so
much as say good-bye. It's always politics and politics--I'm sick of
politics!"

"S-so am I," said the Gadfly, yawning lazily; "and therefore we'll talk
about something else--unless you will sing."

"Well, give me the guitar, then. What shall I sing?"

"The ballad of the lost horse; it suits your voice so well."

She began to sing the old Hungarian ballad of the man who loses first
his horse, then his home, and then his sweetheart, and consoles himself
with the reflection that "more was lost at Mohacz field." The song was
one of the Gadfly's especial favourites; its fierce and tragic melody
and the bitter stoicism of the refrain appealed to him as no softer
music ever did.

Zita was in excellent voice; the notes came from her lips strong and
clear, full of the vehement desire of life. She would have sung Italian
or Slavonic music badly, and German still worse; but she sang the Magyar
folk-songs splendidly.

The Gadfly listened with wide-open eyes and parted lips; he had never
heard her sing like this before. As she came to the last line, her voice
began suddenly to shake.

"Ah, no matter! More was lost----"

She broke down with a sob and hid her face among the ivy leaves.

"Zita!" The Gadfly rose and took the guitar from her hand. "What is it?"

She only sobbed convulsively, hiding her face in both hands. He touched
her on the arm.

"Tell me what is the matter," he said caressingly.

"Let me alone!" she sobbed, shrinking away. "Let me alone!"

He went quietly back to his seat and waited till the sobs died away.
Suddenly he felt her arms about his neck; she was kneeling on the floor
beside him.

"Felice--don't go! Don't go away!"

"We will talk about that afterwards," he said, gently extricating
himself from the clinging arms. "Tell me first what has upset you so.
Has anything been frightening you?"

She silently shook her head.

"Have I done anything to hurt you?"

"No." She put a hand up against his throat.

"What, then?"

"You will get killed," she whispered at last. "I heard one of those men
that come here say the other day that you will get into trouble--and
when I ask you about it you laugh at me!"

"My dear child," the Gadfly said, after a little pause of astonishment,
"you have got some exaggerated notion into your head. Very likely I
shall get killed some day--that is the natural consequence of being a
revolutionist. But there is no reason to suppose I am g-g-going to get