esn't drink!"
     "You  had better discuss  the  matter  with  the  other members  of the
committee," she said,  rising.  "I cannot  form any opinion as to what  they
will think about it."
     "And  you?" He  had  risen  too,  and  was leaning  against the  table,
pressing the flowers to his face
     She  hesitated.  The question  distressed  her,  bringing  up  old  and
miserable associations. "I --hardly know," she said at last. "Many years ago
I used to know something  about Monsignor Montanelli. He was only a canon at
that  time, and Director of the theological seminary in the province where I
lived as  a girl. I  heard a great deal about him from--someone who knew him
very intimately; and I never  heard anything  of him that  was  not good.  I
believe  that, in those  days at least, he was really a most remarkable man.
But that was long ago, and he may have changed. Irresponsible power corrupts
so many people."
     The  Gadfly raised his head from the flowers, and looked at her with  a
steady face.
     "At any  rate,"  he said, "if Monsignor  Montanelli  is not  himself  a
scoundrel,  he is a tool in scoundrelly hands.  It is all one to me which he
is--and to my friends across the frontier.  A stone in the path may have the
best intentions, but it must be kicked out of the path, for all  that. Allow
me, signora!" He rang the bell, and, limping to the door,  opened it for her
to pass out.
     "It was very  kind of you to call, signora. May  I send for  a vettura?
No? Good-afternoon, then! Bianca, open the hall-door, please."
     Gemma went out into the street, pondering anxiously. "My friends across
the frontier"-- who were they? And how was the stone to be kicked out of the
path? If with satire only, why had he said it with such dangerous eyes?
        PART II: CHAPTER IV.
     MONSIGNOR MONTANELLI arrived in Florence in the  first week of October.
His visit caused a  little flutter of excitement throughout the town. He was
a famous preacher  and a representative  of the reformed Papacy;  and people
looked eagerly to him for an exposition of the "new doctrine," the gospel of
love  and  reconciliation which  was  to  cure  the  sorrows of  Italy.  The
nomination  of Cardinal  Gizzi to the Roman State Secretaryship  in place of
the universally detested Lambruschini  had raised the  public  enthusiasm to
its highest  pitch; and Montanelli  was just  the  man who could most easily
sustain it. The  irreproachable strictness  of  his  life  was  a phenomenon
sufficiently rare among the high  dignitaries of the Roman Church to attract
the attention of people accustomed to regard  blackmailing, peculation,  and
disreputable intrigues  as  almost invariable  adjuncts  to the career of  a
prelate. Moreover, his  talent as a preacher was really  great; and with his
beautiful voice and  magnetic  personality,  he would in any time  and place
have made his mark.
     Grassini,  as  usual, strained  every  nerve  to get  the newly arrived
celebrity to  his house; but Montanelli  was no  easy game  to catch. To all
invitations he replied with the same  courteous but positive refusal, saying
that his health was bad and his time fully occupied, and that he had neither
strength nor leisure for going into society.
     "What  omnivorous  creatures   those  Grassinis  are!"   Martini   said
contemptuously to Gemma as they crossed the Signoria square one bright, cold
Sunday morning. "Did  you notice the way Grassini bowed when  the Cardinal's
carriage drove up? It's all one to them who a man is, so long as he's talked
about. I never saw such lion-hunters in my life. Only last August it was the
Gadfly; now it's  Montanelli. I hope  His Eminence  feels  flattered  at the
attention; a precious lot of adventurers have shared it with him."
     They had been hearing Montanelli preach in the Cathedral; and the great
building had  been so  thronged with eager listeners that Martini, fearing a
return of  Gemma's troublesome headaches,  had persuaded  her to  come  away
before the Mass was over. The sunny morning, the first after a week of rain,
offered him an excuse for  suggesting a walk among the garden slopes by  San
Niccolo.
     "No," she answered; "I should like a walk if you  have time; but not to
the  hills. Let us keep along the Lung'Arno; Montanelli will pass on his way
back from church and I am like Grassini-- I want to see the notability."
     "But you have just seen him."
     "Not  close. There was such a crush in the Cathedral, and his back  was
turned  to  us when the carriage passed. If we  keep near  to  the bridge we
shall be sure to see him well--he is staying on the Lung'Arno, you know."
     "But  what has given  you such  a sudden fancy  to see  Montanelli? You
never used to care about famous preachers."
     "It is not  famous preachers;  it is the man himself; I want to see how
much he has changed since I saw him last."
     "When was that?"
     "Two days after Arthur's death."
     Martini  glanced  at  her  anxiously. They  had  come  out  on  to  the
Lung'Arno, and she was staring absently across the water, with a look on her
face that he hated to see.
