“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.
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
