Surely nothing
could be going on there so late at night. He
might as well go in and sleep on one of the benches
instead of in the stifling barn; he could slip out in
the morning before the sacristan came; and even
if anyone did find him, the natural supposition
would be that mad Diego had been saying his
prayers in some corner, and had got shut in.
He listened a moment at the door, and then
entered with the noiseless step that he had retained
notwithstanding his lameness. The moonlight
streamed through the windows, and lay in broad
bands on the marble floor. In the chancel, especially,
everything was as clearly visible as by daylight. At
the foot of 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.
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