     "Gemma, dear,"  he said  after a  moment;  "are you  going  to let that
miserable  business haunt you all your life? We have all made mistakes  when
we were seventeen."
     "We have not all killed our dearest friend when we were seventeen," she
answered  wearily; and,  leaning  her  arm  on the  stone balustrade  of the
bridge, looked down  into the river. Martini  held his tongue; he was almost
afraid to speak to her when this mood was on her.
     "I  never look  down at  water  without remembering,"  she said, slowly
raising her eyes  to his; then with a nervous little shiver: "Let us walk on
a bit, Cesare; it is chilly for standing."
     They crossed the bridge in silence  and walked on along the river-side.
After a few minutes she spoke again.
     "What a beautiful voice that man has! There is something about  it that
I  have never heard in any other human voice.  I believe it is the secret of
half his influence."
     "It is a wonderful voice," Martini assented,  catching at a  subject of
conversation which might lead her away from the dreadful memory called up by
the river,  "and he is,  apart from his voice, about the  finest  preacher I
have ever  heard. But I believe the secret of his influence lies deeper than
that. It is the  way his life  stands out  from that of almost all the other
prelates. I don't  know whether you could lay your  hand  on  one other high
dignitary  in  all  the  Italian  Church--except   the  Pope  himself--whose
reputation  is so  utterly spotless. I  remember, when  I was in the Romagna
last  year, passing through his diocese and seeing those fierce mountaineers
waiting in the rain to  get a glimpse of  him or  touch  his  dress.  He  is
venerated  there  almost  as a saint; and  that means a good  deal among the
Romagnols, who generally hate everything that wears a cassock. I remarked to
one of  the old  peasants,--as  typical  a  smuggler  as ever  I  saw in  my
life,--that the  people  seemed  very much devoted to  their  bishop, and he
said: 'We don't love bishops, they are liars; we love  Monsignor Montanelli.
Nobody has ever known him to tell a lie or do an unjust thing.'"
     "I wonder," Gemma said, half to herself, "if  he knows the people think
that about him."
     "Why shouldn't he know it? Do you think it is not true?"
     "I know it is not true."
     "How do you know it?"
     "Because he told me so."
     "HE told you? Montanelli? Gemma, what do you mean?"
     She pushed the hair back from her forehead and turned towards him. They
were  standing  still  again, he  leaning on  the  balustrade and she slowly
drawing lines on the pavement with the point of her umbrella.
     "Cesare,  you and I have been friends for all these  years,  and I have
never told you what really happened about Arthur."
     "There is  no need to tell me, dear," he broke in hastily; "I know  all
about it already."
     "Giovanni told you?"
     "Yes,  when he  was dying. He  told  me  about it  one night when I was
sitting  up with  him. He said----  Gemma,  dear, I had better tell you  the
truth,  now  we have  begun talking about it--he said that  you  were always
brooding over that wretched story,  and he begged me to  be as good a friend
to  you as I could and try to keep you from thinking of it. And I have tried
to, dear, though I may not have succeeded--I have, indeed."
     "I know you have," she  answered softly, raising her eyes for a moment;
"I should have been badly off without your friendship. But--Giovanni did not
tell you about Monsignor Montanelli, then?"
     "No, I didn't know that he had anything to do with it. What he told  me
was about--all that affair with the spy, and about----"
     "About  my striking Arthur and his drowning himself.  Well, I will tell
you about Montanelli."
     They turned back towards the bridge over which the Cardinal's  carriage
would have to pass. Gemma looked out steadily across the water as she spoke.
     "In  those  days  Montanelli was  a  canon;  he  was  Director  of  the
Theological Seminary at Pisa, and used  to give Arthur lessons in philosophy
and read  with him after  he went up to the Sapienza.  They  were  perfectly
devoted to each other;  more like two  lovers than teacher and pupil. Arthur
almost worshipped  the  ground that Montanelli walked on, and I remember his
once  telling me that  if he  lost  his  'Padre'--he  always  used  to  call
Montanelli so --he should  go and drown  himself. Well, then  you  know what
happened about the spy.  The  next day, my  father and the Burtons--Arthur's
step-brothers,  most detestable people--spent the  whole  day  dragging  the
Darsena basin for the body; and I sat in my room alone and thought of what I
had done----"
     She paused a moment, and went on again:
     "Late in  the evening  my father came into  my  room and said:  'Gemma,
child, come downstairs; there's  a man I want you to see.' And when  we went
down there was one of  the  students  belonging to the group  sitting in the
consulting room,  all white  and shaking;  and  he told us  about Giovanni's
second letter coming from  the prison to say that they had  heard  from  the
jailer about Cardi, and that Arthur had been tricked in  the confessional. I
remember the  student saying to me: 'It is at least some consolation that we
know he was  innocent' My father  held my hands and  tried to comfort me; he
did not know  then about the blow. Then I went back to my room and sat there
all night alone. In the morning my father went out again with the Burtons to
see the harbour dragged. They had some hope of finding the body there."
