The Gadfly - E. L. Voynich (phonics readers .txt) 📗

hot before he goes out into the

wet, or he will catch cold.”

 

“It is black coffee, and very strong. I will boil

some milk.”

 

She went into the kitchen, passionately clenching

her teeth and hands to keep from breaking

down. When she returned with the milk the Gadfly

had put on the riding-cloak and was fastening

the leather gaiters which Martini had brought.

He drank a cup of coffee, standing, and took up

the broad-brimmed riding hat.

 

“I think it’s time to start, Martini; we must

make a round before we go to the barrier, in case

of anything. Good-bye, for the present, signora;

I shall meet you at Forli on Friday, then, unless

anything special turns up. Wait a minute; th-this

is the address.”

 

He tore a leaf out of his pocket-book and wrote

a few words in pencil.

 

“I have it already,” she said in a dull, quiet

voice.

 

“H-have you? Well, there it is, anyway.

Come, Martini. Sh-sh-sh! Don’t let the door creak!”

 

They crept softly downstairs. When the street

door clicked behind them she went back into the

room and mechanically unfolded the paper he had

put into her hand. Underneath the address was

written:

 

“I will tell you everything there.”

 

CHAPTER II.

 

IT was market-day in Brisighella, and the country

folk had come in from the villages and hamlets

of the district with their pigs and poultry, their

dairy produce and droves of half-wild mountain

cattle. The marketplace was thronged with a

perpetually shifting crowd, laughing, joking, bargaining

for dried figs, cheap cakes, and sunflower

seeds. The brown, bare-footed children sprawled,

face downward, on the pavement in the hot sun,

while their mothers sat under the trees with their

baskets of butter and eggs.

 

Monsignor Montanelli, coming out to wish the

people “Good-morning,” was at once surrounded

by a clamourous throng of children, holding up for

his acceptance great bunches of irises and scarlet

poppies and sweet white narcissus from the mountain

slopes. His passion for wild flowers was

affectionately tolerated by the people, as one of

the little follies which sit gracefully on very wise

men. If anyone less universally beloved had filled

his house with weeds and grasses they would have

laughed at him; but the “blessed Cardinal” could

afford a few harmless eccentricities.

 

“Well, Mariuccia,” he said, stopping to pat one of

the children on the head; “you have grown since I saw

you last. And how is the grandmother’s rheumatism?”

 

“She’s been better lately, Your Eminence; but

mother’s bad now.”

 

“I’m sorry to hear that; tell the mother to

come down here some day and see whether Dr.

Giordani can do anything for her. I will find

somewhere to put her up; perhaps the change

will do her good. You are looking better, Luigi;

how are your eyes?”

 

He passed on, chatting with the mountaineers.

He always remembered the names and ages of

the children, their troubles and those of their

parents; and would stop to inquire, with sympathetic

interest, for the health of the cow that fell

sick at Christmas, or of the rag-doll that was

crushed under a cart-wheel last market-day.

 

When he returned to the palace the marketing

began. A lame man in a blue shirt, with a shock

of black hair hanging into his eyes and a deep scar

across the left cheek, lounged up to one of the

booths and, in very bad Italian, asked for a drink

of lemonade.

 

“You’re not from these parts,” said the woman

who poured it out, glancing up at him.

 

“No. I come from Corsica.”

 

“Looking for work?”

 

“Yes; it will be hay-cutting time soon, and a

gentleman that has a farm near Ravenna came

across to Bastia the other day and told me there’s

plenty of work to be got there.”

 

“I hope you’ll find it so, I’m sure, but times are

bad hereabouts.”

 

“They’re worse in Corsica, mother. I don’t

know what we poor folk are coming to.”

 

“Have you come over alone?”

 

“No, my mate is with me; there he is, in the

red shirt. Hola, Paolo!”

 

Michele hearing himself called, came lounging

up with his hands in his pockets. He made a

fairly good Corsican, in spite of the red wig which

he had put on to render himself unrecognizable.

As for the Gadfly, he looked his part to perfection.

 

They sauntered through the marketplace together,

Michele whistling between his teeth, and

the Gadfly trudging along with a bundle over his

shoulder, shuffling his feet on the ground to render

his lameness less observable. They were waiting

for an emissary, to whom important directions

had to be given.

 

“There’s Marcone, on horseback, at that corner,”

Michele whispered suddenly. The Gadfly, still carrying

his bundle, shuffled towards the horseman.

 

“Do you happen to be wanting a hay-maker,

sir?” he said, touching his ragged cap and running

one finger along the bridle. It was the signal

agreed upon, and the rider, who from his

appearance might have been a country squire’s

bailiff, dismounted and threw the reins on the

horse’s neck.

 

“What sort of work can you do, my man?”

 

The Gadfly fumbled with his cap.

 

“I can cut grass, sir, and trim hedges”—he

began; and without any break in his voice, went

straight on: “At one in the morning at the

mouth of the round cave. You must have two

good horses and a cart. I shall be waiting inside

the cave–- And then I can dig, sir, and–-”

 

“That will do, I only want a grass-cutter.

Have you ever been out before?”

