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.
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