The Gadfly by E. L. Voynich (ebook reader android TXT) 📕

his shoulder at

the open grave.

 

“And s-s-so your reverence thinks that, when

you have put me down there, you will have done

with me? Perhaps you will lay a stone on the top

to pre-v-vent a r-resurrection ‘after three days’?

No fear, your reverence! I shan’t poach on the

monopoly in cheap theatricals; I shall lie as still as

a m-mouse, just where you put me. And all the

same, WE shall use field-guns.”

 

“Oh, merciful God,” the priest cried out; “forgive

this wretched man!”

 

“Amen!” murmured the lieutenant of carabineers,

in a deep bass growl, while the colonel and

his nephew crossed themselves devoutly.

 

As there was evidently no hope of further insistence

producing any effect, the priest gave up the

fruitless attempt and moved aside, shaking his

head and murmuring a prayer. The short and

simple preparations were made without more delay,

and the Gadfly placed himself in the required

position, only turning his head to glance up for

a moment at the red and yellow splendour of the

sunrise. He had repeated the request that his

eyes might not be bandaged, and his defiant face

had wrung from the colonel a reluctant consent.

They had both forgotten what they were inflicting

on the soldiers.

 

He stood and faced them, smiling, and the carbines

shook in their hands.

 

“I am quite ready,” he said.

 

The lieutenant stepped forward, trembling a

little with excitement. He had never given the

word of command for an execution before.

 

“Ready—present—fire!”

 

The Gadfly staggered a little and recovered his

balance. One unsteady shot had grazed his cheek,

and a little blood fell on to the white cravat.

Another ball had struck him above the knee.

When the smoke cleared away the soldiers looked

and saw him smiling still and wiping the blood

from his cheek with the mutilated hand

 

“A bad shot, men!” he said; and his voice cut

in, clear and articulate, upon the dazed stupor of

the wretched soldiers. “Have another try.”

 

A general groan and shudder passed through

the row of carabineers. Each man had aimed aside,

with a secret hope that the death-shot would come

from his neighbour’s hand, not his; and there the

Gadfly stood and smiled at them; they had only

turned the execution into a butchery, and the

whole ghastly business was to do again. They

were seized with sudden terror, and, lowering their

carbines, listened hopelessly to the furious curses

and reproaches of the officers, staring in dull

horror at the man whom they had killed and who

somehow was not dead.

 

The Governor shook his fist in their faces,

savagely shouting to them to stand in position,

to present arms, to make haste and get the thing

over. He had become as thoroughly demoralized

as they were, and dared not look at the terrible

figure that stood, and stood, and would not fall.

When the Gadfly spoke to him he started and

shuddered at the sound of the mocking voice.

 

“You have brought out the awkward squad this

morning, colonel! Let me see if I can manage

them better. Now, men! Hold your tool higher

there, you to the left. Bless your heart, man, it’s

a carbine you’ve got in your hand, not a frying-pan!

Are you all straight? Now then! Ready—present–-”

 

“Fire!” the colonel interrupted, starting forward.

It was intolerable that this man should

give the command for his own death.

 

There was another confused, disorganized volley,

and the line broke up into a knot of shivering

figures, staring before them with wild eyes. One

of the soldiers had not even discharged his carbine;

he had flung it away, and crouched down, moaning

under his breath: “I can’t—I can’t!”

 

The smoke cleared slowly away, floating up into

the glimmer of the early sunlight; and they saw

that the Gadfly had fallen; and saw, too, that he

was still not dead. For the first moment soldiers

and officials stood as if they had been turned to

stone, and watched the ghastly thing that writhed

and struggled on the ground; then both doctor

and colonel rushed forward with a cry, for he had

dragged himself up on one knee and was still facing

the soldiers, and still laughing.

 

“Another miss! Try—again, lads—see—if you can’t–-”

 

He suddenly swayed and fell over sideways on

the grass.

 

“Is he dead?” the colonel asked under his

breath; and the doctor, kneeling down, with a

hand on the bloody shirt, answered softly:

 

“I think so—God be praised!”

 

“God be praised!” the colonel repeated. “At

last!”

 

His nephew was touching him on the arm.

 

“Uncle! It’s the Cardinal! He’s at the gate

and wants to come in.”

 

“What? He can’t come in—I won’t have

it! What are the guards about? Your Eminence–-”

 

The gate had opened and shut, and Montanelli

was standing in the courtyard, looking before him

with still and awful eyes.

 

“Your Eminence! I must beg of you—this is

not a fit sight for you! The execution is only just

over; the body is not yet–-”

 

“I have come to look at him,” Montanelli said.

Even at the moment it struck the Governor that

his voice and bearing were those of a sleep-walker.

 

“Oh, my God!” one of the soldiers cried out

suddenly; and the Governor glanced hastily back.

Surely––

 

The blood-stained heap on the grass had once

more begun to struggle and moan. The doctor

flung himself down and lifted the head upon his knee.

 

“Make haste!” he cried in desperation. “You

savages, make haste! Get it over, for God’s sake!

There’s no bearing this!”

 

Great jets of blood poured over his hands, and

the convulsions of the figure that he held in his

arms shook him, too, from head to foot. As he

looked frantically round for help, the priest bent

over his shoulder and put a crucifix to the lips of

the dying man.

