“I am not ill; I have no time to be ill. I have those bars to file, and

I am not going to be ill.”

Then he began to file.

A quarter-past ten--half-past ten--a quarter to eleven---- He filed and

filed, and every grating scrape of the iron was as though someone were

filing on his body and brain. “I wonder which will be filed through

first,” he said to himself with a little laugh; “I or the bars?” And he

set his teeth and went on filing.

Half-past eleven. He was still filing, though the hand was stiff and

swollen and would hardly grasp the tool. No, he dared not stop to rest;

if he once put the horrible thing down he should never have the courage

to begin again.

The sentinel moved outside the door, and the butt end of his carbine

scratched against the lintel. The Gadfly stopped and looked round, the

file still in his lifted hand. Was he discovered?

A little round pellet had been shot through the spy-hole and was lying

on the floor. He laid down the file and stooped to pick up the round

thing. It was a bit of rolled paper.

*****

It was a long way to go down and down, with the black waves rushing

about him--how they roared----!

Ah, yes! He was only stooping down to pick up the paper. He was a bit

giddy; many people are when they stoop. There was nothing the matter

with him--nothing.

He picked it up, carried it to the light, and unfolded it steadily.

“Come to-night, whatever happens; the Cricket will be transferred

to-morrow to another service. This is our only chance.”

He destroyed the paper as he had done the former one, picked up his file

again, and went back to work, dogged and mute and desperate.

One o'clock. He had been working for three hours now, and six of the

eight bars were filed. Two more, and then, to climb------

He began to recall the former occasions when these terrible attacks had

come on. The last had been the one at New Year; and he shuddered as

he remembered those five nights. But that time it had not come on so

suddenly; he had never known it so sudden.

He dropped the file and flung out both hands blindly, praying, in his

utter desperation, for the first time since he had been an atheist;

praying to anything--to nothing--to everything.

“Not to-night! Oh, let me be ill to-morrow! I will bear anything

to-morrow--only not to-night!”

He stood still for a moment, with both hands up to his temples; then he

took up the file once more, and once more went back to his work.

Half-past one. He had begun on the last bar. His shirt-sleeve was bitten

to rags; there was blood on his lips and a red mist before his eyes, and

the sweat poured from his forehead as he filed, and filed, and filed----

*****

After sunrise Montanelli fell asleep. He was utterly worn out with the

restless misery of the night and slept for a little while quietly; then

he began to dream.

At first he dreamed vaguely, confusedly; broken fragments of images and

fancies followed each other, fleeting and incoherent, but all filled

with the same dim sense of struggle and pain, the same shadow of

indefinable dread. Presently he began to dream of sleeplessness; the

old, frightful, familiar dream that had been a terror to him for years.

And even as he dreamed he recognized that he had been through it all

before.

He was wandering about in a great empty place, trying to find some quiet

spot where he could lie down and sleep. Everywhere there were people,

walking up and down; talking, laughing, shouting; praying, ringing

bells, and clashing metal instruments together. Sometimes he would get

away to a little distance from the noise, and would lie down, now on the

grass, now on a wooden bench, now on some slab of stone. He would shut

his eyes and cover them with both hands to keep out the light; and would

say to himself: “Now I will get to sleep.” Then the crowds would come

sweeping up to him, shouting, yelling, calling him by name, begging him:

“Wake up! Wake up, quick; we want you!”

Again: he was in a great palace, full of gorgeous rooms, with beds and

couches and low soft lounges. It was night, and he said to himself:

“Here, at last, I shall find a quiet place to sleep.” But when he chose

a dark room and lay down, someone came in with a lamp, flashing the

merciless light into his eyes, and said: “Get up; you are wanted.”

He rose and wandered on, staggering and stumbling like a creature

wounded to death; and heard the clocks strike one, and knew that half

the night was gone already--the precious night that was so short. Two,

three, four, five--by six o'clock the whole town would wake up and there

would be no more silence.

He went into another room and would have lain down on a bed, but someone

started up from the pillows, crying out: “This bed is mine!” and he

shrank away with despair in his heart.

Hour after hour struck, and still he wandered on and on, from room to

room, from house to house, from corridor to corridor. The horrible gray

dawn was creeping near and nearer; the clocks were striking five;

the night was gone and he had found no rest. Oh, misery! Another

day--another day!

He was in a long, subterranean corridor, a low, vaulted passage

that seemed to have no end. It was lighted with glaring lamps and

chandeliers; and through its grated roof came the sounds of dancing

and laughter and merry music. Up there, in the world of the live people

overhead, there was some festival, no doubt. Oh, for a place to hide

and sleep; some little place, were it even a grave! And as he spoke

he stumbled over an open grave. An open grave, smelling of death and

rottenness---- Ah, what matter, so he could but sleep!

“This grave is mine!” It was Gladys; and she raised her head and stared

at him over the rotting shroud. Then he knelt down and stretched out his

arms to her.

“Gladys! Gladys! Have a little pity on me; let me creep into this narrow

space and sleep. I do not ask you for your love; I will not touch you,

will not speak to you; only let me lie down beside you and sleep! Oh,

love, it is so long since I have slept! I cannot bear another day. The

light glares in upon my soul; the noise is beating my brain to dust.

Gladys, let me come in here and sleep!”

And he would have drawn her shroud across his eyes. But she shrank away,

screaming:

“It is sacrilege; you are a priest!”

On and on he wandered, and came out upon the sea-shore, on the barren

rocks where the fierce light struck down, and the water moaned its low,

perpetual wail of unrest. “Ah!” he said; “the sea will be more merciful;

it, too, is wearied unto death and cannot sleep.”

Then Arthur rose up from the deep, and cried aloud:

“This sea is mine!”

*****

“Your Eminence! Your Eminence!”

Montanelli awoke with a start. His servant was knocking at the door. He

rose mechanically and opened it, and the man saw how wild and scared he

looked.

“Your Eminence--are you ill?”

He drew both hands across his forehead.

“No; I was asleep, and you startled me.”

“I am very sorry; I thought I had heard you moving early this morning,

and I supposed------”

“Is it late now?”

“It is nine o'clock, and the Governor has called. He says he has

very important business, and knowing Your Eminence to be an early

riser------”

“Is he downstairs? I will come presently.”

He dressed and went downstairs.

“I am afraid this is an unceremonious way to call upon Your Eminence,”

the Governor began.

“I hope there is nothing the matter?”

“There is very much the matter. Rivarez has all but succeeded in

escaping.”

“Well, so long as he has not quite succeeded there is no harm done. How

was it?”

“He was found in the courtyard, right against the little iron gate.

When the patrol came in to inspect the courtyard at three o'clock this

morning one of the men stumbled over something on the ground; and when

they brought the light up they found Rivarez lying across the path

unconscious. They raised an alarm at once and called me up; and when I

went to examine his cell I found all the window-bars filed through and

a rope made of torn body-linen hanging from one of them. He had let

himself down and climbed along the wall. The iron gate, which leads into

the subterranean tunnels, was found to be unlocked. That looks as if the

guards had been suborned.”

“But how did he come to be lying across the path? Did he fall from the

rampart and hurt himself?”

“That is what I thought at first. Your Eminence; but the prison surgeon

can't find any trace of a fall. The soldier who was on duty yesterday

says that Rivarez looked very ill last night when he brought in the

supper, and did not eat anything. But that must be nonsense; a sick man

couldn't file those bars through and climb along that roof. It's not in

reason.”

“Does he give any account of himself?”

“He is unconscious, Your Eminence.”

“Still?”

“He just half comes to himself from time to time and moans, and then

goes off again.”

“That is very strange. What does the doctor think?”

“He doesn't know what to think. There is no trace of heart-disease that

he can find to account for the thing; but whatever is the matter with

him, it is something that must have come on suddenly, just when he had

nearly managed to escape. For my part, I believe he was struck down by

the direct intervention of a merciful Providence.”

Montanelli frowned slightly.

“What are you going to do with him?” he asked.

“That is a question I shall settle in a very few days. In the meantime I

have had a good lesson. That is what comes of taking off the irons--with

all due respect to Your Eminence.”

“I hope,” Montanelli interrupted, “that you will at least not replace

the fetters while he is ill. A man in the condition you describe can

hardly make any more attempts to escape.”

“I shall take good care he doesn't,” the Governor muttered to himself as

he went out. “His Eminence can go hang with his sentimental scruples for

all I care. Rivarez is chained pretty tight now, and is going to stop

so, ill or not.”

*****

“But how can it have happened? To faint away at the last moment, when

everything was ready; when he was at the very gate! It's like some

hideous joke.”

“I tell you,” Martini answered, “the only thing I can think of is that

one of these attacks must have come on, and that he must have struggled

against it as long as his strength lasted and have fainted from sheer

exhaustion when he got down into the courtyard.”

Marcone knocked the ashes savagely from his pipe.

“Well, anyhow, that's the end of it; we can't do anything for him now,

poor fellow.”

“Poor fellow!” Martini echoed, under his breath. He was beginning to

realise that to him, too, the world would look empty and dismal without

the Gadfly.

“What does she think?” the smuggler asked, glancing towards the other

end of the room, where Gemma sat alone, her hands lying idly in her lap,

her eyes looking straight before her into blank nothingness.

“I have not asked her; she has not spoken since I brought her the news.

We had best not disturb her just yet.”

She did not appear to be conscious of their presence, but they both

spoke with lowered voices, as though they were looking at a corpse.

After a dreary little pause, Marcone rose and put away his pipe.

“I will come back this evening,” he said; but Martini stopped him with a

gesture.

“Don't go yet; I want to speak to you.” He dropped his voice still lower

and continued in almost a whisper:

“Do you believe there is really no hope?”

“I don't see what hope there can be now. We can't attempt it again. Even

if he were well enough to manage his part of the thing, we couldn't

do our share. The sentinels are all being changed, on suspicion. The

Cricket won't get another chance, you may be sure.”

“Don't you think,” Martini asked suddenly; “that, when he recovers,

something might be done by calling off the sentinels?”

“Calling off the sentinels? What do you mean?”

“Well, it has occurred to me that if I were to get in the Governor's way

when the procession passes close by the fortress on Corpus Domini day

and fire in his face, all the sentinels would come rushing to get hold

of me, and some of you fellows could perhaps help Rivarez out in the

confusion. It really hardly amounts to a plan; it only came into my

head.”

“I doubt whether it could be managed,” Marcone answered with a very

grave face. “Certainly it would want a lot of thinking out for anything

to come of it. But”--he stopped and looked at Martini--“if it should be

possible--would you do it?”

Martini was a reserved man at ordinary times; but this was not an

ordinary time. He looked straight into the smuggler's face.

“Would I do it?” he repeated. “Look at her!”

There was no need for further explanations; in saying that he had said

all. Marcone turned and looked across the room.

She had not moved since their conversation began. There was no doubt, no

fear, even no grief in her face; there was nothing in it but the shadow

of death. The smuggler's eyes filled with tears as he looked at her.

“Make haste, Michele!” he said, throwing open the verandah door and

looking out. “Aren't you nearly done, you two? There are a hundred and

fifty things to do!”

Michele, followed by Gino, came in from the verandah.

“I am ready now,” he said. “I only want to ask the signora----”

He was moving towards her when Martini caught him by the arm.

“Don't disturb her; she's better alone.”

“Let her be!” Marcone added. “We shan't do any good by meddling. God

knows, it's hard enough on all of us; but it's worse for her, poor

soul!”

CHAPTER V.

FOR a week the Gadfly lay in a fearful state. The attack was a violent

one, and the Governor, rendered brutal by fear and perplexity, had not

only chained him hand and foot, but had insisted on his being bound to

his pallet with leather straps, drawn so tight that he could not move

without their cutting into the flesh. He endured everything with his

dogged, bitter stoicism till the end of the sixth day. Then his pride

broke down, and he piteously entreated the prison doctor for a dose

of opium. The doctor was quite willing to give it; but the Governor,

hearing of the request, sharply forbade “any such foolery.”

