

Mr. Burton coughed, cleared his throat, smoothed his already immaculate

beard, and began the carefully prepared speech over again:

“I feel it to be my duty--my painful duty--to speak very seriously

to you about your extraordinary behaviour in connecting yourself

with--a--law-breakers and incendiaries and--a--persons of disreputable

character. I believe you to have been, perhaps, more foolish than

depraved--a----”

He paused.

“Yes?” Arthur said again.

“Now, I do not wish to be hard on you,” James went on, softening a

little in spite of himself before the weary hopelessness of Arthur's

manner. “I am quite willing to believe that you have been led away by

bad companions, and to take into account your youth and inexperience and

the--a--a--imprudent and--a--impulsive character which you have, I fear,

inherited from your mother.”

Arthur's eyes wandered slowly to his mother's portrait and back again,

but he did not speak.

“But you will, I feel sure, understand,” James continued, “that it is

quite impossible for me to keep any longer in my house a person who has

brought public disgrace upon a name so highly respected as ours.”

“Yes?” Arthur repeated once more.

“Well?” said Julia sharply, closing her fan with a snap and laying it

across her knee. “Are you going to have the goodness to say anything but

'Yes,' Arthur?”

“You will do as you think best, of course,” he answered slowly, without

moving. “It doesn't matter much either way.”

“Doesn't--matter?” James repeated, aghast; and his wife rose with a

laugh.

“Oh, it doesn't matter, doesn't it? Well, James, I hope you understand

now how much gratitude you may expect in that quarter. I told you what

would come of showing charity to Papist adventuresses and their----”

“Hush, hush! Never mind that, my dear!”

“It's all nonsense, James; we've had more than enough of this

sentimentality! A love-child setting himself up as a member of the

family--it's quite time he did know what his mother was! Why should

we be saddled with the child of a Popish priest's amourettes? There,

then--look!”

She pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of her pocket and tossed

it across the table to Arthur. He opened it; the writing was in his

mother's hand, and was dated four months before his birth. It was a

confession, addressed to her husband, and with two signatures.

Arthur's eyes travelled slowly down the page, past the unsteady letters

in which her name was written, to the strong, familiar signature:

“Lorenzo Montanelli.” For a moment he stared at the writing; then,

without a word, refolded the paper and laid it down. James rose and took

his wife by the arm.

“There, Julia, that will do. Just go downstairs now; it's late, and I

want to talk a little business with Arthur. It won't interest you.”

She glanced up at her husband; then back at Arthur, who was silently

staring at the floor.

“He seems half stupid,” she whispered.

When she had gathered up her train and left the room, James carefully

shut the door and went back to his chair beside the table. Arthur sat as

before, perfectly motionless and silent.

“Arthur,” James began in a milder tone, now Julia was not there to hear,

“I am very sorry that this has come out. You might just as well not have

known it. However, all that's over; and I am pleased to see that you

can behave with such self-control. Julia is a--a little excited; ladies

often--anyhow, I don't want to be too hard on you.”

He stopped to see what effect the kindly words had produced; but Arthur

was quite motionless.

“Of course, my dear boy,” James went on after a moment, “this is a

distressing story altogether, and the best thing we can do is to hold

our tongues about it. My father was generous enough not to divorce your

mother when she confessed her fall to him; he only demanded that the

man who had led her astray should leave the country at once; and, as

you know, he went to China as a missionary. For my part, I was very much

against your having anything to do with him when he came back; but my

father, just at the last, consented to let him teach you, on condition

that he never attempted to see your mother. I must, in justice,

acknowledge that I believe they both observed that condition faithfully

to the end. It is a very deplorable business; but----”

Arthur looked up. All the life and expression had gone out of his face;

it was like a waxen mask.

“D-don't you think,” he said softly, with a curious stammering

hesitation on the words, “th-that--all this--is--v-very--funny?”

“FUNNY?” James pushed his chair away from the table, and sat staring at

him, too much petrified for anger. “Funny! Arthur, are you mad?”

Arthur suddenly threw back his head, and burst into a frantic fit of

laughing.

“Arthur!” exclaimed the shipowner, rising with dignity, “I am amazed at

your levity!”

There was no answer but peal after peal of laughter, so loud and

boisterous that even James began to doubt whether there was not

something more the matter here than levity.

“Just like a hysterical woman,” he muttered, turning, with a

contemptuous shrug of his shoulders, to tramp impatiently up and

down the room. “Really, Arthur, you're worse than Julia; there, stop

laughing! I can't wait about here all night.”

