Montanelli started up as if he had been struck. For a moment he stood looking straight before him;—then he sat down on the edge of the pallet, covered his face with both hands, and burst into tears. A long shudder passed through the Gadfly, and the damp cold broke out on his body. He knew what the tears meant.
He drew the blanket over his head that he might not hear. It was enough that he had to die—he who was so vividly, magnificently alive. But he could not shut out the sound; it rang in his ears, it beat in his brain, it throbbed in all his pulses. And still Montanelli sobbed and sobbed, and the tears dripped down between his fingers.
He left off sobbing at last, and dried his eyes with his handkerchief, like a child that has been crying. As he stood up the handkerchief slipped from his knee and fell to the floor.
“There is no use in talking any more,” he said. “You understand?”
“I understand,” the Gadfly answered, with dull submission. “It's not your fault. Your God is hungry, and must be fed.”
Montanelli turned towards him. The grave that was to be dug was not more still than they were. Silent, they looked into each other's eyes, as two lovers, torn apart, might gaze across the barrier they cannot pass.
It was the Gadfly whose eyes sank first. He shrank down, hiding his face; and Montanelli understood that the gesture meant “Go!” He turned, and went out of the cell. A moment later the Gadfly started up.
“Oh, I can't bear it! Padre, come back! Come back!”
The door was shut. He looked around him slowly, with a wide, still gaze, and understood that all was over. The Galilean had conquered.
All night long the grass waved softly in the courtyard below—the grass that was so soon to wither, uprooted by the spade; and all night long the Gadfly lay alone in the darkness, and sobbed.