“How do you know what he wants it for?” he said. “It's just as likely as

not that he's shamming all the time and wants to drug the sentinel, or

some such devilry. Rivarez is cunning enough for anything.”

“My giving him a dose would hardly help him to drug the sentinel,”

replied the doctor, unable to suppress a smile. “And as for

shamming--there's not much fear of that. He is as likely as not to die.”

“Anyway, I won't have it given. If a man wants to be tenderly treated,

he should behave accordingly. He has thoroughly deserved a little sharp

discipline. Perhaps it will be a lesson to him not to play tricks with

the window-bars again.”

“The law does not admit of torture, though,” the doctor ventured to say;

“and this is coming perilously near it.”

“The law says nothing about opium, I think,” said the Governor

snappishly.

“It is for you to decide, of course, colonel; but I hope you will let

the straps be taken off at any rate. They are a needless aggravation of

his misery. There's no fear of his escaping now. He couldn't stand if

you let him go free.”

“My good sir, a doctor may make a mistake like other people, I suppose.

I have got him safe strapped now, and he's going to stop so.”

“At least, then, have the straps a little loosened. It is downright

barbarity to keep them drawn so tight.”

“They will stop exactly as they are; and I will thank you, sir, not to

talk about barbarity to me. If I do a thing, I have a reason for it.”

So the seventh night passed without any relief, and the soldier

stationed on guard at the cell door crossed himself, shuddering, over

and over again, as he listened all night long to heart-rending moans.

The Gadfly's endurance was failing him at last.

At six in the morning the sentinel, just before going off duty, unlocked

the door softly and entered the cell. He knew that he was committing

a serious breach of discipline, but could not bear to go away without

offering the consolation of a friendly word.

He found the Gadfly lying still, with closed eyes and parted lips. He

stood silent for a moment; then stooped down and asked:

“Can I do anything for you, sir? I have only a minute.”

The Gadfly opened his eyes. “Let me alone!” he moaned. “Let me

alone----”

He was asleep almost before the soldier had slipped back to his post.

Ten days afterwards the Governor called again at the palace, but found

that the Cardinal had gone to visit a sick man at Pieve d'Ottavo, and

was not expected home till the afternoon. That evening, just as he was

sitting down to dinner, his servant came in to announce:

“His Eminence would like to speak to you.”

The Governor, with a hasty glance into the looking glass, to make sure

that his uniform was in order, put on his most dignified air, and went

into the reception room, where Montanelli was sitting, beating his hand

gently on the arm of the chair and looking out of the window with an

anxious line between his brows.

“I heard that you called to-day,” he said, cutting short the Governor's

polite speeches with a slightly imperious manner which he never adopted

in speaking to the country folk. “It was probably on the business about

which I have been wishing to speak to you.”

“It was about Rivarez, Your Eminence.”

“So I supposed. I have been thinking the matter over these last few

days. But before we go into that, I should like to hear whether you have

anything new to tell me.”

The Governor pulled his moustaches with an embarrassed air.

“The fact is, I came to know whether Your Eminence had anything to tell

me. If you still have an objection to the course I proposed taking, I

should be sincerely glad of your advice in the matter; for, honestly, I

don't know what to do.”

“Is there any new difficulty?”

“Only that next Thursday is the 3d of June,--Corpus Domini,--and somehow

or other the matter must be settled before then.”

“Thursday is Corpus Domini, certainly; but why must it be settled

especially before then?”

“I am exceedingly sorry, Your Eminence, if I seem to oppose you, but I

can't undertake to be responsible for the peace of the town if Rivarez

is not got rid of before then. All the roughest set in the hills

collects here for that day, as Your Eminence knows, and it is more than

probable that they may attempt to break open the fortress gates and take

him out. They won't succeed; I'll take care of that, if I have to sweep

them from the gates with powder and shot. But we are very likely to have

something of that kind before the day is over. Here in the Romagna there

is bad blood in the people, and when once they get out their knives----”

“I think with a little care we can prevent matters going as far as

knives. I have always found the people of this district easy to get on

with, if they are reasonably treated. Of course, if you once begin to

threaten or coerce a Romagnol he becomes unmanageable. But have you any

reason for supposing a new rescue scheme is intended?”

“I heard, both this morning and yesterday, from confidential agents of

mine, that a great many rumours are circulating all over the district

and that the people are evidently up to some mischief or other. But

one can't find out the details; if one could it would be easier to take

precautions. And for my part, after the fright we had the other day, I

prefer to be on the safe side. With such a cunning fox as Rivarez one

can't be too careful.”

“The last I heard about Rivarez was that he was too ill to move or

speak. Is he recovering, then?”

“He seems much better now, Your Eminence. He certainly has been very

ill--unless he was shamming all the time.”

“Have you any reason for supposing that likely?”

“Well, the doctor seems convinced that it was all genuine; but it's a

very mysterious kind of illness. Any way, he is recovering, and more

intractable than ever.”

“What has he done now?”

“There's not much he can do, fortunately,” the Governor answered,

smiling as he remembered the straps. “But his behaviour is something

indescribable. Yesterday morning I went into the cell to ask him a

few questions; he is not well enough yet to come to me for

interrogation--and indeed, I thought it best not to run any risk of

the people seeing him until he recovers. Such absurd stories always get

about at once.”

“So you went there to interrogate him?”

“Yes, Your Eminence. I hoped he would be more amenable to reason now.”

Montanelli looked him over deliberately, almost as if he had been

inspecting a new and disagreeable animal. Fortunately, however, the

Governor was fingering his sword-belt, and did not see the look. He went

on placidly:

“I have not subjected him to any particular severities, but I have been

obliged to be rather strict with him--especially as it is a military

prison--and I thought that perhaps a little indulgence might have a

good effect. I offered to relax the discipline considerably if he would

behave in a reasonable manner; and how does Your Eminence suppose he

answered me? He lay looking at me a minute, like a wolf in a cage, and

then said quite softly: 'Colonel, I can't get up and strangle you;

but my teeth are pretty good; you had better take your throat a little

further off.' He is as savage as a wild-cat.”

“I am not surprised to hear it,” Montanelli answered quietly. “But I

came to ask you a question. Do you honestly believe that the presence of

Rivarez in the prison here constitutes a serious danger to the peace of

the district?”

“Most certainly I do, Your Eminence.”

“You think that, to prevent the risk of bloodshed, it is absolutely

necessary that he should somehow be got rid of before Corpus Domini?”

“I can only repeat that if he is here on Thursday, I do not expect the

festival to pass over without a fight, and I think it likely to be a

serious one.”

“And you think that if he were not here there would be no such danger?”

“In that case, there would either be no disturbance at all, or at most

a little shouting and stone-throwing. If Your Eminence can find some way

of getting rid of him, I will undertake that the peace shall be kept.

Otherwise, I expect most serious trouble. I am convinced that a new

rescue plot is on hand, and Thursday is the day when we may expect the

attempt. Now, if on that very morning they suddenly find that he is not

in the fortress at all, their plan fails of itself, and they have no

occasion to begin fighting. But if we have to repulse them, and the

daggers once get drawn among such throngs of people, we are likely to

have the place burnt down before nightfall.”

“Then why do you not send him in to Ravenna?”

“Heaven knows, Your Eminence, I should be thankful to do it! But how

am I to prevent the people rescuing him on the way? I have not soldiers

enough to resist an armed attack; and all these mountaineers have got

knives or flint-locks or some such thing.”

“You still persist, then, in wishing for a court-martial, and in asking

my consent to it?”

“Pardon me, Your Eminence; I ask you only one thing--to help me prevent

riots and bloodshed. I am quite willing to admit that the military

commissions, such as that of Colonel Freddi, were sometimes

unnecessarily severe, and irritated instead of subduing the people; but

I think that in this case a court-martial would be a wise measure and

in the long run a merciful one. It would prevent a riot, which in itself

would be a terrible disaster, and which very likely might cause a return

of the military commissions His Holiness has abolished.”

The Governor finished his little speech with much solemnity, and waited

for the Cardinal's answer. It was a long time coming; and when it came

was startlingly unexpected.

“Colonel Ferrari, do you believe in God?”

“Your Eminence!” the colonel gasped in a voice full of

exclamation-stops.

“Do you believe in God?” Montanelli repeated, rising and looking down at

him with steady, searching eyes. The colonel rose too.

“Your Eminence, I am a Christian man, and have never yet been refused

absolution.”

Montanelli lifted the cross from his breast.

“Then swear on the cross of the Redeemer Who died for you, that you have

been speaking the truth to me.”

The colonel stood still and gazed at it blankly. He could not quite make

up his mind which was mad, he or the Cardinal.

“You have asked me,” Montanelli went on, “to give my consent to a man's

death. Kiss the cross, if you dare, and tell me that you believe there

is no other way to prevent greater bloodshed. And remember that if you

tell me a lie you are imperilling your immortal soul.”

After a little pause, the Governor bent down and put the cross to his

lips.

“I believe it,” he said.

Montanelli turned slowly away.

“I will give you a definite answer to-morrow. But first I must see

Rivarez and speak to him alone.”

“Your Eminence--if I might suggest--I am sure you will regret it. For

that matter, he sent me a message yesterday, by the guard, asking to see

Your Eminence; but I took no notice of it, because----”

“Took no notice!” Montanelli repeated. “A man in such circumstances sent

you a message, and you took no notice of it?”

“I am sorry if Your Eminence is displeased. I did not wish to trouble

you over a mere impertinence like that; I know Rivarez well enough by

now to feel sure that he only wanted to insult you. And, indeed, if

you will allow me to say so, it would be most imprudent to go near him

alone; he is really dangerous--so much so, in fact, that I have thought

it necessary to use some physical restraint of a mild kind------”

“And you really think there is much danger to be apprehended from one

sick and unarmed man, who is under physical restraint of a mild kind?”

Montanelli spoke quite gently, but the colonel felt the sting of his

quiet contempt, and flushed under it resentfully.

“Your Eminence will do as you think best,” he said in his stiffest

manner. “I only wished to spare you the pain of hearing this man's awful

blasphemies.”

“Which do you think the more grievous misfortune for a Christian man;

to hear a blasphemous word uttered, or to abandon a fellow-creature in

extremity?”

The Governor stood erect and stiff, with his official face, like a face

of wood. He was deeply offended at Montanelli's treatment of him, and

showed it by unusual ceremoniousness.

“At what time does Your Eminence wish to visit the prisoner?” he asked.

“I will go to him at once.”

“As Your Eminence pleases. If you will kindly wait a few moments, I will

send someone to prepare him.”

The Governor had come down from his official pedestal in a great hurry.

He did not want Montanelli to see the straps.

“Thank you; I would rather see him as he is, without preparation. I will

go straight up to the fortress. Good-evening, colonel; you may expect my

answer to-morrow morning.”

CHAPTER VI.

HEARING the cell-door unlocked, the Gadfly turned away his eyes with

languid indifference. He supposed that it was only the Governor, coming

to worry him with another interrogation. Several soldiers mounted

the narrow stair, their carbines clanking against the wall; then a

deferential voice said: “It is rather steep here, Your Eminence.”

He started convulsively, and then shrank down, catching his breath under

the stinging pressure of the straps.

Montanelli came in with the sergeant and three guards.

“If Your Eminence will kindly wait a moment,” the sergeant began

nervously, “one of my men will bring a chair. He has just gone to fetch

it. Your Eminence will excuse us--if we had been expecting you, we

should have been prepared.”