He might as well have asked the crucifix to come down from its pedestal.

Arthur was past caring for remonstrances or exhortations; he only

laughed, and laughed, and laughed without end.

“This is absurd!” said James, stopping at last in his irritated pacing

to and fro. “You are evidently too much excited to be reasonable

to-night. I can't talk business with you if you're going on that way.

Come to me to-morrow morning after breakfast. And now you had better go

to bed. Good-night.”

He went out, slamming the door. “Now for the hysterics downstairs,” he

muttered as he tramped noisily away. “I suppose it'll be tears there!”

*****

The frenzied laughter died on Arthur's lips. He snatched up the hammer

from the table and flung himself upon the crucifix.

With the crash that followed he came suddenly to his senses, standing

before the empty pedestal, the hammer still in his hand, and the

fragments of the broken image scattered on the floor about his feet.

He threw down the hammer. “So easy!” he said, and turned away. “And what

an idiot I am!”

He sat down by the table, panting heavily for breath, and rested his

forehead on both hands. Presently he rose, and, going to the wash-stand,

poured a jugful of cold water over his head and face. He came back quite

composed, and sat down to think.

And it was for such things as these--for these false and slavish people,

these dumb and soulless gods--that he had suffered all these tortures

of shame and passion and despair; had made a rope to hang himself,

forsooth, because one priest was a liar. As if they were not all liars!

Well, all that was done with; he was wiser now. He need only shake off

these vermin and begin life afresh.

There were plenty of goods vessels in the docks; it would be an easy

matter to stow himself away in one of them, and get across to Canada,

Australia, Cape Colony--anywhere. It was no matter for the country, if

only it was far enough; and, as for the life out there, he could see,

and if it did not suit him he could try some other place.

He took out his purse. Only thirty-three paoli; but his watch was a

good one. That would help him along a bit; and in any case it was of no

consequence--he should pull through somehow. But they would search

for him, all these people; they would be sure to make inquiries at the

docks. No; he must put them on a false scent--make them believe him

dead; then he should be quite free--quite free. He laughed softly to

himself at the thought of the Burtons searching for his corpse. What a

farce the whole thing was!

Taking a sheet of paper, he wrote the first words that occurred to him:

“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.”

He folded up the paper, directed it to Montanelli, and, taking another

sheet, wrote across it: “Look for my body in Darsena.” Then he put on

his hat and went out of the room. Passing his mother's portrait, he

looked up with a laugh and a shrug of his shoulders. She, too, had lied

to him.

He crept softly along the corridor, and, slipping back the door-bolts,

went out on to the great, dark, echoing marble staircase. It seemed to

yawn beneath him like a black pit as he descended.

He crossed the courtyard, treading cautiously for fear of waking Gian

Battista, who slept on the ground floor. In the wood-cellar at the back

was a little grated window, opening on the canal and not more than four

feet from the ground. He remembered that the rusty grating had broken

away on one side; by pushing a little he could make an aperture wide

enough to climb out by.

The grating was strong, and he grazed his hands badly and tore the

sleeve of his coat; but that was no matter. He looked up and down the

street; there was no one in sight, and the canal lay black and silent,

an ugly trench between two straight and slimy walls. The untried

universe might prove a dismal hole, but it could hardly be more flat

and sordid than the corner which he was leaving behind him. There was

nothing to regret; nothing to look back upon. It had been a pestilent

little stagnant world, full of squalid lies and clumsy cheats and

foul-smelling ditches that were not even deep enough to drown a man.

He walked along the canal bank, and came out upon the tiny square by the

Medici palace. It was here that Gemma had run up to him with her vivid

face, her outstretched hands. Here was the little flight of wet stone

steps leading down to the moat; and there the fortress scowling across

the strip of dirty water. He had never noticed before how squat and mean

it looked.

Passing through the narrow streets he reached the Darsena

shipping-basin, where he took off his hat and flung it into the water.

It would be found, of course, when they dragged for his body. Then he

walked on along the water's edge, considering perplexedly what to do

next. He must contrive to hide on some ship; but it was a difficult

thing to do. His only chance would be to get on to the huge old

Medici breakwater and walk along to the further end of it. There was a

low-class tavern on the point; probably he should find some sailor there

who could be bribed.

But the dock gates were closed. How should he get past them, and past

the customs officials? His stock of money would not furnish the high

bribe that they would demand for letting him through at night and

without a passport. Besides they might recognize him.

