“Stop!” Montanelli put up both hands to his head with a desperate cry. He let them fall again, and walked slowly away to the window. There he sat down on the sill, resting one arm on the bars, and pressing his forehead against it. The Gadfly lay and watched him, trembling.
Presently Montanelli rose and came back, with lips as pale as ashes.
“I am very sorry,” he said, struggling piteously to keep up his usual quiet manner, “but I must go home. I—am not quite well.”
He was shivering as if with ague. All the Gadfly's fury broke down.
“Padre, can't you see——”
Montanelli shrank away, and stood still.
“Only not that!” he whispered at last. “My God, anything but that! If I am going mad——”
The Gadfly raised himself on one arm, and took the shaking hands in his.
“Padre, will you never understand that I am not really drowned?”
The hands grew suddenly cold and stiff. For a moment everything was dead with silence, and then Montanelli knelt down and hid his face on the Gadfly's breast.