     "It was never found, was it?"
     "No; it must have got washed  out to sea; but they thought there was  a
chance.  I was alone in my room and the  servant  came  up  to  say  that  a
'reverendissimo padre' had called and she had told him my father  was at the
docks and he had gone  away. I knew it must  be Montanelli; so  I ran out at
the  back  door  and caught him up at the garden  gate. When I said:  'Canon
Montanelli, I want to speak to you,' he just stopped and waited silently for
me to speak. Oh, Cesare, if you had seen his face--it haunted me  for months
afterwards! I said: 'I am Dr. Warren's daughter, and I have come to tell you
that  it is I who have killed Arthur.' I  told him everything,  and he stood
and listened, like a figure cut in stone, till I had finished; then he said:
'Set your  heart at rest, my child; it is  I that am a  murderer, not you. I
deceived him and he found it out.' And with  that he turned and went out  at
the gate without another word."
     "And then?"
     "I don't know what happened to him after that; I heard the same evening
that he had fallen down  in the street in a kind of fit and had been carried
into  a house  near  the  docks;  but  that  is all  I  know. My father  did
everything  he  could  for  me; when I told him  about  it he  threw up  his
practice  and took me away to England at once, so that  I should never  hear
anything that could remind me. He was afraid I should end in the water, too;
and indeed  I believe I was near it at one time. But then, you know, when we
found out that my father had cancer  I was  obliged to come to myself--there
was no one  else to nurse him.  And after he died I was left with the little
ones on my hands until  my elder brother was able to give them  a home. Then
there  was Giovanni.  Do you  know, when he came to  England  we were almost
afraid to meet each other with  that frightful memory  between us. He was so
bitterly  remorseful  for his share  in it all--that unhappy letter he wrote
from prison. But I believe, really, it was our  common trouble that drew  us
together."
     Martini smiled and shook his head.
     "It may have  been so on your side," he said; "but Giovanni had made up
his mind from the first time he ever saw you.  I remember his coming back to
Milan  after that  first  visit to Leghorn and raving about you to me till I
was perfectly sick of hearing of the English Gemma. I  thought I should hate
you. Ah! there it comes!"
     The  carriage crossed the bridge  and drove up to a large  house on the
Lung'Arno. Montanelli was leaning  back on  the cushions  as if too tired to
care any  longer for  the  enthusiastic crowd which had collected  round the
door to  catch a glimpse of him. The inspired look that his face had worn in
the Cathedral had faded quite away and the sunlight showed the lines of care
and fatigue.  When  he  had alighted and passed,  with the heavy, spiritless
tread of weary and heart-sick old age, into the house, Gemma turned away and
walked slowly  to the  bridge.  Her face seemed for a  moment to reflect the
withered, hopeless look of his. Martini walked beside her in silence.
     "I have so often wondered," she began again after a little pause; "what
he meant about the deception. It has sometimes occurred to me----"
     "Yes?"
     "Well,  it  is very strange; there  was the most extraordinary personal
resemblance between them."
     "Between whom?"
     "Arthur and Montanelli. It was not only I who noticed it. And there was
something  mysterious  in  the relationship  between  the  members  of  that
household. Mrs.  Burton,  Arthur's mother,  was one  of the sweetest women I
ever knew. Her  face had the same spiritual look  as Arthur's, and I believe
they were alike in character, too.  But she  always  seemed half frightened,
like  a detected criminal;  and her  step-son's wife used to treat her as no
decent  person treats a dog. And  then  Arthur himself was such  a startling
contrast to  all those  vulgar Burtons. Of course, when  one  is a child one
takes everything for granted; but looking back on it afterwards I have often
wondered whether Arthur was really a Burton."
     "Possibly he found out something about his mother--that may easily have
been  the  cause  of his  death, not  the  Cardi  affair  at  all,"  Martini
interposed, offering  the only consolation he could think of at  the moment.
Gemma shook her head.
     "If you  could have seen his face after I struck him, Cesare, you would
not think that. It may be all true about Montanelli--very likely it is-- but
what I have done I have done."
