“Yes, I am listening.”
“Perhaps you are really not well enough to stand this conversation to-night. Shall I come back in the morning? It is a very serious matter, and I want your whole attention.”
“I would rather get it over now,” the Gadfly answered in the same tone. “I follow everything you say.”
“Now, if it be true,” Montanelli went on, “that there is any real danger of riots and bloodshed on account of you, I am taking upon myself a tremendous responsibility in opposing the colonel; and I believe there is at least some truth in what he says. On the other hand, I am inclined to think that his judgment is warped, to a certain extent, by his personal animosity against you, and that he probably exaggerates the danger. That seems to me the more likely since I have seen this shameful brutality.” He glanced at the straps and chains lying on the floor, and went on:
“If I consent, I kill you; if I refuse, I run the risk of killing innocent persons. I have considered the matter earnestly, and have sought with all my heart for a way out of this dreadful alternative. And now at last I have made up my mind.”
“To kill me and s-save the innocent persons, 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!