“May it please Your Eminence,” began the sergeant, in a lowered voice and with evident nervousness, “the colonel thinks that this prisoner is dangerous and that it would be better------” A sudden flash came into Montanelli's eyes. “You can wait in the hall,” he repeated quietly; and the sergeant, saluting and stammering excuses with a frightened face, left the room with his men. “Sit down, please,” said the Cardinal, when the door was shut. The Gadfly obeyed in silence. “Signor Rivarez,” Montanelli began after a pause, “I wish to ask you a few questions, and shall be very much obliged to you if you will answer them.” The Gadfly smiled. “My ch-ch-chief occupation at p-p-present is to be asked questions.” “And--not to answer them? So I have heard; but these questions are put by officials who are investigating your case and whose duty is to use your answers as evidence.” “And th-those of Your Eminence?” There was a covert insult in the tone more than in the words, and the Cardinal understood it at once; but his face did not lose its grave sweetness of expression. “Mine,” he said, “whether you answer them or not, will remain between you and me. If they should trench upon your political secrets, of course you will not answer. Otherwise, though we are complete strangers to each other, I hope that you will do so, as a personal favour to me.” “I am ent-t-tirely at the service of Your Eminence.” He said it with a little bow, and a face that would have taken the heart to ask favours out of the daughters of the horse-leech. “First, then, you are said to have been smuggling firearms into this district. What are they wanted for?” “T-t-to k-k-kill rats with.” “That is a terrible answer. Are all your fellow-men rats in your eyes if they cannot think as you do?” “S-s-some of them.” Montanelli leaned back in his chair and looked at him in silence for a little while. “What is that on your hand?” he asked suddenly. The Gadfly glanced at his left hand. “Old m-m-marks from the teeth of some of the rats.” “Excuse me; I was speaking of the other hand. That is a fresh hurt.” The slender, flexible right hand was badly cut and grazed. The Gadfly held it up. The wrist was swollen, and across it ran a deep and long black bruise. “It is a m-m-mere trifle, as you see,” he said. “When I was arrested the other day,--thanks to Your Eminence,”--he made another little bow,--“one of the soldiers stamped on it.” Montanelli took the wrist and examined it closely. “How does it come to be in such a state now, after three weeks?” he asked. “It is all inflamed.” “Possibly the p-p-pressure of the iron has not done it much good.” The Cardinal looked up with a frown. “Have they been putting irons on a fresh wound?” “N-n-naturally, Your Eminence; that is what fresh wounds are for. Old wounds are not much use. They will only ache; you c-c-can't make them burn properly.”