that everything I have just been saying to you is
pure imagination. I'm rather given to romancing, but I don't like people
to take it seriously."

She made no answer, and they walked on in silence. As they passed by the
gateway of the Uffizi, he crossed the road and stooped down over a dark
bundle that was lying against the railings.

"What is the matter, little one?" he asked, more gently than she had
ever heard him speak. "Why don't you go home?"

The bundle moved, and answered something in a low, moaning voice. Gemma
came across to look, and saw a child of about six years old, ragged and
dirty, crouching on the pavement like a frightened animal. The Gadfly
was bending down with his hand on the unkempt head.

"What is it?" he said, stooping lower to catch the unintelligible
answer. "You ought to go home to bed; little boys have no business out
of doors at night; you'll be quite frozen! Give me your hand and jump up
like a man! Where do you live?"

He took the child's arm to raise him. The result was a sharp scream and
a quick shrinking away.

"Why, what is it?" the Gadfly asked, kneeling down on the pavement. "Ah!
Signora, look here!"

The child's shoulder and jacket were covered with blood.

"Tell me what has happened?" the Gadfly went on caressingly. "It wasn't
a fall, was it? No? Someone's been beating you? I thought so! Who was
it?"

"My uncle."

"Ah, yes! And when was it?"

"This morning. He was drunk, and I--I----"

"And you got in his way--was that it? You shouldn't get in people's way
when they are drunk, little man; they don't like it. What shall we do
with this poor mite, signora? Come here to the light, sonny, and let
me look at that shoulder. Put your arm round my neck; I won't hurt you.
There we are!"

He lifted the boy in his arms, and, carrying him across the street, set
him down on the wide stone balustrade. Then, taking out a pocket-knife,
he deftly ripped up the torn sleeve, supporting the child's head against
his breast, while Gemma held the injured arm. The shoulder was badly
bruised and grazed, and there was a deep gash on the arm.

"That's an ugly cut to give a mite like you," said the Gadfly, fastening
his handkerchief round the wound to prevent the jacket from rubbing
against it. "What did he do it with?"

"The shovel. I went to ask him to give me a soldo to get some polenta at
the corner shop, and he hit me with the shovel."

The Gadfly shuddered. "Ah!" he said softly, "th