“There is no need for any preparation. Will you kindly leave us alone,

sergeant; and wait at the foot of the stairs with your men?”

“Yes, Your Eminence. Here is the chair; shall I put it beside him?”

The Gadfly was lying with closed eyes; but he felt that Montanelli was

looking at him.

“I think he is asleep, Your Eminence,” the sergeant was beginning, but

the Gadfly opened his eyes.

“No,” he said.

As the soldiers were leaving the cell they were stopped by a sudden

exclamation from Montanelli; and, turning back, saw that he was bending

down to examine the straps.

“Who has been doing this?” he asked. The sergeant fumbled with his cap.

“It was by the Governor's express orders, Your Eminence.”

“I had no idea of this, Signor Rivarez,” Montanelli said in a voice of

great distress.

“I told Your Eminence,” the Gadfly answered, with his hard smile, “that

I n-n-never expected to be patted on the head.”

“Sergeant, how long has this been going on?”

“Since he tried to escape, Your Eminence.”

“That is, nearly a week? Bring a knife and cut these off at once.”

“May it please Your Eminence, the doctor wanted to take them off, but

Colonel Ferrari wouldn't allow it.”

“Bring a knife at once.” Montanelli had not raised his voice, but the

soldiers could see that he was white with anger. The sergeant took a

clasp-knife from his pocket, and bent down to cut the arm-strap. He

was not a skilful-fingered man; and he jerked the strap tighter with an

awkward movement, so that the Gadfly winced and bit his lip in spite of

all his self-control. Montanelli came forward at once.

“You don't know how to do it; give me the knife.”

“Ah-h-h!” The Gadfly stretched out his arms with a long, rapturous sigh

as the strap fell off. The next instant Montanelli had cut the other

one, which bound his ankles.

“Take off the irons, too, sergeant; and then come here. I want to speak

to you.”

He stood by the window, looking on, till the sergeant threw down the

fetters and approached him.

“Now,” he said, “tell me everything that has been happening.”

The sergeant, nothing loath, related all that he knew of the

Gadfly's illness, of the “disciplinary measures,” and of the doctor's

unsuccessful attempt to interfere.

“But I think, Your Eminence,” he added, “that the colonel wanted the

straps kept on as a means of getting evidence.”

“Evidence?”

“Yes, Your Eminence; the day before yesterday I heard him offer to have

them taken off if he”--with a glance at the Gadfly--“would answer a

question he had asked.”

Montanelli clenched his hand on the window-sill, and the soldiers

glanced at one another: they had never seen the gentle Cardinal angry

before. As for the Gadfly, he had forgotten their existence; he had

forgotten everything except the physical sensation of freedom. He was

cramped in every limb; and now stretched, and turned, and twisted about

in a positive ecstasy of relief.

“You can go now, sergeant,” the Cardinal said. “You need not feel

anxious about having committed a breach of discipline; it was your duty

to tell me when I asked you. See that no one disturbs us. I will come

out when I am ready.”

When the door had closed behind the soldiers, he leaned on the

window-sill and looked for a while at the sinking sun, so as to leave

the Gadfly a little more breathing time.

“I have heard,” he said presently, leaving the window, and sitting down

beside the pallet, “that you wish to speak to me alone. If you feel well

enough to tell me what you wanted to say, I am at your service.”

He spoke very coldly, with a stiff, imperious manner that was not

natural to him. Until the straps were off, the Gadfly was to him simply

a grievously wronged and tortured human being; but now he recalled their

last interview, and the deadly insult with which it had closed. The

Gadfly looked up, resting his head lazily on one arm. He possessed

the gift of slipping into graceful attitudes; and when his face was in

shadow no one would have guessed through what deep waters he had been

passing. But, as he looked up, the clear evening light showed how

haggard and colourless he was, and how plainly the trace of the last few

days was stamped on him. Montanelli's anger died away.

“I am afraid you have been terribly ill,” he said. “I am sincerely sorry

that I did not know of all this. I would have put a stop to it before.”

The Gadfly shrugged his shoulders. “All's fair in war,” he said coolly.

“Your Eminence objects to straps theoretically, from the Christian

standpoint; but it is hardly fair to expect the colonel to see that.

He, no doubt, would prefer not to try them on his own skin--which is

j-j-just my case. But that is a matter of p-p-personal convenience. At

this moment I am undermost--w-w-what would you have? It is very kind of

Your Eminence, though, to call here; but perhaps that was done from the

C-c-christian standpoint, too. Visiting prisoners--ah, yes! I forgot.

'Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the l-least of these'--it's not very

complimentary, but one of the least is duly grateful.”

“Signor Rivarez,” the Cardinal interrupted, “I have come here on your

account--not on my own. If you had not been 'undermost,' as you call it,

I should never have spoken to you again after what you said to me last

week; but you have the double privilege of a prisoner and a sick man,

and I could not refuse to come. Have you anything to say to me, now I am

here; or have you sent for me merely to amuse yourself by insulting an

old man?”

There was no answer. The Gadfly had turned away, and was lying with one

hand across his eyes.

“I am--very sorry to trouble you,” he said at last, huskily; “but could

I have a little water?”

There was a jug of water standing by the window, and Montanelli rose

and fetched it. As he slipped his arm round the Gadfly to lift him, he

suddenly felt the damp, cold fingers close over his wrist like a vice.

“Give me your hand--quick--just a moment,” the Gadfly whispered. “Oh,

what difference does it make to you? Only one minute!”

He sank down, hiding his face on Montanelli's arm, and quivering from

head to foot.

“Drink a little water,” Montanelli said after a moment. The Gadfly

obeyed silently; then lay back on the pallet with closed eyes. He

himself could have given no explanation of what had happened to him when

Montanelli's hand had touched his cheek; he only knew that in all his

life there had been nothing more terrible.

Montanelli drew his chair closer to the pallet and sat down. The Gadfly

was lying quite motionless, like a corpse, and his face was livid

and drawn. After a long silence, he opened his eyes, and fixed their

haunting, spectral gaze on the Cardinal.

“Thank you,” he said. “I--am sorry. I think--you asked me something?”

“You are not fit to talk. If there is anything you want to say to me, I

will try to come again to-morrow.”

“Please don't go, Your Eminence--indeed, there is nothing the matter

with me. I--I have been a little upset these few days; it was half of it

malingering, though--the colonel will tell you so if you ask him.”

“I prefer to form my own conclusions,” Montanelli answered quietly.

“S-so does the colonel. And occasionally, do you know, they are rather

witty. You w-w-wouldn't think it to look at him; but s-s-sometimes he

gets hold of an or-r-riginal idea. On Friday night, for instance--I

think it was Friday, but I got a l-little mixed as to time towards

the end--anyhow, I asked for a d-dose of opium--I remember that quite

distinctly; and he came in here and said I m-might h-h-have it if I

would tell him who un-l-l-locked the gate. I remember his saying: 'If

it's real, you'll consent; if you don't, I shall look upon it as a

p-proof that you are shamming.' It n-n-never oc-c-curred to me before

how comic that is; it's one of the f-f-funniest things----”

He burst into a sudden fit of harsh, discordant laughter; then, turning

sharply on the silent Cardinal, went on, more and more hurriedly, and

stammering so that the words were hardly intelligible:

“You d-d-don't see that it's f-f-funny? Of c-course not; you r-religious

people n-n-never have any s-sense of humour--you t-take everything

t-t-tragically. F-for instance, that night in the Cath-thedral--how

solemn you were! By the way--w-what a path-thetic figure I must

have c-cut as the pilgrim! I d-don't believe you e-even see anything

c-c-comic in the b-business you have c-come about this evening.”

Montanelli rose.

“I came to hear what you have to say; but I think you are too much

excited to say it to-night. The doctor had better give you a sedative,

and we will talk to-morrow, when you have had a night's sleep.”

“S-sleep? Oh, I shall s-sleep well enough, Your Eminence, when you

g-give your c-consent to the colonel's plan--an ounce of l-lead is a

s-splendid sedative.”

“I don't understand you,” Montanelli said, turning to him with a

startled look.

The Gadfly burst out laughing again.

“Your Eminence, Your Eminence, t-t-truth is the c-chief of the Christian

virtues! D-d-do you th-th-think I d-d-don't know how hard the Governor

has been trying to g-get your consent to a court-martial? You had

b-better by half g-give it, Your Eminence; it's only w-what all your

b-brother prelates would do in your place. 'Cosi fan tutti;' and then

you would be doing s-such a lot of good, and so l-little harm! Really,

it's n-not worth all the sleepless nights you have been spending over

it!”

“Please stop laughing a minute,” Montanelli interrupted, “and tell me

how you heard all this. Who has been talking to you about it?”

“H-hasn't the colonel e-e-ever told you I am a d-d-devil--not a man? No?

He has t-told me so often enough! Well, I am devil enough to f-find

out a little bit what p-people are thinking about. Your E-eminence is

thinking that I'm a conf-founded nuisance, and you wish s-somebody

else had to settle what's to be done with me, without disturbing your

s-sensitive conscience. That's a p-pretty fair guess, isn't it?”

“Listen to me,” the Cardinal said, sitting down again beside him, with

a very grave face. “However you found out all this, it is quite true.

Colonel Ferrari fears another rescue attempt on the part of your

friends, and wishes to forestall it in--the way you speak of. You see, I

am quite frank with you.”

“Your E-eminence was always f-f-famous for truthfulness,” the Gadfly put

in bitterly.

“You know, of course,” Montanelli went on, “that legally I have no

jurisdiction in temporal matters; I am a bishop, not a legate. But I

have a good deal of influence in this district; and the colonel will

not, I think, venture to take so extreme a course unless he can get,

at least, my tacit consent to it. Up till now I have unconditionally

opposed the scheme; and he has been trying very hard to conquer my

objection by assuring me that there is great danger of an armed attempt

on Thursday when the crowd collects for the procession--an attempt which

probably would end in bloodshed. Do you follow me?”

The Gadfly was staring absently out of the window. He looked round and

answered in a weary voice:

“Yes, I am listening.”

“Perhaps you are really not well enough to stand this conversation

to-night. Shall I come back in the morning? It is a very serious matter,

and I want your whole attention.”

“I would rather get it over now,” the Gadfly answered in the same tone.

“I follow everything you say.”

“Now, if it be true,” Montanelli went on, “that there is any real danger

of riots and bloodshed on account of you, I am taking upon myself a

tremendous responsibility in opposing the colonel; and I believe there

is at least some truth in what he says. On the other hand, I am inclined

to think that his judgment is warped, to a certain extent, by his

personal animosity against you, and that he probably exaggerates the

danger. That seems to me the more likely since I have seen this shameful

brutality.” He glanced at the straps and chains lying on the floor, and

went on:

“If I consent, I kill you; if I refuse, I run the risk of killing

innocent persons. I have considered the matter earnestly, and have

sought with all my heart for a way out of this dreadful alternative. And

now at last I have made up my mind.”

“To kill me and s-save the innocent persons, of course--the only

decision a Christian man could possibly come to. 'If thy r-right hand

offend thee,' etc. I have n-not the honour to be the right hand of Your

Eminence, and I have offended you; the c-c-conclusion is plain. Couldn't

you tell me that without so much preamble?”

The Gadfly spoke with languid indifference and contempt, like a man

weary of the whole subject.

“Well?” he added after a little pause. “Was that the decision, Your

Eminence?”

“No.”

The Gadfly shifted his position, putting both hands behind his head, and

looked at Montanelli with half-shut eyes. The Cardinal, with his head

sunk down as in deep thought, was softly beating one hand on the arm of

his chair. Ah, that old, familiar gesture!

“I have decided,” he said, raising his head at last, “to do, I suppose,

an utterly unprecedented thing. When I heard that you had asked to see

me, I resolved to come here and tell you everything, as I have done, and

to place the matter in your own hands.”

