the altar steps Cardinal Montanelli knelt
alone, bare-headed, with clasped hands.

The Gadfly drew back into the shadow. Should he slip away before
Montanelli saw him? That, no doubt, would be the wisest thing to
do--perhaps the most merciful. And yet, what harm could it do for him to
go just a little nearer--to look at the Padre's face once more, now that
the crowd was gone, and there was no need to keep up the hideous comedy
of the morning? Perhaps it would be his last chance--and the Padre need
not see him; he would steal up softly and look--just this once. Then he
would go back to his work.

Keeping in the shadow of the pillars, he crept softly up to the chancel
rails, and paused at the side entrance, close to the altar. The shadow
of the episcopal throne was broad enough to cover him, and he crouched
down in the darkness, holding his breath.

"My poor boy! Oh, God; my poor boy!"

The broken whisper was full of such endless despair that the Gadfly
shuddered in spite of himself. Then came deep, heavy, tearless sobs; and
he saw Montanelli wring his hands together like a man in bodily pain.

He had not thought it would be so bad as this. How often had he said to
himself with bitter assurance: "I need not trouble about it; that wound
was healed long ago." Now, after all these years, it was laid bare
before him, and he saw it bleeding still. And how easy it would be to
heal it now at last! He need only lift his hand--only step forward and
say: "Padre, it is I." There was Gemma, too, with that white streak
across her hair. Oh, if he could but forgive! If he could but cut out
from his memory the past that was burned into it so deep--the Lascar,
and the sugar-plantation, and the variety show! Surely there was no
other misery like this--to be willing to forgive, to long to forgive;
and to know that it was hopeless--that he could not, dared not forgive.

Montanelli rose at last, made the sign of the cross, and turned
away from the altar. The Gadfly shrank further back into the shadow,
trembling with fear lest he should be seen, lest the very beating of
his heart should betray him; then he drew a long breath of relief.
Montanelli had passed him, so close that the violet robe had brushed
against his cheek,--had passed and had not seen him.

Had not seen him---- Oh, what had he done? This had been his last
chance--this one precious moment--and he had let it slip away. He
started up and stepped into the light.

"Padre!"