He left off sobbing at last, and dried his eyes with his handkerchief, like a child that has been crying. As he stood up the handkerchief slipped from his knee and fell to the floor. “There is no use in talking any more,” he said. “You understand?” “I understand,” the Gadfly answered, with dull submission. “It's not your fault. Your God is hungry, and must be fed.” Montanelli turned towards him. The grave that was to be dug was not more still than they were. Silent, they looked into each other's eyes, as two lovers, torn apart, might gaze across the barrier they cannot pass. It was the Gadfly whose eyes sank first. He shrank down, hiding his face; and Montanelli understood that the gesture meant “Go!” He turned, and went out of the cell. A moment later the Gadfly started up. “Oh, I can't bear it! Padre, come back! Come back!” The door was shut. He looked around him slowly, with a wide, still gaze, and understood that all was over. The Galilean had conquered. All night long the grass waved softly in the courtyard below--the grass that was so soon to wither, uprooted by the spade; and all night long the Gadfly lay alone in the darkness, and sobbed. CHAPTER VII. THE court-martial was held on Tuesday morning. It was a very short and simple affair; a mere formality, occupying barely twenty minutes. There was, indeed, nothing to spend much time over; no defence was allowed, and the only witnesses were the wounded spy and officer and a few soldiers. The sentence was drawn up beforehand; Montanelli had sent in the desired informal consent; and the judges (Colonel Ferrari, the local major of dragoons, and two officers of the Swiss guards) had little to do. The indictment was read aloud, the witnesses gave their evidence, and the signatures were affixed to the sentence, which was then read to the condemned man with befitting solemnity. He listened in silence; and when asked, according to the usual form, whether he had anything to say, merely waved the question aside with an impatient movement of his hand. Hidden on his breast was the handkerchief which Montanelli had let fall. It had been kissed and wept over all night, as though it were a living thing. Now he looked wan and spiritless, and the traces of tears were still about his eyelids; but the words: “to be shot,” did not seem to affect him much. When they were uttered, the pupils of his eyes dilated, but that was all. “Take him back to his cell,” the Governor said, when all the formalities were over; and the sergeant, who was evidently near to breaking down, touched the motionless figure on the shoulder. The Gadfly looked round him with a little start. “Ah, yes!” he said. “I forgot.” There was something almost like pity in the Governor's face. He was not a cruel man by nature, and was secretly a little ashamed of the part he had been playing during the last month. Now that his main point was gained he was willing to make every little concession in his power.