     They walked on a little way without speaking,
     "My dear," Martini said at  last;  "if  there were  any way on earth to
undo  a thing  that is once done, it  would be worth while to brood over our
old mistakes; but as it  is, let the dead bury their dead. It is  a terrible
story, but at least the poor lad is out of it now, and luckier  than some of
those  that are  left--the ones that are  in  exile and in prison. You and I
have them to  think of, we have no right to eat out our hearts for the dead.
Remember  what your own Shelley  says: 'The  past is Death's, the future  is
thine own.' Take it, while it is still yours, and fix your mind, not on what
you may have done long ago to hurt, but on what you can do now to help."
     In his earnestness he had taken  her hand.  He dropped it  suddenly and
drew back at the sound of a soft, cold, drawling voice behind him.
     "Monsignor   Montan-n-nelli,"   murmured   this   languid   voice,  "is
undoubtedly  all  you say, my dear doctor. In fact, he appears to be so much
too good for this world that he ought to be politely escorted into the next.
I  am sure he would cause  as great a sensation there as  he  has done here;
there are p-p-probably many  old-established ghosts who have never seen such
a thing as an honest cardinal. And there is nothing that ghosts love as they
do novelties----"
     "How do  you  know  that?" asked  Dr. Riccardo's  voice  in a  tone  of
ill-suppressed irritation.
     "From Holy Writ, my dear  sir. If the Gospel is to be trusted, even the
most respectable  of all  Ghosts  had a f-f-fancy for  capricious alliances.
Now,  honesty and  c-c-cardinals--that  seems  to  me  a somewhat capricious
alliance, and rather an uncomfortable one, like  shrimps and liquorice.  Ah,
Signor Martini, and Signora Bolla! Lovely weather after the rain, is it not?
Have you been to hear the n-new Savonarola, too?"
     Martini turned round sharply. The Gadfly, with a cigar in his mouth and
a  hot-house  flower in his buttonhole, was  holding out  to him a  slender,
carefully-gloved hand.  With the sunlight reflected  in his immaculate boots
and  glancing  back  from the water  on to his  smiling face, he  looked  to
Martini  less lame and  more conceited than usual. They were shaking  hands,
affably  on  the  one  side and  rather sulkily on the other, when  Riccardo
hastily exclaimed:
     "I am afraid Signora Bolla is not well!"
     She  was so pale that her face looked almost livid  under the shadow of
her bonnet,  and  the  ribbon at her  throat fluttered perceptibly  from the
violent beating of the heart.
     "I will go home," she said faintly.
     A cab was called and Martini got in with her to see her safely home. As
the Gadfly bent down to arrange her cloak, which was hanging over the wheel,
he raised  his eyes suddenly to  her face, and  Martini saw  that she shrank
away with a look of something like terror.
     "Gemma, what is  the matter with you?" he asked, in English, when  they
had started. "What did that scoundrel say to you?"
     "Nothing, Cesare; it was no fault of his. I-- I--had a fright----"
     "A fright?"
     "Yes; I fancied----"  She put  one hand over  her  eyes, and  he waited
silently  till  she should recover  her self-command.  Her face was  already
regaining its natural colour.
     "You are quite right," she said at last, turning to him and speaking in
her usual voice; "it is worse than useless  to look back at a horrible past.
It  plays  tricks with one's nerves  and  makes one  imagine  all  sorts  of
impossible things. We will NEVER talk about that subject again, Cesare, or I
shall see fantastic likenesses  to Arthur in every face I meet. It is a kind
of  hallucination,  like a nightmare in broad daylight. Just  now, when that
odious little fop came up, I fancied it was Arthur."
        PART II: CHAPTER V.
     THE Gadfly certainly knew how to make personal enemies. He  had arrived
in Florence  in  August, and  by the end of  October  three-fourths  of  the
committee which had invited him shared Martini's opinion. His savage attacks
upon  Montanelli had  annoyed even his  admirers; and Galli himself,  who at
first had been inclined to uphold everything the witty satirist said or did,
began to  acknowledge with an aggrieved air that Montanelli had better  have
been  left in peace.  "Decent cardinals are  none so plenty. One might treat
them politely when they do turn up."
     The only  person  who, apparently, remained  quite  indifferent to  the
storm of  caricatures  and pasquinades was Montanelli himself. It seemed, as
Martini  said, hardly worth while to expend one's energy in ridiculing a man
who took it so good-humouredly. It was said in the town that Montanelli, one
day when  the Archbishop of Florence  was dining with  him, had found in the
room one  of the Gadfly's bitter personal lampoons against himself, had read
it through and  handed  the paper to the  Archbishop,  remarking:  "That  is
rather cleverly put, is it not?"
