s, of course--the only
decision a Christian man could possibly come to. 'If thy r-right hand
offend thee,' etc. I have n-not the honour to be the right hand of Your
Eminence, and I have offended you; the c-c-conclusion is plain. Couldn't
you tell me that without so much preamble?"

The Gadfly spoke with languid indifference and contempt, like a man
weary of the whole subject.

"Well?" he added after a little pause. "Was that the decision, Your
Eminence?"

"No."

The Gadfly shifted his position, putting both hands behind his head, and
looked at Montanelli with half-shut eyes. The Cardinal, with his head
sunk down as in deep thought, was softly beating one hand on the arm of
his chair. Ah, that old, familiar gesture!

"I have decided," he said, raising his head at last, "to do, I suppose,
an utterly unprecedented thing. When I heard that you had asked to see
me, I resolved to come here and tell you everything, as I have done, and
to place the matter in your own hands."

"In--my hands?"

"Signor Rivarez, I have not come to you as cardinal, or as bishop, or
as judge; I have come to you as one man to another. I do not ask you to
tell me whether you know of any such scheme as the colonel apprehends.
I understand quite well that, if you do, it is your secret and you will
not tell it. But I do ask you to put yourself in my place. I am old,
and, no doubt, have not much longer to live. I would go down to my grave
without blood on my hands."

"Is there none on them as yet, Your Eminence?"

Montanelli grew a shade paler, but went on quietly:

"All my life I have opposed repressive measures and cruelty wherever I
have met with them. I have always disapproved of capital punishment in
all its forms; I have protested earnestly and repeatedly against the
military commissions in the last reign, and have been out of favour
on account of doing so. Up till now such influence and power as I have
possessed have always been employed on the side of mercy. I ask you to
believe me, at least, that I am speaking the truth. Now, I am placed in
this dilemma. By refusing, I am exposing the town to the danger of
riots and all their consequences; and this to save the life of a man
who blasphemes against my religion, who has slandered and wronged and
insulted me personally (though that is comparatively a trifle), and who,
as I firmly believe, will put that life to a bad use when it is given to
him. But--it is to save a man's life."

He pau