“In--my hands?”

“Signor Rivarez, I have not come to you as cardinal, or as bishop, or

as judge; I have come to you as one man to another. I do not ask you to

tell me whether you know of any such scheme as the colonel apprehends.

I understand quite well that, if you do, it is your secret and you will

not tell it. But I do ask you to put yourself in my place. I am old,

and, no doubt, have not much longer to live. I would go down to my grave

without blood on my hands.”

“Is there none on them as yet, Your Eminence?”

Montanelli grew a shade paler, but went on quietly:

“All my life I have opposed repressive measures and cruelty wherever I

have met with them. I have always disapproved of capital punishment in

all its forms; I have protested earnestly and repeatedly against the

military commissions in the last reign, and have been out of favour

on account of doing so. Up till now such influence and power as I have

possessed have always been employed on the side of mercy. I ask you to

believe me, at least, that I am speaking the truth. Now, I am placed in

this dilemma. By refusing, I am exposing the town to the danger of

riots and all their consequences; and this to save the life of a man

who blasphemes against my religion, who has slandered and wronged and

insulted me personally (though that is comparatively a trifle), and who,

as I firmly believe, will put that life to a bad use when it is given to

him. But--it is to save a man's life.”

He paused a moment, and went on again:

“Signor Rivarez, everything that I know of your career seems to me bad

and mischievous; and I have long believed you to be reckless and violent

and unscrupulous. To some extent I hold that opinion of you still. But

during this last fortnight you have shown me that you are a brave man

and that you can be faithful to your friends. You have made the soldiers

love and admire you, too; and not every man could have done that.

I think that perhaps I have misjudged you, and that there is in you

something better than what you show outside. To that better self in

you I appeal, and solemnly entreat you, on your conscience, to tell me

truthfully--in my place, what would you do?”

A long silence followed; then the Gadfly looked up.

“At least, I would decide my own actions for myself, and take the

consequences of them. I would not come sneaking to other people, in the

cowardly Christian way, asking them to solve my problems for me!”

The onslaught was so sudden, and its extraordinary vehemence and passion

were in such startling contrast to the languid affectation of a moment

before, that it was as though he had thrown off a mask.

“We atheists,” he went on fiercely, “understand that if a man has a

thing to bear, he must bear it as best he can; and if he sinks under

it--why, so much the worse for him. But a Christian comes whining to his

God, or his saints; or, if they won't help him, to his enemies--he can

always find a back to shift his burdens on to. Isn't there a rule to go

by in your Bible, or your Missal, or any of your canting theology books,

that you must come to me to tell you what to do? Heavens and earth, man!

Haven't I enough as it is, without your laying your responsibilities on

my shoulders? Go back to your Jesus; he exacted the uttermost farthing,

and you'd better do the same. After all, you'll only be killing an

atheist--a man who boggles over 'shibboleth'; and that's no great crime,

surely!”

He broke off, panting for breath, and then burst out again:

“And YOU to talk of cruelty! Why, that p-p-pudding-headed ass couldn't

hurt me as much as you do if he tried for a year; he hasn't got the

brains. All he can think of is to pull a strap tight, and when he can't

get it any tighter he's at the end of his resources. Any fool can

do that! But you---- 'Sign your own death sentence, please; I'm too

tender-hearted to do it myself.' Oh! it would take a Christian to hit on

that--a gentle, compassionate Christian, that turns pale at the sight of

a strap pulled too tight! I might have known when you came in, like an

angel of mercy--so shocked at the colonel's 'barbarity'--that the real

thing was going to begin! Why do you look at me that way? Consent, man,

of course, and go home to your dinner; the thing's not worth all this

fuss. Tell your colonel he can have me shot, or hanged, or whatever

comes handiest--roasted alive, if it's any amusement to him--and be done

with it!”

The Gadfly was hardly recognizable; he was beside himself with rage

and desperation, panting and quivering, his eyes glittering with green

reflections like the eyes of an angry cat.

Montanelli had risen, and was looking down at him silently. He did not

understand the drift of the frenzied reproaches, but he understood out

of what extremity they were uttered; and, understanding that, forgave

all past insults.

“Hush!” he said. “I did not want to hurt you so. Indeed, I never meant

to shift my burden on to you, who have too much already. I have never

consciously done that to any living creature----”

“It's a lie!” the Gadfly cried out with blazing eyes. “And the

bishopric?”

“The--bishopric?”

“Ah! you've forgotten that? It's so easy to forget! 'If you wish it,

Arthur, I will say I cannot go. I was to decide your life for you--I, at

nineteen! If it weren't so hideous, it would be funny.”

“Stop!” Montanelli put up both hands to his head with a desperate cry.

He let them fall again, and walked slowly away to the window. There

he sat down on the sill, resting one arm on the bars, and pressing his

forehead against it. The Gadfly lay and watched him, trembling.

Presently Montanelli rose and came back, with lips as pale as ashes.

“I am very sorry,” he said, struggling piteously to keep up his usual

quiet manner, “but I must go home. I--am not quite well.”

He was shivering as if with ague. All the Gadfly's fury broke down.

“Padre, can't you see----”

Montanelli shrank away, and stood still.

“Only not that!” he whispered at last. “My God, anything but that! If I

am going mad----”

The Gadfly raised himself on one arm, and took the shaking hands in his.

“Padre, will you never understand that I am not really drowned?”

The hands grew suddenly cold and stiff. For a moment everything was dead

with silence, and then Montanelli knelt down and hid his face on the

Gadfly's breast.

*****

When he raised his head the sun had set, and the red glow was dying in

the west. They had forgotten time and place, and life and death; they

had forgotten, even, that they were enemies.

“Arthur,” Montanelli whispered, “are you real? Have you come back to me

from the dead?”

“From the dead----” the Gadfly repeated, shivering. He was lying with

his head on Montanelli's arm, as a sick child might lie in its mother's

embrace.

“You have come back--you have come back at last!”

The Gadfly sighed heavily. “Yes,” he said; “and you have to fight me, or

to kill me.”

“Oh, hush, carino! What is all that now? We have been like two children

lost in the dark, mistaking one another for phantoms. Now we have found

each other, and have come out into the light. My poor boy, how changed

you are--how changed you are! You look as if all the ocean of the

world's misery had passed over your head--you that used to be so full of

the joy of life! Arthur, is it really you? I have dreamed so often that

you had come back to me; and then have waked and seen the outer darkness

staring in upon an empty place. How can I know I shall not wake again

and find it all a dream? Give me something tangible--tell me how it all

happened.”

“It happened simply enough. I hid on a goods vessel, as stowaway, and

got out to South America.”

“And there?”

“There I--lived, if you like to call it so, till--oh, I have seen

something else besides theological seminaries since you used to teach me

philosophy! You say you have dreamed of me--yes, and much! You say you

have dreamed of me--yes, and I of you----”

He broke off, shuddering.

“Once,” he began again abruptly, “I was working at a mine in

Ecuador----”

“Not as a miner?”

“No, as a miner's fag--odd-jobbing with the coolies. We had a barrack to

sleep in at the pit's mouth; and one night--I had been ill, the same

as lately, and carrying stones in the blazing sun--I must have got

light-headed, for I saw you come in at the door-way. You were holding a

crucifix like that one on the wall. You were praying, and brushed past

me without turning. I cried out to you to help me--to give me poison

or a knife--something to put an end to it all before I went mad. And

you--ah------!”

He drew one hand across his eyes. Montanelli was still clasping the

other.

“I saw in your face that you had heard, but you never looked round;

you went on with your prayers. When you had finished, and kissed the

crucifix, you glanced round and whispered: 'I am very sorry for you,

Arthur; but I daren't show it; He would be angry.' And I looked at Him,

and the wooden image was laughing.

“Then, when I came to my senses, and saw the barrack and the coolies

with their leprosy, I understood. I saw that you care more to curry

favour with that devilish God of yours than to save me from any hell.

And I have remembered that. I forgot just now when you touched me;

I--have been ill, and I used to love you once. But there can be nothing

between us but war, and war, and war. What do you want to hold my hand

for? Can't you see that while you believe in your Jesus we can't be

anything but enemies?”

Montanelli bent his head and kissed the mutilated hand.

“Arthur, how can I help believing in Him? If I have kept my faith

through all these frightful years, how can I ever doubt Him any more,

now that He has given you back to me? Remember, I thought I had killed

you.”

“You have that still to do.”

“Arthur!” It was a cry of actual terror; but the Gadfly went on,

unheeding:

“Let us be honest, whatever we do, and not shilly-shally. You and I

stand on two sides of a pit, and it's hopeless trying to join hands

across it. If you have decided that you can't, or won't, give up that

thing”--he glanced again at the crucifix on the wall--“you must consent

to what the colonel----”

“Consent! My God--consent--Arthur, but I love you!”

The Gadfly's face contracted fearfully.

“Which do you love best, me or that thing?”

Montanelli slowly rose. The very soul in him withered with dread, and

he seemed to shrivel up bodily, and to grow feeble, and old, and wilted,

like a leaf that the frost has touched. He had awaked out of his dream,

and the outer darkness was staring in upon an empty place.

“Arthur, have just a little mercy on me----”

“How much had you for me when your lies drove me out to be slave to

the blacks on the sugar-plantations? You shudder at that--ah, these

tender-hearted saints! This is the man after God's own heart--the man

that repents of his sin and lives. No one dies but his son. You say you

love me,--your love has cost me dear enough! Do you think I can blot out

everything, and turn back into Arthur at a few soft words--I, that have

been dish-washer in filthy half-caste brothels and stable-boy to Creole

farmers that were worse brutes than their own cattle? I, that have

been zany in cap and bells for a strolling variety show--drudge and

Jack-of-all-trades to the matadors in the bull-fighting ring; I, that

have been slave to every black beast who cared to set his foot on my

neck; I, that have been starved and spat upon and trampled under foot;

I, that have begged for mouldy scraps and been refused because the dogs

had the first right? Oh, what is the use of all this! How can I TELL you

what you have brought on me? And now--you love me! How much do you love

me? Enough to give up your God for me? Oh, what has He done for you,

this everlasting Jesus,--what has He suffered for you, that you should

love Him more than me? Is it for the pierced hands He is so dear to you?

Look at mine! Look here, and here, and here----”

He tore open his shirt and showed the ghastly scars.

“Padre, this God of yours is an impostor, His wounds are sham wounds,

His pain is all a farce! It is I that have the right to your heart!

Padre, there is no torture you have not put me to; if you could only

know what my life has been! And yet I would not die! I have endured it

all, and have possessed my soul in patience, because I would come

back and fight this God of yours. I have held this purpose as a shield

against my heart, and it has saved me from madness, and from the second

death. And now, when I come back, I find Him still in my place--this

sham victim that was crucified for six hours, forsooth, and rose again

from the dead! Padre, I have been crucified for five years, and I, too,

have risen from the dead. What are you going to do with me? What are you

going to do with me?”

He broke down. Montanelli sat like some stone image, or like a dead man

set upright. At first, under the fiery torrent of the Gadfly's despair,

he had quivered a little, with the automatic shrinking of the flesh,

as under the lash of a whip; but now he was quite still. After a long

silence he looked up and spoke, lifelessly, patiently:

“Arthur, will you explain to me more clearly? You confuse and terrify me

so, I can't understand. What is it you demand of me?”

The Gadfly turned to him a spectral face.

“I demand nothing. Who shall compel love? You are free to choose between

us two the one who is most dear to you. If you love Him best, choose

Him.”

“I can't understand,” Montanelli repeated wearily. “What is there I can

choose? I cannot undo the past.”