     One  day  there appeared in the town a leaflet, headed: "The Mystery of
the Annunciation." Even had the author omitted his now familiar signature, a
sketch of a gadfly with spread wings, the bitter, trenchant style would have
left in the  minds of most readers no doubt as to his identity. The skit was
in the form of a dialogue between Tuscany as the Virgin Mary, and Montanelli
as  the angel who, bearing the lilies of purity and crowned with  the  olive
branch of peace, was announcing  the advent of the Jesuits. The whole  thing
was full of offensive personal allusions and hints of the most risky nature,
and all Florence felt the satire to be  both ungenerous and unfair.  And yet
all Florence laughed. There was  something so irresistible  in the  Gadfly's
grave absurdities  that  those  who  most  disapproved  of  and disliked him
laughed  as immoderately at  all his  squibs as  did his  warmest partisans.
Repulsive in tone  as  the leaflet was, it left  its  trace upon the popular
feeling of the town. Montanelli's personal reputation stood too high for any
lampoon, however witty, seriously to  injure it, but for  a moment the  tide
almost turned against him. The Gadfly  had known where to sting; and, though
eager crowds still collected before the Cardinal's house to see him enter or
leave  his carriage, ominous  cries of  "Jesuit!" and "Sanfedist spy!" often
mingled with the cheers and benedictions.
     But  Montanelli   had  no  lack  of  supporters.  Two  days  after  the
publication of  the skit,  the Churchman, a leading clerical  paper, brought
out  a  brilliant  article,  called:  "An  Answer  to  'The  Mystery of  the
Annunciation,'" and signed:  "A  Son of  the  Church." It was an impassioned
defence of  Montanelli  against  the  Gadfly's  slanderous imputations.  The
anonymous writer,  after expounding,  with great eloquence  and fervour, the
doctrine  of  peace  on earth and  good will towards men,  of  which the new
Pontiff was the evangelist, concluded by challenging  the Gadfly to  prove a
single one of his assertions, and solemnly  appealing  to the public not  to
believe a contemptible slanderer. Both the cogency of the  article as  a bit
of  special  pleading   and  its  merit  as  a  literary  composition   were
sufficiently  far above the average  to attract much attention in the  town,
especially as not even the editor of the newspaper  could guess the author's
identity. The article was  soon reprinted separately in  pamphlet form;  and
the "anonymous defender" was discussed in every coffee-shop in Florence.
     The Gadfly  responded with a  violent attack on the new Pontificate and
all its supporters, especially on Montanelli, who, he cautiously hinted, had
probably  consented  to  the panegyric on  himself.  To this  the  anonymous
defender again replied in the Churchman with an indignant denial. During the
rest of  Montanelli's  stay  the controversy raging  between the two writers
occupied more of the  public  attention  than did even the  famous  preacher
himself.
     Some  members  of the liberal party ventured to  remonstrate  with  the
Gadfly about the unnecessary malice of his tone towards Montanelli; but they
did not  get much  satisfaction  out of  him.  He  only  smiled  affably and
answered with a languid little stammer: "R-really, gentlemen, you are rather
unfair.  I expressly stipulated, when I  gave in  to  Signora Bolla,  that I
should be allowed a l-l-little chuckle all to myself now. It is so nominated
in the bond!"
     At the  end of October Montanelli returned to  his see in the  Romagna,
and, before leaving Florence, preached a farewell  sermon  in which he spoke
of the controversy,  gently deprecating the vehemence of  both  writers  and
begging his  unknown defender to set an  example of tolerance  by closing  a
useless  and  unseemly  war  of  words. On the  following day the  Churchman
contained a  notice  that,  at  Monsignor  Montanelli's  publicly  expressed
desire, "A Son of the Church" would withdraw from the controversy.
     The last word remained with the Gadfly. He issued a little  leaflet, in
which he  declared himself  disarmed and converted by Montanelli's Christian
meekness and ready to  weep  tears of  reconciliation  upon the neck  of the
first Sanfedist  he met. "I am even willing," he concluded; "to  embrace  my
anonymous challenger himself; and if my readers knew, as his Eminence  and I
know, what that  implies and why he remains anonymous, they would believe in
the sincerity of my conversion."
     In  the latter part of  November he announced to the literary committee
that  he was  going  for a  fortnight's  holiday to  the seaside.  He  went,
apparently, to Leghorn; but Dr. Riccardo, going there soon after and wishing
to speak to him, searched the town for him in vain. On the 5th of December a
political demonstration  of  the  most extreme  character  burst  out in the
States of the Church, along  the  whole  chain of the Apennines;  and people
began to guess  the reason of the Gadfly's sudden fancy to take his holidays
in the depth of  winter. He  came  back to Florence when the riots  had been
quelled, and, meeting Riccardo in the street, remarked affably:
     "I  hear you were  inquiring for me in Leghorn; I was staying  in Pisa.
