“Ah, it is the pilgrim?” Montanelli had at once recovered his self-control, though the Gadfly could see, from the restless glitter of the sapphire on his hand, that he was still trembling. “Are you in need of anything, my friend? It is late, and the Cathedral is closed at night.”
“I beg pardon, Your Eminence, if I have done wrong. I saw the door open, and came in to pray, and when I saw a priest, as I thought, in meditation, I waited to ask a blessing on this.”
He held up the little tin cross that he had bought from Domenichino. Montanelli took it from his hand, and, re-entering the chancel, laid it for a moment on the altar.
“Take it, my son,” he said, “and be at rest, for the Lord is tender and pitiful. Go to Rome, and ask the blessing of His minister, the Holy Father. Peace be with you!”
The Gadfly bent his head to receive the benediction, and turned slowly away.
“Stop!” said Montanelli.
He was standing with one hand on the chancel rail.
“When you receive the Holy Eucharist in Rome,” he said, “pray for one in deep affliction—for one on whose soul the hand of the Lord is heavy.”
There were almost tears in his voice, and the Gadfly's resolution wavered. Another instant and he would have betrayed himself. Then the thought of the variety-show came up again, and he remembered, like Jonah, that he did well to be angry.
“Who am I, that He should hear my prayers? A leper and an outcast! If I could bring to His throne, as Your Eminence can, the offering of a holy life—of a soul without spot or secret shame———”