The Gadfly sank down again on the step, turning away that he might not see. If only he could shrink into some corner and stop his ears to shut out the sound! Indeed, it was more than any man should have to bear--to be so close, so close that he could have put out his arm and touched the dear hand. “Will you not come under shelter, my friend?” the soft voice said. “I am afraid you are chilled.” The Gadfly's heart stood still. For a moment he was conscious of nothing but the sickening pressure of the blood that seemed as if it would tear his breast asunder; then it rushed back, tingling and burning through all his body, and he looked up. The grave, deep eyes above him grew suddenly tender with divine compassion at the sight of his face. “Stand bark a little, friends,” Montanelli said, turning to the crowd; “I want to speak to him.” The people fell slowly back, whispering to each other, and the Gadfly, sitting motionless, with teeth clenched and eyes on the ground, felt the gentle touch of Montanelli's hand upon his shoulder. “You have had some great trouble. Can I do anything to help you?” The Gadfly shook his head in silence. “Are you a pilgrim?” “I am a miserable sinner.” The accidental similarity of Montanelli's question to the password came like a chance straw, that the Gadfly, in his desperation, caught at, answering automatically. He had begun to tremble under the soft pressure of the hand that seemed to burn upon his shoulder. The Cardinal bent down closer to him. “Perhaps you would care to speak to me alone? If I can be any help to you----” For the first time the Gadfly looked straight and steadily into Montanelli's eyes; he was already recovering his self-command. “It would be no use,” he said; “the thing is hopeless.” A police official stepped forward out of the crowd. “Forgive my intruding, Your Eminence. I think the old man is not quite sound in his mind. He is perfectly harmless, and his papers are in order, so we don't interfere with him. He has been in penal servitude for a great crime, and is now doing penance.” “A great crime,” the Gadfly repeated, shaking his head slowly. “Thank you, captain; stand aside a little, please. My friend, nothing is hopeless if a man has sincerely repented. Will you not come to me this evening?” “Would Your Eminence receive a man who is guilty of the death of his own son?” The question had almost the tone of a challenge, and Montanelli shrank and shivered under it as under a cold wind. “God forbid that I should condemn you, whatever you have done!” he said solemnly. “In His sight we are all guilty alike, and our righteousness is as filthy rags. If you will come to me I will receive you as I pray that He may one day receive me.” The Gadfly stretched out his hands with a sudden gesture of passion.