What a pretty old town it is! There's something quite Arcadian about it."
     In Christmas  week he attended an  afternoon  meeting  of  the literary
committee  which was held  in Dr.  Riccardo's  lodgings  near the Porta alla
Croce. The meeting was a full one, and when he came in, a  little late, with
an apologetic bow and smile, there seemed to be no seat empty. Riccardo rose
to fetch a  chair  from the  next room,  but the Gadfly  stopped him. "Don't
trouble  about it,"  he  said; "I  shall  be  quite  comfortable  here"; and
crossing  the room  to a window beside which Gemma  had placed her chair, he
sat down on the sill, leaning his head indolently back against the shutter.
     As he looked down at Gemma, smiling with half-shut eyes, in the subtle,
sphinx-like way that gave him the  look of a Leonardo da Vinci portrait, the
instinctive distrust with which he  inspired her  deepened  into a  sense of
unreasoning fear.
     The  proposal under discussion  was  that a  pamphlet be issued setting
forth the committee's  views on the dearth with which Tuscany was threatened
and the measures which should be taken to meet it. The matter was a somewhat
difficult  one  to decide, because, as usual, the committee's views upon the
subject  were much  divided.  The more advanced  section,  to  which  Gemma,
Martini, and Riccardo belonged, was in favour of an energetic appeal to both
government and public to  take adequate measures at  once for  the relief of
the peasantry. The moderate division--including, of course, Grassini--feared
that an over-emphatic tone might irritate rather than convince the ministry.
     "It is all very well, gentlemen, to want the people helped at once," he
said, looking round upon the red-hot radicals with his calm and pitying air.
"We most of us want a good many things that we are not likely to get; but if
we start with the tone you propose  to  adopt, the government is very likely
not to begin any relief measures at all till there is  actual famine.  If we
could  only induce the  ministry  to make an  inquiry into the  state of the
crops it would be a step in advance."
     Galli, in his corner by the stove, jumped up to answer his enemy.
     "A step in advance--yes,  my dear sir;  but if there's going  to  be  a
famine, it won't wait  for us to advance at that pace. The people  might all
starve before we got to any actual relief."
     "It would be interesting to know----" Sacconi began; but several voices
interrupted him.
     "Speak up; we can't hear!"
     "I should think not, with  such  an  infernal  row in the street," said
Galli, irritably. "Is that window shut, Riccardo? One can't hear  one's self
speak!"
     Gemma looked round. "Yes," she said, "the window is quite shut. I think
there is a variety show, or some such thing, passing."
     The sounds  of  shouting  and laughter, of the  tinkling  of bells  and
trampling of feet, resounded  from the  street below, mixed with the braying
of a villainous brass band and the unmerciful banging of a drum.
     "It can't be helped these few days,"  said  Riccardo;  "we must  expect
noise at Christmas time. What were you saying, Sacconi?"
     "I said  it  would be  interesting to hear  what  is  thought about the
matter in Pisa and Leghorn. Perhaps Signor Rivarez can tell us something; he
has just come from there."
     The  Gadfly  did not  answer.  He  was staring out  of  the  window and
appeared not to have heard what had been said.
     "Signor Rivarez!" said Gemma.  She was  the only person sitting near to
him, and as he remained silent she bent forward and touched him on  the arm.
He slowly turned his face to  her, and she started as she  saw its fixed and
awful  immobility. For a moment it was like the  face of a  corpse; then the
lips moved in a strange, lifeless way.
     "Yes," he whispered; "a variety show."
     Her first instinct was to shield him from the curiosity  of the others.
Without understanding  what was the matter with him, she realized that  some
frightful fancy or hallucination had  seized upon  him, and  that,  for  the
moment, he was at its mercy, body and  soul. She rose  quickly and, standing
between him and the company, threw the window open as if to look out. No one
but herself had seen his face.
     In the  street  a  travelling circus was  passing, with mountebanks  on
donkeys  and  harlequins in parti-coloured  dresses.  The  crowd  of holiday
masqueraders, laughing  and shoving,  was  exchanging jests and  showers  of
paper ribbon with the clowns and flinging  little bags of sugar-plums to the
columbine,  who  sat in her  car, tricked out in tinsel and  feathers,  with
artificial curls  on her  forehead and an  artificial smile on  her  painted
lips. Behind  the  car came  a  motley  string of  figures--  street  Arabs,
beggars, clowns turning somersaults, and costermongers hawking their  wares.
