“And you got in his way--was that it? You shouldn't get in people's way when they are drunk, little man; they don't like it. What shall we do with this poor mite, signora? Come here to the light, sonny, and let me look at that shoulder. Put your arm round my neck; I won't hurt you. There we are!” He lifted the boy in his arms, and, carrying him across the street, set him down on the wide stone balustrade. Then, taking out a pocket-knife, he deftly ripped up the torn sleeve, supporting the child's head against his breast, while Gemma held the injured arm. The shoulder was badly bruised and grazed, and there was a deep gash on the arm. “That's an ugly cut to give a mite like you,” said the Gadfly, fastening his handkerchief round the wound to prevent the jacket from rubbing against it. “What did he do it with?” “The shovel. I went to ask him to give me a soldo to get some polenta at the corner shop, and he hit me with the shovel.” The Gadfly shuddered. “Ah!” he said softly, “that hurts; doesn't it, little one?” “He hit me with the shovel--and I ran away--I ran away--because he hit me.” “And you've been wandering about ever since, without any dinner?” Instead of answering, the child began to sob violently. The Gadfly lifted him off the balustrade. “There, there! We'll soon set all that straight. I wonder if we can get a cab anywhere. I'm afraid they'll all be waiting by the theatre; there's a grand performance going on to-night. I am sorry to drag you about so, signora; but----” “I would rather come with you. You may want help. Do you think you can carry him so far? Isn't he very heavy?” “Oh, I can manage, thank you.” At the theatre door they found only a few cabs waiting, and these were all engaged. The performance was over, and most of the audience had gone. Zita's name was printed in large letters on the wall-placards; she had been dancing in the ballet. Asking Gemma to wait for him a moment, the Gadfly went round to the performers' entrance, and spoke to an attendant. “Has Mme. Reni gone yet?” “No, sir,” the man answered, staring blankly at the spectacle of a well-dressed gentleman carrying a ragged street child in his arms, “Mme. Reni is just coming out, I think; her carriage is waiting for her. Yes; there she comes.” Zita descended the stairs, leaning on the arm of a young cavalry officer. She looked superbly handsome, with an opera cloak of flame-coloured velvet thrown over her evening dress, and a great fan of ostrich plumes hanging from her waist. In the entry she stopped short, and, drawing her hand away from the officer's arm, approached the Gadfly in amazement. “Felice!” she exclaimed under her breath, “what HAVE you got there?” “I have picked up this child in the street. It is hurt and starving; and I want to get it home as quickly as possible. There is not a cab to be got anywhere, so I want to have your carriage.”