As he passed the bronze statue of the “Four Moors,” a man's figure

emerged from an old house on the opposite side of the shipping basin

and approached the bridge. Arthur slipped at once into the deep shadow

behind the group of statuary and crouched down in the darkness, peeping

cautiously round the corner of the pedestal.

It was a soft spring night, warm and starlit. The water lapped against

the stone walls of the basin and swirled in gentle eddies round the

steps with a sound as of low laughter. Somewhere near a chain creaked,

swinging slowly to and fro. A huge iron crane towered up, tall and

melancholy in the dimness. Black on a shimmering expanse of starry sky

and pearly cloud-wreaths, the figures of the fettered, struggling slaves

stood out in vain and vehement protest against a merciless doom.

The man approached unsteadily along the water side, shouting an English

street song. He was evidently a sailor returning from a carouse at some

tavern. No one else was within sight. As he drew near, Arthur stood up

and stepped into the middle of the roadway. The sailor broke off in his

song with an oath, and stopped short.

“I want to speak to you,” Arthur said in Italian. “Do you understand

me?”

The man shook his head. “It's no use talking that patter to me,” he

said; then, plunging into bad French, asked sullenly: “What do you want?

Why can't you let me pass?”

“Just come out of the light here a minute; I want to speak to you.”

“Ah! wouldn't you like it? Out of the light! Got a knife anywhere about

you?”

“No, no, man! Can't you see I only want your help? I'll pay you for it?”

“Eh? What? And dressed like a swell, too------” The sailor had relapsed

into English. He now moved into the shadow and leaned against the

railing of the pedestal.

“Well,” he said, returning to his atrocious French; “and what is it you

want?”

“I want to get away from here----”

“Aha! Stowaway! Want me to hide you? Been up to something, I suppose.

Stuck a knife into somebody, eh? Just like these foreigners! And where

might you be wanting to go? Not to the police station, I fancy?”

He laughed in his tipsy way, and winked one eye.

“What vessel do you belong to?”

“Carlotta--Leghorn to Buenos Ayres; shipping oil one way and hides

the other. She's over there”--pointing in the direction of the

breakwater--“beastly old hulk!”

“Buenos Ayres--yes! Can you hide me anywhere on board?”

“How much can you give?”

“Not very much; I have only a few paoli.”

“No. Can't do it under fifty--and cheap at that, too--a swell like you.”

“What do you mean by a swell? If you like my clothes you may change with

me, but I can't give you more money than I have got.”

“You have a watch there. Hand it over.”

Arthur took out a lady's gold watch, delicately chased and enamelled,

with the initials “G. B.” on the back. It had been his mother's--but

what did that matter now?

“Ah!” remarked the sailor with a quick glance at it. “Stolen, of course!

Let me look!”

Arthur drew his hand away. “No,” he said. “I will give you the watch

when we are on board; not before.”

“You're not such a fool as you look, after all! I'll bet it's your first

scrape, though, eh?”

“That is my business. Ah! there comes the watchman.”

They crouched down behind the group of statuary and waited till the

watchman had passed. Then the sailor rose, and, telling Arthur to

follow him, walked on, laughing foolishly to himself. Arthur followed in

silence.

The sailor led him back to the little irregular square by the Medici

palace; and, stopping in a dark corner, mumbled in what was intended for

a cautious whisper:

“Wait here; those soldier fellows will see you if you come further.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Get you some clothes. I'm not going to take you on board with that

bloody coatsleeve.”

Arthur glanced down at the sleeve which had been torn by the window

grating. A little blood from the grazed hand had fallen upon it.

Evidently the man thought him a murderer. Well, it was of no consequence

what people thought.

After some time the sailor came back, triumphant, with a bundle under

his arm.

“Change,” he whispered; “and make haste about it. I must get back, and

that old Jew has kept me bargaining and haggling for half an hour.”

Arthur obeyed, shrinking with instinctive disgust at the first touch of

second-hand clothes. Fortunately these, though rough and coarse, were

fairly clean. When he stepped into the light in his new attire, the

sailor looked at him with tipsy solemnity and gravely nodded his

approval.

“You'll do,” he said. “This way, and don't make a noise.” Arthur,

carrying his discarded clothes, followed him through a labyrinth of

winding canals and dark narrow alleys; the mediaeval slum quarter which

the people of Leghorn call “New Venice.” Here and there a gloomy old

palace, solitary among the squalid houses and filthy courts, stood

between two noisome ditches, with a forlorn air of trying to preserve

its ancient dignity and yet of knowing the effort to be a hopeless

one. Some of the alleys, he knew, were notorious dens of thieves,

cut-throats, and smugglers; others were merely wretched and

poverty-stricken.