“You have to choose between us. If you love me, take that cross off your

neck and come away with me. My friends are arranging another attempt,

and with your help they could manage it easily. Then, when we are safe

over the frontier, acknowledge me publicly. But if you don't love me

enough for that,--if this wooden idol is more to you than I,--then go

to the colonel and tell him you consent. And if you go, then go at once,

and spare me the misery of seeing you. I have enough without that.”

Montanelli looked up, trembling faintly. He was beginning to understand.

“I will communicate with your friends, of course. But--to go with

you--it is impossible--I am a priest.”

“And I accept no favours from priests. I will have no more compromises,

Padre; I have had enough of them, and of their consequences. You must

give up your priesthood, or you must give up me.”

“How can I give you up? Arthur, how can I give you up?”

“Then give up Him. You have to choose between us. Would you offer me a

share of your love--half for me, half for your fiend of a God? I will

not take His leavings. If you are His, you are not mine.”

“Would you have me tear my heart in two? Arthur! Arthur! Do you want to

drive me mad?”

The Gadfly struck his hand against the wall.

“You have to choose between us,” he repeated once more.

Montanelli drew from his breast a little case containing a bit of soiled

and crumpled paper.

“Look!” he said.

“I believed in you, as I believed in God. God is a thing made of clay,

that I can smash with a hammer; and you have fooled me with a lie.”

The Gadfly laughed and handed it back. “How d-d-delightfully young one

is at nineteen! To take a hammer and smash things seems so easy. It's

that now--only it's I that am under the hammer. As for you, there are

plenty of other people you can fool with lies--and they won't even find

you out.”

“As you will,” Montanelli said. “Perhaps in your place I should be as

merciless as you--God knows. I can't do what you ask, Arthur; but I will

do what I can. I will arrange your escape, and when you are safe I will

have an accident in the mountains, or take the wrong sleeping-draught by

mistake--whatever you like to choose. Will that content you? It is all

I can do. It is a great sin; but I think He will forgive me. He is more

merciful------”

The Gadfly flung out both hands with a sharp cry.

“Oh, that is too much! That is too much! What have I done that you

should think of me that way? What right have you---- As if I wanted to

be revenged on you! Can't you see that I only want to save you? Will you

never understand that I love you?”

He caught hold of Montanelli's hands and covered them with burning

kisses and tears.

“Padre, come away with us! What have you to do with this dead world of

priests and idols? They are full of the dust of bygone ages; they are

rotten; they are pestilent and foul! Come out of this plague-stricken

Church--come away with us into the light! Padre, it is we that are life

and youth; it is we that are the everlasting springtime; it is we that

are the future! Padre, the dawn is close upon us--will you miss

your part in the sunrise? Wake up, and let us forget the horrible

nightmares,--wake up, and we will begin our life again! Padre, I have

always loved you--always, even when you killed me--will you kill me

again?”

Montanelli tore his hands away. “Oh, God have mercy on me!” he cried

out. “YOU HAVE YOUR MOTHER'S EYES!”

A strange silence, long and deep and sudden, fell upon them both. In the

gray twilight they looked at each other, and their hearts stood still

with fear.

“Have you anything more to say?” Montanelli whispered. “Any--hope to

give me?”

“No. My life is of no use to me except to fight priests. I am not a man;

I am a knife. If you let me live, you sanction knives.”

Montanelli turned to the crucifix. “God! Listen to this----”

His voice died away into the empty stillness without response. Only the

mocking devil awoke again in the Gadfly.

“'C-c-call him louder; perchance he s-s-sleepeth'----”

Montanelli started up as if he had been struck. For a moment he stood

looking straight before him;--then he sat down on the edge of the

pallet, covered his face with both hands, and burst into tears. A long

shudder passed through the Gadfly, and the damp cold broke out on his

body. He knew what the tears meant.

He drew the blanket over his head that he might not hear. It was enough

that he had to die--he who was so vividly, magnificently alive. But he

could not shut out the sound; it rang in his ears, it beat in his brain,

it throbbed in all his pulses. And still Montanelli sobbed and sobbed,

and the tears dripped down between his fingers.

He left off sobbing at last, and dried his eyes with his handkerchief,

like a child that has been crying. As he stood up the handkerchief

slipped from his knee and fell to the floor.

“There is no use in talking any more,” he said. “You understand?”

“I understand,” the Gadfly answered, with dull submission. “It's not

your fault. Your God is hungry, and must be fed.”

Montanelli turned towards him. The grave that was to be dug was not more

still than they were. Silent, they looked into each other's eyes, as two

lovers, torn apart, might gaze across the barrier they cannot pass.

It was the Gadfly whose eyes sank first. He shrank down, hiding his

face; and Montanelli understood that the gesture meant “Go!” He turned,

and went out of the cell. A moment later the Gadfly started up.

“Oh, I can't bear it! Padre, come back! Come back!”

The door was shut. He looked around him slowly, with a wide, still gaze,

and understood that all was over. The Galilean had conquered.

All night long the grass waved softly in the courtyard below--the grass

that was so soon to wither, uprooted by the spade; and all night long

the Gadfly lay alone in the darkness, and sobbed.

CHAPTER VII.

THE court-martial was held on Tuesday morning. It was a very short and

simple affair; a mere formality, occupying barely twenty minutes. There

was, indeed, nothing to spend much time over; no defence was allowed,

and the only witnesses were the wounded spy and officer and a few

soldiers. The sentence was drawn up beforehand; Montanelli had sent in

the desired informal consent; and the judges (Colonel Ferrari, the local

major of dragoons, and two officers of the Swiss guards) had little to

do. The indictment was read aloud, the witnesses gave their evidence,

and the signatures were affixed to the sentence, which was then read to

the condemned man with befitting solemnity. He listened in silence; and

when asked, according to the usual form, whether he had anything to say,

merely waved the question aside with an impatient movement of his hand.

Hidden on his breast was the handkerchief which Montanelli had let fall.

It had been kissed and wept over all night, as though it were a living

thing. Now he looked wan and spiritless, and the traces of tears were

still about his eyelids; but the words: “to be shot,” did not seem to

affect him much. When they were uttered, the pupils of his eyes dilated,

but that was all.

“Take him back to his cell,” the Governor said, when all the formalities

were over; and the sergeant, who was evidently near to breaking down,

touched the motionless figure on the shoulder. The Gadfly looked round

him with a little start.

“Ah, yes!” he said. “I forgot.”

There was something almost like pity in the Governor's face. He was not

a cruel man by nature, and was secretly a little ashamed of the part

he had been playing during the last month. Now that his main point was

gained he was willing to make every little concession in his power.

“You needn't put the irons on again,” he said, glancing at the bruised

and swollen wrists. “And he can stay in his own cell. The condemned cell

is wretchedly dark and gloomy,” he added, turning to his nephew; “and

really the thing's a mere formality.”

He coughed and shifted his feet in evident embarrassment; then called

back the sergeant, who was leaving the room with his prisoner.

“Wait, sergeant; I want to speak to him.”

The Gadfly did not move, and the Governor's voice seemed to fall on

unresponsive ears.

“If you have any message you would like conveyed to your friends or

relatives---- You have relatives, I suppose?”

There was no answer.

“Well, think it over and tell me, or the priest. I will see it is not

neglected. You had better give your messages to the priest; he shall

come at once, and stay the night with you. If there is any other

wish----”

The Gadfly looked up.

“Tell the priest I would rather be alone. I have no friends and no

messages.”

“But you will want to confess.”

“I am an atheist. I want nothing but to be left in peace.”

He said it in a dull, quiet voice, without defiance or irritation; and

turned slowly away. At the door he stopped again.

“I forgot, colonel; there is a favour I wanted to ask. Don't let them

tie me or bandage my eyes to-morrow, please. I will stand quite still.”

*****

At sunrise on Wednesday morning they brought him out into the courtyard.

His lameness was more than usually apparent, and he walked with evident

difficulty and pain, leaning heavily on the sergeant's arm; but all the

weary submission had gone out of his face. The spectral terrors that

had crushed him down in the empty silence, the visions and dreams of the

world of shadows, were gone with the night which gave them birth; and

once the sun was shining and his enemies were present to rouse the

fighting spirit in him, he was not afraid.

The six carabineers who had been told off for the execution were drawn

up in line against the ivied wall; the same crannied and crumbling wall

down which he had climbed on the night of his unlucky attempt. They

could hardly refrain from weeping as they stood together, each man with

his carbine in his hand. It seemed to them a horror beyond imagination

that they should be called out to kill the Gadfly. He and his stinging

repartees, his perpetual laughter, his bright, infectious courage, had

come into their dull and dreary lives like a wandering sunbeam; and that

he should die, and at their hands, was to them as the darkening of the

clear lamps of heaven.

Under the great fig-tree in the courtyard, his grave was waiting for

him. It had been dug in the night by unwilling hands; and tears had

fallen on the spade. As he passed he looked down, smiling, at the black

pit and the withering grass beside it; and drew a long breath, to smell

the scent of the freshly turned earth.

Near the tree the sergeant stopped short, and the Gadfly looked round

with his brightest smile.

“Shall I stand here, sergeant?”

The man nodded silently; there was a lump in his throat, and he

could not have spoken to save his life. The Governor, his nephew, the

lieutenant of carabineers who was to command, a doctor and a priest

were already in the courtyard, and came forward with grave faces, half

abashed under the radiant defiance of the Gadfly's laughing eyes.

“G-good morning, gentlemen! Ah, and his reverence is up so early, too!

How do you do, captain? This is a pleasanter occasion for you than our

former meeting, isn't it? I see your arm is still in a sling;

that's because I bungled my work. These good fellows will do theirs

better--won't you, lads?”

He glanced round at the gloomy faces of the carabineers.

“There'll be no need of slings this time, any way. There, there, you

needn't look so doleful over it! Put your heels together and show how

straight you can shoot. Before long there'll be more work cut out

for you than you'll know how to get through, and there's nothing like

practice beforehand.”

“My son,” the priest interrupted, coming forward, while the others drew

back to leave them alone together; “in a few minutes you must enter into

the presence of your Maker. Have you no other use but this for these

last moments that are left you for repentance? Think, I entreat you,

how dreadful a thing it is to die without absolution, with all your sins

upon your head. When you stand before your Judge it will be too late to

repent. Will you approach His awful throne with a jest upon your lips?”

“A jest, your reverence? It is your side that needs that little homily,

I think. When our turn comes we shall use field-guns instead of half a

dozen second-hand carbines, and then you'll see how much we're in jest.”

“YOU will use field-guns! Oh, unhappy man! Have you still not realized

on what frightful brink you stand?”

The Gadfly glanced back over his shoulder at the open grave.

“And s-s-so your reverence thinks that, when you have put me down there,

you will have done with me? Perhaps you will lay a stone on the top to

pre-v-vent a r-resurrection 'after three days'? No fear, your reverence!

I shan't poach on the monopoly in cheap theatricals; I shall lie as

still as a m-mouse, just where you put me. And all the same, WE shall

use field-guns.”

“Oh, merciful God,” the priest cried out; “forgive this wretched man!”

“Amen!” murmured the lieutenant of carabineers, in a deep bass growl,

while the colonel and his nephew crossed themselves devoutly.

As there was evidently no hope of further insistence producing any

effect, the priest gave up the fruitless attempt and moved aside,

shaking his head and murmuring a prayer. The short and simple

preparations were made without more delay, and the Gadfly placed himself

in the required position, only turning his head to glance up for a

moment at the red and yellow splendour of the sunrise. He had repeated

the request that his eyes might not be bandaged, and his defiant face

had wrung from the colonel a reluctant consent. They had both forgotten

what they were inflicting on the soldiers.

He stood and faced them, smiling, and the carbines shook in their hands.

“I am quite ready,” he said.

