The Gadfly was hardly recognizable; he was beside himself with rage and desperation, panting and quivering, his eyes glittering with green reflections like the eyes of an angry cat. Montanelli had risen, and was looking down at him silently. He did not understand the drift of the frenzied reproaches, but he understood out of what extremity they were uttered; and, understanding that, forgave all past insults. “Hush!” he said. “I did not want to hurt you so. Indeed, I never meant to shift my burden on to you, who have too much already. I have never consciously done that to any living creature----” “It's a lie!” the Gadfly cried out with blazing eyes. “And the bishopric?” “The--bishopric?” “Ah! you've forgotten that? It's so easy to forget! 'If you wish it, Arthur, I will say I cannot go. I was to decide your life for you--I, at nineteen! If it weren't so hideous, it would be funny.” “Stop!” Montanelli put up both hands to his head with a desperate cry. He let them fall again, and walked slowly away to the window. There he sat down on the sill, resting one arm on the bars, and pressing his forehead against it. The Gadfly lay and watched him, trembling. Presently Montanelli rose and came back, with lips as pale as ashes. “I am very sorry,” he said, struggling piteously to keep up his usual quiet manner, “but I must go home. I--am not quite well.” He was shivering as if with ague. All the Gadfly's fury broke down. “Padre, can't you see----” Montanelli shrank away, and stood still. “Only not that!” he whispered at last. “My God, anything but that! If I am going mad----” The Gadfly raised himself on one arm, and took the shaking hands in his. “Padre, will you never understand that I am not really drowned?” The hands grew suddenly cold and stiff. For a moment everything was dead with silence, and then Montanelli knelt down and hid his face on the Gadfly's breast. ***** When he raised his head the sun had set, and the red glow was dying in the west. They had forgotten time and place, and life and death; they had forgotten, even, that they were enemies. “Arthur,” Montanelli whispered, “are you real? Have you come back to me from the dead?” “From the dead----” the Gadfly repeated, shivering. He was lying with his head on Montanelli's arm, as a sick child might lie in its mother's embrace. “You have come back--you have come back at last!” The Gadfly sighed heavily. “Yes,” he said; “and you have to fight me, or to kill me.”