They were jostling, pelting, and  applauding a  figure which at  first Gemma
could  not see  for the  pushing  and swaying of the crowd. The next moment,
however,  she saw  plainly  what  it was--a  hunchback,  dwarfish  and ugly,
grotesquely  attired  in  a fool's  dress, with  paper  cap  and  bells.  He
evidently belonged  to the strolling company, and was amusing the crowd with
hideous grimaces and contortions.
     "What  is going on out there?" asked Riccardo,  approaching the window.
"You seem very much interested."
     He was a  little surprised at their keeping the whole committee waiting
to look at a strolling company of mountebanks. Gemma turned round.
     "It  is nothing interesting," she  said; "only a variety show; but they
made such a noise that I thought it must be something else."
     She was standing with one hand upon the window-sill, and suddenly  felt
the  Gadfly's cold fingers press the hand  with  a  passionate clasp. "Thank
you!" he whispered softly; and then, closing the window, sat down again upon
the sill.
     "I'm afraid," he said in his airy manner, "that I have interrupted you,
gentlemen.  I  was l-looking at the variety  show;  it is s-such a  p-pretty
sight."
     "Sacconi was asking you a question," said Martini gruffly. The Gadfly's
behaviour seemed to him  an absurd piece of  affectation, and he was annoyed
that Gemma should  have been tactless  enough to follow his  example. It was
not like her.
     The Gadfly  disclaimed all knowledge  of the state of  feeling in Pisa,
explaining that  he  had been there "only on a  holiday." He then plunged at
once  into an animated  discussion, first of agricultural prospects, then of
the  pamphlet question; and continued pouring out a flood of stammering talk
till the others were quite tired. He seemed to find some feverish delight in
the sound of his own voice.
     When  the meeting ended  and the members  of the committee  rose to go,
Riccardo came up to Martini.
     "Will you stop to dinner with me? Fabrizi and Sacconi have  promised to
stay."
     "Thanks; but I was going to see Signora Bolla home."
     "Are you really afraid I  can't get home by myself?" she  asked, rising
and  putting on her wrap. "Of course he will stay  with  you,  Dr. Riccardo;
it's good for him to get a change. He doesn't go out half enough."
     "If you  will allow me, I will see you home," the Gadfly interposed; "I
am going in that direction."
     "If you really are going that way----"
     "I  suppose  you won't have time  to drop in here  in the course of the
evening, will you, Rivarez?" asked Riccardo, as he opened the door for them.
     The Gadfly looked back over his shoulder, laughing. "I, my dear fellow?
I'm going to see the variety show!"
     "What  a strange  creature  that  is;  and  what an  odd  affection for
mountebanks!" said Riccardo, coming back to his visitors.
     "Case of a fellow-feeling,  I should think," said Martini; "the man's a
mountebank himself, if ever I saw one."
     "I  wish I could think  he was  only that,"  Fabrizi interposed, with a
grave face. "If he is a mountebank I am afraid he's a very dangerous one."
     "Dangerous in what way?"
     "Well, I  don't like those mysterious little  pleasure trips that he is
so fond of taking. This is the third time, you  know; and I don't believe he
has been in Pisa at all."
     "I suppose it is almost an open  secret that it's into the mountains he
goes," said Sacconi. "He  has  hardly  taken the trouble  to deny that he is
still in relations with the smugglers he got to  know in the Savigno affair,
and  it's quite natural he  should take advantage of their friendship to get
his leaflets across the Papal frontier."
     "For my part," said  Riccardo; "what I wanted to  talk to you about  is
this very  question. It occurred to me that we  could hardly do better  than
ask Rivarez  to undertake the management of our own smuggling. That press at
Pistoja  is  very  inefficiently managed,  to my  thinking; and the way  the
leaflets  are taken across,  always rolled in  those  everlasting cigars, is
more than primitive."
     "It has answered pretty well up till now," said Martini contumaciously.
He was getting wearied  of  hearing Galli and Riccardo always put the Gadfly
forward as a model to copy, and inclined  to think that  the world  had gone
well enough before this  "lackadaisical buccaneer" turned up to set everyone
to rights.
     "It has answered so far  well that we have been  satisfied with it  for
want of anything better; but you know there have been plenty of  arrests and
confiscations. Now I believe that if Rivarez undertook  the business for us,
there would be less of that."
     "Why do you think so?"
     "In  the  first  place, the smugglers look upon  us  as strangers to do
business with, or  as sheep  to  fleece,  whereas Rivarez  is their personal
friend, very likely their leader, whom they look up to and trust. You may be
sure  every smuggler in  the  Apennines will  do for a  man  who was in  the
Savigno revolt what he will not do for us. In the next place, there's hardly
a  man among us that knows  the mountains  as Rivarez does. Remember, he has
been  a fugitive among  them, and  knows the smugglers' paths by  heart.  No
smuggler  would  dare to  cheat him, even if he  wished to,  and no smuggler
could cheat him if he dared to try."