The lieutenant stepped forward, trembling a little with excitement. He

had never given the word of command for an execution before.

“Ready--present--fire!”

The Gadfly staggered a little and recovered his balance. One unsteady

shot had grazed his cheek, and a little blood fell on to the white

cravat. Another ball had struck him above the knee. When the smoke

cleared away the soldiers looked and saw him smiling still and wiping

the blood from his cheek with the mutilated hand.

“A bad shot, men!” he said; and his voice cut in, clear and articulate,

upon the dazed stupor of the wretched soldiers. “Have another try.”

A general groan and shudder passed through the row of carabineers. Each

man had aimed aside, with a secret hope that the death-shot would come

from his neighbour's hand, not his; and there the Gadfly stood and

smiled at them; they had only turned the execution into a butchery, and

the whole ghastly business was to do again. They were seized with sudden

terror, and, lowering their carbines, listened hopelessly to the furious

curses and reproaches of the officers, staring in dull horror at the man

whom they had killed and who somehow was not dead.

The Governor shook his fist in their faces, savagely shouting to them

to stand in position, to present arms, to make haste and get the thing

over. He had become as thoroughly demoralized as they were, and dared

not look at the terrible figure that stood, and stood, and would not

fall. When the Gadfly spoke to him he started and shuddered at the sound

of the mocking voice.

“You have brought out the awkward squad this morning, colonel! Let me

see if I can manage them better. Now, men! Hold your tool higher there,

you to the left. Bless your heart, man, it's a carbine you've got

in your hand, not a frying-pan! Are you all straight? Now then!

Ready--present----”

“Fire!” the colonel interrupted, starting forward. It was intolerable

that this man should give the command for his own death.

There was another confused, disorganized volley, and the line broke up

into a knot of shivering figures, staring before them with wild eyes.

One of the soldiers had not even discharged his carbine; he had flung it

away, and crouched down, moaning under his breath: “I can't--I can't!”

The smoke cleared slowly away, floating up into the glimmer of the early

sunlight; and they saw that the Gadfly had fallen; and saw, too, that he

was still not dead. For the first moment soldiers and officials stood

as if they had been turned to stone, and watched the ghastly thing that

writhed and struggled on the ground; then both doctor and colonel rushed

forward with a cry, for he had dragged himself up on one knee and was

still facing the soldiers, and still laughing.

“Another miss! Try--again, lads--see--if you can't----”

He suddenly swayed and fell over sideways on the grass.

“Is he dead?” the colonel asked under his breath; and the doctor,

kneeling down, with a hand on the bloody shirt, answered softly:

“I think so--God be praised!”

“God be praised!” the colonel repeated. “At last!”

His nephew was touching him on the arm.

“Uncle! It's the Cardinal! He's at the gate and wants to come in.”

“What? He can't come in--I won't have it! What are the guards about?

Your Eminence----”

The gate had opened and shut, and Montanelli was standing in the

courtyard, looking before him with still and awful eyes.

“Your Eminence! I must beg of you--this is not a fit sight for you! The

execution is only just over; the body is not yet----”

“I have come to look at him,” Montanelli said. Even at the moment

it struck the Governor that his voice and bearing were those of a

sleep-walker.

“Oh, my God!” one of the soldiers cried out suddenly; and the Governor

glanced hastily back. Surely------

The blood-stained heap on the grass had once more begun to struggle and

moan. The doctor flung himself down and lifted the head upon his knee.

“Make haste!” he cried in desperation. “You savages, make haste! Get it

over, for God's sake! There's no bearing this!”

Great jets of blood poured over his hands, and the convulsions of the

figure that he held in his arms shook him, too, from head to foot. As he

looked frantically round for help, the priest bent over his shoulder and

put a crucifix to the lips of the dying man.

“In the name of the Father and of the Son----”

The Gadfly raised himself against the doctor's knee, and, with wide-open

eyes, looked straight upon the crucifix.

Slowly, amid hushed and frozen stillness, he lifted the broken right

hand and pushed away the image. There was a red smear across its face.

“Padre--is your--God--satisfied?”

His head fell back on the doctor's arm.

*****

“Your Eminence!”

As the Cardinal did not awake from his stupor, Colonel Ferrari repeated,

louder:

“Your Eminence!”

Montanelli looked up.

“He is dead.”

“Quite dead, your Eminence. Will you not come away? This is a horrible

sight.”

“He is dead,” Montanelli repeated, and looked down again at the face. “I

touched him; and he is dead.”

“What does he expect a man to be with half a dozen bullets in him?” the

lieutenant whispered contemptuously; and the doctor whispered back. “I

think the sight of the blood has upset him.”

The Governor put his hand firmly on Montanelli's arm.

“Your Eminence--you had better not look at him any longer. Will you

allow the chaplain to escort you home?”

“Yes--I will go.”

He turned slowly from the blood-stained spot and walked away, the priest

and sergeant following. At the gate he paused and looked back, with a

ghostlike, still surprise.

“He is dead.”

*****

A few hours later Marcone went up to a cottage on the hillside to tell

Martini that there was no longer any need for him to throw away his

life.

All the preparations for a second attempt at rescue were ready, as the

plot was much more simple than the former one. It had been arranged that

on the following morning, as the Corpus Domini procession passed along

the fortress hill, Martini should step forward out of the crowd, draw a

pistol from his breast, and fire in the Governor's face. In the moment

of wild confusion which would follow twenty armed men were to make a

sudden rush at the gate, break into the tower, and, taking the turnkey

with them by force, to enter the prisoner's cell and carry him bodily

away, killing or overpowering everyone who interfered with them. From

the gate they were to retire fighting, and cover the retreat of a second

band of armed and mounted smugglers, who would carry him off into a safe

hiding-place in the hills. The only person in the little group who knew

nothing of the plan was Gemma; it had been kept from her at Martini's

special desire. “She will break her heart over it soon enough,” he had

said.

As the smuggler came in at the garden gate Martini opened the glass door

and stepped out on to the verandah to meet him.

“Any news, Marcone? Ah!”

The smuggler had pushed back his broad-brimmed straw hat.

They sat down together on the verandah. Not a word was spoken on either

side. From the instant when Martini had caught sight of the face under

the hat-brim he had understood.

“When was it?” he asked after a long pause; and his own voice, in his

ears, was as dull and wearisome as everything else.

“This morning, at sunrise. The sergeant told me. He was there and saw

it.”

Martini looked down and flicked a stray thread from his coat-sleeve.

Vanity of vanities; this also is vanity. He was to have died to-morrow.

And now the land of his heart's desire had vanished, like the fairyland

of golden sunset dreams that fades away when the darkness comes; and he

was driven back into the world of every day and every night--the

world of Grassini and Galli, of ciphering and pamphleteering, of party

squabbles between comrades and dreary intrigues among Austrian spies--of

the old revolutionary mill-round that maketh the heart sick. And

somewhere down at the bottom of his consciousness there was a great

empty place; a place that nothing and no one would fill any more, now

that the Gadfly was dead.

Someone was asking him a question, and he raised his head, wondering

what could be left that was worth the trouble of talking about.

“What did you say?”

“I was saying that of course you will break the news to her.”

Life, and all the horror of life, came back into Martini's face.

“How can I tell her?” he cried out. “You might as well ask me to go and

stab her. Oh, how can I tell her--how can I!”

He had clasped both hands over his eyes; but, without seeing, he felt

the smuggler start beside him, and looked up. Gemma was standing in the

doorway.

“Have you heard, Cesare?” she said. “It is all over. They have shot

him.”

CHAPTER VIII.

“INTROIBO ad altare Dei.” Montanelli stood before the high altar among

his ministers and acolytes and read the Introit aloud in steady tones.

All the Cathedral was a blaze of light and colour; from the holiday

dresses of the congregation to the pillars with their flaming draperies

and wreaths of flowers there was no dull spot in it. Over the open

spaces of the doorway fell great scarlet curtains, through whose folds

the hot June sunlight glowed, as through the petals of red poppies in

a corn-field. The religious orders with their candles and torches, the

companies of the parishes with their crosses and flags, lighted up the

dim side-chapels; and in the aisles the silken folds of the processional

banners drooped, their gilded staves and tassels glinting under the

arches. The surplices of the choristers gleamed, rainbow-tinted, beneath

the coloured windows; the sunlight lay on the chancel floor in

chequered stains of orange and purple and green. Behind the altar hung

a shimmering veil of silver tissue; and against the veil and the

decorations and the altar-lights the Cardinal's figure stood out in its

trailing white robes like a marble statue that had come to life.

As was customary on processional days, he was only to preside at the

Mass, not to celebrate, so at the end of the Indulgentiam he turned

from the altar and walked slowly to the episcopal throne, celebrant and

ministers bowing low as he passed.

“I'm afraid His Eminence is not well,” one of the canons whispered to

his neighbour; “he seems so strange.”

Montanelli bent his head to receive the jewelled mitre. The priest who

was acting as deacon of honour put it on, looked at him for an instant,

then leaned forward and whispered softly:

“Your Eminence, are you ill?”

Montanelli turned slightly towards him. There was no recognition in his

eyes.

“Pardon, Your Eminence!” the priest whispered, as he made a genuflexion

and went back to his place, reproaching himself for having interrupted

the Cardinal's devotions.

The familiar ceremony went on; and Montanelli sat erect and still, his

glittering mitre and gold-brocaded vestments flashing back the sunlight,

and the heavy folds of his white festival mantle sweeping down over the

red carpet. The light of a hundred candles sparkled among the sapphires

on his breast, and shone into the deep, still eyes that had no answering

gleam; and when, at the words: “Benedicite, pater eminentissime,”

he stooped to bless the incense, and the sunbeams played among the

diamonds, he might have recalled some splendid and fearful ice-spirit

of the mountains, crowned with rainbows and robed in drifted snow,

scattering, with extended hands, a shower of blessings or of curses.

At the elevation of the Host he descended from his throne and knelt

before the altar. There was a strange, still evenness about all his

movements; and as he rose and went back to his place the major of

dragoons, who was sitting in gala uniform behind the Governor, whispered

to the wounded captain: “The old Cardinal's breaking, not a doubt of it.

He goes through his work like a machine.”

“So much the better!” the captain whispered back. “He's been nothing but

a mill-stone round all our necks ever since that confounded amnesty.”

“He did give in, though, about the court-martial.”

“Yes, at last; but he was a precious time making up his mind to.

Heavens, how close it is! We shall all get sun-stroke in the procession.

It's a pity we're not Cardinals, to have a canopy held over our heads

all the way---- Sh-sh-sh! There's my uncle looking at us!”

Colonel Ferrari had turned round to glance severely at the two younger

officers. After the solemn event of yesterday morning he was in a devout

and serious frame of mind, and inclined to reproach them with a want of

proper feeling about what he regarded as “a painful necessity of state.”

The masters of the ceremonies began to assemble and place in order those

who were to take part in the procession. Colonel Ferrari rose from his

place and moved up to the chancel-rail, beckoning to the other officers

to accompany him. When the Mass was finished, and the Host had been

placed behind the crystal shield in the processional sun, the celebrant

and his ministers retired to the sacristy to change their vestments, and

a little buzz of whispered conversation broke out through the church.

Montanelli remained seated on his throne, looking straight before him,

immovably. All the sea of human life and motion seemed to surge around

and below him, and to die away into stillness about his feet. A censer

was brought to him; and he raised his hand with the action of an

automaton, and put the incense into the vessel, looking neither to the

right nor to the left.

The clergy had come back from the sacristy, and were waiting in the

chancel for him to descend; but he remained utterly motionless. The

deacon of honour, bending forward to take off the mitre, whispered

again, hesitatingly:

“Your Eminence!”

The Cardinal looked round.

