CHAPTER XI.

“BUT c-c-can't I meet him somewhere in the hills? Brisighella is a risky

place for me.”

“Every inch of ground in the Romagna is risky for you; but just at this

moment Brisighella is safer for you than any other place.”

“Why?”

“I'll tell you in a minute. Don't let that man with the blue jacket

see your face; he's dangerous. Yes; it was a terrible storm; I don't

remember to have seen the vines so bad for a long time.”

The Gadfly spread his arms on the table, and laid his face upon them,

like a man overcome with fatigue or wine; and the dangerous new-comer in

the blue jacket, glancing swiftly round, saw only two farmers discussing

their crops over a flask of wine and a sleepy mountaineer with his head

on the table. It was the usual sort of thing to see in little places

like Marradi; and the owner of the blue jacket apparently made up his

mind that nothing could be gained by listening; for he drank his wine at

a gulp and sauntered into the outer room. There he stood leaning on the

counter and gossiping lazily with the landlord, glancing every now and

then out of the corner of one eye through the open door, beyond which

sat the three figures at the table. The two farmers went on sipping

their wine and discussing the weather in the local dialect, and the

Gadfly snored like a man whose conscience is sound.

At last the spy seemed to make up his mind that there was nothing in the

wine-shop worth further waste of his time. He paid his reckoning, and,

lounging out of the house, sauntered away down the narrow street. The

Gadfly, yawning and stretching, lifted himself up and sleepily rubbed

the sleeve of his linen blouse across his eyes.

“Pretty sharp practice that,” he said, pulling a clasp-knife out of his

pocket and cutting off a chunk from the rye-loaf on the table. “Have

they been worrying you much lately, Michele?”

“They've been worse than mosquitos in August. There's no getting a

minute's peace; wherever one goes, there's always a spy hanging

about. Even right up in the hills, where they used to be so shy about

venturing, they have taken to coming in bands of three or four--haven't

they, Gino? That's why we arranged for you to meet Domenichino in the

town.”

“Yes; but why Brisighella? A frontier town is always full of spies.”

“Brisighella just now is a capital place. It's swarming with pilgrims

from all parts of the country.”

“But it's not on the way to anywhere.”

“It's not far out of the way to Rome, and many of the Easter Pilgrims

are going round to hear Mass there.”

“I d-d-didn't know there was anything special in Brisighella.”

“There's the Cardinal. Don't you remember his going to Florence to

preach last December? It's that same Cardinal Montanelli. They say he

made a great sensation.”

“I dare say; I don't go to hear sermons.”

“Well, he has the reputation of being a saint, you see.”

“How does he manage that?”

“I don't know. I suppose it's because he gives away all his income, and

lives like a parish priest with four or five hundred scudi a year.”

“Ah!” interposed the man called Gino; “but it's more than that. He

doesn't only give away money; he spends his whole life in looking

after the poor, and seeing the sick are properly treated, and hearing

complaints and grievances from morning till night. I'm no fonder of

priests than you are, Michele, but Monsignor Montanelli is not like

other Cardinals.”

“Oh, I dare say he's more fool than knave!” said Michele. “Anyhow, the

people are mad after him, and the last new freak is for the pilgrims to

go round that way to ask his blessing. Domenichino thought of going as a

pedlar, with a basket of cheap crosses and rosaries. The people like to

buy those things and ask the Cardinal to touch them; then they put them

round their babies' necks to keep off the evil eye.”

“Wait a minute. How am I to go--as a pilgrim? This make-up suits me

p-pretty well, I think; but it w-won't do for me to show myself

in Brisighella in the same character that I had here; it would be

ev-v-vidence against you if I get taken.”

“You won't get taken; we have a splendid disguise for you, with a

passport and all complete.”

“What is it?”

“An old Spanish pilgrim--a repentant brigand from the Sierras. He fell

ill in Ancona last year, and one of our friends took him on board a

trading-vessel out of charity, and set him down in Venice, where he had

friends, and he left his papers with us to show his gratitude. They will

just do for you.”

“A repentant b-b-brigand? But w-what about the police?”

“Oh, that's all right! He finished his term of the galleys some years

ago, and has been going about to Jerusalem and all sorts of places

saving his soul ever since. He killed his son by mistake for somebody

else, and gave himself up to the police in a fit of remorse.”

“Was he quite old?”

“Yes; but a white beard and wig will set that right, and the description

suits you to perfection in every other respect. He was an old soldier,

with a lame foot and a sabre-cut across the face like yours; and then

his being a Spaniard, too--you see, if you meet any Spanish pilgrims,

you can talk to them all right.”

“Where am I to meet Domenichino?”

“You join the pilgrims at the cross-road that we will show you on the

map, saying you had lost your way in the hills. Then, when you reach the

town, you go with the rest of them into the marketplace, in front of the

Cardinal's palace.”

“Oh, he manages to live in a p-palace, then, in s-spite of being a

saint?”

“He lives in one wing of it, and has turned the rest into a hospital.

Well, you all wait there for him to come out and give his benediction,

and Domenichino will come up with his basket and say: 'Are you one of

the pilgrims, father?' and you answer: 'I am a miserable sinner.' Then

he puts down his basket and wipes his face with his sleeve, and you

offer him six soldi for a rosary.”

“Then, of course, he arranges where we can talk?”

“Yes; he will have plenty of time to give you the address of the

meeting-place while the people are gaping at Montanelli. That was our

plan; but if you don't like it, we can let Domenichino know and arrange

something else.”

“No; it will do; only see that the beard and wig look natural.”

*****

“Are you one of the pilgrims, father?”

The Gadfly, sitting on the steps of the episcopal palace, looked up

from under his ragged white locks, and gave the password in a husky,

trembling voice, with a strong foreign accent. Domenichino slipped

the leather strap from his shoulder, and set down his basket of pious

gewgaws on the step. The crowd of peasants and pilgrims sitting on the

steps and lounging about the market-place was taking no notice of

them, but for precaution's sake they kept up a desultory conversation,

Domenichino speaking in the local dialect and the Gadfly in broken

Italian, intermixed with Spanish words.

“His Eminence! His Eminence is coming out!” shouted the people by the

door. “Stand aside! His Eminence is coming!”

They both stood up.

“Here, father,” said Domenichino, putting into the Gadfly's hand a

little image wrapped in paper; “take this, too, and pray for me when you

get to Rome.”

The Gadfly thrust it into his breast, and turned to look at the figure

in the violet Lenten robe and scarlet cap that was standing on the upper

step and blessing the people with outstretched arms.

Montanelli came slowly down the steps, the people crowding about him to

kiss his hands. Many knelt down and put the hem of his cassock to their

lips as he passed.

“Peace be with you, my children!”

At the sound of the clear, silvery voice, the Gadfly bent his head, so

that the white hair fell across his face; and Domenichino, seeing the

quivering of the pilgrim's staff in his hand, said to himself with

admiration: “What an actor!”

A woman standing near to them stooped down and lifted her child from the

step. “Come, Cecco,” she said. “His Eminence will bless you as the dear

Lord blessed the children.”

The Gadfly moved a step forward and stopped. Oh, it was hard! All these

outsiders--these pilgrims and mountaineers--could go up and speak to

him, and he would lay his hand on their children's hair. Perhaps he

would say “Carino” to that peasant boy, as he used to say----

The Gadfly sank down again on the step, turning away that he might not

see. If only he could shrink into some corner and stop his ears to shut

out the sound! Indeed, it was more than any man should have to bear--to

be so close, so close that he could have put out his arm and touched the

dear hand.

“Will you not come under shelter, my friend?” the soft voice said. “I am

afraid you are chilled.”

The Gadfly's heart stood still. For a moment he was conscious of nothing

but the sickening pressure of the blood that seemed as if it would tear

his breast asunder; then it rushed back, tingling and burning through

all his body, and he looked up. The grave, deep eyes above him grew

suddenly tender with divine compassion at the sight of his face.

“Stand bark a little, friends,” Montanelli said, turning to the crowd;

“I want to speak to him.”

The people fell slowly back, whispering to each other, and the Gadfly,

sitting motionless, with teeth clenched and eyes on the ground, felt the

gentle touch of Montanelli's hand upon his shoulder.

“You have had some great trouble. Can I do anything to help you?”

The Gadfly shook his head in silence.

“Are you a pilgrim?”

“I am a miserable sinner.”

The accidental similarity of Montanelli's question to the password came

like a chance straw, that the Gadfly, in his desperation, caught at,

answering automatically. He had begun to tremble under the soft pressure

of the hand that seemed to burn upon his shoulder.

The Cardinal bent down closer to him.

“Perhaps you would care to speak to me alone? If I can be any help to

you----”

For the first time the Gadfly looked straight and steadily into

Montanelli's eyes; he was already recovering his self-command.

“It would be no use,” he said; “the thing is hopeless.”

A police official stepped forward out of the crowd.

“Forgive my intruding, Your Eminence. I think the old man is not quite

sound in his mind. He is perfectly harmless, and his papers are in

order, so we don't interfere with him. He has been in penal servitude

for a great crime, and is now doing penance.”

“A great crime,” the Gadfly repeated, shaking his head slowly.

“Thank you, captain; stand aside a little, please. My friend, nothing is

hopeless if a man has sincerely repented. Will you not come to me this

evening?”

“Would Your Eminence receive a man who is guilty of the death of his own

son?”

The question had almost the tone of a challenge, and Montanelli shrank

and shivered under it as under a cold wind.

“God forbid that I should condemn you, whatever you have done!” he said

solemnly. “In His sight we are all guilty alike, and our righteousness

is as filthy rags. If you will come to me I will receive you as I pray

that He may one day receive me.”

The Gadfly stretched out his hands with a sudden gesture of passion.

“Listen!” he said; “and listen all of you, Christians! If a man has

killed his only son--his son who loved and trusted him, who was flesh of

his flesh and bone of his bone; if he has led his son into a death-trap

with lies and deceit--is there hope for that man in earth or heaven?

I have confessed my sin before God and man, and I have suffered the

punishment that men have laid on me, and they have let me go; but when

will God say, 'It is enough'? What benediction will take away His curse

from my soul? What absolution will undo this thing that I have done?”

In the dead silence that followed the people looked at Montanelli, and

saw the heaving of the cross upon his breast.

He raised his eyes at last, and gave the benediction with a hand that

was not quite steady.

“God is merciful,” he said. “Lay your burden before His throne; for it

is written: 'A broken and contrite heart shalt thou not despise.'”

He turned away and walked through the market-place, stopping everywhere

to speak to the people, and to take their children in his arms.

In the evening the Gadfly, following the directions written on the

wrapping of the image, made his way to the appointed meeting-place. It

was the house of a local doctor, who was an active member of the “sect.”

Most of the conspirators were already assembled, and their delight at

the Gadfly's arrival gave him a new proof, if he had needed one, of his

popularity as a leader.

“We're glad enough to see you again,” said the doctor; “but we shall be

gladder still to see you go. It's a fearfully risky business, and I, for

one, was against the plan. Are you quite sure none of those police rats

noticed you in the market-place this morning?”

“Oh, they n-noticed me enough, but they d-didn't recognize me.

Domenichino m-managed the thing capitally. But where is he? I don't see

him.”

“He has not come yet. So you got on all smoothly? Did the Cardinal give

you his blessing?”

“His blessing? Oh, that's nothing,” said Domenichino, coming in at the

door. “Rivarez, you're as full of surprises as a Christmas cake. How

many more talents are you going to astonish us with?”

“What is it now?” asked the Gadfly languidly. He was leaning back on a

sofa, smoking a cigar. He still wore his pilgrim's dress, but the white

beard and wig lay beside him.

