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.
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