When he raised his head the sun had set, and the red glow was dying in the west. They had forgotten time and place, and life and death; they had forgotten, even, that they were enemies.
“Arthur,” Montanelli whispered, “are you real? Have you come back to me from the dead?”
“From the dead——” the Gadfly repeated, shivering. He was lying with his head on Montanelli's arm, as a sick child might lie in its mother's embrace.
“You have come back—you have come back at last!”
The Gadfly sighed heavily. “Yes,” he said; “and you have to fight me, or to kill me.”
“Oh, hush, carino! What is all that now? We have been like two children lost in the dark, mistaking one another for phantoms. Now we have found each other, and have come out into the light. My poor boy, how changed you are—how changed you are! You look as if all the ocean of the world's misery had passed over your head—you that used to be so full of the joy of life! Arthur, is it really you? I have dreamed so often that you had come back to me; and then have waked and seen the outer darkness staring in upon an empty place. How can I know I shall not wake again and find it all a dream? Give me something tangible—tell me how it all happened.”
“It happened simply enough. I hid on a goods vessel, as stowaway, and got out to South America.”
“And there?”
“There I—lived, if you like to call it so, till—oh, I have seen something else besides theological seminaries since you used to teach me philosophy! You say you have dreamed of me—yes, and much! You say you have dreamed of me—yes, and I of you——”