“I had no idea you were such an actor. I never saw a thing done so

magnificently in my life. You nearly moved His Eminence to tears.”

“How was that? Let us hear, Rivarez.”

The Gadfly shrugged his shoulders. He was in a taciturn and laconic

mood, and the others, seeing that nothing was to be got out of him,

appealed to Domenichino to explain. When the scene in the market-place

had been related, one young workman, who had not joined in the laughter

of the rest, remarked abruptly:

“It was very clever, of course; but I don't see what good all this

play-acting business has done to anybody.”

“Just this much,” the Gadfly put in; “that I can go where I like and do

what I like anywhere in this district, and not a single man, woman, or

child will ever think of suspecting me. The story will be all over the

place by to-morrow, and when I meet a spy he will only think: 'It's

mad Diego, that confessed his sins in the market-place.' That is an

advantage gained, surely.”

“Yes, I see. Still, I wish the thing could have been done without

fooling the Cardinal. He's too good to have that sort of trick played on

him.”

“I thought myself he seemed fairly decent,” the Gadfly lazily assented.

“Nonsense, Sandro! We don't want Cardinals here!” said Domenichino.

“And if Monsignor Montanelli had taken that post in Rome when he had the

chance of getting it, Rivarez couldn't have fooled him.”

“He wouldn't take it because he didn't want to leave his work here.”

“More likely because he didn't want to get poisoned off by

Lambruschini's agents. They've got something against him, you may depend

upon it. When a Cardinal, especially such a popular one, 'prefers to

stay' in a God-forsaken little hole like this, we all know what that

means--don't we, Rivarez?”

The Gadfly was making smoke-rings. “Perhaps it is a c-c-case of a

'b-b-broken and contrite heart,'” he remarked, leaning his head back to

watch them float away. “And now, men, let us get to business.”

They began to discuss in detail the various plans which had been formed

for the smuggling and concealment of weapons. The Gadfly listened with

keen attention, interrupting every now and then to correct sharply some

inaccurate statement or imprudent proposal. When everyone had finished

speaking, he made a few practical suggestions, most of which were

adopted without discussion. The meeting then broke up. It had been

resolved that, at least until he was safely back in Tuscany, very

late meetings, which might attract the notice of the police, should

be avoided. By a little after ten o'clock all had dispersed except the

doctor, the Gadfly, and Domenichino, who remained as a sub-committee

for the discussion of special points. After a long and hot dispute,

Domenichino looked up at the clock.

“Half-past eleven; we mustn't stop any longer or the night-watchman may

see us.”

“When does he pass?” asked the Gadfly.

“About twelve o'clock; and I want to be home before he comes.

Good-night, Giordani. Rivarez, shall we walk together?”

“No; I think we are safer apart. Then I shall see you again?”

“Yes; at Castel Bolognese. I don't know yet what disguise I shall be in,

but you have the password. You leave here to-morrow, I think?”

The Gadfly was carefully putting on his beard and wig before the

looking-glass.

“To-morrow morning, with the pilgrims. On the next day I fall ill and

stop behind in a shepherd's hut, and then take a short cut across the

hills. I shall be down there before you will. Good-night!”

Twelve o'clock was striking from the Cathedral bell-tower as the Gadfly

looked in at the door of the great empty barn which had been thrown

open as a lodging for the pilgrims. The floor was covered with

clumsy figures, most of which were snoring lustily, and the air was

insufferably close and foul. He drew back with a little shudder of

repugnance; it would be useless to attempt to sleep in there; he would

take a walk, and then find some shed or haystack which would, at least,

be clean and quiet.

It was a glorious night, with a great full moon gleaming in a purple

sky. He began to wander through the streets in an aimless way, brooding

miserably over the scene of the morning, and wishing that he had never

consented to Domenichino's plan of holding the meeting in Brisighella.

If at the beginning he had declared the project too dangerous, some

other place would have been chosen; and both he and Montanelli would

have been spared this ghastly, ridiculous farce.

How changed the Padre was! And yet his voice was not changed at all; it

was just the same as in the old days, when he used to say: “Carino.”

The lantern of the night-watchman appeared at the other end of the

street, and the Gadfly turned down a narrow, crooked alley. After

walking a few yards he found himself in the Cathedral Square, close

to the left wing of the episcopal palace. The square was flooded with

moonlight, and there was no one in sight; but he noticed that a side

door of the Cathedral was ajar. The sacristan must have forgotten to

shut it. Surely nothing could be going on there so late at night. He

might as well go in and sleep on one of the benches instead of in the

stifling barn; he could slip out in the morning before the sacristan

came; and even if anyone did find him, the natural supposition would be

that mad Diego had been saying his prayers in some corner, and had got

shut in.

He listened a moment at the door, and then entered with the noiseless

step that he had retained notwithstanding his lameness. The moonlight

streamed through the windows, and lay in broad bands on the marble

floor. In the chancel, especially, everything was as clearly visible as

by daylight. At the foot of the altar steps Cardinal Montanelli knelt

alone, bare-headed, with clasped hands.

The Gadfly drew back into the shadow. Should he slip away before

Montanelli saw him? That, no doubt, would be the wisest thing to

do--perhaps the most merciful. And yet, what harm could it do for him to

go just a little nearer--to look at the Padre's face once more, now that

the crowd was gone, and there was no need to keep up the hideous comedy

of the morning? Perhaps it would be his last chance--and the Padre need

not see him; he would steal up softly and look--just this once. Then he

would go back to his work.

Keeping in the shadow of the pillars, he crept softly up to the chancel

rails, and paused at the side entrance, close to the altar. The shadow

of the episcopal throne was broad enough to cover him, and he crouched

down in the darkness, holding his breath.

“My poor boy! Oh, God; my poor boy!”

The broken whisper was full of such endless despair that the Gadfly

shuddered in spite of himself. Then came deep, heavy, tearless sobs; and

he saw Montanelli wring his hands together like a man in bodily pain.

He had not thought it would be so bad as this. How often had he said to

himself with bitter assurance: “I need not trouble about it; that wound

was healed long ago.” Now, after all these years, it was laid bare

before him, and he saw it bleeding still. And how easy it would be to

heal it now at last! He need only lift his hand--only step forward and

say: “Padre, it is I.” There was Gemma, too, with that white streak

across her hair. Oh, if he could but forgive! If he could but cut out

from his memory the past that was burned into it so deep--the Lascar,

and the sugar-plantation, and the variety show! Surely there was no

other misery like this--to be willing to forgive, to long to forgive;

and to know that it was hopeless--that he could not, dared not forgive.

Montanelli rose at last, made the sign of the cross, and turned

away from the altar. The Gadfly shrank further back into the shadow,

trembling with fear lest he should be seen, lest the very beating of

his heart should betray him; then he drew a long breath of relief.

Montanelli had passed him, so close that the violet robe had brushed

against his cheek,--had passed and had not seen him.

Had not seen him---- Oh, what had he done? This had been his last

chance--this one precious moment--and he had let it slip away. He

started up and stepped into the light.

“Padre!”

The sound of his own voice, ringing up and dying away along the arches

of the roof, filled him with fantastic terror. He shrank back again into

the shadow. Montanelli stood beside the pillar, motionless, listening

with wide-open eyes, full of the horror of death. How long the silence

lasted the Gadfly could not tell; it might have been an instant, or

an eternity. He came to his senses with a sudden shock. Montanelli was

beginning to sway as though he would fall, and his lips moved, at first

silently.

“Arthur!” the low whisper came at last; “yes, the water is deep----”

The Gadfly came forward.

“Forgive me, Your Eminence! I thought it was one of the priests.”

“Ah, it is the pilgrim?” Montanelli had at once recovered his

self-control, though the Gadfly could see, from the restless glitter of

the sapphire on his hand, that he was still trembling. “Are you in

need of anything, my friend? It is late, and the Cathedral is closed at

night.”

“I beg pardon, Your Eminence, if I have done wrong. I saw the door

open, and came in to pray, and when I saw a priest, as I thought, in

meditation, I waited to ask a blessing on this.”

He held up the little tin cross that he had bought from Domenichino.

Montanelli took it from his hand, and, re-entering the chancel, laid it

for a moment on the altar.

“Take it, my son,” he said, “and be at rest, for the Lord is tender

and pitiful. Go to Rome, and ask the blessing of His minister, the Holy

Father. Peace be with you!”

The Gadfly bent his head to receive the benediction, and turned slowly

away.

“Stop!” said Montanelli.

He was standing with one hand on the chancel rail.

“When you receive the Holy Eucharist in Rome,” he said, “pray for one in

deep affliction--for one on whose soul the hand of the Lord is heavy.”

There were almost tears in his voice, and the Gadfly's resolution

wavered. Another instant and he would have betrayed himself. Then the

thought of the variety-show came up again, and he remembered, like

Jonah, that he did well to be angry.

“Who am I, that He should hear my prayers? A leper and an outcast! If I

could bring to His throne, as Your Eminence can, the offering of a holy

life--of a soul without spot or secret shame------”

Montanelli turned abruptly away.

“I have only one offering to give,” he said; “a broken heart.”

*****

A few days later the Gadfly returned to Florence in the diligence from

Pistoja. He went straight to Gemma's lodgings, but she was out. Leaving

a message that he would return in the morning he went home, sincerely

hoping that he should not again find his study invaded by Zita. Her

jealous reproaches would act on his nerves, if he were to hear much of

them to-night, like the rasping of a dentist's file.

“Good-evening, Bianca,” he said when the maid-servant opened the door.

“Has Mme. Reni been here to-day?”

She stared at him blankly

“Mme. Reni? Has she come back, then, sir?”

“What do you mean?” he asked with a frown, stopping short on the mat.

“She went away quite suddenly, just after you did, and left all her

things behind her. She never so much as said she was going.”

“Just after I did? What, a f-fortnight ago?”

“Yes, sir, the same day; and her things are lying about

higgledy-piggledy. All the neighbours are talking about it.”

He turned away from the door-step without speaking, and went hastily

down the lane to the house where Zita had been lodging. In her rooms

nothing had been touched; all the presents that he had given her were in

their usual places; there was no letter or scrap of writing anywhere.

“If you please, sir,” said Bianca, putting her head in at the door,

“there's an old woman----”

He turned round fiercely.

“What do you want here--following me about?”

“An old woman wishes to see you.”

“What does she want? Tell her I c-can't see her; I'm busy.”

“She has been coming nearly every evening since you went away, sir,

always asking when you would come back.”

“Ask her w-what her business is. No; never mind; I suppose I must go

myself.”

The old woman was waiting at his hall door. She was very poorly dressed,

with a face as brown and wrinkled as a medlar, and a bright-coloured

scarf twisted round her head. As he came in she rose and looked at him

with keen black eyes.

“You are the lame gentleman,” she said, inspecting him critically from

head to foot. “I have brought you a message from Zita Reni.”

He opened the study door, and held it for her to pass in; then followed

her and shut the door, that Bianca might not hear.

“Sit down, please. N-now, tell me who you are.”

“It's no business of yours who I am. I have come to tell you that Zita

Reni has gone away with my son.”

“With--your--son?”

“Yes, sir; if you don't know how to keep your mistress when you've got

her, you can't complain if other men take her. My son has blood in his

veins, not milk and water; he comes of the Romany folk.”

“Ah, you are a gipsy! Zita has gone back to her own people, then?”

She looked at him in amazed contempt. Apparently, these Christians had

not even manhood enough to be angry when they were insulted.

“What sort of stuff are you made of, that she should stay with you? Our

women may lend themselves to you a bit for a girl's fancy, or if you pay

them well; but the Romany blood comes back to the Romany folk.”

The Gadfly's face remained as cold and steady as before.

