The Gadfly moved a step forward and stopped. Oh, it was hard! All these outsiders—these pilgrims and mountaineers—could go up and speak to him, and he would lay his hand on their children's hair. Perhaps he would say “Carino” to that peasant boy, as he used to say——
The Gadfly sank down again on the step, turning away that he might not see. If only he could shrink into some corner and stop his ears to shut out the sound! Indeed, it was more than any man should have to bear—to be so close, so close that he could have put out his arm and touched the dear hand.
“Will you not come under shelter, my friend?” the soft voice said. “I am afraid you are chilled.”
The Gadfly's heart stood still. For a moment he was conscious of nothing but the sickening pressure of the blood that seemed as if it would tear his breast asunder; then it rushed back, tingling and burning through all his body, and he looked up. The grave, deep eyes above him grew suddenly tender with divine compassion at the sight of his face.
“Stand bark a little, friends,” Montanelli said, turning to the crowd; “I want to speak to him.”
The people fell slowly back, whispering to each other, and the Gadfly, sitting motionless, with teeth clenched and eyes on the ground, felt the gentle touch of Montanelli's hand upon his shoulder.
“You have had some great trouble. Can I do anything to help you?”
The Gadfly shook his head in silence.
“Are you a pilgrim?”
“I am a miserable sinner.”