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

you, there are plenty of other people

you can fool with lies—and they won’t even find

you out.”

 

“As you will,” Montanelli said. “Perhaps in

your place I should be as merciless as you—God

knows. I can’t do what you ask, Arthur; but I

will do what I can. I will arrange your escape,

and when you are safe I will have an accident in

the mountains, or take the wrong sleeping-draught

by mistake—whatever you like to choose.

Will that content you? It is all I can do. It is a

great sin; but I think He will forgive me. He is

more merciful––”

 

The Gadfly flung out both hands with a sharp cry.

 

“Oh, that is too much! That is too much!

What have I done that you should think of me

that way? What right have you–- As if I

wanted to be revenged on you! Can’t you see

that I only want to save you? Will you never

understand that I love you?”

 

He caught hold of 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 towards him. The grave

that was to be dug was not more still than they

were. Silent, they looked into each other’s eyes,

as two lovers, torn apart, might gaze across the

barrier they cannot pass.

 

It was the Gadfly whose eyes sank first. He

shrank down, hiding his face; and Montanelli

understood that the gesture meant “Go!” He

turned, and went out of the cell. A moment

later the Gadfly started up.

 

“Oh, I can’t bear it! Padre, come back!

Come back!”

 

The door was shut. He looked around him

slowly, with a wide, still gaze, and understood that

all was over. The Galilean had conquered.

 

All night long the grass waved softly in the

courtyard below—the grass that was so soon to

wither, uprooted by the spade; and all night long

the Gadfly lay alone in the darkness, and sobbed.

 

CHAPTER VII.

 

THE courtmartial was held on Tuesday morning.

It was a very short and simple affair; a

mere formality, occupying barely twenty minutes.

There was, indeed, nothing to spend much time

over; no defence was allowed, and the only witnesses

were the wounded spy and officer and a

few soldiers. The sentence was drawn up beforehand;

Montanelli had sent in the desired informal

consent; and the judges (Colonel Ferrari, the local

major of dragoons, and two officers of the Swiss

guards) had little to do. The indictment was

read aloud, the witnesses gave their evidence, and

the signatures were affixed to the sentence, which

was then read to the condemned man with befitting

solemnity. He listened in silence; and when

asked, according to the usual form, whether he had

anything to say, merely waved the question aside

with an impatient movement of his hand. Hidden

on his breast was the handkerchief which Montanelli

had let fall. It had been kissed and wept

over all night, as though it were a living thing.

Now he looked wan and spiritless, and the traces

of tears were still about his eyelids; but the words:

“to be shot,” did not seem to affect him much.

When they were uttered, the pupils of his eyes

dilated, but that was all.

 

“Take him back to his cell,” the Governor said.

when all the formalities were over; and the sergeant,

who was evidently near to breaking down,

touched the motionless figure on the shoulder.

The Gadfly looked round him with a little start.

 

“Ah, yes!” he said. “I forgot.”

 

There was something almost like pity in the

Governor’s face. He was not a cruel man by

nature, and was secretly a little ashamed of the

part he had been playing during the last month.

Now that his main point was gained he was willing

to make every little concession in his power.

 

“You needn’t put the irons on again,” he said,

glancing at the bruised and swollen wrists. “And

he can stay in his own cell. The condemned cell

is wretchedly dark and gloomy,” he added, turning

to his nephew; “and really the thing’s a mere

formality.”

 

He coughed and shifted his feet in evident embarrassment;

then called back the sergeant, who

was leaving the room with his prisoner.

 

“Wait, sergeant; I want to speak to him.”

 

The Gadfly did not move, and the Governor’s

voice seemed to fall on unresponsive ears.

 

“If you have any message you would like conveyed

to your friends or relatives–- You have

relatives, I suppose?”

 

There was no answer.

 

“Well, think it over and tell me, or the priest.

I will see it is not neglected. You had better give

your messages to the priest; he shall come at once,

and stay the night with you. If there is any other

wish–-”

 

The Gadfly looked up.

 

“Tell the priest I would rather be alone. I

have no friends and no messages.”

 

“But you will want to confess.”

 

“I am an atheist. I want nothing but to be

left in peace.”

 

He said it in a dull, quiet voice, without defiance

or irritation; and turned slowly away. At the

door he stopped again.

 

“I forgot, colonel; there is a favour I wanted

to ask. Don’t let them tie me or bandage my

eyes to-morrow, please. I will stand quite still.”

 

… . .

 

At sunrise on Wednesday morning they brought

him out into the courtyard. His lameness was

more than usually apparent, and he walked with

evident difficulty and pain, leaning heavily on the

sergeant’s arm; but all the weary submission had

gone out of his face. The spectral terrors that

had crushed him down in the empty silence, the

visions and dreams of the world of shadows, were

gone with the night which gave them birth; and

once the sun was shining and his enemies were

present to rouse the fighting spirit in him, he was

not afraid.

 

The six carabineers who had been told off for

the execution were drawn up in line against the

ivied wall; the same crannied and crumbling wall

down which he had climbed on the night of his

unlucky attempt. They could hardly refrain from

weeping as they stood together, each man with his

carbine in his hand. It seemed to them a horror

beyond imagination that they should be called out

to kill the Gadfly. He and his stinging repartees,

his perpetual laughter, his bright, infectious courage,

had come into their dull and dreary lives like

a wandering sunbeam; and that he should die, and

at their hands, was to them as the darkening of

the clear lamps of heaven.

 

Under the great fig-tree in the courtyard, his

grave was waiting for him. It had been dug in

the night by unwilling hands; and tears had fallen

on the spade. As he passed he looked down,

smiling, at the black pit and the withering grass

beside it; and drew a long breath, to smell the

scent of the freshly turned earth.

 

Near the tree the sergeant stopped short, and

the Gadfly looked round with his brightest smile.

 

“Shall I stand here, sergeant?”

 

The man nodded silently; there was a lump in

his throat, and he could not have spoken to save

his life. The Governor, his nephew, the lieutenant

of carabineers who was to command, a doctor and

a priest were already in the courtyard, and came

forward with grave faces, half abashed under the

radiant defiance of the Gadfly’s laughing eyes.

 

“G-good morning, gentlemen! Ah, and his

reverence is up so early, too! How do you do,

captain? This is a pleasanter occasion for you

than our former meeting, isn’t it? I see your arm

is still in a sling; that’s because I bungled my

work. These good fellows will do theirs better—

won’t you, lads?”

 

He glanced round at the gloomy faces of the

carabineers.

 

“There’ll be no need of slings this time, any way.

There, there, you needn’t look so doleful over it!

Put your heels together and show how straight

you can shoot. Before long there’ll be more work

cut out for you than you’ll know how to get

through, and there’s nothing like practice beforehand.”

 

“My son,” the priest interrupted, coming forward,

while the others drew back to leave them

alone together; “in a few minutes you must enter

into the presence of your Maker. Have you no

other use but this for these last moments that are

left you for repentance? Think, I entreat you,

how dreadful a thing it is to die without absolution,

with all your sins upon your head. When

you stand before your Judge it will be too late to

repent. Will you approach His awful throne with

a jest upon your lips?”

 

“A jest, your reverence? It is your side that

needs that little homily, I think. When our turn

comes we shall use field-guns instead of half a

dozen second-hand carbines, and then you’ll see

how much we’re in jest.”

 

“YOU will use field-guns! Oh, unhappy man!

Have you still not realized on what frightful brink

you stand?”

 

The Gadfly glanced back over