“Has she gone away with a gipsy camp, or merely to live with your son?”

The woman burst out laughing.

“Do you think of following her and trying to win her back? It's too

late, sir; you should have thought of that before!”

“No; I only want to know the truth, if you will tell it to me.”

She shrugged her shoulders; it was hardly worth while to abuse a person

who took it so meekly.

“The truth, then, is that she met my son in the road the day you left

her, and spoke to him in the Romany tongue; and when he saw she was

one of our folk, in spite of her fine clothes, he fell in love with her

bonny face, as OUR men fall in love, and took her to our camp. She told

us all her trouble, and sat crying and sobbing, poor lassie, till our

hearts were sore for her. We comforted her as best we could; and at last

she took off her fine clothes and put on the things our lasses wear, and

gave herself to my son, to be his woman and to have him for her man. He

won't say to her: 'I don't love you,' and: 'I've other things to do.'

When a woman is young, she wants a man; and what sort of man are you,

that you can't even kiss a handsome girl when she puts her arms round

your neck?”

“You said,” he interrupted, “that you had brought me a message from

her.”

“Yes; I stopped behind when the camp went on, so as to give it. She told

me to say that she has had enough of your folk and their hair-splitting

and their sluggish blood; and that she wants to get back to her own

people and be free. 'Tell him,' she said, 'that I am a woman, and that

I loved him; and that is why I would not be his harlot any longer.' The

lassie was right to come away. There's no harm in a girl getting a bit

of money out of her good looks if she can--that's what good looks are

for; but a Romany lass has nothing to do with LOVING a man of your

race.”

The Gadfly stood up.

“Is that all the message?” he said. “Then tell her, please, that I think

she has done right, and that I hope she will be happy. That is all I

have to say. Good-night!”

He stood perfectly still until the garden gate closed behind her; then

he sat down and covered his face with both hands.

Another blow on the cheek! Was no rag of pride to be left him--no shred

of self-respect? Surely he had suffered everything that man can endure;

his very heart had been dragged in the mud and trampled under the

feet of the passers-by; there was no spot in his soul where someone's

contempt was not branded in, where someone's mockery had not left

its iron trace. And now this gipsy girl, whom he had picked up by the

wayside--even she had the whip in her hand.

Shaitan whined at the door, and the Gadfly rose to let him in. The

dog rushed up to his master with his usual frantic manifestations of

delight, but soon, understanding that something was wrong, lay down on

the rug beside him, and thrust a cold nose into the listless hand.

An hour later Gemma came up to the front door. No one appeared in answer

to her knock; Bianca, finding that the Gadfly did not want any dinner,

had slipped out to visit a neighbour's cook. She had left the door open,

and a light burning in the hall. Gemma, after waiting for some time,

decided to enter and try if she could find the Gadfly, as she wished to

speak to him about an important message which had come from Bailey. She

knocked at the study door, and the Gadfly's voice answered from within:

“You can go away, Bianca. I don't want anything.”

She softly opened the door. The room was quite dark, but the passage

lamp threw a long stream of light across it as she entered, and she

saw the Gadfly sitting alone, his head sunk on his breast, and the dog

asleep at his feet.

“It is I,” she said.

He started up. “Gemma,---- Gemma! Oh, I have wanted you so!”

Before she could speak he was kneeling on the floor at her feet and

hiding his face in the folds of her dress. His whole body was shaken

with a convulsive tremor that was worse to see than tears.

She stood still. There was nothing she could do to help him--nothing.

This was the bitterest thing of all. She must stand by and look on

passively--she who would have died to spare him pain. Could she but dare

to stoop and clasp her arms about him, to hold him close against her

heart and shield him, were it with her own body, from all further harm

or wrong; surely then he would be Arthur to her again; surely then the

day would break and the shadows flee away.

Ah, no, no! How could he ever forget? Was it not she who had cast him

into hell--she, with her own right hand?

She had let the moment slip by. He rose hastily and sat down by the

table, covering his eyes with one hand and biting his lip as if he would

bite it through.

Presently he looked up and said quietly:

“I am afraid I startled you.”

She held out both her hands to him. “Dear,” she said, “are we not

friends enough by now for you to trust me a little bit? What is it?”

“Only a private trouble of my own. I don't see why you should be worried

over it.”

“Listen a moment,” she went on, taking his hand in both of hers to

steady its convulsive trembling. “I have not tried to lay hands on a

thing that is not mine to touch. But now that you have given me, of your

own free will, so much of your confidence, will you not give me a little

more--as you would do if I were your sister. Keep the mask on your face,

if it is any consolation to you, but don't wear a mask on your soul, for

your own sake.”

He bent his head lower. “You must be patient with me,” he said. “I am

an unsatisfactory sort of brother to have, I'm afraid; but if you only

knew---- I have been nearly mad this last week. It has been like South

America again. And somehow the devil gets into me and----” He broke off.

“May I not have my share in your trouble?” she whispered at last.

His head sank down on her arm. “The hand of the Lord is heavy.”

PART III.

CHAPTER I.

THE next five weeks were spent by Gemma and the Gadfly in a whirl

of excitement and overwork which left them little time or energy for

thinking about their personal affairs. When the arms had been safely

smuggled into Papal territory there remained a still more difficult and

dangerous task: that of conveying them unobserved from the secret stores

in the mountain caverns and ravines to the various local centres and

thence to the separate villages. The whole district was swarming with

spies; and Domenichino, to whom the Gadfly had intrusted the ammunition,

sent into Florence a messenger with an urgent appeal for either help or

extra time. The Gadfly had insisted that the work should be finished

by the middle of June; and what with the difficulty of conveying heavy

transports over bad roads, and the endless hindrances and delays caused

by the necessity of continually evading observation, Domenichino was

growing desperate. “I am between Scylla and Charybdis,” he wrote. “I

dare not work quickly, for fear of detection, and I must not work slowly

if we are to be ready in time. Either send me efficient help at once, or

let the Venetians know that we shall not be ready till the first week in

July.”

The Gadfly carried the letter to Gemma and, while she read it, sat

frowning at the floor and stroking the cat's fur the wrong way.

“This is bad,” she said. “We can hardly keep the Venetians waiting for

three weeks.”

“Of course we can't; the thing is absurd. Domenichino m-might

unders-s-stand that. We must follow the lead of the Venetians, not they

ours.”

“I don't see that Domenichino is to blame; he has evidently done his

best, and he can't do impossibilities.”

“It's not in Domenichino that the fault lies; it's in the fact of

his being one person instead of two. We ought to have at least one

responsible man to guard the store and another to see the transports

off. He is quite right; he must have efficient help.”

“But what help are we going to give him? We have no one in Florence to

send.”

“Then I m-must go myself.”

She leaned back in her chair and looked at him with a little frown.

“No, that won't do; it's too risky.”

“It will have to do if we can't f-f-find any other way out of the

difficulty.”

“Then we must find another way, that's all. It's out of the question for

you to go again just now.”

An obstinate line appeared at the corners of his under lip.

“I d-don't see that it's out of the question.”

“You will see if you think about the thing calmly for a minute. It is

only five weeks since you got back; the police are on the scent about

that pilgrim business, and scouring the country to find a clue. Yes, I

know you are clever at disguises; but remember what a lot of people saw

you, both as Diego and as the countryman; and you can't disguise your

lameness or the scar on your face.”

“There are p-plenty of lame people in the world.”

“Yes, but there are not plenty of people in the Romagna with a lame foot

and a sabre-cut across the cheek and a left arm injured like yours, and

the combination of blue eyes with such dark colouring.”

“The eyes don't matter; I can alter them with belladonna.”

“You can't alter the other things. No, it won't do. For you to go there

just now, with all your identification-marks, would be to walk into a

trap with your eyes open. You would certainly be taken.”

“But s-s-someone must help Domenichino.”

“It will be no help to him to have you caught at a critical moment like

this. Your arrest would mean the failure of the whole thing.”

But the Gadfly was difficult to convince, and the discussion went on

and on without coming nearer to any settlement. Gemma was beginning to

realize how nearly inexhaustible was the fund of quiet obstinacy in

his character; and, had the matter not been one about which she felt

strongly, she would probably have yielded for the sake of peace. This,

however, was a case in which she could not conscientiously give way; the

practical advantage to be gained from the proposed journey seemed to her

not sufficiently important to be worth the risk, and she could not help

suspecting that his desire to go was prompted less by a conviction of

grave political necessity than by a morbid craving for the excitement of

danger. He had got into the habit of risking his neck, and his tendency

to run into unnecessary peril seemed to her a form of intemperance

which should be quietly but steadily resisted. Finding all her arguments

unavailing against his dogged resolve to go his own way, she fired her

last shot.

“Let us be honest about it, anyway,” she said; “and call things by

their true names. It is not Domenichino's difficulty that makes you so

determined to go. It is your own personal passion for----”

“It's not true!” he interrupted vehemently. “He is nothing to me; I

don't care if I never see him again.”

He broke off, seeing in her face that he had betrayed himself. Their

eyes met for an instant, and dropped; and neither of them uttered the

name that was in both their minds.

“It--it is not Domenichino I want to save,” he stammered at last, with

his face half buried in the cat's fur; “it is that I--I understand the

danger of the work failing if he has no help.”

She passed over the feeble little subterfuge, and went on as if there

had been no interruption:

“It is your passion for running into danger which makes you want to go

there. You have the same craving for danger when you are worried that

you had for opium when you were ill.”

“It was not I that asked for the opium,” he said defiantly; “it was the

others who insisted on giving it to me.”

“I dare say. You plume yourself a little on your stoicism, and to

ask for physical relief would have hurt your pride; but it is rather

flattered than otherwise when you risk your life to relieve the

irritation of your nerves. And yet, after all, the distinction is a

merely conventional one.”

He drew the cat's head back and looked down into the round, green eyes.

“Is it true, Pasht?” he said. “Are all these unkind things true that

your mistress is s-saying about me? Is it a case of mea culpa; mea

m-maxima culpa? You wise beast, you never ask for opium, do you? Your

ancestors were gods in Egypt, and no man t-trod on their tails. I

wonder, though, what would become of your calm superiority to earthly

ills if I were to take this paw of yours and hold it in the c-candle.

Would you ask me for opium then? Would you? Or perhaps--for death? No,

pussy, we have no right to die for our personal convenience. We may spit

and s-swear a bit, if it consoles us; but we mustn't pull the paw away.”

“Hush!” She took the cat off his knee and put it down on a footstool.

“You and I will have time for thinking about those things later on. What

we have to think of now is how to get Domenichino out of his difficulty.

What is it, Katie; a visitor? I am busy.”

“Miss Wright has sent you this, ma'am, by hand.”

The packet, which was carefully sealed, contained a letter, addressed

to Miss Wright, but unopened and with a Papal stamp. Gemma's old school

friends still lived in Florence, and her more important letters were

often received, for safety, at their address.

“It is Michele's mark,” she said, glancing quickly over the letter,

which seemed to be about the summer-terms at a boarding house in the

Apennines, and pointing to two little blots on a corner of the page.

“It is in chemical ink; the reagent is in the third drawer of the

writing-table. Yes; that is it.”

He laid the letter open on the desk and passed a little brush over its

pages. When the real message stood out on the paper in a brilliant blue

line, he leaned back in his chair and burst out laughing.

“What is it?” she asked hurriedly. He handed her the paper.

“DOMENICHINO HAS BEEN ARRESTED. COME AT ONCE.”

She sat down with the paper in her hand and stared hopelessly at the

Gadfly.

“W-well?” he said at last, with his soft, ironical drawl; “are you

satisfied now that I must go?”

“Yes, I suppose you must,” she answered, sighing. “And I too.”