Beside one of the little bridges the sailor stopped, and, looking round

to see that they were not observed, descended a flight of stone steps

to a narrow landing stage. Under the bridge was a dirty, crazy old boat.

Sharply ordering Arthur to jump in and lie down, he seated himself in

the boat and began rowing towards the harbour's mouth. Arthur lay still

on the wet and leaky planks, hidden by the clothes which the man had

thrown over him, and peeping out from under them at the familiar streets

and houses.

Presently they passed under a bridge and entered that part of the canal

which forms a moat for the fortress. The massive walls rose out of the

water, broad at the base and narrowing upward to the frowning turrets.

How strong, how threatening they had seemed to him a few hours ago! And

now----

He laughed softly as he lay in the bottom of the boat.

“Hold your noise,” the sailor whispered, “and keep your head covered!

We're close to the custom house.”

Arthur drew the clothes over his head. A few yards further on the boat

stopped before a row of masts chained together, which lay across the

surface of the canal, blocking the narrow waterway between the custom

house and the fortress wall. A sleepy official came out yawning and bent

over the water's edge with a lantern in his hand.

“Passports, please.”

The sailor handed up his official papers. Arthur, half stifled under the

clothes, held his breath, listening.

“A nice time of night to come back to your ship!” grumbled the customs

official. “Been out on the spree, I suppose. What's in your boat?”

“Old clothes. Got them cheap.” He held up the waistcoat for inspection.

The official, lowering his lantern, bent over, straining his eyes to

see.

“It's all right, I suppose. You can pass.”

He lifted the barrier and the boat moved slowly out into the dark,

heaving water. At a little distance Arthur sat up and threw off the

clothes.

“Here she is,” the sailor whispered, after rowing for some time in

silence. “Keep close behind me and hold your tongue.”

He clambered up the side of a huge black monster, swearing under his

breath at the clumsiness of the landsman, though Arthur's natural

agility rendered him less awkward than most people would have been in

his place. Once safely on board, they crept cautiously between dark

masses of rigging and machinery, and came at last to a hatchway, which

the sailor softly raised.

“Down here!” he whispered. “I'll be back in a minute.”

The hold was not only damp and dark, but intolerably foul. At first

Arthur instinctively drew back, half choked by the stench of raw hides

and rancid oil. Then he remembered the “punishment cell,” and descended

the ladder, shrugging his shoulders. Life is pretty much the same

everywhere, it seemed; ugly, putrid, infested with vermin, full of

shameful secrets and dark corners. Still, life is life, and he must make

the best of it.

In a few minutes the sailor came back with something in his hands which

Arthur could not distinctly see for the darkness.

“Now, give me the watch and money. Make haste!”

Taking advantage of the darkness, Arthur succeeded in keeping back a few

coins.

“You must get me something to eat,” he said; “I am half starved.”

“I've brought it. Here you are.” The sailor handed him a pitcher, some

hard biscuit, and a piece of salt pork. “Now mind, you must hide in this

empty barrel, here, when the customs officers come to examine to-morrow

morning. Keep as still as a mouse till we're right out at sea. I'll let

you know when to come out. And won't you just catch it when the captain

sees you--that's all! Got the drink safe? Good-night!”

The hatchway closed, and Arthur, setting the precious “drink” in a safe

place, climbed on to an oil barrel to eat his pork and biscuit. Then he

curled himself up on the dirty floor; and, for the first time since his

babyhood, settled himself to sleep without a prayer. The rats scurried

round him in the darkness; but neither their persistent noise nor the

swaying of the ship, nor the nauseating stench of oil, nor the prospect

of to-morrow's sea-sickness, could keep him awake. He cared no more for

them all than for the broken and dishonoured idols that only yesterday

had been the gods of his adoration.

PART II.

THIRTEEN YEARS LATER.

CHAPTER I.

ONE evening in July, 1846, a few acquaintances met at Professor

Fabrizi's house in Florence to discuss plans for future political work.

Several of them belonged to the Mazzinian party and would have been

satisfied with nothing less than a democratic Republic and a United

Italy. Others were Constitutional Monarchists and Liberals of

various shades. On one point, however, they were all agreed; that of

dissatisfaction with the Tuscan censorship; and the popular professor

had called the meeting in the hope that, on this one subject at least,

the representatives of the dissentient parties would be able to get

through an hour's discussion without quarrelling.

