He broke down. Montanelli sat like some stone image, or like a dead man set upright. At first, under the fiery torrent of the Gadfly's despair, he had quivered a little, with the automatic shrinking of the flesh, as under the lash of a whip; but now he was quite still. After a long silence he looked up and spoke, lifelessly, patiently: “Arthur, will you explain to me more clearly? You confuse and terrify me so, I can't understand. What is it you demand of me?” The Gadfly turned to him a spectral face. “I demand nothing. Who shall compel love? You are free to choose between us two the one who is most dear to you. If you love Him best, choose Him.” “I can't understand,” Montanelli repeated wearily. “What is there I can choose? I cannot undo the past.” “You have to choose between us. If you love me, take that cross off your neck and come away with me. My friends are arranging another attempt, and with your help they could manage it easily. Then, when we are safe over the frontier, acknowledge me publicly. But if you don't love me enough for that,--if this wooden idol is more to you than I,--then go to the colonel and tell him you consent. And if you go, then go at once, and spare me the misery of seeing you. I have enough without that.” Montanelli looked up, trembling faintly. He was beginning to understand. “I will communicate with your friends, of course. But--to go with you--it is impossible--I am a priest.” “And I accept no favours from priests. I will have no more compromises, Padre; I have had enough of them, and of their consequences. You must give up your priesthood, or you must give up me.” “How can I give you up? Arthur, how can I give you up?” “Then give up Him. You have to choose between us. Would you offer me a share of your love--half for me, half for your fiend of a God? I will not take His leavings. If you are His, you are not mine.” “Would you have me tear my heart in two? Arthur! Arthur! Do you want to drive me mad?” The Gadfly struck his hand against the wall. “You have to choose between us,” he repeated once more. Montanelli drew from his breast a little case containing a bit of soiled and crumpled paper. “Look!” he said. “I believed in you, as I believed in God. God is a thing made of clay, that I can smash with a hammer; and you have fooled me with a lie.” The Gadfly laughed and handed it back. “How d-d-delightfully young one is at nineteen! To take a hammer and smash things seems so easy. It's that now--only it's I that am under the hammer. As for you, there are plenty of other people you can fool with lies--and they won't even find you out.”