Keeping in the shadow of the pillars, he crept softly up to the chancel rails, and paused at the side entrance, close to the altar. The shadow of the episcopal throne was broad enough to cover him, and he crouched down in the darkness, holding his breath. “My poor boy! Oh, God; my poor boy!” The broken whisper was full of such endless despair that the Gadfly shuddered in spite of himself. Then came deep, heavy, tearless sobs; and he saw Montanelli wring his hands together like a man in bodily pain. He had not thought it would be so bad as this. How often had he said to himself with bitter assurance: “I need not trouble about it; that wound was healed long ago.” Now, after all these years, it was laid bare before him, and he saw it bleeding still. And how easy it would be to heal it now at last! He need only lift his hand--only step forward and say: “Padre, it is I.” There was Gemma, too, with that white streak across her hair. Oh, if he could but forgive! If he could but cut out from his memory the past that was burned into it so deep--the Lascar, and the sugar-plantation, and the variety show! Surely there was no other misery like this--to be willing to forgive, to long to forgive; and to know that it was hopeless--that he could not, dared not forgive. Montanelli rose at last, made the sign of the cross, and turned away from the altar. The Gadfly shrank further back into the shadow, trembling with fear lest he should be seen, lest the very beating of his heart should betray him; then he drew a long breath of relief. Montanelli had passed him, so close that the violet robe had brushed against his cheek,--had passed and had not seen him. Had not seen him---- Oh, what had he done? This had been his last chance--this one precious moment--and he had let it slip away. He started up and stepped into the light. “Padre!” The sound of his own voice, ringing up and dying away along the arches of the roof, filled him with fantastic terror. He shrank back again into the shadow. Montanelli stood beside the pillar, motionless, listening with wide-open eyes, full of the horror of death. How long the silence lasted the Gadfly could not tell; it might have been an instant, or an eternity. He came to his senses with a sudden shock. Montanelli was beginning to sway as though he would fall, and his lips moved, at first silently. “Arthur!” the low whisper came at last; “yes, the water is deep----” The Gadfly came forward. “Forgive me, Your Eminence! I thought it was one of the priests.” “Ah, it is the pilgrim?” Montanelli had at once recovered his self-control, though the Gadfly could see, from the restless glitter of the sapphire on his hand, that he was still trembling. “Are you in need of anything, my friend? It is late, and the Cathedral is closed at night.” “I beg pardon, Your Eminence, if I have done wrong. I saw the door open, and came in to pray, and when I saw a priest, as I thought, in meditation, I waited to ask a blessing on this.”