nnot try to judge for you," she answered. "I have not suffered as
you have. But--I have been in rather deep water too, in another way; and
I think--I am sure--that if you let the fear of anything drive you to
do a really cruel or unjust or ungenerous thing, you will regret it
afterwards. For the rest--if you have failed in this one thing, I know
that I, in your place, should have failed altogether,--should have
cursed God and died."

He still kept her hands in his.

"Tell me," he said very softly; "have you ever in your life done a
really cruel thing?"

She did not answer, but her head sank down, and two great tears fell on
his hand.

"Tell me!" he whispered passionately, clasping her hands tighter. "Tell
me! I have told you all my misery."

"Yes,--once,--long ago. And I did it to the person I loved best in the
world."

The hands that clasped hers were trembling violently; but they did not
loosen their hold.

"He was a comrade," she went on; "and I believed a slander against
him,--a common glaring lie that the police had invented. I struck him in
the face for a traitor; and he went away and drowned himself. Then, two
days later, I found out that he had been quite innocent. Perhaps that is
a worse memory than any of yours. I would cut off my right hand to undo
what it has done."

Something swift and dangerous--something that she had not seen
before,--flashed into his eyes. He bent his head down with a furtive,
sudden gesture and kissed the hand.

She drew back with a startled face. "Don't!" she cried out piteously.
"Please don't ever do that again! You hurt me!"

"Do you think you didn't hurt the man you killed?"

"The man I--killed---- Ah, there is Cesare at the gate at last! I--I
must go!"

*****

When Martini came into the room he found the Gadfly lying alone with the
untouched coffee beside him, swearing softly to himself in a languid,
spiritless way, as though he got no satisfaction out of it.

CHAPTER IX.

A FEW days later, the Gadfly, still rather pale and limping more than
usual, entered the reading room of the public library and asked for
Cardinal Montanelli's sermons. Riccardo, who was reading at a table near
him, looked up. He liked the Gadfly very much, but could not digest this
one trait in him--this curious personal maliciousness.

"Are you preparing another volley against that unlucky Cardinal?" he
asked half irritably.

"My dear fellow, why do you a-a-always attribute evil