He looked up with a little start. “You too? But----”

“Of course. It will be very awkward, I know, to be left without anyone

here in Florence; but everything must go to the wall now except the

providing of an extra pair of hands.”

“There are plenty of hands to be got there.”

“They don't belong to people whom you can trust thoroughly, though. You

said yourself just now that there must be two responsible persons

in charge; and if Domenichino couldn't manage alone it is evidently

impossible for you to do so. A person as desperately compromised as you

are is very much handicapped, remember, in work of that kind, and

more dependent on help than anyone else would be. Instead of you and

Domenichino, it must be you and I.”

He considered for a moment, frowning.

“Yes, you are quite right,” he said; “and the sooner we go the better.

But we must not start together. If I go off to-night, you can take, say,

the afternoon coach to-morrow.”

“Where to?”

“That we must discuss. I think I had b-b-better go straight in to

Faenza. If I start late to-night and ride to Borgo San Lorenzo I can get

my disguise arranged there and go straight on.”

“I don't see what else we can do,” she said, with an anxious little

frown; “but it is very risky, your going off in such a hurry and

trusting to the smugglers finding you a disguise at Borgo. You ought to

have at least three clear days to double on your trace before you cross

the frontier.”

“You needn't be afraid,” he answered, smiling; “I may get taken further

on, but not at the frontier. Once in the hills I am as safe as here;

there's not a smuggler in the Apennines that would betray me. What I am

not quite sure about is how you are to get across.”

“Oh, that is very simple! I shall take Louisa Wright's passport and go

for a holiday. No one knows me in the Romagna, but every spy knows you.”

“F-fortunately, so does every smuggler.”

She took out her watch.

“Half-past two. We have the afternoon and evening, then, if you are to

start to-night.”

“Then the best thing will be for me to go home and settle everything

now, and arrange about a good horse. I shall ride in to San Lorenzo; it

will be safer.”

“But it won't be safe at all to hire a horse. The owner will-----”

“I shan't hire one. I know a man that will lend me a horse, and that can

be trusted. He has done things for me before. One of the shepherds

will bring it back in a fortnight. I shall be here again by five or

half-past, then; and while I am gone, I w-want you to go and find

Martini and exp-plain everything to him.”

“Martini!” She turned round and looked at him in astonishment.

“Yes; we must take him into confidence--unless you can think of anyone

else.”

“I don't quite understand what you mean.”

“We must have someone here whom we can trust, in case of any special

difficulty; and of all the set here Martini is the man in whom I have

most confidence. Riccardo would do anything he could for us, of course;

but I think Martini has a steadier head. Still, you know him better than

I do; it is as you think.”

“I have not the slightest doubt as to Martini's trustworthiness and

efficiency in every respect; and I think he would probably consent to

give us any help he could. But----”

He understood at once.

“Gemma, what would you feel if you found out that a comrade in bitter

need had not asked you for help you might have given, for fear of

hurting or distressing you? Would you say there was any true kindness in

that?”

“Very well,” she said, after a little pause; “I will send Katie round at

once and ask him to come; and while she is gone I will go to Louisa for

her passport; she promised to lend it whenever I want one. What about

money? Shall I draw some out of the bank?”

“No; don't waste time on that; I can draw enough from my account to last

us for a bit. We will fall back on yours later on if my balance runs

short. Till half-past five, then; I shall be sure to find you here, of

course?”

“Oh, yes! I shall be back long before then.”

Half an hour after the appointed time he returned, and found Gemma

and Martini sitting on the terrace together. He saw at once that their

conversation had been a distressing one; the traces of agitation were

visible in both of them, and Martini was unusually silent and glum.

“Have you arranged everything?” she asked, looking up.

“Yes; and I have brought you some money for the journey. The horse will

be ready for me at the Ponte Rosso barrier at one in the night.”

“Is not that rather late? You ought to get into San Lorenzo before the

people are up in the morning.”

“So I shall; it's a very fast horse; and I don't want to leave here

when there's a chance of anyone noticing me. I shan't go home any more;

there's a spy watching at the door, and he thinks me in.”

“How did you get out without his seeing you?”

“Out of the kitchen window into the back garden and over the neighbour's

orchard wall; that's what makes me so late; I had to dodge him. I left

the owner of the horse to sit in the study all the evening with the lamp

lighted. When the spy sees the light in the window and a shadow on

the blind he will be quite satisfied that I am writing at home this

evening.”

“Then you will stay here till it is time to go to the barrier?”

“Yes; I don't want to be seen in the street any more to-night. Have a

cigar, Martini? I know Signora Bolla doesn't mind smoke.”

“I shan't be here to mind; I must go downstairs and help Katie with the

dinner.”

When she had gone Martini got up and began to pace to and fro with his

hands behind his back. The Gadfly sat smoking and looking silently out

at the drizzling rain.

“Rivarez!” Martini began, stopping in front of him, but keeping his eyes

on the ground; “what sort of thing are you going to drag her into?”

The Gadfly took the cigar from his mouth and blew away a long trail of

smoke.

“She has chosen for herself,” he said, “without compulsion on anyone's

part.”

“Yes, yes--I know. But tell me----”

He stopped.

“I will tell you anything I can.”

“Well, then--I don't know much about the details of these affairs in the

hills,--are you going to take her into any very serious danger?”

“Do you want the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Then--yes.”

Martini turned away and went on pacing up and down. Presently he stopped

again.

“I want to ask you another question. If you don't choose to answer it,

you needn't, of course; but if you do answer, then answer honestly. Are

you in love with her?”

The Gadfly deliberately knocked the ash from his cigar and went on

smoking in silence.

“That means--that you don't choose to answer?”

“No; only that I think I have a right to know why you ask me that.”

“Why? Good God, man, can't you see why?”

“Ah!” He laid down his cigar and looked steadily at Martini. “Yes,” he

said at last, slowly and softly. “I am in love with her. But you needn't

think I am going to make love to her, or worry about it. I am only going

to----”

His voice died away in a strange, faint whisper. Martini came a step

nearer.

“Only going--to----”

“To die.”

He was staring straight before him with a cold, fixed look, as if he

were dead already. When he spoke again his voice was curiously lifeless

and even.

“You needn't worry her about it beforehand,” he said; “but there's not

the ghost of a chance for me. It's dangerous for everyone; that she

knows as well as I do; but the smugglers will do their best to prevent

her getting taken. They are good fellows, though they are a bit rough.

As for me, the rope is round my neck, and when I cross the frontier I

pull the noose.”

“Rivarez, what do you mean? Of course it's dangerous, and particularly

so for you; I understand that; but you have often crossed the frontier

before and always been successful.”

“Yes, and this time I shall fail.”

“But why? How can you know?”

The Gadfly smiled drearily.

“Do you remember the German legend of the man that died when he met his

own Double? No? It appeared to him at night in a lonely place, wringing

its hands in despair. Well, I met mine the last time I was in the hills;

and when I cross the frontier again I shan't come back.”

Martini came up to him and put a hand on the back of his chair.

“Listen, Rivarez; I don't understand a word of all this metaphysical

stuff, but I do understand one thing: If you feel about it that way, you

are not in a fit state to go. The surest way to get taken is to go with

a conviction that you will be taken. You must be ill, or out of sorts

somehow, to get maggots of that kind into your head. Suppose I go

instead of you? I can do any practical work there is to be done, and you

can send a message to your men, explaining------”

“And let you get killed instead? That would be very clever.”

“Oh, I'm not likely to get killed! They don't know me as they do you.

And, besides, even if I did------”

He stopped, and the Gadfly looked up with a slow, inquiring gaze.

Martini's hand dropped by his side.

“She very likely wouldn't miss me as much as she would you,” he said

in his most matter-of-fact voice. “And then, besides, Rivarez, this is

public business, and we have to look at it from the point of view

of utility--the greatest good of the greatest number. Your 'final

value'---isn't that what the economists call it?--is higher than mine;

I have brains enough to see that, though I haven't any cause to be

particularly fond of you. You are a bigger man than I am; I'm not sure

that you are a better one, but there's more of you, and your death would

be a greater loss than mine.”

From the way he spoke he might have been discussing the value of shares

on the Exchange. The Gadfly looked up, shivering as if with cold.

“Would you have me wait till my grave opens of itself to swallow me up?

“If I must die,

I will encounter darkness as a bride----

Look here, Martini, you and I are talking nonsense.”

“You are, certainly,” said Martini gruffly.

“Yes, and so are you. For Heaven's sake, don't let's go in for romantic

self-sacrifice, like Don Carlos and Marquis Posa. This is the nineteenth

century; and if it's my business to die, I have got to do it.”

“And if it's my business to live, I have got to do that, I suppose.

You're the lucky one, Rivarez.”

“Yes,” the Gadfly assented laconically; “I was always lucky.”

They smoked in silence for a few minutes, and then began to talk of

business details. When Gemma came up to call them to dinner, neither of

them betrayed in face or manner that their conversation had been in any

way unusual. After dinner they sat discussing plans and making necessary

arrangements till eleven o'clock, when Martini rose and took his hat.

“I will go home and fetch that riding-cloak of mine, Rivarez. I think

you will be less recognizable in it than in your light suit. I want to

reconnoitre a bit, too, and make sure there are no spies about before we

start.”

“Are you coming with me to the barrier?”

“Yes; it's safer to have four eyes than two in case of anyone following

you. I'll be back by twelve. Be sure you don't start without me. I had

better take the key, Gemma, so as not to wake anyone by ringing.”

She raised her eyes to his face as he took the keys. She understood that

he had invented a pretext in order to leave her alone with the Gadfly.

“You and I will talk to-morrow,” she said. “We shall have time in the

morning, when my packing is finished.”

“Oh, yes! Plenty of time. There are two or three little things I want

to ask you about, Rivarez; but we can talk them over on our way to the

barrier. You had better send Katie to bed, Gemma; and be as quiet as you

can, both of you. Good-bye till twelve, then.”

He went away with a little nod and smile, banging the door after him to

let the neighbours hear that Signora Bolla's visitor was gone.

Gemma went out into the kitchen to say good-night to Katie, and came

back with black coffee on a tray.

“Would you like to lie down a bit?” she said. “You won't have any sleep

the rest of the night.”

“Oh, dear no! I shall sleep at San Lorenzo while the men are getting my

disguise ready.”

“Then have some coffee. Wait a minute; I will get you out the biscuits.”

As she knelt down at the side-board he suddenly stooped over her

shoulder.

“Whatever have you got there? Chocolate creams and English toffee! Why,

this is l-luxury for a king!”

She looked up, smiling faintly at his enthusiastic tone.

“Are you fond of sweets? I always keep them for Cesare; he is a perfect

baby over any kind of lollipops.”

“R-r-really? Well, you must get him s-some more to-morrow and give me

these to take with me. No, let me p-p-put the toffee in my pocket; it

will console me for all the lost joys of life. I d-do hope they'll give

me a bit of toffee to suck the day I'm hanged.”

“Oh, do let me find a cardboard box for it, at least, before you put it

in your pocket! You will be so sticky! Shall I put the chocolates in,

too?”

“No, I want to eat them now, with you.”

“But I don't like chocolate, and I want you to come and sit down like

a reasonable human being. We very likely shan't have another chance to

talk quietly before one or other of us is killed, and------”

“She d-d-doesn't like chocolate!” he murmured under his breath. “Then

I must be greedy all by myself. This is a case of the hangman's supper,

isn't it? You are going to humour all my whims to-night. First of all, I

want you to sit on this easy-chair, and, as you said I might lie down, I

shall lie here and be comfortable.”

He threw himself down on the rug at her feet, leaning his elbow on the

chair and looking up into her face.

