He broke down. Montanelli sat like some stone image, or like a dead man set upright. At first, under the fiery torrent of the Gadfly's despair, he had quivered a little, with the automatic shrinking of the flesh, as under the lash of a whip; but now he was quite still. After a long silence he looked up and spoke, lifelessly, patiently:
“Arthur, will you explain to me more clearly? You confuse and terrify me so, I can't understand. What is it you demand of me?”
The Gadfly turned to him a spectral face.
“I demand nothing. Who shall compel love? You are free to choose between us two the one who is most dear to you. If you love Him best, choose Him.”
“I can't understand,” Montanelli repeated wearily. “What is there I can choose? I cannot undo the past.”
“You have to choose between us. If you love me, take that cross off your neck and come away with me. My friends are arranging another attempt, and with your help they could manage it easily. Then, when we are safe over the frontier, acknowledge me publicly. But if you don't love me enough for that,—if this wooden idol is more to you than I,—then go to the colonel and tell him you consent. And if you go, then go at once, and spare me the misery of seeing you. I have enough without that.”
Montanelli looked up, trembling faintly. He was beginning to understand.
“I will communicate with your friends, of course. But—to go with you—it is impossible—I am a priest.”
“And I accept no favours from priests. I will have no more compromises, Padre; I have had enough of them, and of their consequences. You must give up your priesthood, or you must give up me.”
“How can I give you up? Arthur, how can I give you up?”