 

“Once, sir. Mind, you must come well-armed;

we may meet a flying squadron. Don’t go by the

wood-path; you’re safer on the other side. If

you meet a spy, don’t stop to argue with him; fire

at once–- I should be very glad of work, sir.”

 

“Yes, I dare say, but I want an experienced

grass-cutter. No, I haven’t got any coppers to-day.”

 

A very ragged beggar had slouched up to them,

with a doleful, monotonous whine.

 

“Have pity on a poor blind man, in the name

of the Blessed Virgin–– Get out of this place at

once; there’s a flying squadron coming along–-

Most Holy Queen of Heaven, Maiden undefiled—

It’s you they’re after, Rivarez; they’ll be here in

two minutes–- And so may the saints reward

you–- You’ll have to make a dash for it; there

are spies at all the corners. It’s no use trying to

slip away without being seen.”

 

Marcone slipped the reins into the Gadfly’s hand.

 

“Make haste! Ride out to the bridge and let

the horse go; you can hide in the ravine. We’re

all armed; we can keep them back for ten minutes.”

 

“No. I won’t have you fellows taken. Stand

together, all of you, and fire after me in order.

Move up towards our horses; there they are, tethered

by the palace steps; and have your knives

ready. We retreat fighting, and when I throw

my cap down, cut the halters and jump every man

on the nearest horse. We may all reach the wood

that way.”

 

They had spoken in so quiet an undertone that

even the nearest bystanders had not supposed

their conversation to refer to anything more dangerous

than grass-cutting. Marcone, leading his

own mare by the bridle, walked towards the

tethered horses, the Gadfly slouching along beside

him, and the beggar following them with an outstretched

hand and a persistent whine. Michele

came up whistling; the beggar had warned him

in passing, and he quietly handed on the news to

three countrymen who were eating raw onions

under a tree. They immediately rose and followed

him; and before anyone’s notice had been

attracted to them, the whole seven were standing

together by the steps of the palace, each man with

one hand on the hidden pistol, and the tethered

horses within easy reach.

 

“Don’t betray yourselves till I move,” the Gadfly

said softly and clearly. “They may not recognize us.

When I fire, then begin in order. Don’t

fire at the men; lame their horses—then they can’t

follow us. Three of you fire, while the other

three reload. If anyone comes between you and

our horses, kill him. I take the roan. When I

throw down my cap, each man for himself; don’t

stop for anything.”

 

“Here they come,” said Michele; and the Gadfly

turned round, with an air of naive and stupid

wonder, as the people suddenly broke off in their

bargaining.

 

Fifteen armed men rode slowly into the marketplace.

They had great difficulty to get past the

throng of people at all, and, but for the spies at

the corners of the square, all the seven conspirators

could have slipped quietly away while the

attention of the crowd was fixed upon the soldiers.

Michele moved a little closer to the Gadfly.

 

“Couldn’t we get away now?”

 

“No; we’re surrounded with spies, and one of

them has recognized me. He has just sent a man

to tell the captain where I am. Our only chance

is to lame their horses.”

 

“Which is the spy?”

 

“The first man I fire at. Are you all ready?

They have made a lane to us; they are going to

come with a rush.”

 

“Out of the way there!” shouted the captain.

“In the name of His Holiness!”

 

The crowd had drawn back, startled and wondering;

and the soldiers made a quick dash towards

the little group standing by the palace steps.

The Gadfly drew a pistol from his blouse and fired,

not at the advancing troops, but at the spy, who

was approaching the horses, and who fell back

with a broken collar-bone. Immediately after

the report, six more shots were fired in quick succession,

as the conspirators moved steadily closer

to the tethered horses.

 

One of the cavalry horses stumbled and

plunged; another fell to the ground with a fearful

cry. Then, through the shrieking of the panic-stricken

people, came the loud, imperious voice of

the officer in command, who had risen in the

stirrups and was holding a sword above his head.

 

“This way, men!”

 

He swayed in the saddle and sank back; the

Gadfly had fired again with his deadly aim. A

little stream of blood was trickling down the captain’s

uniform; but he steadied himself with a

violent effort, and, clutching at his horse’s mane,

cried out fiercely:

 

“Kill that lame devil if you can’t take him alive!

It’s Rivarez!”

 

“Another pistol, quick!” the Gadfly called to

his men; “and go!”

 

He flung down his cap. It was only just in

time, for the swords of the now infuriated soldiers

were flashing close in front of him.

 

“Put down your weapons, all of you!”

 

Cardinal Montanelli had stepped suddenly between

the combatants; and one of the soldiers

cried out in a voice sharp with terror:

 

“Your Eminence! My God, you’ll be murdered!”

 

Montanelli only moved a step nearer, and faced

the Gadfly’s pistol.

 

Five of the conspirators were already on horseback

and dashing up the hilly street. Marcone

sprang on to the back of his mare. In the moment

of riding away, he glanced back to see

whether his leader was in need of help. The roan

was close at hand, and in another instant all would

have been safe; but as the figure in the scarlet

cassock stepped forward, the Gadfly suddenly

wavered and the hand with the pistol sank down.

The instant decided everything. Immediately he

was surrounded and flung violently to the ground,

and the weapon was dashed out of his hand by a

blow from the flat of a soldier’s sword. Marcone

struck his mare’s