“How pale you are!” he said. “That's because you take life sadly, and

don't like chocolate----”

“Do be serious for just five minutes! After all, it is a matter of life

and death.”

“Not even for two minutes, dear; neither life nor death is worth it.”

He had taken hold of both her hands and was stroking them with the tips

of his fingers.

“Don't look so grave, Minerva! You'll make me cry in a minute, and

then you'll be sorry. I do wish you'd smile again; you have such a

d-delightfully unexpected smile. There now, don't scold me, dear! Let us

eat our biscuits together, like two good children, without quarrelling

over them--for to-morrow we die.”

He took a sweet biscuit from the plate and carefully halved it, breaking

the sugar ornament down the middle with scrupulous exactness.

“This is a kind of sacrament, like what the goody-goody people have in

church. 'Take, eat; this is my body.' And we must d-drink the wine

out of the s-s-same glass, you know--yes, that is right. 'Do this in

remembrance----'”

She put down the glass.

“Don't!” she said, with almost a sob. He looked up, and took her hands

again.

“Hush, then! Let us be quiet for a little bit. When one of us dies, the

other will remember this. We will forget this loud, insistent world that

howls about our ears; we will go away together, hand in hand; we will

go away into the secret halls of death, and lie among the poppy-flowers.

Hush! We will be quite still.”

He laid his head down against her knee and covered his face. In the

silence she bent over him, her hand on the black head. So the time

slipped on and on; and they neither moved nor spoke.

“Dear, it is almost twelve,” she said at last. He raised his head.

“We have only a few minutes more; Martini will be back presently.

Perhaps we shall never see each other again. Have you nothing to say to

me?”

He slowly rose and walked away to the other side of the room. There was

a moment's silence.

“I have one thing to say,” he began in a hardly audible voice; “one

thing--to tell you----”

He stopped and sat down by the window, hiding his face in both hands.

“You have been a long time deciding to be merciful,” she said softly.

“I have not seen much mercy in my life; and I thought--at first--you

wouldn't care----”

“You don't think that now.”

She waited a moment for him to speak and then crossed the room and stood

beside him.

“Tell me the truth at last,” she whispered. “Think, if you are killed

and I not--I should have to go through all my life and never know--never

be quite sure----”

He took her hands and clasped them tightly.

“If I am killed---- You see, when I went to South America---- Ah,

Martini!”

He broke away with a violent start and threw open the door of the room.

Martini was rubbing his boots on the mat.

“Punctual to the m-m-minute, as usual! You're an an-n-nimated

chronometer, Martini. Is that the r-r-riding-cloak?”

“Yes; and two or three other things. I have kept them as dry as I could,

but it's pouring with rain. You will have a most uncomfortable ride, I'm

afraid.”

“Oh, that's no matter. Is the street clear?”

“Yes; all the spies seem to have gone to bed. I don't much wonder

either, on such a villainous night. Is that coffee, Gemma? He ought to

have something hot before he goes out into the wet, or he will catch

cold.”

“It is black coffee, and very strong. I will boil some milk.”

She went into the kitchen, passionately clenching her teeth and hands to

keep from breaking down. When she returned with the milk the Gadfly

had put on the riding-cloak and was fastening the leather gaiters which

Martini had brought. He drank a cup of coffee, standing, and took up the

broad-brimmed riding hat.

“I think it's time to start, Martini; we must make a round before we go

to the barrier, in case of anything. Good-bye, for the present, signora;

I shall meet you at Forli on Friday, then, unless anything special turns

up. Wait a minute; th-this is the address.”

He tore a leaf out of his pocket-book and wrote a few words in pencil.

“I have it already,” she said in a dull, quiet voice.

“H-have you? Well, there it is, anyway. Come, Martini. Sh-sh-sh! Don't

let the door creak!”

They crept softly downstairs. When the street door clicked behind them

she went back into the room and mechanically unfolded the paper he had

put into her hand. Underneath the address was written:

“I will tell you everything there.”

CHAPTER II.

IT was market-day in Brisighella, and the country folk had come in from

the villages and hamlets of the district with their pigs and poultry,

their dairy produce and droves of half-wild mountain cattle. The

market-place was thronged with a perpetually shifting crowd, laughing,

joking, bargaining for dried figs, cheap cakes, and sunflower seeds. The

brown, bare-footed children sprawled, face downward, on the pavement in

the hot sun, while their mothers sat under the trees with their baskets

of butter and eggs.

Monsignor Montanelli, coming out to wish the people “Good-morning,” was

at once surrounded by a clamourous throng of children, holding up for

his acceptance great bunches of irises and scarlet poppies and sweet

white narcissus from the mountain slopes. His passion for wild flowers

was affectionately tolerated by the people, as one of the little follies

which sit gracefully on very wise men. If anyone less universally

beloved had filled his house with weeds and grasses they would have

laughed at him; but the “blessed Cardinal” could afford a few harmless

eccentricities.

“Well, Mariuccia,” he said, stopping to pat one of the children on the

head; “you have grown since I saw you last. And how is the grandmother's

rheumatism?”

“She's been better lately, Your Eminence; but mother's bad now.”

“I'm sorry to hear that; tell the mother to come down here some day and

see whether Dr. Giordani can do anything for her. I will find somewhere

to put her up; perhaps the change will do her good. You are looking

better, Luigi; how are your eyes?”

He passed on, chatting with the mountaineers. He always remembered

the names and ages of the children, their troubles and those of their

parents; and would stop to inquire, with sympathetic interest, for the

health of the cow that fell sick at Christmas, or of the rag-doll that

was crushed under a cart-wheel last market-day.

When he returned to the palace the marketing began. A lame man in a blue

shirt, with a shock of black hair hanging into his eyes and a deep scar

across the left cheek, lounged up to one of the booths and, in very bad

Italian, asked for a drink of lemonade.

“You're not from these parts,” said the woman who poured it out,

glancing up at him.

“No. I come from Corsica.”

“Looking for work?”

“Yes; it will be hay-cutting time soon, and a gentleman that has a farm

near Ravenna came across to Bastia the other day and told me there's

plenty of work to be got there.”

“I hope you'll find it so, I'm sure, but times are bad hereabouts.”

“They're worse in Corsica, mother. I don't know what we poor folk are

coming to.”

“Have you come over alone?”

“No, my mate is with me; there he is, in the red shirt. Hola, Paolo!”

Michele hearing himself called, came lounging up with his hands in his

pockets. He made a fairly good Corsican, in spite of the red wig which

he had put on to render himself unrecognizable. As for the Gadfly, he

looked his part to perfection.

They sauntered through the market-place together, Michele whistling

between his teeth, and the Gadfly trudging along with a bundle over his

shoulder, shuffling his feet on the ground to render his lameness

less observable. They were waiting for an emissary, to whom important

directions had to be given.

“There's Marcone, on horseback, at that corner,” Michele whispered

suddenly. The Gadfly, still carrying his bundle, shuffled towards the

horseman.

“Do you happen to be wanting a hay-maker, sir?” he said, touching his

ragged cap and running one finger along the bridle. It was the signal

agreed upon, and the rider, who from his appearance might have been a

country squire's bailiff, dismounted and threw the reins on the horse's

neck.

“What sort of work can you do, my man?”

The Gadfly fumbled with his cap.

“I can cut grass, sir, and trim hedges”--he began; and without any break

in his voice, went straight on: “At one in the morning at the mouth of

the round cave. You must have two good horses and a cart. I shall be

waiting inside the cave---- And then I can dig, sir, and----”

“That will do, I only want a grass-cutter. Have you ever been out

before?”

“Once, sir. Mind, you must come well-armed; we may meet a flying

squadron. Don't go by the wood-path; you're safer on the other side. If

you meet a spy, don't stop to argue with him; fire at once---- I should

be very glad of work, sir.”

“Yes, I dare say, but I want an experienced grass-cutter. No, I haven't

got any coppers to-day.”

A very ragged beggar had slouched up to them, with a doleful, monotonous

whine.

“Have pity on a poor blind man, in the name of the Blessed Virgin------

Get out of this place at once; there's a flying squadron coming

along----Most Holy Queen of Heaven, Maiden undefiled--It's you they're

after, Rivarez; they'll be here in two minutes---- And so may the saints

reward you---- You'll have to make a dash for it; there are spies at all

the corners. It's no use trying to slip away without being seen.”

Marcone slipped the reins into the Gadfly's hand.

“Make haste! Ride out to the bridge and let the horse go; you can hide

in the ravine. We're all armed; we can keep them back for ten minutes.”

“No. I won't have you fellows taken. Stand together, all of you, and

fire after me in order. Move up towards our horses; there they are,

tethered by the palace steps; and have your knives ready. We retreat

fighting, and when I throw my cap down, cut the halters and jump every

man on the nearest horse. We may all reach the wood that way.”

They had spoken in so quiet an undertone that even the nearest

bystanders had not supposed their conversation to refer to anything

more dangerous than grass-cutting. Marcone, leading his own mare by the

bridle, walked towards the tethered horses, the Gadfly slouching along

beside him, and the beggar following them with an outstretched hand and

a persistent whine. Michele came up whistling; the beggar had warned him

in passing, and he quietly handed on the news to three countrymen who

were eating raw onions under a tree. They immediately rose and followed

him; and before anyone's notice had been attracted to them, the whole

seven were standing together by the steps of the palace, each man with

one hand on the hidden pistol, and the tethered horses within easy

reach.

“Don't betray yourselves till I move,” the Gadfly said softly and

clearly. “They may not recognize us. When I fire, then begin in order.

Don't fire at the men; lame their horses--then they can't follow us.

Three of you fire, while the other three reload. If anyone comes between

you and our horses, kill him. I take the roan. When I throw down my cap,

each man for himself; don't stop for anything.”

“Here they come,” said Michele; and the Gadfly turned round, with an air

of naive and stupid wonder, as the people suddenly broke off in their

bargaining.

Fifteen armed men rode slowly into the marketplace. They had great

difficulty to get past the throng of people at all, and, but for the

spies at the corners of the square, all the seven conspirators could

have slipped quietly away while the attention of the crowd was fixed

upon the soldiers. Michele moved a little closer to the Gadfly.

“Couldn't we get away now?”

“No; we're surrounded with spies, and one of them has recognized me. He

has just sent a man to tell the captain where I am. Our only chance is

to lame their horses.”

“Which is the spy?”

“The first man I fire at. Are you all ready? They have made a lane to

us; they are going to come with a rush.”

“Out of the way there!” shouted the captain. “In the name of His

Holiness!”

The crowd had drawn back, startled and wondering; and the soldiers made

a quick dash towards the little group standing by the palace steps. The

Gadfly drew a pistol from his blouse and fired, not at the advancing

troops, but at the spy, who was approaching the horses, and who fell

back with a broken collar-bone. Immediately after the report, six more

shots were fired in quick succession, as the conspirators moved steadily

closer to the tethered horses.

One of the cavalry horses stumbled and plunged; another fell to

the ground with a fearful cry. Then, through the shrieking of the

panic-stricken people, came the loud, imperious voice of the officer in

command, who had risen in the stirrups and was holding a sword above his

head.

“This way, men!”

He swayed in the saddle and sank back; the Gadfly had fired again

with his deadly aim. A little stream of blood was trickling down the

captain's uniform; but he steadied himself with a violent effort, and,

clutching at his horse's mane, cried out fiercely:

“Kill that lame devil if you can't take him alive! It's Rivarez!”

“Another pistol, quick!” the Gadfly called to his men; “and go!”

He flung down his cap. It was only just in time, for the swords of the

now infuriated soldiers were flashing close in front of him.

“Put down your weapons, all of you!”