Only a fortnight had elapsed since the famous amnesty which Pius IX. had

granted, on his accession, to political offenders in the Papal States;

but the wave of liberal enthusiasm caused by it was already spreading

over Italy. In Tuscany even the government appeared to have been

affected by the astounding event. It had occurred to Fabrizi and a few

other leading Florentines that this was a propitious moment for a bold

effort to reform the press-laws.

“Of course,” the dramatist Lega had said, when the subject was first

broached to him; “it would be impossible to start a newspaper till we

can get the press-law changed; we should not bring out the first number.

But we may be able to run some pamphlets through the censorship already;

and the sooner we begin the sooner we shall get the law changed.”

He was now explaining in Fabrizi's library his theory of the line which

should be taken by liberal writers at the moment.

“There is no doubt,” interposed one of the company, a gray-haired

barrister with a rather drawling manner of speech, “that in some way we

must take advantage of the moment. We shall not see such a favourable

one again for bringing forward serious reforms. But I doubt the

pamphlets doing any good. They will only irritate and frighten the

government instead of winning it over to our side, which is what we

really want to do. If once the authorities begin to think of us as

dangerous agitators our chance of getting their help is gone.”

“Then what would you have us do?”

“Petition.”

“To the Grand Duke?”

“Yes; for an augmentation of the liberty of the press.”

A keen-looking, dark man sitting by the window turned his head round

with a laugh.

“You'll get a lot out of petitioning!” he said. “I should have thought

the result of the Renzi case was enough to cure anybody of going to work

that way.”

“My dear sir, I am as much grieved as you are that we did not succeed in

preventing the extradition of Renzi. But really--I do not wish to hurt

the sensibilities of anyone, but I cannot help thinking that our failure

in that case was largely due to the impatience and vehemence of some

persons among our number. I should certainly hesitate----”

“As every Piedmontese always does,” the dark man interrupted sharply. “I

don't know where the vehemence and impatience lay, unless you found them

in the strings of meek petitions we sent in. That may be vehemence for

Tuscany or Piedmont, but we should not call it particularly vehement in

Naples.”

“Fortunately,” remarked the Piedmontese, “Neapolitan vehemence is

peculiar to Naples.”

“There, there, gentlemen, that will do!” the professor put in.

“Neapolitan customs are very good things in their way and Piedmontese

customs in theirs; but just now we are in Tuscany, and the Tuscan custom

is to stick to the matter in hand. Grassini votes for petitions and

Galli against them. What do you think, Dr. Riccardo?”

“I see no harm in petitions, and if Grassini gets one up I'll sign it

with all the pleasure in life. But I don't think mere petitioning and

nothing else will accomplish much. Why can't we have both petitions and

pamphlets?”

“Simply because the pamphlets will put the government into a state of

mind in which it won't grant the petitions,” said Grassini.

“It won't do that anyhow.” The Neapolitan rose and came across to the

table. “Gentlemen, you're on the wrong tack. Conciliating the government

will do no good. What we must do is to rouse the people.”

“That's easier said than done; how are you going to start?”

“Fancy asking Galli that! Of course he'd start by knocking the censor on

the head.”

“No, indeed, I shouldn't,” said Galli stoutly. “You always think if

a man comes from down south he must believe in no argument but cold

steel.”

“Well, what do you propose, then? Sh! Attention, gentlemen! Galli has a

proposal to make.”

The whole company, which had broken up into little knots of twos and

threes, carrying on separate discussions, collected round the table to

listen. Galli raised his hands in expostulation.

“No, gentlemen, it is not a proposal; it is merely a suggestion.

It appears to me that there is a great practical danger in all this

rejoicing over the new Pope. People seem to think that, because he has

struck out a new line and granted this amnesty, we have only to throw

ourselves--all of us, the whole of Italy--into his arms and he will

carry us to the promised land. Now, I am second to no one in admiration

of the Pope's behaviour; the amnesty was a splendid action.”

“I am sure His Holiness ought to feel flattered----” Grassini began

contemptuously.

“There, Grassini, do let the man speak!” Riccardo interrupted in his

turn. “It's a most extraordinary thing that you two never can keep from

sparring like a cat and dog. Get on, Galli!”

“What I wanted to say is this,” continued the Neapolitan. “The Holy

Father, undoubtedly, is acting with the best intentions; but how far he

will succeed in carrying his reforms is another question. Just now it's

smooth enough and, of course, the reactionists all over Italy will lie

quiet for a month or two till the excitement about the amnesty blows

over; but they are not likely to let the power be taken out of their

hands without a fight, and my own belief is that before the winter is

half over we shall have Jesuits and Gregorians and Sanfedists and

all the rest of the crew about our ears, plotting and intriguing, and

poisoning off everybody they can't bribe.”