 

“In the name of the Father and of the Son–-”

 

The Gadfly raised himself against the doctor’s

knee, and, with wide-open eyes, looked straight

upon the crucifix.

 

Slowly, amid hushed and frozen stillness, he

lifted the broken right hand and pushed away the

image. There was a red smear across its face.

 

“Padre—is your—God—satisfied?”

 

His head fell back on the doctor’s arm.

 

… . .

 

“Your Eminence!”

 

As the Cardinal did not awake from his stupor,

Colonel Ferrari repeated, louder:

 

“Your Eminence!”

 

Montanelli looked up.

 

“He is dead.”

 

“Quite dead, your Eminence. Will you not

come away? This is a horrible sight.”

 

“He is dead,” Montanelli repeated, and looked

down again at the face. “I touched him; and he

is dead.”

 

“What does he expect a man to be with half a

dozen bullets in him?” the lieutenant whispered

contemptuously; and the doctor whispered back.

“I think the sight of the blood has upset him.”

 

The Governor put his hand firmly on Montanelli’s arm.

 

“Your Eminence—you had better not look at

him any longer. Will you allow the chaplain to

escort you home?”

 

“Yes—I will go.”

 

He turned slowly from the blood-stained spot

and walked away, the priest and sergeant following.

At the gate he paused and looked back, with

a ghostlike, still surprise.

 

“He is dead.”

 

… . .

 

A few hours later Marcone went up to a cottage

on the hillside to tell Martini that there

was no longer any need for him to throw away his

life.

 

All the preparations for a second attempt at

rescue were ready, as the plot was much more

simple than the former one. It had been arranged

that on the following morning, as the Corpus

Domini procession passed along the fortress hill,

Martini should step forward out of the crowd,

draw a pistol from his breast, and fire in the Governor’s

face. In the moment of wild confusion

which would follow twenty armed men were to

make a sudden rush at the gate, break into the

tower, and, taking the turnkey with them by force,

to enter the prisoner’s cell and carry him bodily

away, killing or overpowering everyone who interfered

with them. From the gate they were to

retire fighting, and cover the retreat of a second

band of armed and mounted smugglers, who would

carry him off into a safe hiding-place in the

hills. The only person in the little group who

knew nothing of the plan was Gemma; it had been

kept from her at Martini’s special desire. “She

will break her heart over it soon enough,” he had

said.

 

As the smuggler came in at the garden gate

Martini opened the glass door and stepped out

on to the verandah to meet him.

 

“Any news, Marcone? Ah!”

 

The smuggler had pushed back his broad-brimmed

straw hat.

 

They sat down together on the verandah. Not

a word was spoken on either side. From the

instant when Martini had caught sight of the face

under the hat-brim he had understood.

 

“When was it?” he asked after a long pause;

and his own voice, in his ears, was as dull and

wearisome as everything else.

 

“This morning, at sunrise. The sergeant told

me. He was there and saw it.”

 

Martini looked down and flicked a stray thread

from his coatsleeve.

 

Vanity of vanities; this also is vanity. He was

to have died to-morrow. And now the land

of his heart’s desire had vanished, like the fairyland

of golden sunset dreams that fades away when

the darkness comes; and he was driven back into

the world of every day and every night—the world

of Grassini and Galli, of ciphering and pamphleteering,

of party squabbles between comrades

and dreary intrigues among Austrian spies—of the

old revolutionary mill-round that maketh the

heart sick. And somewhere down at the bottom

of his consciousness there was a great empty place;

a place that nothing and no one would fill any

more, now that the Gadfly was dead.

 

Someone was asking him a question, and he

raised his head, wondering what could be left that

was worth the trouble of talking about.

 

“What did you say?”

 

“I was saying that of course you will break the

news to her.”

 

Life, and all the horror of life, came back into

Martini’s face.

 

“How can I tell her?” he cried out. “You

might as well ask me to go and stab her. Oh,

how can I tell her—how can I!”

 

He had clasped both hands over his eyes; but,

without seeing, he felt the smuggler start beside

him, and looked up. Gemma was standing in the

doorway.

 

“Have you heard, Cesare?” she said. “It is

all over. They have shot him.”

 

CHAPTER VIII.

 

“INTROIBO ad altare Dei.” Montanelli stood

before the high altar among his ministers and acolytes

and read the Introit aloud in steady tones.

All the Cathedral was a blaze of light and colour;

from the holiday dresses of the congregation to

the pillars with their flaming draperies and wreaths

of flowers there was no dull spot in it. Over the

open spaces of the doorway fell great scarlet curtains,

through whose folds the hot June sunlight

glowed, as through the petals of red poppies in

a corn-field. The religious orders with their candles

and torches, the companies of the parishes

with their crosses and flags, lighted up the dim

side-chapels; and in the aisles the silken folds of

the processional banners drooped, their gilded

staves and tassels glinting under the arches. The

surplices of the choristers gleamed, rainbow-tinted,

beneath the coloured windows; the sunlight

lay on the chancel floor in chequered stains of

orange and purple and green. Behind the altar

hung a shimmering veil