f 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 to