“That's likely enough.”

“Very well, then; shall we wait here, meekly sending in petitions, till

Lambruschini and his pack have persuaded the Grand Duke to put us bodily

under Jesuit rule, with perhaps a few Austrian hussars to patrol the

streets and keep us in order; or shall we forestall them and take

advantage of their momentary discomfiture to strike the first blow?”

“Tell us first what blow you propose?”

“I would suggest that we start an organized propaganda and agitation

against the Jesuits.”

“A pamphleteering declaration of war, in fact?”

“Yes; exposing their intrigues, ferreting out their secrets, and calling

upon the people to make common cause against them.”

“But there are no Jesuits here to expose.”

“Aren't there? Wait three months and see how many we shall have. It'll

be too late to keep them out then.”

“But really to rouse the town against the Jesuits one must speak

plainly; and if you do that how will you evade the censorship?”

“I wouldn't evade it; I would defy it.”

“You would print the pamphlets anonymously? That's all very well,

but the fact is, we have all seen enough of the clandestine press to

know----”

“I did not mean that. I would print the pamphlets openly, with our names

and addresses, and let them prosecute us if they dare.”

“The project is a perfectly mad one,” Grassini exclaimed. “It is simply

putting one's head into the lion's mouth out of sheer wantonness.”

“Oh, you needn't be afraid!” Galli cut in sharply; “we shouldn't ask you

to go to prison for our pamphlets.”

“Hold your tongue, Galli!” said Riccardo. “It's not a question of being

afraid; we're all as ready as you are to go to prison if there's any

good to be got by it, but it is childish to run into danger for nothing.

For my part, I have an amendment to the proposal to suggest.”

“Well, what is it?”

“I think we might contrive, with care, to fight the Jesuits without

coming into collision with the censorship.”

“I don't see how you are going to manage it.”

“I think that it is possible to clothe what one has to say in so

roundabout a form that----”

“That the censorship won't understand it? And then you'll expect every

poor artisan and labourer to find out the meaning by the light of

the ignorance and stupidity that are in him! That doesn't sound very

practicable.”

“Martini, what do you think?” asked the professor, turning to a

broad-shouldered man with a great brown beard, who was sitting beside

him.

“I think that I will reserve my opinion till I have more facts to go

upon. It's a question of trying experiments and seeing what comes of

them.”

“And you, Sacconi?”

“I should like to hear what Signora Bolla has to say. Her suggestions

are always valuable.”

Everyone turned to the only woman in the room, who had been sitting on

the sofa, resting her chin on one hand and listening in silence to the

discussion. She had deep, serious black eyes, but as she raised them now

there was an unmistakable gleam of amusement in them.

“I am afraid,” she said; “that I disagree with everybody.”

“You always do, and the worst of it is that you are always right,”

Riccardo put in.

“I think it is quite true that we must fight the Jesuits somehow; and if

we can't do it with one weapon we must with another. But mere defiance

is a feeble weapon and evasion a cumbersome one. As for petitioning,

that is a child's toy.”

“I hope, signora,” Grassini interposed, with a solemn face; “that you

are not suggesting such methods as--assassination?”

Martini tugged at his big moustache and Galli sniggered outright. Even

the grave young woman could not repress a smile.

“Believe me,” she said, “that if I were ferocious enough to think of

such things I should not be childish enough to talk about them. But

the deadliest weapon I know is ridicule. If you can once succeed in

rendering the Jesuits ludicrous, in making people laugh at them and

their claims, you have conquered them without bloodshed.”

“I believe you are right, as far as that goes,” Fabrizi said; “but I

don't see how you are going to carry the thing through.”

“Why should we not be able to carry it through?” asked Martini. “A

satirical thing has a better chance of getting over the censorship

difficulty than a serious one; and, if it must be cloaked, the average

reader is more likely to find out the double meaning of an apparently

silly joke than of a scientific or economic treatise.”

“Then is your suggestion, signora, that we should issue satirical

pamphlets, or attempt to run a comic paper? That last, I am sure, the

censorship would never allow.”

“I don't mean exactly either. I believe a series of small satirical

leaflets, in verse or prose, to be sold cheap or distributed free about

the streets, would be very useful. If we could find a clever artist

who would enter into the spirit of the thing, we might have them

illustrated.”