     "Then is your proposal  that we should ask him to  take over  the whole
management    of    our    literature   on   the   other    side   of    the
frontier--distribution, addresses, hiding-places, everything--or simply that
we should ask him to put the things across for us?"
     "Well, as for addresses  and  hiding-places, he  probably knows already
all the  ones that we have  and a good many more  that we have not. I  don't
suppose  we  should  be able  to  teach  him  much  in  that  line.  As  for
distribution, it's as the others prefer,  of course. The important question,
to  my  mind, is  the actual  smuggling  itself. Once the books  are safe in
Bologna, it's a comparatively simple matter to circulate them."
     "For my part,"  said  Martini, "I  am against the  plan. In  the  first
place,  all this about  his skilfulness  is  mere conjecture;  we  have  not
actually seen him engaged in frontier work and  do not know whether he keeps
his head in critical moments."
     "Oh, you needn't have any doubt of that!" Riccardo put in. "The history
of the Savigno affair proves that he keeps his head."
     "And then," Martini went on; "I do not feel at all  inclined, from what
little  I know of Rivarez, to intrust him with all  the party's  secrets. He
seems to me feather-brained and  theatrical. To give the whole management of
a party's contraband  work  into a man's hands is a serious matter. Fabrizi,
what do you think?"
     "If  I  had  only  such  objections  as yours,  Martini,"  replied  the
professor, "I  should certainly  waive them  in the  case of  a  man  really
possessing, as  Rivarez  undoubtedly does, all  the  qualifications Riccardo
speaks of. For my part, I  have not  the slightest  doubt  as to either  his
courage,  his  honesty, or  his presence  of  mind; and that he  knows  both
mountains and  mountaineers  we have  had ample proof.  But there is another
objection. I do not feel sure that it is only for the smuggling of pamphlets
he goes into the mountains. I have begun to doubt whether he has not another
purpose.  This is, of course,  entirely  between ourselves.  It  is  a  mere
suspicion. It seems to  me just possible that  he is  in connexion with some
one of the 'sects,' and perhaps with the most dangerous of them."
     "Which one do you mean--the 'Red Girdles'?"
     "No; the 'Occoltellatori.'"
     "The 'Knifers'! But that is a little body of outlaws--peasants, most of
them, with neither education nor political experience."
     "So  were the insurgents of Savigno; but they had a few educated men as
leaders, and  this  little society may  have  the same.  And remember,  it's
pretty well known that  most of the members  of those  more violent sects in
the Romagna  are  survivors of the  Savigno affair, who found themselves too
weak to fight the Churchmen in open insurrection, and so have fallen back on
assassination. Their hands are not strong enough for guns, and they  take to
knives instead."
     "But what makes you suppose Rivarez to be connected with them?"
     "I don't suppose, I merely suspect. In any  case, I think we had better
find out for certain before we intrust our smuggling to him. If he attempted
to do both kinds of work at once he would injure our party most terribly; he
would simply destroy its reputation and accomplish nothing. However, we will
talk of  that another time.  I wanted  to  speak to you about the news  from
Rome. It is said that a commission  is to be appointed to  draw up a project
for a municipal constitution."PART II: CHAPTER VI.
     GEMMA and the Gadfly walked silently along the  Lung'Arno. His feverish
talkativeness seemed to have quite spent itself; he had hardly spoken a word
since they left Riccardo's door, and Gemma was heartily glad of his silence.
She always felt  embarrassed in his company,  and to-day more so than usual,
for  his strange behaviour at the  committee  meeting  had greatly perplexed
her.
     By the Uffizi palace he suddenly stopped and turned to her.
     "Are you tired?"
     "No; why?"
     "Nor especially busy this evening?"
     "No."
     "I want to ask a favour of you; I want you to come for a walk with me."
     "Where to?"
     "Nowhere in particular; anywhere you like."
     "But what for?"
     He hesitated.
     "I--can't tell you--at  least, it's very  difficult; but please come if
you can."
     He raised his eyes suddenly  from the ground, and  she saw how  strange
their expression was.
     "There is something the matter with you," she said gently. He pulled  a
leaf from the flower in his button-hole, and began tearing it to pieces. Who
was it  that he was so oddly like?  Someone  who had that  same trick of the
fingers and hurried, nervous gesture.
     "I am in trouble," he said, looking down at his hands and speaking in a
hardly audible voice.  "I --don't want to  be  alone  this evening. Will you
come?"
     "Yes, certainly, un