He broke off. Arthur had never seen him like this before, and was greatly troubled.
“I can't understand,” he said. “Padre, if you could explain to me more—more definitely, what it is you think———”
“I think nothing; I am haunted with a horrible fear. Tell me, is there any special danger?”
“He has heard something,” Arthur thought, remembering the whispers of a projected revolt. But the secret was not his to tell; and he merely answered: “What special danger should there be?”
“Don't question me—answer me!” Montanelli's voice was almost harsh in its eagerness. “Are you in danger? I don't want to know your secrets; only tell me that!”
“We are all in God's hands, Padre; anything may always happen. But I know of no reason why I should not be here alive and safe when you come back.”
“When I come back——Listen, carino; I will leave it in your hands. You need give me no reason; only say to me, 'Stay,' and I will give up this journey. There will be no injury to anyone, and I shall feel you are safer if I have you beside me.”
This kind of morbid fancifulness was so foreign to Montanelli's character that Arthur looked at him with grave anxiety.
“Padre, I am sure you are not well. Of course you must go to Rome, and try to have a thorough rest and get rid of your sleeplessness and headaches.”
“Very well,” Montanelli interrupted, as if tired of the subject; “I will start by the early coach to-morrow morning.”