He stood by the window, looking on, till the sergeant threw down the fetters and approached him.
“Now,” he said, “tell me everything that has been happening.”
The sergeant, nothing loath, related all that he knew of the Gadfly's illness, of the “disciplinary measures,” and of the doctor's unsuccessful attempt to interfere.
“But I think, Your Eminence,” he added, “that the colonel wanted the straps kept on as a means of getting evidence.”
“Evidence?”
“Yes, Your Eminence; the day before yesterday I heard him offer to have them taken off if he”—with a glance at the Gadfly—“would answer a question he had asked.”
Montanelli clenched his hand on the window-sill, and the soldiers glanced at one another: they had never seen the gentle Cardinal angry before. As for the Gadfly, he had forgotten their existence; he had forgotten everything except the physical sensation of freedom. He was cramped in every limb; and now stretched, and turned, and twisted about in a positive ecstasy of relief.
“You can go now, sergeant,” the Cardinal said. “You need not feel anxious about having committed a breach of discipline; it was your duty to tell me when I asked you. See that no one disturbs us. I will come out when I am ready.”
When the door had closed behind the soldiers, he leaned on the window-sill and looked for a while at the sinking sun, so as to leave the Gadfly a little more breathing time.
“I have heard,” he said presently, leaving the window, and sitting down beside the pallet, “that you wish to speak to me alone. If you feel well enough to tell me what you wanted to say, I am at your service.”