Cardinal Montanelli had stepped suddenly between the combatants; and one

of the soldiers cried out in a voice sharp with terror:

“Your Eminence! My God, you'll be murdered!”

Montanelli only moved a step nearer, and faced the Gadfly's pistol.

Five of the conspirators were already on horseback and dashing up the

hilly street. Marcone sprang on to the back of his mare. In the moment

of riding away, he glanced back to see whether his leader was in need of

help. The roan was close at hand, and in another instant all would have

been safe; but as the figure in the scarlet cassock stepped forward,

the Gadfly suddenly wavered and the hand with the pistol sank down.

The instant decided everything. Immediately he was surrounded and flung

violently to the ground, and the weapon was dashed out of his hand by a

blow from the flat of a soldier's sword. Marcone struck his mare's flank

with the stirrup; the hoofs of the cavalry horses were thundering up the

hill behind him; and it would have been worse than useless to stay and

be taken too. Turning in the saddle as he galloped away, to fire a last

shot in the teeth of the nearest pursuer, he saw the Gadfly, with blood

on his face, trampled under the feet of horses and soldiers and spies;

and heard the savage curses of the captors, the yells of triumph and

rage.

Montanelli did not notice what had happened; he had moved away from the

steps, and was trying to calm the terrified people. Presently, as he

stooped over the wounded spy, a startled movement of the crowd made him

look up. The soldiers were crossing the square, dragging their prisoner

after them by the rope with which his hands were tied. His face was

livid with pain and exhaustion, and he panted fearfully for breath; but

he looked round at the Cardinal, smiling with white lips, and whispered:

“I c-cong-gratulate your Eminence.”

*****

Five days later Martini reached Forli. He had received from Gemma by

post a bundle of printed circulars, the signal agreed upon in case

of his being needed in any special emergency; and, remembering the

conversation on the terrace, he guessed the truth at once. All through

the journey he kept repeating to himself that there was no reason for

supposing anything to have happened to the Gadfly, and that it was

absurd to attach any importance to the childish superstitions of so

nervous and fanciful a person; but the more he reasoned with himself

against the idea, the more firmly did it take possession of his mind.

“I have guessed what it is: Rivarez is taken, of course?” he said, as he

came into Gemma's room.

“He was arrested last Thursday, at Brisighella. He defended himself

desperately and wounded the captain of the squadron and a spy.”

“Armed resistance; that's bad!”

“It makes no difference; he was too deeply compromised already for a

pistol-shot more or less to affect his position much.”

“What do you think they are going to do with him?”

She grew a shade paler even than before.

“I think,” she said; “that we must not wait to find out what they mean

to do.”

“You think we shall be able to effect a rescue?”

“We MUST.”

He turned away and began to whistle, with his hands behind his back.

Gemma let him think undisturbed. She was sitting still, leaning her head

against the back of the chair, and looking out into vague distance with

a fixed and tragic absorption. When her face wore that expression, it

had a look of Durer's “Melancolia.”

“Have you seen him?” Martini asked, stopping for a moment in his tramp.

“No; he was to have met me here the next morning.”

“Yes, I remember. Where is he?”

“In the fortress; very strictly guarded, and, they say, in chains.”

He made a gesture of indifference.

“Oh, that's no matter; a good file will get rid of any number of chains.

If only he isn't wounded----”

“He seems to have been slightly hurt, but exactly how much we don't

know. I think you had better hear the account of it from Michele

himself; he was present at the arrest.”

“How does he come not to have been taken too? Did he run away and leave

Rivarez in the lurch?”

“It's not his fault; he fought as long as anybody did, and followed the

directions given him to the letter. For that matter, so did they all.

The only person who seems to have forgotten, or somehow made a mistake

at the last minute, is Rivarez himself. There's something inexplicable

about it altogether. Wait a moment; I will call Michele.”

She went out of the room, and presently came back with Michele and a

broad-shouldered mountaineer.

“This is Marco,” she said. “You have heard of him; he is one of the

smugglers. He has just got here, and perhaps will be able to tell us

more. Michele, this is Cesare Martini, that I spoke to you about. Will

you tell him what happened, as far as you saw it?”

Michele gave a short account of the skirmish with the squadron.

“I can't understand how it happened,” he concluded. “Not one of us would

have left him if we had thought he would be taken; but his directions

were quite precise, and it never occurred to us, when he threw down his

cap, that he would wait to let them surround him. He was close beside

the roan--I saw him cut the tether--and I handed him a loaded pistol

myself before I mounted. The only thing I can suppose is that he missed

his footing,--being lame,--in trying to mount. But even then, he could

have fired.”

“No, it wasn't that,” Marcone interposed. “He didn't attempt to mount.

I was the last one to go, because my mare shied at the firing; and I

looked round to see whether he was safe. He would have got off clear if

it hadn't been for the Cardinal.”

“Ah!” Gemma exclaimed softly; and Martini repeated in amazement: “The

Cardinal?”

“Yes; he threw himself in front of the pistol--confound him! I suppose

Rivarez must have been startled, for he dropped his pistol-hand and put

the other one up like this”--laying the back of his left wrist across

his eyes--“and of course they all rushed on him.”

“I can't make that out,” said Michele. “It's not like Rivarez to lose

his head at a crisis.”

“Probably he lowered his pistol for fear of killing an unarmed man,”

Martini put in. Michele shrugged his shoulders.

“Unarmed men shouldn't poke their noses into the middle of a fight.

War is war. If Rivarez had put a bullet into His Eminence, instead of

letting himself be caught like a tame rabbit, there'd be one honest man

the more and one priest the less.”

He turned away, biting his moustache. His anger was very near to

breaking down in tears.

“Anyway,” said Martini, “the thing's done, and there's no use wasting

time in discussing how it happened. The question now is how we're to

arrange an escape for him. I suppose you're all willing to risk it?”

Michele did not even condescend to answer the superfluous question,

and the smuggler only remarked with a little laugh: “I'd shoot my own

brother, if he weren't willing.”

“Very well, then---- First thing; have you got a plan of the fortress?”

Gemma unlocked a drawer and took out several sheets of paper.

“I have made out all the plans. Here is the ground floor of the

fortress; here are the upper and lower stories of the towers, and here

the plan of the ramparts. These are the roads leading to the valley,

and here are the paths and hiding-places in the mountains, and the

underground passages.”

“Do you know which of the towers he is in?”

“The east one, in the round room with the grated window. I have marked

it on the plan.”

“How did you get your information?”

“From a man nicknamed 'The Cricket,' a soldier of the guard. He is

cousin to one of our men--Gino.”

“You have been quick about it.”

“There's no time to lose. Gino went into Brisighella at once; and some

of the plans we already had. That list of hiding-places was made by

Rivarez himself; you can see by the handwriting.”

“What sort of men are the soldiers of the guard?”

“That we have not been able to find out yet; the Cricket has only just

come to the place, and knows nothing about the other men.”

“We must find out from Gino what the Cricket himself is like. Is

anything known of the government's intentions? Is Rivarez likely to be

tried in Brisighella or taken in to Ravenna?”

“That we don't know. Ravenna, of course, is the chief town of the

Legation and by law cases of importance can be tried only there, in the

Tribunal of First Instance. But law doesn't count for much in the Four

Legations; it depends on the personal fancy of anybody who happens to be

in power.”

“They won't take him in to Ravenna,” Michele interposed.

“What makes you think so?”

“I am sure of it. Colonel Ferrari, the military Governor at Brisighella,

is uncle to the officer that Rivarez wounded; he's a vindictive sort of

brute and won't give up a chance to spite an enemy.”

“You think he will try to keep Rivarez here?”

“I think he will try to get him hanged.”

Martini glanced quickly at Gemma. She was very pale, but her face had

not changed at the words. Evidently the idea was no new one to her.

“He can hardly do that without some formality,” she said quietly; “but

he might possibly get up a court-martial on some pretext or other, and

justify himself afterwards by saying that the peace of the town required

it.”

“But what about the Cardinal? Would he consent to things of that kind?”

“He has no jurisdiction in military affairs.”

“No, but he has great influence. Surely the Governor would not venture

on such a step without his consent?”

“He'll never get that,” Marcone interrupted. “Montanelli was always

against the military commissions, and everything of the kind. So long

as they keep him in Brisighella nothing serious can happen; the Cardinal

will always take the part of any prisoner. What I am afraid of is their

taking him to Ravenna. Once there, he's lost.”

“We shouldn't let him get there,” said Michele. “We could manage a

rescue on the road; but to get him out of the fortress here is another

matter.”

“I think,” said Gemma; “that it would be quite useless to wait for the

chance of his being transferred to Ravenna. We must make the attempt at

Brisighella, and we have no time to lose. Cesare, you and I had better

go over the plan of the fortress together, and see whether we can

think out anything. I have an idea in my head, but I can't get over one

point.”

“Come, Marcone,” said Michele, rising; “we will leave them to think out

their scheme. I have to go across to Fognano this afternoon, and I want

you to come with me. Vincenzo hasn't sent those cartridges, and they

ought to have been here yesterday.”

When the two men had gone, Martini went up to Gemma and silently held

out his hand. She let her fingers lie in his for a moment.

“You were always a good friend, Cesare,” she said at last; “and a very

present help in trouble. And now let us discuss plans.”

CHAPTER III.

“AND I once more most earnestly assure Your Eminence that your refusal

is endangering the peace of the town.”

The Governor tried to preserve the respectful tone due to a high

dignitary of the Church; but there was audible irritation in his voice.

His liver was out of order, his wife was running up heavy bills, and

his temper had been sorely tried during the last three weeks. A sullen,

disaffected populace, whose dangerous mood grew daily more apparent; a

district honeycombed with plots and bristling with hidden weapons; an

inefficient garrison, of whose loyalty he was more than doubtful, and

a Cardinal whom he had pathetically described to his adjutant as the

“incarnation of immaculate pig-headedness,” had already reduced him

to the verge of desperation. Now he was saddled with the Gadfly, an

animated quintessence of the spirit of mischief.

Having begun by disabling both the Governor's favourite nephew and

his most valuable spy, the “crooked Spanish devil” had followed up his

exploits in the market-place by suborning the guards, browbeating the

interrogating officers, and “turning the prison into a bear-garden.”

He had now been three weeks in the fortress, and the authorities of

Brisighella were heartily sick of their bargain. They had subjected

him to interrogation upon interrogation; and after employing, to obtain

admissions from him, every device of threat, persuasion, and stratagem

which their ingenuity could suggest, remained just as wise as on the

day of his capture. They had begun to realize that it would perhaps have

been better to send him into Ravenna at once. It was, however, too late

to rectify the mistake. The Governor, when sending in to the Legate his

report of the arrest, had begged, as a special favour, permission to

superintend personally the investigation of this case; and, his request

having been graciously acceded to, he could not now withdraw without a

humiliating confession that he was overmatched.

The idea of settling the difficulty by a courtmartial had, as Gemma and

Michele had foreseen, presented itself to him as the only satisfactory

solution; and Cardinal Montanelli's stubborn refusal to countenance this

was the last drop which made the cup of his vexations overflow.

“I think,” he said, “that if Your Eminence knew what I and my assistants

have put up with from this man you would feel differently about the

matter. I fully understand and respect the conscientious objection to

irregularities in judicial proceedings; but this is an exceptional case

and calls for exceptional measures.”

“There is no case,” Montanelli answered, “which calls for injustice; and

to condemn a civilian by the judgment of a secret military tribunal is

both unjust and illegal.”