“It's a capital idea, if only one could carry it out; but if the thing

is to be done at all it must be well done. We should want a first-class

satirist; and where are we to get him?”

“You see,” added Lega, “most of us are serious writers; and, with

all respect to the company, I am afraid that a general attempt to be

humorous would present the spectacle of an elephant trying to dance the

tarantella.”

“I never suggested that we should all rush into work for which we

are unfitted. My idea was that we should try to find a really gifted

satirist--there must be one to be got somewhere in Italy, surely--and

offer to provide the necessary funds. Of course we should have to know

something of the man and make sure that he would work on lines with

which we could agree.”

“But where are you going to find him? I can count up the satirists

of any real talent on the fingers of one hand; and none of them are

available. Giusti wouldn't accept; he is fully occupied as it is. There

are one or two good men in Lombardy, but they write only in the Milanese

dialect----”

“And moreover,” said Grassini, “the Tuscan people can be influenced in

better ways than this. I am sure that it would be felt as, to say the

least, a want of political savoir faire if we were to treat this solemn

question of civil and religious liberty as a subject for trifling.

Florence is not a mere wilderness of factories and money-getting like

London, nor a haunt of idle luxury like Paris. It is a city with a great

history------”

“So was Athens,” she interrupted, smiling; “but it was 'rather sluggish

from its size and needed a gadfly to rouse it'----”

Riccardo struck his hand upon the table. “Why, we never thought of the

Gadfly! The very man!”

“Who is that?”

“The Gadfly--Felice Rivarez. Don't you remember him? One of Muratori's

band that came down from the Apennines three years ago?”

“Oh, you knew that set, didn't you? I remember your travelling with them

when they went on to Paris.”

“Yes; I went as far as Leghorn to see Rivarez off for Marseilles. He

wouldn't stop in Tuscany; he said there was nothing left to do but

laugh, once the insurrection had failed, and so he had better go to

Paris. No doubt he agreed with Signor Grassini that Tuscany is the wrong

place to laugh in. But I am nearly sure he would come back if we asked

him, now that there is a chance of doing something in Italy.”

“What name did you say?”

“Rivarez. He's a Brazilian, I think. At any rate, I know he has lived

out there. He is one of the wittiest men I ever came across. Heaven

knows we had nothing to be merry over, that week in Leghorn; it was

enough to break one's heart to look at poor Lambertini; but there was

no keeping one's countenance when Rivarez was in the room; it was one

perpetual fire of absurdities. He had a nasty sabre-cut across the face,

too; I remember sewing it up. He's an odd creature; but I believe he

and his nonsense kept some of those poor lads from breaking down

altogether.”

“Is that the man who writes political skits in the French papers under

the name of 'Le Taon'?”

“Yes; short paragraphs mostly, and comic feuilletons. The smugglers up

in the Apennines called him 'the Gadfly' because of his tongue; and he

took the nickname to sign his work with.”

“I know something about this gentleman,” said Grassini, breaking in upon

the conversation in his slow and stately manner; “and I cannot say that

what I have heard is much to his credit. He undoubtedly possesses a

certain showy, superficial cleverness, though I think his abilities have

been exaggerated; and possibly he is not lacking in physical courage;

but his reputation in Paris and Vienna is, I believe, very far from

spotless. He appears to be a gentleman of--a--a--many adventures and

unknown antecedents. It is said that he was picked up out of charity by

Duprez's expedition somewhere in the wilds of tropical South America,

in a state of inconceivable savagery and degradation. I believe he has

never satisfactorily explained how he came to be in such a condition. As

for the rising in the Apennines, I fear it is no secret that persons of

all characters took part in that unfortunate affair. The men who were

executed in Bologna are known to have been nothing but common

malefactors; and the character of many who escaped will hardly bear

description. Without doubt, SOME of the participators were men of high

character----”

“Some of them were the intimate friends of several persons in this

room!” Riccardo interrupted, with an angry ring in his voice. “It's all

very well to be particular and exclusive, Grassini; but these 'common

malefactors' died for their belief, which is more than you or I have

done as yet.”

“And another time when people tell you the stale gossip of Paris,”

added Galli, “you can tell them from me that they are mistaken about

the Duprez expedition. I know Duprez's adjutant, Martel, personally, and

have heard the whole story from him. It's true that they found Rivarez

stranded out there. He had been taken prisoner in the war, fighting

for the Argentine Republic, and had escaped. He was wandering about the

country in various disguises, trying to get back to Buenos Ayres. But

the story of their taking him on out of charity is a pure fabrication.

