"I am very sorry," he said, struggling piteously
to keep up his usual quiet manner, "but I must
go home. I--am not quite well."
He was shivering as if with ague. All the Gadfly's
fury broke down.
"Padre, can't you see----"
Montanelli shrank away, and stood still.
"Only not that!" he whispered at last. "My
God, anything but that! If I am going mad----"
The Gadfly raised himself on one arm, and took
the shaking hands in his.
"Padre, will you never understand that I am
not really drowned?"
The hands grew suddenly cold and stiff. For a
moment everything was dead with silence, and
then Montanelli knelt down and hid his face on
the Gadfly's breast.
. . . . .
When he raised his head the sun had set, and
the red glow was dying in the west. They had
forgotten time and place, and life and death; they
had forgotten, even, that they were enemies.
"Arthur," Montanelli whispered, "are you
real? Have you come back to me from the dead?"
"From the dead----" the Gadfly repeated,
shivering.
Pages:
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490