“The case amounts to this, Your Eminence: The prisoner is manifestly

guilty of several capital crimes. He joined the infamous attempt of

Savigno, and the military commission nominated by Monsignor Spinola

would certainly have had him shot or sent to the galleys then, had

he not succeeded in escaping to Tuscany. Since that time he has never

ceased plotting. He is known to be an influential member of one of the

most pestilent secret societies in the country. He is gravely suspected

of having consented to, if not inspired, the assassination of no less

than three confidential police agents. He has been caught--one might

almost say--in the act of smuggling firearms into the Legation. He

has offered armed resistance to authority and seriously wounded two

officials in the discharge of their duty, and he is now a standing

menace to the peace and order of the town. Surely, in such a case, a

court-martial is justifiable.”

“Whatever the man has done,” Montanelli replied, “he has the right to be

judged according to law.”

“The ordinary course of law involves delay, Your Eminence, and in this

case every moment is precious. Besides everything else, I am in constant

terror of his escaping.”

“If there is any danger of that, it rests with you to guard him more

closely.”

“I do my best, Your Eminence, but I am dependent upon the prison staff,

and the man seems to have bewitched them all. I have changed the guard

four times within three weeks; I have punished the soldiers till I am

tired of it, and nothing is of any use. I can't prevent their carrying

letters backwards and forwards. The fools are in love with him as if he

were a woman.”

“That is very curious. There must be something remarkable about him.”

“There's a remarkable amount of devilry--I beg pardon, Your Eminence,

but really this man is enough to try the patience of a saint. It's

hardly credible, but I have to conduct all the interrogations myself,

for the regular officer cannot stand it any longer.”

“How is that?”

“It's difficult to explain. Your Eminence, but you would understand if

you had once heard the way he goes on. One might think the interrogating

officer were the criminal and he the judge.”

“But what is there so terrible that he can do? He can refuse to answer

your questions, of course; but he has no weapon except silence.”

“And a tongue like a razor. We are all mortal, Your Eminence, and most

of us have made mistakes in our time that we don't want published on the

house-tops. That's only human nature, and it's hard on a man to have his

little slips of twenty years ago raked up and thrown in his teeth----”

“Has Rivarez brought up some personal secret of the interrogating

officer?”

“Well, really--the poor fellow got into debt when he was a cavalry

officer, and borrowed a little sum from the regimental funds----”

“Stole public money that had been intrusted to him, in fact?”

“Of course it was very wrong, Your Eminence; but his friends paid

it back at once, and the affair was hushed up,--he comes of a good

family,--and ever since then he has been irreproachable. How Rivarez

found out about it I can't conceive; but the first thing he did at

interrogation was to bring up this old scandal--before the subaltern,

too! And with as innocent a face as if he were saying his prayers! Of

course the story's all over the Legation by now. If Your Eminence

would only be present at one of the interrogations, I am sure you would

realize---- He needn't know anything about it. You might overhear him

from------”

Montanelli turned round and looked at the Governor with an expression

which his face did not often wear.

“I am a minister of religion,” he said; “not a police-spy; and

eavesdropping forms no part of my professional duties.”

“I--I didn't mean to give offence------”

“I think we shall not get any good out of discussing this question

further. If you will send the prisoner here, I will have a talk with

him.”

“I venture very respectfully to advise Your Eminence not to attempt it.

The man is perfectly incorrigible. It would be both safer and wiser to

overstep the letter of the law for this once, and get rid of him before

he does any more mischief. It is with great diffidence that I venture

to press the point after what Your Eminence has said; but after all I am

responsible to Monsignor the Legate for the order of the town------”

“And I,” Montanelli interrupted, “am responsible to God and His Holiness

that there shall be no underhand dealing in my diocese. Since you

press me in the matter, colonel, I take my stand upon my privilege

as Cardinal. I will not allow a secret court-martial in this town

in peace-time. I will receive the prisoner here, and alone, at ten

to-morrow morning.”

“As Your Eminence pleases,” the Governor replied with sulky

respectfulness; and went away, grumbling to himself: “They're about a

pair, as far as obstinacy goes.”

He told no one of the approaching interview till it was actually time to

knock off the prisoner's chains and start for the palace. It was quite

enough, as he remarked to his wounded nephew, to have this Most Eminent

son of Balaam's ass laying down the law, without running any risk of the

soldiers plotting with Rivarez and his friends to effect an escape on

the way.

When the Gadfly, strongly guarded, entered the room where Montanelli was

writing at a table covered with papers, a sudden recollection came

over him, of a hot midsummer afternoon when he had sat turning over

manuscript sermons in a study much like this. The shutters had been

closed, as they were here, to keep out the heat, and a fruitseller's

voice outside had called: “Fragola! Fragola!”

He shook the hair angrily back from his eyes and set his mouth in a

smile.

Montanelli looked up from his papers.

“You can wait in the hall,” he said to the guards.

“May it please Your Eminence,” began the sergeant, in a lowered voice

and with evident nervousness, “the colonel thinks that this prisoner is

dangerous and that it would be better------”

A sudden flash came into Montanelli's eyes.

“You can wait in the hall,” he repeated quietly; and the sergeant,

saluting and stammering excuses with a frightened face, left the room

with his men.

“Sit down, please,” said the Cardinal, when the door was shut. The

Gadfly obeyed in silence.

“Signor Rivarez,” Montanelli began after a pause, “I wish to ask you a

few questions, and shall be very much obliged to you if you will answer

them.”

The Gadfly smiled. “My ch-ch-chief occupation at p-p-present is to be

asked questions.”

“And--not to answer them? So I have heard; but these questions are put

by officials who are investigating your case and whose duty is to use

your answers as evidence.”

“And th-those of Your Eminence?” There was a covert insult in the tone

more than in the words, and the Cardinal understood it at once; but his

face did not lose its grave sweetness of expression.

“Mine,” he said, “whether you answer them or not, will remain between

you and me. If they should trench upon your political secrets, of course

you will not answer. Otherwise, though we are complete strangers to each

other, I hope that you will do so, as a personal favour to me.”

“I am ent-t-tirely at the service of Your Eminence.” He said it with a

little bow, and a face that would have taken the heart to ask favours

out of the daughters of the horse-leech.

“First, then, you are said to have been smuggling firearms into this

district. What are they wanted for?”

“T-t-to k-k-kill rats with.”

“That is a terrible answer. Are all your fellow-men rats in your eyes if

they cannot think as you do?”

“S-s-some of them.”

Montanelli leaned back in his chair and looked at him in silence for a

little while.

“What is that on your hand?” he asked suddenly.

The Gadfly glanced at his left hand. “Old m-m-marks from the teeth of

some of the rats.”

“Excuse me; I was speaking of the other hand. That is a fresh hurt.”

The slender, flexible right hand was badly cut and grazed. The Gadfly

held it up. The wrist was swollen, and across it ran a deep and long

black bruise.

“It is a m-m-mere trifle, as you see,” he said. “When I was arrested the

other day,--thanks to Your Eminence,”--he made another little bow,--“one

of the soldiers stamped on it.”

Montanelli took the wrist and examined it closely. “How does it come

to be in such a state now, after three weeks?” he asked. “It is all

inflamed.”

“Possibly the p-p-pressure of the iron has not done it much good.”

The Cardinal looked up with a frown.

“Have they been putting irons on a fresh wound?”

“N-n-naturally, Your Eminence; that is what fresh wounds are for. Old

wounds are not much use. They will only ache; you c-c-can't make them

burn properly.”

Montanelli looked at him again in the same close, scrutinizing way; then

rose and opened a drawer full of surgical appliances.

“Give me the hand,” he said.

The Gadfly, with a face as hard as beaten iron, held out the hand,

and Montanelli, after bathing the injured place, gently bandaged it.

Evidently he was accustomed to such work.

“I will speak about the irons,” he said. “And now I want to ask you

another question: What do you propose to do?”

“Th-th-that is very simply answered, Your Eminence. To escape if I can,

and if I can't, to die.”

“Why 'to die'?”

“Because if the Governor doesn't succeed in getting me shot, I shall be

sent to the galleys, and for me that c-c-comes to the same thing. I have

not got the health to live through it.”

Montanelli rested his arm on the table and pondered silently. The Gadfly

did not disturb him. He was leaning back with half-shut eyes, lazily

enjoying the delicious physical sensation of relief from the chains.

“Supposing,” Montanelli began again, “that you were to succeed in

escaping; what should you do with your life?”

“I have already told Your Eminence; I should k-k-kill rats.”

“You would kill rats. That is to say, that if I were to let you escape

from here now,--supposing I had the power to do so,--you would use your

freedom to foster violence and bloodshed instead of preventing them?”

The Gadfly raised his eyes to the crucifix on the wall. “'Not peace,

but a sword';--at l-least I should be in good company. For my own part,

though, I prefer pistols.”

“Signor Rivarez,” said the Cardinal with unruffled composure, “I have

not insulted you as yet, or spoken slightingly of your beliefs or

friends. May I not expect the same courtesy from you, or do you wish me

to suppose that an atheist cannot be a gentleman?”

“Ah, I q-quite forgot. Your Eminence places courtesy high among the

Christian virtues. I remember your sermon in Florence, on the occasion

of my c-controversy with your anonymous defender.”

“That is one of the subjects about which I wished to speak to you. Would

you mind explaining to me the reason of the peculiar bitterness you seem

to feel against me? If you have simply picked me out as a convenient

target, that is another matter. Your methods of political controversy

are your own affair, and we are not discussing politics now. But I

fancied at the time that there was some personal animosity towards me;

and if so, I should be glad to know whether I have ever done you wrong

or in any way given you cause for such a feeling.”

Ever done him wrong! The Gadfly put up the bandaged hand to his throat.

“I must refer Your Eminence to Shakspere,” he said with a little laugh.

“It's as with the man who can't endure a harmless, necessary cat. My

antipathy is a priest. The sight of the cassock makes my t-t-teeth

ache.”

“Oh, if it is only that----” Montanelli dismissed the subject with an

indifferent gesture.

“Still,” he added, “abuse is one thing and perversion of fact is

another. When you stated, in answer to my sermon, that I knew the

identity of the anonymous writer, you made a mistake,--I do not accuse

you of wilful falsehood,--and stated what was untrue. I am to this day

quite ignorant of his name.”

The Gadfly put his head on one side, like an intelligent robin, looked

at him for a moment gravely, then suddenly threw himself back and burst

into a peal of laughter.

“S-s-sancta simplicitas! Oh, you, sweet, innocent, Arcadian people--and

you never guessed! You n-never saw the cloven hoof?”

Montanelli stood up. “Am I to understand, Signor Rivarez, that you wrote

both sides of the controversy yourself?”

“It was a shame, I know,” the Gadfly answered, looking up with wide,

innocent blue eyes. “And you s-s-swallowed everything whole; just as if

it had been an oyster. It was very wrong; but oh, it w-w-was so funny!”

Montanelli bit his lip and sat down again. He had realized from the

first that the Gadfly was trying to make him lose his temper, and had

resolved to keep it whatever happened; but he was beginning to find

excuses for the Governor's exasperation. A man who had been spending two

hours a day for the last three weeks in interrogating the Gadfly might

be pardoned an occasional swear-word.

“We will drop that subject,” he said quietly. “What I wanted to see you

for particularly is this: My position here as Cardinal gives me some

voice, if I choose to claim my privilege, in the question of what is

to be done with you. The only use to which I should ever put such a

privilege would be to interfere in case of any violence to you which was

not necessary to prevent you from doing violence to others. I sent for

you, therefore, partly in order to ask whether you have anything to

complain of,--I will see about the irons; but perhaps there is something

else,--and partly because I felt it right, before giving my opinion, to

see for myself what sort of man you are.”