“What did you say?”

“Are you quite sure the procession will not be too much for you? The sun

is very hot.”

“What does the sun matter?”

Montanelli spoke in a cold, measured voice, and the priest again fancied

that he must have given offence.

“Forgive me, Your Eminence. I thought you seemed unwell.”

Montanelli rose without answering. He paused a moment on the upper step

of the throne, and asked in the same measured way:

“What is that?”

The long train of his mantle swept down over the steps and lay spread

out on the chancel-floor, and he was pointing to a fiery stain on the

white satin.

“It's only the sunlight shining through a coloured window, Your

Eminence.”

“The sunlight? Is it so red?”

He descended the steps, and knelt before the altar, swinging the censer

slowly to and fro. As he handed it back, the chequered sunlight fell on

his bared head and wide, uplifted eyes, and cast a crimson glow across

the white veil that his ministers were folding round him.

He took from the deacon the sacred golden sun; and stood up, as choir

and organ burst into a peal of triumphal melody.

“Pange, lingua, g]oriosi

Corporis mysterium,

Sanguinisque pretiosi

Quem in mundi pretium,

Fructus ventris generosi

Rex effudit gentium.”

The bearers came slowly forward, and raised the silken canopy over his

head, while the deacons of honour stepped to their places at his right

and left and drew back the long folds of the mantle. As the acolytes

stooped to lift his robe from the chancel-floor, the lay fraternities

heading the procession started to pace down the nave in stately double

file, with lighted candles held to left and right.

He stood above them, by the altar, motionless under the white canopy,

holding the Eucharist aloft with steady hands, and watched them as they

passed. Two by two, with candles and banners and torches, with crosses

and images and flags, they swept slowly down the chancel steps, along

the broad nave between the garlanded pillars, and out under the lifted

scarlet curtains into the blazing sunlight of the street; and the sound

of their chanting died into a rolling murmur, drowned in the pealing

of new and newer voices, as the unending stream flowed on, and yet new

footsteps echoed down the nave.

The companies of the parishes passed, with their white shrouds and

veiled faces; then the brothers of the Misericordia, black from head to

foot, their eyes faintly gleaming through the holes in their masks. Next

came the monks in solemn row: the mendicant friars, with their dusky

cowls and bare, brown feet; the white-robed, grave Dominicans. Then

followed the lay officials of the district; dragoons and carabineers

and the local police-officials; the Governor in gala uniform, with his

brother officers beside him. A deacon followed, holding up a great cross

between two acolytes with gleaming candles; and as the curtains were

lifted high to let them pass out at the doorway, Montanelli caught a

momentary glimpse, from where he stood under the canopy, of the sunlit

blaze of carpeted street and flag-hung walls and white-robed children

scattering roses. Ah, the roses; how red they were!

On and on the procession paced in order; form succeeding to form and

colour to colour. Long white surplices, grave and seemly, gave place

to gorgeous vestments and embroidered pluvials. Now passed a tall and

slender golden cross, borne high above the lighted candles; now the

cathedral canons, stately in their dead white mantles. A chaplain paced

down the chancel, with the crozier between two flaring torches; then the

acolytes moved forward in step, their censers swinging to the rhythm of

the music; the bearers raised the canopy higher, counting their steps:

“One, two; one, two!” and Montanelli started upon the Way of the Cross.

Down the chancel steps and all along the nave he passed; under the

gallery where the organ pealed and thundered; under the lifted curtains

that were so red--so fearfully red; and out into the glaring street,

where the blood-red roses lay and withered, crushed into the red carpet

by the passing of many feet. A moment's pause at the door, while the

lay officials came forward to replace the canopy-bearers; then the

procession moved on again, and he with it, his hands clasping the

Eucharistic sun, and the voices of the choristers swelling and dying

around him, with the rhythmical swaying of censers and the rolling tramp

of feet.

“Verbum caro, panem verum,

Verbo carnem efficit;

Sitque sanguis Christi merum----”

Always blood and always blood! The carpet stretched before him like a

red river; the roses lay like blood splashed on the stones---- Oh, God!

Is all Thine earth grown red, and all Thy heaven? Ah, what is it to

Thee, Thou mighty God----Thou, whose very lips are smeared with blood!

“Tantum ergo Sacramentum,

Veneremur cernui.”

He looked through the crystal shield at the Eucharist. What was that

oozing from the wafer--dripping down between the points of the golden

sun--down on to his white robe? What had he seen dripping down--dripping

from a lifted hand?

The grass in the courtyard was trampled and red,--all red,--there was

so much blood. It was trickling down the cheek, and dripping from the

pierced right hand, and gushing in a hot red torrent from the wounded

side. Even a lock of the hair was dabbled in it,--the hair that lay all

wet and matted on the forehead--ah, that was the death-sweat; it came

from the horrible pain.

The voices of the choristers rose higher, triumphantly:

“Genitori, genitoque,

Laus et jubilatio,

Salus, honor, virtus quoque,

Sit et benedictio.”

Oh, that is more than any patience can endure! God, Who sittest on the

brazen heavens enthroned, and smilest with bloody lips, looking down

upon agony and death, is it not enough? Is it not enough, without this

mockery of praise and blessing? Body of Christ, Thou that wast broken

for the salvation of men; blood of Christ, Thou that wast shed for the

remission of sins; is it not enough?

“Ah, call Him louder; perchance He sleepeth!

“Dost Thou sleep indeed, dear love; and wilt Thou never wake again? Is

the grave so jealous of its victory; and will the black pit under the

tree not loose Thee even for a little, heart's delight?”

Then the Thing behind the crystal shield made answer, and the blood

dripped down as It spoke:

“Hast thou chosen, and wilt repent of thy choice? Is thy desire not

fulfilled? Look upon these men that walk in the light and are clad in

silk and in gold: for their sake was I laid in the black pit. Look upon

the children scattering roses, and hearken to their singing if it be

sweet: for their sake is my mouth filled with dust, and the roses are

red from the well-springs of my heart. See where the people kneel to

drink the blood that drips from thy garment-hem: for their sake was it

shed, to quench their ravening thirst. For it is written: 'Greater love

hath no man than this, if a man lay down his life for his friends.'”

“Oh, Arthur, Arthur; there is greater love than this! If a man lay down

the life of his best beloved, is not that greater?”

And It answered again:

“Who is thy best beloved? In sooth, not I.”

And when he would have spoken the words froze on his tongue, for the

singing of the choristers passed over them, as the north wind over icy

pools, and hushed them into silence:

“Dedit fragilibus corporis ferculum,

Dedit et tristibus sanguinis poculum,

Dicens: Accipite, quod trado vasculum

Omnes ex eo bibite.”

Drink of it, Christians; drink of it, all of you! Is it not yours? For

you the red stream stains the grass; for you the living flesh is seared

and torn. Eat of it, cannibals; eat of it, all of you! This is your

feast and your orgy; this is the day of your joy! Haste you and come to

the festival; join the procession and march with us; women and children,

young men and old men--come to the sharing of flesh! Come to the pouring

of blood-wine and drink of it while it is red; take and eat of the

Body----

Ah, God; the fortress! Sullen and brown, with crumbling battlements

and towers dark among the barren hills, it scowled on the procession

sweeping past in the dusty road below. The iron teeth of the portcullis

were drawn down over the mouth of the gate; and as a beast crouched

on the mountain-side, the fortress guarded its prey. Yet, be the teeth

clenched never so fast, they shall be broken and riven asunder; and the

grave in the courtyard within shall yield up her dead. For the Christian

hosts are marching, marching in mighty procession to their sacramental

feast of blood, as marches an army of famished rats to the gleaning; and

their cry is: “Give! Give!” and they say not: “It is enough.”

“Wilt thou not be satisfied? For these men was I sacrificed; thou hast

destroyed me that they might live; and behold, they march everyone on

his ways, and they shall not break their ranks.

“This is the army of Christians, the followers of thy God; a great

people and a strong. A fire devoureth before them, and behind them a

flame burneth; the land is as the garden of Eden before them, and behind

them a desolate wilderness; yea, and nothing shall escape them.”

“Oh, yet come back, come back to me, beloved; for I repent me of my

choice! Come back, and we will creep away together, to some dark and

silent grave where the devouring army shall not find us; and we will lay

us down there, locked in one another's arms, and sleep, and sleep, and

sleep. And the hungry Christians shall pass by in the merciless daylight

above our heads; and when they howl for blood to drink and for flesh to

eat, their cry shall be faint in our ears; and they shall pass on their

ways and leave us to our rest.”

And It answered yet again:

“Where shall I hide me? Is it not written: 'They shall run to and fro

in the city; they shall run upon the wall; they shall climb up upon the

houses; they shall enter in at the windows like a thief?' If I build me

a tomb on the mountain-top, shall they not break it open? If I dig me a

grave in the river-bed, shall they not tear it up? Verily, they are keen

as blood-hounds to seek out their prey; and for them are my wounds red,

that they may drink. Canst thou not hear them, what they sing?”

And they sang, as they went in between the scarlet curtains of the

Cathedral door; for the procession was over, and all the roses were

strewn:

“Ave, verum Corpus, natum

De Maria Virgine:

Vere passum, immolatum

In cruce pro homine!

Cujus latus perforatum

Undam fluxit cum sanguinae;

Esto nobis praegustatum

Mortis in examinae.”

And when they had left off singing, he entered at the doorway, and

passed between the silent rows of monks and priests, where they knelt,

each man in his place, with the lighted candles uplifted. And he saw

their hungry eyes fixed on the sacred Body that he bore; and he knew why

they bowed their heads as he passed. For the dark stream ran down the

folds of his white vestments; and on the stones of the Cathedral floor

his footsteps left a deep, red stain.

So he passed up the nave to the chancel rails; and there the bearers

paused, and he went out from under the canopy and up to the altar steps.

To left and right the white-robed acolytes knelt with their censers and

the chaplains with their torches; and their eyes shone greedily in the

flaring light as they watched the Body of the Victim.

And as he stood before the altar, holding aloft with blood-stained hands

the torn and mangled body of his murdered love, the voices of the guests

bidden to the Eucharistic feast rang out in another peal of song:

“Oh salutaris Hostia,

Quae coeli pandis ostium;

Bella praemunt hostilia,

Da robur, fer, auxilium!”

Ah, and now they come to take the Body----Go then, dear heart, to thy

bitter doom, and open the gates of heaven for these ravening wolves that

will not be denied. The gates that are opened for me are the gates of

the nethermost hell.

And as the deacon of honour placed the sacred vessel on the altar,

Montanelli sank down where he had stood, and knelt upon the step; and

from the white altar above him the blood flowed down and dripped upon

his head. And the voices of the singers rang on, pealing under the

arches and echoing along the vaulted roof:

“Uni trinoque Domino

Sit sempiterna gloria:

Qui vitam sine termino

Nobis donet in patria.”

“Sine termino--sine termino!” Oh, happy Jesus, Who could sink beneath

His cross! Oh, happy Jesus, Who could say: “It is finished!” This doom

is never ended; it is eternal as the stars in their courses. This is the

worm that dieth not and the fire that is not quenched. “Sine termino,

sine termino!”

Wearily, patiently, he went through his part in the remaining

ceremonies, fulfilling mechanically, from old habit, the rites that had

no longer any meaning for him. Then, after the benediction, he knelt

down again before the altar and covered his face; and the voice of the

priest reading aloud the list of indulgences swelled and sank like a

far-off murmur from a world to which he belonged no more.

The voice broke off, and he stood up and stretched out his hand for

silence. Some of the congregation were moving towards the doors; and

they turned back with a hurried rustle and murmur, as a whisper went

through the Cathedral:

“His Eminence is going to speak.”

