“Give me the hand,” he said.
The Gadfly, with a face as hard as beaten iron, held out the hand, and Montanelli, after bathing the injured place, gently bandaged it. Evidently he was accustomed to such work.
“I will speak about the irons,” he said. “And now I want to ask you another question: What do you propose to do?”
“Th-th-that is very simply answered, Your Eminence. To escape if I can, and if I can't, to die.”
“Why 'to die'?”
“Because if the Governor doesn't succeed in getting me shot, I shall be sent to the galleys, and for me that c-c-comes to the same thing. I have not got the health to live through it.”
Montanelli rested his arm on the table and pondered silently. The Gadfly did not disturb him. He was leaning back with half-shut eyes, lazily enjoying the delicious physical sensation of relief from the chains.
“Supposing,” Montanelli began again, “that you were to succeed in escaping; what should you do with your life?”
“I have already told Your Eminence; I should k-k-kill rats.”
“You would kill rats. That is to say, that if I were to let you escape from here now,—supposing I had the power to do so,—you would use your freedom to foster violence and bloodshed instead of preventing them?”