“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 bloodstained 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 tomorrow. 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.”
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 cornfield. 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