His ministers, startled and wondering, drew closer to him and one of

them whispered hastily: “Your Eminence, do you intend to speak to the

people now?”

Montanelli silently waved him aside. The priests drew back, whispering

together; the thing was unusual, even irregular; but it was within

the Cardinal's prerogative if he chose to do it. No doubt, he had some

statement of exceptional importance to make; some new reform from Rome

to announce or a special communication from the Holy Father.

Montanelli looked down from the altar-steps upon the sea of upturned

faces. Full of eager expectancy they looked up at him as he stood above

them, spectral and still and white.

“Sh-sh! Silence!” the leaders of the procession called softly; and the

murmuring of the congregation died into stillness, as a gust of wind

dies among whispering tree-tops. All the crowd gazed up, in breathless

silence, at the white figure on the altar-steps. Slowly and steadily he

began to speak:

“It is written in the Gospel according to St. John: 'God so loved the

world, that He gave His only begotten Son that the world through Him

might be saved.'

“This is the festival of the Body and Blood of the Victim who was slain

for your salvation; the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sins of the

world; the Son of God, Who died for your transgressions. And you are

assembled here in solemn festival array, to eat of the sacrifice that

was given for you, and to render thanks for this great mercy. And I know

that this morning, when you came to share in the banquet, to eat of the

Body of the Victim, your hearts were filled with joy, as you remembered

the Passion of God the Son, Who died, that you might be saved.

“But tell me, which among you has thought of that other Passion--of the

Passion of God the Father, Who gave His Son to be crucified? Which of

you has remembered the agony of God the Father, when He bent from His

throne in the heavens above, and looked down upon Calvary?

“I have watched you to-day, my people, as you walked in your ranks in

solemn procession; and I have seen that your hearts are glad within you

for the remission of your sins, and that you rejoice in your salvation.

Yet I pray you that you consider at what price that salvation was

bought. Surely it is very precious, and the price of it is above rubies;

it is the price of blood.”

A faint, long shudder passed through the listening crowd. In the chancel

the priests bent forward and whispered to one another; but the preacher

went on speaking, and they held their peace.

“Therefore it is that I speak with you this day: I AM THAT I AM. For I

looked upon your weakness and your sorrow, and upon the little children

about your feet; and my heart was moved to compassion for their sake,

that they must die. Then I looked into my dear son's eyes; and I knew

that the Atonement of Blood was there. And I went my way, and left him

to his doom.

“This is the remission of sins. He died for you, and the darkness has

swallowed him up; he is dead, and there is no resurrection; he is dead,

and I have no son. Oh, my boy, my boy!”

The Cardinal's voice broke in a long, wailing cry; and the voices of the

terrified people answered it like an echo. All the clergy had risen from

their places, and the deacons of honour started forward to lay their

hands on the preacher's arm. But he wrenched it away, and faced them

suddenly, with the eyes of an angry wild beast.

“What is this? Is there not blood enough? Wait your turn, jackals; you

shall all be fed!”

They shrank away and huddled shivering together, their panting

breath thick and loud, their faces white with the whiteness of chalk.

Montanelli turned again to the people, and they swayed and shook before

him, as a field of corn before a hurricane.

“You have killed him! You have killed him! And I suffered it, because I

would not let you die. And now, when you come about me with your lying

praises and your unclean prayers, I repent me--I repent me that I have

done this thing! It were better that you all should rot in your vices,

in the bottomless filth of damnation, and that he should live. What is

the worth of your plague-spotted souls, that such a price should be paid

for them? But it is too late--too late! I cry aloud, but he does not

hear me; I beat at the door of the grave, but he will not wake; I stand

alone, in desert space, and look around me, from the blood-stained earth

where the heart of my heart lies buried, to the void and awful heaven

that is left unto me, desolate. I have given him up; oh, generation of

vipers, I have given him up for you!

“Take your salvation, since it is yours! I fling it to you as a bone is

flung to a pack of snarling curs! The price of your banquet is paid for

you; come, then, and gorge yourselves, cannibals, bloodsuckers--carrion

beasts that feed on the dead! See where the blood streams down from the

altar, foaming and hot from my darling's heart--the blood that was shed

for you! Wallow and lap it and smear yourselves red with it! Snatch and

fight for the flesh and devour it--and trouble me no more! This is the

body that was given for you--look at it, torn and bleeding, throbbing

still with the tortured life, quivering from the bitter death-agony;

take it, Christians, and eat!”

He had caught up the sun with the Host and lifted it above his head; and

now flung it crashing down upon the floor. At the ring of the metal on

stone the clergy rushed forward together, and twenty hands seized the

madman.

Then, and only then, the silence of the people broke in a wild,

hysterical scream; and, overturning chairs and benches, beating at the

doorways, trampling one upon another, tearing down curtains and garlands

in their haste, the surging, sobbing human flood poured out upon the

street.

EPILOGUE.

“GEMMA, there's a man downstairs who wants to see you.” Martini spoke in

the subdued tone which they had both unconsciously adopted during these

last ten days. That, and a certain slow evenness of speech and movement,

were the sole expression which either of them gave to their grief.

Gemma, with bare arms and an apron over her dress, was standing at a

table, putting up little packages of cartridges for distribution. She

had stood over the work since early morning; and now, in the glaring

afternoon, her face looked haggard with fatigue.

“A man, Cesare? What does he want?”

“I don't know, dear. He wouldn't tell me. He said he must speak to you

alone.”

“Very well.” She took off her apron and pulled down the sleeves of her

dress. “I must go to him, I suppose; but very likely it's only a spy.”

“In any case, I shall be in the next room, within call. As soon as

you get rid of him you had better go and lie down a bit. You have been

standing too long to-day.”

“Oh, no! I would rather go on working.”

She went slowly down the stairs, Martini following in silence. She had

grown to look ten years older in these few days, and the gray streak

across her hair had widened into a broad band. She mostly kept her eyes

lowered now; but when, by chance, she raised them, he shivered at the

horror in their shadows.

In the little parlour she found a clumsy-looking man standing with his

heels together in the middle of the floor. His whole figure and the

half-frightened way he looked up when she came in, suggested to her that

he must be one of the Swiss guards. He wore a countryman's blouse,

which evidently did not belong to him, and kept glancing round as though

afraid of detection.

“Can you speak German?” he asked in the heavy Zurich patois.

“A little. I hear you want to see me.”

“You are Signora Bolla? I've brought you a letter.”

“A--letter?” She was beginning to tremble, and rested one hand on the

table to steady herself.

“I'm one of the guard over there.” He pointed out of the window to the

fortress on the hill. “It's from--the man that was shot last week. He

wrote it the night before. I promised him I'd give it into your own hand

myself.”

She bent her head down. So he had written after all.

“That's why I've been so long bringing it,” the soldier went on. “He

said I was not to give it to anyone but you, and I couldn't get off

before--they watched me so. I had to borrow these things to come in.”

He was fumbling in the breast of his blouse. The weather was hot, and

the sheet of folded paper that he pulled out was not only dirty and

crumpled, but damp. He stood for a moment shuffling his feet uneasily;

then put up one hand and scratched the back of his head.

“You won't say anything,” he began again timidly, with a distrustful

glance at her. “It's as much as my life's worth to have come here.”

“Of course I shall not say anything. No, wait a minute----”

As he turned to go, she stopped him, feeling for her purse; but he drew

back, offended.

“I don't want your money,” he said roughly. “I did it for him--because

he asked me to. I'd have done more than that for him. He'd been good to

me--God help me!”

The little catch in his voice made her look up. He was slowly rubbing a

grimy sleeve across his eyes.

“We had to shoot,” he went on under his breath; “my mates and I. A man

must obey orders. We bungled it, and had to fire again--and he laughed

at us--he called us the awkward squad--and he'd been good to me----”

There was silence in the room. A moment later he straightened himself

up, made a clumsy military salute, and went away.

She stood still for a little while with the paper in her hand; then

sat down by the open window to read. The letter was closely written in

pencil, and in some parts hardly legible. But the first two words stood

out quite clear upon the page; and they were in English:

“Dear Jim.”

The writing grew suddenly blurred and misty. And she had lost him

again--had lost him again! At the sight of the familiar childish

nickname all the hopelessness of her bereavement came over her afresh,

and she put out her hands in blind desperation, as though the weight of

the earth-clods that lay above him were pressing on her heart.

Presently she took up the paper again and went on reading:

“I am to be shot at sunrise to-morrow. So if I am to keep at all my

promise to tell you everything, I must keep it now. But, after all,

there is not much need of explanations between you and me. We always

understood each other without many words, even when we were little

things.

“And so, you see, my dear, you had no need to break your heart over

that old story of the blow. It was a hard hit, of course; but I have had

plenty of others as hard, and yet I have managed to get over them,--even

to pay back a few of them,--and here I am still, like the mackerel in

our nursery-book (I forget its name), 'Alive and kicking, oh!' This

is my last kick, though; and then, to-morrow morning, and--'Finita la

Commedia!' You and I will translate that: 'The variety show is over';

and will give thanks to the gods that they have had, at least, so much

mercy on us. It is not much, but it is something; and for this and all

other blessings may we be truly thankful!

“About that same to-morrow morning, I want both you and Martini to

understand clearly that I am quite happy and satisfied, and could ask no

better thing of Fate. Tell that to Martini as a message from me; he is a

good fellow and a good comrade, and he will understand. You see, dear,

I know that the stick-in-the-mud people are doing us a good turn and

themselves a bad one by going back to secret trials and executions so

soon, and I know that if you who are left stand together steadily and

hit hard, you will see great things. As for me, I shall go out into

the courtyard with as light a heart as any child starting home for the

holidays. I have done my share of the work, and this death-sentence is

the proof that I have done it thoroughly. They kill me because they are

afraid of me; and what more can any man's heart desire?

“It desires just one thing more, though. A man who is going to die has

a right to a personal fancy, and mine is that you should see why I have

always been such a sulky brute to you, and so slow to forget old scores.

Of course, though, you understand why, and I tell you only for the

pleasure of writing the words. I loved you, Gemma, when you were an ugly

little girl in a gingham frock, with a scratchy tucker and your hair in

a pig-tail down your back; and I love you still. Do you remember that

day when I kissed your hand, and when you so piteously begged me 'never

to do that again'? It was a scoundrelly trick to play, I know; but you

must forgive that; and now I kiss the paper where I have written your

name. So I have kissed you twice, and both times without your consent.

“That is all. Good-bye, my dear.”

There was no signature, but a verse which they had learned together as

children was written under the letter:

“Then am I

A happy fly,

If I live

Or if I die.”

*****

Half an hour later Martini entered the room, and, startled out of the

silence of half a life-time, threw down the placard he was carrying and

flung his arms about her.

“Gemma! What is it, for God's sake? Don't sob like that--you that never

cry! Gemma! Gemma, my darling!”

“Nothing, Cesare; I will tell you afterwards--I--can't talk about it

just now.”

She hurriedly slipped the tear-stained letter into her pocket; and,

rising, leaned out of the window to hide her face. Martini held his

tongue and bit his moustache. After all these years he had betrayed

himself like a schoolboy--and she had not even noticed it!

“The Cathedral bell is tolling,” she said after a little while, looking

round with recovered self-command. “Someone must be dead.”

“That is what I came to show you,” Martini answered in his everyday

voice. He picked up the placard from the floor and handed it to her.

Hastily printed in large type was a black-bordered announcement that:

“Our dearly beloved Bishop, His Eminence the Cardinal, Monsignor Lorenzo

Montanelli,” had died suddenly at Ravenna, “from the rupture of an

aneurism of the heart.”

She glanced up quickly from the paper, and Martini answered the unspoken

suggestion in her eyes with a shrug of his shoulders.

“What would you have, Madonna? Aneurism is as good a word as any other.”