"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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.d, 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 a.s.s 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, compa.s.sionate 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sed 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----"