Their interpreter had fallen ill and been obliged to turn back; and not

one of the Frenchmen could speak the native languages; so they offered

him the post, and he spent the whole three years with them, exploring

the tributaries of the Amazon. Martel told me he believed they never

would have got through the expedition at all if it had not been for

Rivarez.”

“Whatever he may be,” said Fabrizi; “there must be something remarkable

about a man who could lay his 'come hither' on two old campaigners like

Martel and Duprez as he seems to have done. What do you think, signora?”

“I know nothing about the matter; I was in England when the fugitives

passed through Tuscany. But I should think that if the companions who

were with a man on a three years' expedition in savage countries, and

the comrades who were with him through an insurrection, think well of

him, that is recommendation enough to counterbalance a good deal of

boulevard gossip.”

“There is no question about the opinion his comrades had of him,”

said Riccardo. “From Muratori and Zambeccari down to the roughest

mountaineers they were all devoted to him. Moreover, he is a personal

friend of Orsini. It's quite true, on the other hand, that there are

endless cock-and-bull stories of a not very pleasant kind going about

concerning him in Paris; but if a man doesn't want to make enemies he

shouldn't become a political satirist.”

“I'm not quite sure,” interposed Lega; “but it seems to me that I

saw him once when the refugees were here. Was he not hunchbacked, or

crooked, or something of that kind?”

The professor had opened a drawer in his writing-table and was turning

over a heap of papers. “I think I have his police description somewhere

here,” he said. “You remember when they escaped and hid in the mountain

passes their personal appearance was posted up everywhere, and that

Cardinal--what's the scoundrel's name?--Spinola, offered a reward for

their heads.”

“There was a splendid story about Rivarez and that police paper, by the

way. He put on a soldier's old uniform and tramped across country as a

carabineer wounded in the discharge of his duty and trying to find his

company. He actually got Spinola's search-party to give him a lift,

and rode the whole day in one of their waggons, telling them harrowing

stories of how he had been taken captive by the rebels and dragged off

into their haunts in the mountains, and of the fearful tortures that he

had suffered at their hands. They showed him the description paper, and

he told them all the rubbish he could think of about 'the fiend they

call the Gadfly.' Then at night, when they were asleep, he poured a

bucketful of water into their powder and decamped, with his pockets full

of provisions and ammunition------”

“Ah, here's the paper,” Fabrizi broke in: “'Felice Rivarez, called: The

Gadfly. Age, about 30; birthplace and parentage, unknown, probably South

American; profession, journalist. Short; black hair; black beard; dark

skin; eyes, blue; forehead, broad and square; nose, mouth, chin------'

Yes, here it is: 'Special marks: right foot lame; left arm twisted; two

ringers missing on left hand; recent sabre-cut across face; stammers.'

Then there's a note put: 'Very expert shot; care should be taken in

arresting.'”

“It's an extraordinary thing that he can have managed to deceive the

search-party with such a formidable list of identification marks.”

“It was nothing but sheer audacity that carried him through, of course.

If it had once occurred to them to suspect him he would have been lost.

But the air of confiding innocence that he can put on when he chooses

would bring a man through anything. Well, gentlemen, what do you think

of the proposal? Rivarez seems to be pretty well known to several of the

company. Shall we suggest to him that we should be glad of his help here

or not?”

“I think,” said Fabrizi, “that he might be sounded upon the subject,

just to find out whether he would be inclined to think of the plan.”

“Oh, he'll be inclined, you may be sure, once it's a case of fighting

the Jesuits; he is the most savage anti-clerical I ever met; in fact,

he's rather rabid on the point.”

“Then will you write, Riccardo?”

“Certainly. Let me see, where is he now? In Switzerland, I think. He's

the most restless being; always flitting about. But as for the pamphlet

question----”

They plunged into a long and animated discussion. When at last the

company began to disperse Martini went up to the quiet young woman.

“I will see you home, Gemma.”

“Thanks; I want to have a business talk with you.”

“Anything wrong with the addresses?” he asked softly.

“Nothing serious; but I think it is time to make a few alterations. Two

letters have been stopped in the post this week. They were both quite

unimportant, and it may have been accidental; but we cannot afford to

have any risks. If once the police have begun to suspect any of our

addresses, they must be changed immediately.”

“I will come in about that to-morrow. I am not going to talk business

with you to-night; you look tired.”

“I am not tired.”

“Then you are depressed again.”

“Oh, no; not particularly.”