He spoke very coldly, with a stiff, imperious manner that was not natural to him. Until the straps were off, the Gadfly was to him simply a grievously wronged and tortured human being; but now he recalled their last interview, and the deadly insult with which it had closed. The Gadfly looked up, resting his head lazily on one arm. He possessed the gift of slipping into graceful attitudes; and when his face was in shadow no one would have guessed through what deep waters he had been passing. But, as he looked up, the clear evening light showed how haggard and colourless he was, and how plainly the trace of the last few days was stamped on him. Montanelli's anger died away. “I am afraid you have been terribly ill,” he said. “I am sincerely sorry that I did not know of all this. I would have put a stop to it before.” The Gadfly shrugged his shoulders. “All's fair in war,” he said coolly. “Your Eminence objects to straps theoretically, from the Christian standpoint; but it is hardly fair to expect the colonel to see that. He, no doubt, would prefer not to try them on his own skin--which is j-j-just my case. But that is a matter of p-p-personal convenience. At this moment I am undermost--w-w-what would you have? It is very kind of Your Eminence, though, to call here; but perhaps that was done from the C-c-christian standpoint, too. Visiting prisoners--ah, yes! I forgot. 'Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the l-least of these'--it's not very complimentary, but one of the least is duly grateful.” “Signor Rivarez,” the Cardinal interrupted, “I have come here on your account--not on my own. If you had not been 'undermost,' as you call it, I should never have spoken to you again after what you said to me last week; but you have the double privilege of a prisoner and a sick man, and I could not refuse to come. Have you anything to say to me, now I am here; or have you sent for me merely to amuse yourself by insulting an old man?” There was no answer. The Gadfly had turned away, and was lying with one hand across his eyes. “I am--very sorry to trouble you,” he said at last, huskily; “but could I have a little water?” There was a jug of water standing by the window, and Montanelli rose and fetched it. As he slipped his arm round the Gadfly to lift him, he suddenly felt the damp, cold fingers close over his wrist like a vice. “Give me your hand--quick--just a moment,” the Gadfly whispered. “Oh, what difference does it make to you? Only one minute!” He sank down, hiding his face on Montanelli's arm, and quivering from head to foot. “Drink a little water,” Montanelli said after a moment. The Gadfly obeyed silently; then lay back on the pallet with closed eyes. He himself could have given no explanation of what had happened to him when Montanelli's hand had touched his cheek; he only knew that in all his life there had been nothing more terrible.