“I have nothing to complain of, Your Eminence. 'A la guerre comme a la

guerre.' I am not a schoolboy, to expect any government to pat me on the

head for s-s-smuggling firearms onto its territory. It's only natural

that they should hit as hard as they can. As for what sort of man I am,

you have had a romantic confession of my sins once. Is not that enough;

or w-w-would you like me to begin again?”

“I don't understand you,” Montanelli said coldly, taking up a pencil and

twisting it between his fingers.

“Surely Your Eminence has not forgotten old Diego, the pilgrim?”

He suddenly changed his voice and began to speak as Diego: “I am a

miserable sinner------”

The pencil snapped in Montanelli's hand. “That is too much!” he said.

The Gadfly leaned his head back with a soft little laugh, and sat

watching while the Cardinal paced silently up and down the room.

“Signor Rivarez,” said Montanelli, stopping at last in front of him,

“you have done a thing to me that a man who was born of a woman should

hesitate to do to his worst enemy. You have stolen in upon my private

grief and have made for yourself a mock and a jest out of the sorrow

of a fellow-man. I once more beg you to tell me: Have I ever done you

wrong? And if not, why have you played this heartless trick on me?”

The Gadfly, leaning back against the chair-cushions, looked up with his

subtle, chilling, inscrutable smile.

“It am-m-mused me, Your Eminence; you took it all so much to heart, and

it rem-m-minded me--a little bit--of a variety show----”

Montanelli, white to the very lips, turned away and rang the bell.

“You can take back the prisoner,” he said when the guards came in.

After they had gone he sat down at the table, still trembling with

unaccustomed indignation, and took up a pile of reports which had been

sent in to him by the parish priests of his diocese.

Presently he pushed them away, and, leaning on the table, hid his face

in both hands. The Gadfly seemed to have left some terrible shadow of

himself, some ghostly trail of his personality, to haunt the room; and

Montanelli sat trembling and cowering, not daring to look up lest he

should see the phantom presence that he knew was not there. The spectre

hardly amounted to a hallucination. It was a mere fancy of overwrought

nerves; but he was seized with an unutterable dread of its shadowy

presence--of the wounded hand, the smiling, cruel mouth, the mysterious

eyes, like deep sea water----

He shook off the fancy and settled to his work. All day long he had

scarcely a free moment, and the thing did not trouble him; but going

into his bedroom late at night, he stopped on the threshold with a

sudden shock of fear. What if he should see it in a dream? He recovered

himself immediately and knelt down before the crucifix to pray.

But he lay awake the whole night through.

CHAPTER IV.

MONTANELLI'S anger did not make him neglectful of his promise. He

protested so emphatically against the manner in which the Gadfly had

been chained that the unfortunate Governor, who by now was at his wit's

end, knocked off all the fetters in the recklessness of despair. “How am

I to know,” he grumbled to the adjutant, “what His Eminence will object

to next? If he calls a simple pair of handcuffs 'cruelty,' he'll be

exclaiming against the window-bars presently, or wanting me to feed

Rivarez on oysters and truffles. In my young days malefactors were

malefactors and were treated accordingly, and nobody thought a traitor

any better than a thief. But it's the fashion to be seditious nowadays;

and His Eminence seems inclined to encourage all the scoundrels in the

country.”

“I don't see what business he has got to interfere at all,” the adjutant

remarked. “He is not a Legate and has no authority in civil and military

affairs. By law------”

“What is the use of talking about law? You can't expect anyone to

respect laws after the Holy Father has opened the prisons and turned the

whole crew of Liberal scamps loose on us! It's a positive infatuation!

Of course Monsignor Montanelli will give himself airs; he was quiet

enough under His Holiness the late Pope, but he's cock of the walk now.

He has jumped into favour all at once and can do as he pleases. How am

I to oppose him? He may have secret authorization from the Vatican, for

all I know. Everything's topsy-turvy now; you can't tell from day to day

what may happen next. In the good old times one knew what to be at, but

nowadays------”

The Governor shook his head ruefully. A world in which Cardinals

troubled themselves over trifles of prison discipline and talked about

the “rights” of political offenders was a world that was growing too

complex for him.

The Gadfly, for his part, had returned to the fortress in a state of

nervous excitement bordering on hysteria. The meeting with Montanelli

had strained his endurance almost to breaking-point; and his final

brutality about the variety show had been uttered in sheer desperation,

merely to cut short an interview which, in another five minutes, would

have ended in tears.

Called up for interrogation in the afternoon of the same day, he did

nothing but go into convulsions of laughter at every question put to

him; and when the Governor, worried out of all patience, lost his temper

and began to swear, he only laughed more immoderately than ever.

The unlucky Governor fumed and stormed and threatened his refractory

prisoner with impossible punishments; but finally came, as James Burton

had come long ago, to the conclusion that it was mere waste of breath

and temper to argue with a person in so unreasonable a state of mind.

The Gadfly was once more taken back to his cell; and there lay down upon

the pallet, in the mood of black and hopeless depression which always

succeeded to his boisterous fits. He lay till evening without moving,

without even thinking; he had passed, after the vehement emotion of the

morning, into a strange, half-apathetic state, in which his own misery

was hardly more to him than a dull and mechanical weight, pressing on

some wooden thing that had forgotten to be a soul. In truth, it was of

little consequence how all ended; the one thing that mattered to any

sentient being was to be spared unbearable pain, and whether the relief

came from altered conditions or from the deadening of the power to

feel, was a question of no moment. Perhaps he would succeed in escaping;

perhaps they would kill him; in any case he should never see the Padre

again, and it was all vanity and vexation of spirit.

One of the warders brought in supper, and the Gadfly looked up with

heavy-eyed indifference.

“What time is it?”

“Six o'clock. Your supper, sir.”

He looked with disgust at the stale, foul-smelling, half-cold mess, and

turned his head away. He was feeling bodily ill as well as depressed;

and the sight of the food sickened him.

“You will be ill if you don't eat,” said the soldier hurriedly. “Take a

bit of bread, anyway; it'll do you good.”

The man spoke with a curious earnestness of tone, lifting a piece

of sodden bread from the plate and putting it down again. All the

conspirator awoke in the Gadfly; he had guessed at once that there was

something hidden in the bread.

“You can leave it; I'll eat a bit by and by,” he said carelessly. The

door was open, and he knew that the sergeant on the stairs could hear

every word spoken between them.

When the door was locked on him again, and he had satisfied himself that

no one was watching at the spy-hole, he took up the piece of bread and

carefully crumbled it away. In the middle was the thing he had expected,

a bundle of small files. It was wrapped in a bit of paper, on which a

few words were written. He smoothed the paper out carefully and carried

it to what little light there was. The writing was crowded into so

narrow a space, and on such thin paper, that it was very difficult to

read.

“The door is unlocked, and there is no moon. Get the filing done as fast

as possible, and come by the passage between two and three. We are quite

ready and may not have another chance.”

He crushed the paper feverishly in his hand. All the preparations were

ready, then, and he had only to file the window bars; how lucky it was

that the chains were off! He need not stop about filing them. How many

bars were there? Two, four; and each must be filed in two places: eight.

Oh, he could manage that in the course of the night if he made

haste---- How had Gemma and Martini contrived to get everything ready so

quickly--disguises, passports, hiding-places? They must have worked like

cart-horses to do it---- And it was her plan that had been adopted after

all. He laughed a little to himself at his own foolishness; as if it

mattered whether the plan was hers or not, once it was a good one! And

yet he could not help being glad that it was she who had struck on

the idea of his utilizing the subterranean passage, instead of letting

himself down by a rope-ladder, as the smugglers had at first suggested.

Hers was the more complex and difficult plan, but did not involve, as

the other did, a risk to the life of the sentinel on duty outside the

east wall. Therefore, when the two schemes had been laid before him, he

had unhesitatingly chosen Gemma's.

The arrangement was that the friendly guard who went by the nickname of

“The Cricket” should seize the first opportunity of unlocking, without

the knowledge of his fellows, the iron gate leading from the courtyard

into the subterranean passage underneath the ramparts, and should then

replace the key on its nail in the guard-room. The Gadfly, on receiving

information of this, was to file through the bars of his window, tear

his shirt into strips and plait them into a rope, by means of which he

could let himself down on to the broad east wall of the courtyard. Along

this wall he was to creep on hands and knees while the sentinel was

looking in the opposite direction, lying flat upon the masonry whenever

the man turned towards him. At the southeast corner was a half-ruined

turret. It was upheld, to some extent, by a thick growth of ivy;

but great masses of crumbling stone had fallen inward and lay in the

courtyard, heaped against the wall. From this turret he was to climb

down by the ivy and the heaps of stone into the courtyard; and, softly

opening the unlocked gate, to make his way along the passage to a

subterranean tunnel communicating with it. Centuries ago this tunnel

had formed a secret corridor between the fortress and a tower on the

neighbouring hill; now it was quite disused and blocked in many places

by the falling in of the rocks. No one but the smugglers knew of a

certain carefully-hidden hole in the mountain-side which they had

bored through to the tunnel; no one suspected that stores of forbidden

merchandise were often kept, for weeks together, under the very ramparts

of the fortress itself, while the customs-officers were vainly searching

the houses of the sullen, wrathful-eyed mountaineers. At this hole the

Gadfly was to creep out on to the hillside, and make his way in the dark

to a lonely spot where Martini and a smuggler would be waiting for him.

The one great difficulty was that opportunities to unlock the gate after

the evening patrol did not occur every night, and the descent from the

window could not be made in very clear weather without too great a risk

of being observed by the sentinel. Now that there was really a fair

chance of success, it must not be missed.

He sat down and began to eat some of the bread. It at least did not

disgust him like the rest of the prison food, and he must eat something

to keep up his strength.

He had better lie down a bit, too, and try to get a little sleep; it

would not be safe to begin filing before ten o'clock, and he would have

a hard night's work.

And so, after all, the Padre had been thinking of letting him escape!

That was like the Padre. But he, for his part, would never consent to

it. Anything rather than that! If he escaped, it should be his own doing

and that of his comrades; he would have no favours from priests.

How hot it was! Surely it must be going to thunder; the air was so close

and oppressive. He moved restlessly on the pallet and put the bandaged

right hand behind his head for a pillow; then drew it away again. How it

burned and throbbed! And all the old wounds were beginning to ache, with

a dull, faint persistence. What was the matter with them? Oh, absurd!

It was only the thundery weather. He would go to sleep and get a little

rest before beginning his filing.

Eight bars, and all so thick and strong! How many more were there

left to file? Surely not many. He must have been filing for

hours,--interminable hours--yes, of course, that was what made his arm

ache---- And how it ached; right through to the very bone! But it could

hardly be the filing that made his side ache so; and the throbbing,

burning pain in the lame leg--was that from filing?

He started up. No, he had not been asleep; he had been dreaming with

open eyes--dreaming of filing, and it was all still to do. There stood

the window-bars, untouched, strong and firm as ever. And there was ten

striking from the clock-tower in the distance. He must get to work.

He looked through the spy-hole, and, seeing that no one was watching,

took one of the files from his breast.

*****

No, there was nothing the matter with him--nothing! It was all

imagination. The pain in his side was indigestion, or a chill, or some

such thing; not much wonder, after three weeks of this insufferable

prison food and air. As for the aching and throbbing all over, it was

partly nervous trouble and partly want of exercise. Yes, that was it, no

doubt; want of exercise. How absurd not to have thought of that before!

He would sit down a little bit, though, and let it pass before he got to

work. It would be sure to go over in a minute or two.

To sit still was worse than all. When he sat still he was at its mercy,

and his face grew gray with fear. No, he must get up and set to work,

and shake it off. It should depend upon his will to feel or not to feel;

and he would not feel, he would force it back.

He stood up again and spoke to himself, aloud and distinctly: