“Ora voglio contare la morte del Tribuno.” ­("Vita di Cola di
     Rienzi”, lib. ii. ca.)

     “Now will I narrate the death of the Tribune.” ­“Life of
     Cola di Rienzi”.

On the fourth day of the siege, and after beating back to those almost impregnable walls the soldiery of the Barons, headed by the Prince of the Orsini, the Senator returned to his tent, where despatches from Rome awaited him.  He ran his eye hastily over them, till he came to the last; yet each contained news that might have longer delayed the eye of a man less inured to danger.  From one he learned that Albornoz, whose blessing had confirmed to him the rank of Senator, had received with special favour the messengers of the Orsini and Colonna.  He knew that the Cardinal, whose views connected him with the Roman Patricians, desired his downfall; but he feared not Albornoz:  perhaps in his secret heart he wished that any open aggression from the Pontiff’s Legate might throw him wholly on the people.

He learned further, that, short as had been his absence, Pandulfo di Guido had twice addressed the populace, not in favour of the Senator, but in artful regrets of the loss to the trade of Rome in the absence of her wealthiest nobles.

“For this, then, he has deserted me,” said Rienzi to himself.  “Let him beware!”

The tidings contained in the next touched him home:  Walter de Montreal had openly arrived in Rome.  The grasping and lawless bandit, whose rapine filled with a robber’s booty every bank in Europe ­whose Company was the army of a King ­whose ambition, vast, unprincipled, and profound, he so well knew ­whose brothers were in his camp ­their treason already more than suspected; ­Walter de Montreal was in Rome!

The Senator remained perfectly aghast at this new peril; and then said, setting his teeth as in a vice,

“Wild tiger, thou art in the Lion’s den!” Then pausing, he broke out again, “One false step, Walter de Montreal, and all the mailed hands of the Grand Company shall not pluck thee from the abyss!  But what can I do?  Return to Rome ­the plans of Montreal unpenetrated ­no accusation against him!  On what pretence can I with honour raise the siege?  To leave Palestrina, is to give a triumph to the Barons ­to abandon Adrian, to degrade my cause.  Yet, while away from Rome, every hour breeds treason and danger.  Pandulfo, Albornoz, Montreal ­all are at work against me.  A keen and trusty spy, now; ­ha, well thought of ­Villani! ­What, ho ­Angelo Villani!”

The young chamberlain appeared.

“I think,” said Rienzi, “to have often heard, that thou art an orphan?”

“True, my Lord; the old Augustine nun who reared my boyhood, has told me again and again that my parents are dead.  Both noble, my Lord; but I am the child of shame.  And I say it often, and think of it ever, in order to make Angelo Villani remember that he has a name to win.”

“Young man, serve me as you have served, and if I live you shall have no need to call yourself an orphan.  Mark me!  I want a friend ­the Senator of Rome wants a friend ­only one friend ­gentle Heaven! only one!”

Angelo sank on his knee, and kissed the mantle of his Lord.

“Say a follower.  I am too mean to be Rienzi’s friend.”

“Too mean! ­go to! ­there is nothing mean before God, unless it be a base soul under high titles.  With me, boy, there is but one nobility, and Nature signs its charter.  Listen:  thou hearest daily of Walter de Montreal, brother to these Provencals ­great captain of great robbers?”

“Ay, and I have seen him, my Lord.”

“Well, then, he is in Rome.  Some daring thought ­some well-supported and deep-schemed villany, could alone make that bandit venture openly into an Italian city, whose territories he ravaged by fire and sword a few months back.  But his brothers have lent me money ­assisted my return; ­for their own ends, it is true:  but the seeming obligation gives them real power.  These Northern swordsmen would cut my throat if the Great Captain bade them.  He counts on my supposed weakness.  I know him of old.  I suspect ­nay I read, his projects; but I cannot prove them.  Without proof, I cannot desert Palestrina in order to accuse and seize him.  Thou art shrewd, thoughtful, acute; ­couldst thou go to Rome? ­watch day and night his movements ­see if he receive messengers from Albornoz or the Barons ­if he confer with Pandulfo di Guido; ­watch his lodgment, I say, night and day.  He affects no concealment; your task will be less difficult than it seems.  Apprise the Signora of all you learn.  Give me your news daily.  Will you undertake this mission?”

“I will, my Lord.”

“To horse, then, quick! ­and mind ­save the wife of my bosom, I have no confidant in Rome.”

The danger that threatened Rienzi by the arrival of Montreal was indeed formidable.  The Knight of St. John, having marched his army into Lombardy, had placed it at the disposal of the Venetian State in its war with the Archbishop of Milan.  For this service he received an immense sum; while he provided winter quarters for his troop, for whom he proposed ample work in the ensuing spring.  Leaving Palestrina secretly and in disguise, with but a slender train, which met him at Tivoli, Montreal repaired to Rome.  His ostensible object was, partly to congratulate the Senator on his return, partly to receive the monies lent to Rienzi by his brother.

His secret object we have partly seen; but not contented with the support of the Barons, he trusted, by the corrupting means of his enormous wealth, to form a third party in support of his own ulterior designs.  Wealth, indeed, in that age and in that land, was scarcely less the purchaser of diadems than it had been in the later days of the Roman Empire.  And in many a city torn by hereditary feuds, the hatred of faction rose to that extent, that a foreign tyrant, willing and able to expel one party, might obtain at least the temporary submission of the other.  His after-success was greatly in proportion to his power to maintain his state by a force which was independent of the citizens, and by a treasury which did not require the odious recruit of taxes.  But more avaricious than ambitious, more cruel than firm, it was by griping exaction, or unnecessary bloodshed, that such usurpers usually fell.

Montreal, who had scanned the frequent revolutions of the time with a calm and investigating eye, trusted that he should be enabled to avoid both these errors:  and, as the reader has already seen, he had formed the profound and sagacious project of consolidating his usurpation by an utterly new race of nobles, who, serving him by the feudal tenure of the North, and ever ready to protect him, because in so doing they protected their own interests, should assist to erect, not the rotten and unsupported fabric of a single tyranny, but the strong fortress of a new, hardy, and compact Aristocratic State.  Thus had the great dynasties of the North been founded; in which a King, though seemingly curbed by the Barons, was in reality supported by a common interest, whether against a subdued population or a foreign invasion.

Such were the vast schemes ­extending into yet wider fields of glory and conquest, bounded only by the Alps ­with which the Captain of the Grand Company beheld the columns and arches of the Seven-hilled City.

No fear disturbed the long current of his thoughts.  His brothers were the leaders of Rienzi’s hireling army ­that army were his creatures.  Over Rienzi himself he assumed the right of a creditor.  Thus against one party he deemed himself secure.  For the friends of the Pope, he had supported himself with private, though cautious, letters from Albornoz, who desired only to make use of him for the return of the Roman Barons; and with the heads of the latter we have already witnessed his negotiations.  Thus was he fitted, as he thought, to examine, to tamper with all parties, and to select from each the materials necessary for his own objects.

The open appearance of Montreal excited in Rome no inconsiderable sensation.  The friends of the Barons gave out that Rienzi was in league with the Grand Company; and that he was to sell the imperial city to the plunder and pillage of Barbarian robbers.  The effrontery with which Montreal (against whom, more than once, the Pontiff had thundered his bulls) appeared in the Metropolitan City of the Church, was made yet more insolent by the recollection of that stern justice which had led the Tribune to declare open war against all the robbers of Italy:  and this audacity was linked with the obvious reflection, that the brothers of the bold Provencal were the instruments of Rienzi’s return.  So quickly spread suspicion through the city, that Montreal’s presence alone would in a few weeks have sufficed to ruin the Senator.  Meanwhile, the natural boldness of Montreal silenced every whisper of prudence; and, blinded by the dazzle of his hopes, the Knight of St. John, as if to give double importance to his coming, took up his residence in a sumptuous palace, and his retinue rivalled, in the splendour of garb and pomp, the display of Rienzi himself in his earlier and more brilliant power.

Amidst the growing excitement, Angelo Villani arrived at Rome.  The character of this young man had been formed by his peculiar circumstances.  He possessed qualities which often mark the Illegitimate as with a common stamp.  He was insolent ­like most of those who hold a doubtful rank; and while ashamed of his bastardy, was arrogant of the supposed nobility of his unknown parentage.  The universal ferment and agitation of Italy at that day rendered ambition the most common of all the passions, and thus ambition, in all its many shades and varieties, forces itself into our delineations of character in this history.  Though not for Angelo Villani were the dreams of the more lofty and generous order of that sublime infirmity, he was strongly incited by the desire and resolve to rise.  He had warm affections and grateful impulses; and his fidelity to his patron had been carried to a virtue:  but from his irregulated and desultory education, and the reckless profligacy of those with whom, in ante-chambers and guard-rooms, much of his youth had been passed, he had neither high principles nor an enlightened honour.  Like most Italians, cunning and shrewd, he scrupled not at any deceit that served a purpose or a friend.  His strong attachment to Rienzi had been unconsciously increased by the gratification of pride and vanity, flattered by the favour of so celebrated a man.  Both self-interest and attachment urged him to every effort to promote the views and safety of one at once his benefactor and patron; and on undertaking his present mission, his only thought was to fulfil it with the most complete success.  Far more brave and daring than was common with the Italians, something of the hardihood of an Ultra-Montane race gave nerve and vigour to his craft; and from what his art suggested, his courage never shrunk.

When Rienzi had first detailed to him the objects of his present task, he instantly called to mind his adventure with the tall soldier in the crowd at Avignon.  “If ever thou wantest a friend, seek him in Walter de Montreal,” were words that had often rung in his ear, and they now recurred to him with prophetic distinctness.  He had no doubt that it was Montreal himself whom he had seen.  Why the Great Captain should have taken this interest in him, Angelo little cared to conjecture.  Most probably it was but a crafty pretence ­one of the common means by which the Chief of the Grand Company attracted to himself the youths of Italy, as well as the warriors of the North.  He only thought now how he could turn the Knight’s promise to account.  What more easy than to present himself to Montreal ­remind him of the words ­enter his service ­and thus effectually watch his conduct?  The office of spy was not that which would have pleased every mind, but it shocked not the fastidiousness of Angelo Villani; and the fearful hatred with which his patron had often spoken of the avaricious and barbarian robber ­the scourge of his native land, ­had infected the young man, who had much of the arrogant and mock patriotism of the Romans, with a similar sentiment.  More vindictive even than grateful, he bore, too, a secret grudge against Montreal’s brothers, whose rough address had often wounded his pride; and, above all, his early recollections of the fear and execration in which Ursula seemed ever to hold the terrible Fra Moreale, impressed him with a vague belief of some ancient wrong to himself or his race, perpetrated by the Provencal, which he was not ill-pleased to have the occasion to avenge.  In truth, the words of Ursula, mystic and dark as they were in their denunciation, had left upon Villani’s boyish impressions an unaccountable feeling of antipathy and hatred to the man it was now his object to betray.  For the rest, every device seemed to him decorous and justifiable, so that it saved his master, served his country, and advanced himself.

Montreal was alone in his chamber when it was announced to him that a young Italian craved an audience.  Professionally open to access, he forthwith gave admission to the applicant.

The Knight of St. John instantly recognised the page he had encountered at Avignon; and when Angelo Villani said, with easy boldness, “I have come to remind Sir Walter de Montreal of a promise ­”

The Knight interrupted him with cordial frankness ­“Thou needest not ­I remember it.  Dost thou now require my friendship?”

“I do noble Signor!” answered Angelo; “I know not where else to seek a patron.”

“Canst thou read and write?  I fear me not.”

“I have been taught those arts,” replied Villani.

“It is well.  Is thy birth gentle?”

“It is.”

“Better still; ­thy name?”

“Angelo Villani.”

“I take thy blue eyes and low broad brow,” said Montreal, with a slight sigh, “in pledge of thy truth.  Henceforth, Angelo Villani, thou art in the list of my secretaries.  Another time thou shalt tell me more of thyself.  Thy service dates from this day.  For the rest, no man ever wanted wealth who served Walter de Montreal; nor advancement, if he served him faithfully.  My closet, through yonder door, is thy waiting-room.  Ask for, and send hither, Lusignan of Lyons; he is my chief scribe, and will see to thy comforts, and instruct thee in thy business.”

Angelo withdrew ­Montreal’s eye followed him.

“A strange likeness!” said he, musingly and sadly; “my heart leaps to that boy!”

Some few days after the date of the last chapter, Rienzi received news from Rome, which seemed to produce in him a joyous and elated excitement.  His troops still lay before Palestrina, and still the banners of the Barons waved over its unconquered walls.  In truth, the Italians employed half their time in brawls amongst themselves; the Velletritrani had feuds with the people of Tivoli, and the Romans were still afraid of conquering the Barons; ­“The hornet,” said they, “stings worse after he is dead; and neither an Orsini, a Savelli, nor a Colonna, was ever known to forgive.”

Again and again had the captains of his army assured the indignant Senator that the fortress was impregnable, and that time and money were idly wasted upon the siege.  Rienzi knew better, but he concealed his thoughts.

He now summoned to his tent the brothers of Provence, and announced to them his intention of returning instantly to Rome.  “The mercenaries shall continue the siege under our Lieutenant, and you, with my Roman Legion, shall accompany me.  Your brother, Sir Walter, and I, both want your presence; we have affairs to arrange between us.  After a few days I shall raise recruits in the city, and return.”

This was what the brothers desired; they approved, with evident joy, the Senator’s proposition.

Rienzi next sent for the lieutenant of his bodyguard, the same Riccardo Annibaldi whom the reader will remember in the earlier part of this work, as the antagonist of Montreal’s lance.  This young man ­one of the few nobles who espoused the cause of the Senator ­had evinced great courage and military ability, and promised fair (should Fate spare his life (It appears that this was the same Annibaldi who was afterwards slain in an affray: ­Petrarch lauds his valour and laments his fate.)) to become one of the best Captains of his time.

“Dear Annibaldi,” said Rienzi; “at length I can fulfil the project on which we have privately conferred.  I take with me to Rome the two Provencal Captains ­I leave you chief of the army.  Palestrina will yield now ­eh! ­ha, ha, ha! ­Palestrina will yield now!”

“By my right hand, I think so, Senator,” replied Annibaldi.  “These foreigners have hitherto only stirred up quarrels amongst ourselves, and if not cowards are certainly traitors!”

“Hush, hush, hush!  Traitors!  The learned Arimbaldo, the brave Brettone, traitors!  Fie on it!  No, no; they are very excellent, honourable men, but not lucky in the camp; ­not lucky in the camp; ­better speed to them in the city!  And now to business.”

The Senator then detailed to Annibaldi the plan he himself had formed for taking the town, and the military skill of Annibaldi at once recognised its feasibility.

With his Roman troop, and Montreal’s brothers, one at either hand, Rienzi then departed to Rome.

That night Montreal gave a banquet to Pandulfo di Guido, and to certain of the principal citizens, whom one by one he had already sounded, and found hollow at heart to the cause of the Senator.

Pandulfo sate at the right hand of the Knight of St. John, and Montreal lavished upon him the most courteous attentions.

“Pledge me in this ­it is from the Vale of Chiana, near Monte Pulciano,” said Montreal.  “I think I have heard bookmen say (you know, Signor Pandulfo, we ought all to be bookmen now!) that the site was renowned of old.  In truth, the wine hath a racy flavour.”

“I hear,” said Bruttini, one of the lesser Barons, (a stanch friend to the Colonna,) “that in this respect the innkeeper’s son has put his book-learning to some use:  he knows every place where the wine grows richest.”

“What! the Senator is turned wine-bibber!” said Montreal, quaffing a vast goblet full; “that must unfit him for business ­’tis a pity.”

“Verily, yes,” said Pandulfo; “a man at the head of a state should be temperate ­I never drink wine unmixed.”

“Ah,” whispered Montreal, “if your calm good sense ruled Rome, then, indeed, the metropolis of Italy might taste of peace.  Signor Vivaldi,” ­and the host turned towards a wealthy draper, ­“these disturbances are bad for trade.”

“Very, very!” groaned the draper.

“The Barons are your best customers,” quoth the minor noble.

“Much, much!” said the draper.

“’Tis a pity that they are thus roughly expelled,” said Montreal, in a melancholy tone.  “Would it not be possible, if the Senator (I drink his health) were less rash ­less zealous, rather, ­to unite free institutions with the return of the Barons? ­such should be the task of a truly wise statesman!”

“It surely might be possible,” returned Vivaldi; “the Savelli alone spend more with me than all the rest of Rome.”

“I know not if it be possible,” said Bruttini; “but I do know that it is an outrage to all decorum that an innkeeper’s son should be enabled to make a solitude of the palaces of Rome.”

“It certainly seems to indicate too vulgar a desire of mob favour,” said Montreal.  “However, I trust we shall harmonize all these differences.  Rienzi, perhaps, ­nay, doubtless, means well!”

“I would,” said Vivaldi, who had received his cue, “that we might form a mixed constitution ­Plebeians and Patricians, each in their separate order.”

“But,” said Montreal, gravely, “so new an experiment would demand great physical force.”

“Why, true; but we might call in an umpire ­a foreigner who had no interest in either faction ­who might protect the new Buono Stato; a Podesta, as we have done before ­Brancaleone, for instance.  How well and wisely he ruled! that was a golden age for Rome.  A Podesta for ever! ­that’s my theory.”

“You need not seek far for the president of your council,” said Montreal, smiling at Pandulfo; “a citizen at once popular, well-born, and wealthy, may be found at my right hand.”

Pandulfo hemmed, and coloured.

Montreal proceeded.  “A committee of trades might furnish an honourable employment to Signor Vivaldi; and the treatment of all foreign affairs ­the employment of armies, &c., might be left to the Barons, with a more open competition, Signor di Bruttini, to the Barons of the second order than has hitherto been conceded to their birth and importance.  Sirs, will you taste the Malvoisie?”

“Still,” said Vivaldi, after a pause ­(Vivaldi anticipated at least the supplying with cloth the whole of the Grand Company) ­“still, such a moderate and well-digested constitution would never be acceded to by Rienzi.”

“Why should it? what need of Rienzi?” exclaimed Bruttini.  “Rienzi may take another trip to Bohemia.”

“Gently, gently,” said Montreal; “I do not despair.  All open violence against the Senator would strengthen his power.  No, no, humble him ­admit the Barons, and then insist on your own terms.  Between the two factions you might then establish a fitting balance.  And in order to keep your new constitution from the encroachment of either extreme, there are warriors and knights, too, who for a certain rank in the great city of Rome would maintain horse and foot at its service.  We Ultra-Montanes are often harshly judged; we are wanderers and Ishmaelites, solely because we have no honourable place of rest.  Now, if I ­”

“Ay, if you, noble Montreal!” said Vivaldi.

The company remained hushed in breathless attention, when suddenly there was heard ­deep, solemn, muffled, ­the great bell of the Capitol!

“Hark!” said Vivaldi, the bell:  “It tolls for execution:  an unwonted hour!”

“Sure, the Senator has not returned!” exclaimed Pandulfo di Guido, turning pale.

“No, no,” quoth Bruttini, “it is but a robber, caught two nights ago in Romagna.  I heard that he was to die tonight.”

At the word “robber,” Montreal changed countenance slightly.  The wine circulated ­the bell continued to toll ­its suddenness over, it ceased to alarm.  Conversation flowed again.

“What were you saying, Sir Knight?” said Vivaldi.

“Why, let me think on’t; ­oh, speaking of the necessity of supporting a new state by force, I said that if I ­”

“Ah, that was it!” quoth Bruttini, thumping the table.

“If I were summoned to your aid ­summoned, mind ye, and absolved by the Pope’s Legate of my former sins ­(they weigh heavily on me, gentles) ­I would myself guard your city from foreign foe and civil disturbance, with my gallant swordsmen.  Not a Roman citizen should contribute a ‘danaro’ to the cost.”

“Viva Fra Moreale!” cried Bruttini; and the shout was echoed by all the boon companions.

“Enough for me,” continued Montreal, “to expiate my offences.  Ye know, gentlemen, my order is vowed to God and the Church ­a warrior-monk am I!  Enough for me to expiate my offences, I say, in the defence of the Holy City.  Yet I, too, have my private and more earthly views, ­who is above them?  I ­the bell changes its note!”

“It is but the change that preludes execution ­the poor robber is about to die!”

Montreal crossed himself, and resumed: ­“I am a knight and a noble,” said he, proudly; “the profession I have followed is that of arms; but ­I will not disguise it ­mine equals have regarded me as one who has stained his scutcheon by too reckless a pursuit of glory and of gain.  I wish to reconcile myself with my order ­to purchase a new name ­to vindicate myself to the Grand Master and the Pontiff.  I have had hints, gentles, ­hints, that I might best promote my interest by restoring order to the Papal metropolis.  The Legate Albornoz (here is his letter) recommends me to keep watch upon the Senator.”

“Surely,” interrupted Pandulfo, “I hear steps below.”

“The mob going to the robber’s execution,” said Bruttini; “proceed, Sir Knight!”

“And,” continued Montreal, surveying his audience before he proceeded farther, “what think ye ­(I do but ask your opinion, wiser than mine) ­what think ye, as a fitting precaution against too arbitrary a power in the Senator ­what think ye of the return of the Colonna, and the bold Barons of Palestrina?”

“Here’s to their health!” cried Vivaldi, rising.

As by a sudden impulse, the company rose.  “To the health of the besieged Barons!” was shouted aloud.

“Next, what if ­(I do but humbly suggest) ­what if you gave the Senator a colleague? ­it is no affront to him.  It was but as yesterday that one of the Colonna, who was Senator, received a colleague in Bertoldo Orsini.”

“A most wise precaution,” cried Vivaldi.  “And where a colleague like Pandulfo di Guido?”

“Viva Pandulfo di Guido!” cried the guests, and again their goblets were drained to the bottom.

“And if in this I can assist ye by fair words with the Senator, (ye know he owes me monies ­my brothers have served him), command Walter de Montreal.”

“And if fair words fail?” said Vivaldi.

“The Grand Company ­(heed me, ye are the counsellors) ­the Grand Company is accustomed to forced marches!”

“Viva Fra Moreale!” cried Bruttini and Vivaldi, simultaneously.  “A health to all, my friends;” continued Bruttini; “a health to the Barons, Rome’s old friends; to Pandulfo di Guido, the Senator’s new colleague, and to Fra Moreale, Rome’s new Podesta.”

“The bell has ceased,” said Vivaldi, putting down his goblet.

“Heaven have mercy on the robber!” added Bruttini.

Scarce had he spoken, ere three taps were heard at the door ­the guests looked at each other in dumb amaze.

“New guests!” said Montreal.  “I asked some trusty friends to join us this evening.  By my faith they are welcome!  Enter!”

The door opened slowly; three by three entered, in complete armour, the guards of the Senator.  On they marched, regular and speechless.  They surrounded the festive board ­they filled the spacious hall, and the lights of the banquet were reflected upon their corselets as on a wall of steel.

Not a syllable was uttered by the feasters, they were as if turned to stone.  Presently the guards gave way, and Rienzi himself appeared.  He approached the table, and folding his arms, turned his gaze deliberately from guest to guest, till at last, his eyes rested on Montreal, who had also risen, and who alone of the party had recovered the amaze of the moment.

And there, as these two men, each so celebrated, so proud, able, and ambitious, stood, front to front ­it was literally as if the rival Spirits of Force and Intellect, Order and Strife, of the Falchion and the Fasces ­the Antagonist Principles by which empires are ruled and empires overthrown, had met together, incarnate and opposed.  They stood, both silent, ­as if fascinated by each other’s gaze, ­loftier in stature, and nobler in presence than all around.

Montreal spoke first, and with a forced smile.

“Senator of Rome! ­dare I believe that my poor banquet tempts thee, and may I trust that these armed men are a graceful compliment to one to whom arms have been a pastime?”

Rienzi answered not, but waved his hand to his guards.  Montreal was seized on the instant.  Again he surveyed the guests ­as a bird from the rattle-snake, ­shrunk Pandulfo di Guido, trembling, motionless, aghast, from the glittering eye of the Senator.  Slowly Rienzi raised his fatal hand towards the unhappy citizen ­Pandulfo saw, ­felt his doom, ­shrieked, ­and fell senseless in the arms of the soldiers.

One other and rapid glance cast the Senator round the board, and then, with a disdainful smile, as if anxious for no meaner prey, turned away.  Not a breath had hitherto passed his lips ­all had been dumb show ­and his grim silence had imparted a more freezing terror to his unguessed-for apparition.  Only, when he reached the door, he turned back, gazed upon the Knight of St. John’s bold and undaunted face, and said, almost in a whisper, “Walter de Montreal! ­you heard the death-knell!”

In silence the Captain of the Grand Company was borne to the prison of the Capitol.  In the same building lodged the rivals for the government of Rome; the one occupied the prison, the other the palace.  The guards forebore the ceremony of fetters, and leaving a lamp on the table, Montreal perceived he was not alone, ­his brothers had preceded him.

“Ye are happily met,” said the Knight of St. John; “we have passed together pleasanter nights than this is likely to be.”

“Can you jest, Walter?” said Arimbaldo, half-weeping.  “Know you not that our doom is fixed?  Death scowls upon us.”

“Death!” repeated Montreal, and for the first time his countenance changed; perhaps for the first time in his life he felt the thrill and agony of fear.

“Death!” he repeated again.  “Impossible!  He dare not, Brettone; the soldiers, the Northmen! ­they will mutiny, they will pluck us back from the grasp of the headsman!”

“Cast from you so vain a hope,” said Brettone sullenly; “the soldiers are encamped at Palestrina.”

“How!  Dolt ­fool!  Came you then to Rome alone!  Are we alone with this dread man?”

“You are the dolt!  Why came you hither?” answered the brother.

“Why, indeed! but that I knew thou wast the Captain of the army; and ­but thou said’st right ­the folly is mine, to have played against the crafty Tribune so unequal a brain as thine.  Enough!  Reproaches are idle.  When were ye arrested?”

“At dusk ­the instant we entered the gates of Rome.  Rienzi entered privately.”

“Humph!  What can he know against me?  Who can have betrayed me?  My secretaries are tried ­all trustworthy ­except that youth, and he so seemingly zealous ­that Angelo Villani!”

“Villani!  Angelo Villani!” cried the brothers in a breath.  “Hast thou confided aught to him?”

“Why, I fear he must have seen ­at least in part ­my correspondence with you, and with the Barons ­he was among my scribes.  Know you aught of him?”

“Walter, Heaven hath demented you!” returned Brettone.  “Angelo Villani is the favourite menial of the Senator.”

“Those eyes deceived me, then,” muttered Montreal, solemnly and shuddering; “and, as if her ghost had returned to earth, God smites me from the grave!”

There was a long silence.  At length Montreal, whose bold and sanguine temper was never long clouded, spoke again.

“Are the Senator’s coffers full? ­But that is impossible.”

“Bare as a Dominican’s.”

“We are saved, then.  He shall name his price for our heads.  Money must be more useful to him than blood.”

And as if with that thought all further meditation were rendered unnecessary, Montreal doffed his mantle, uttered a short prayer, and flung himself on a pallet in a corner of the cell.

“I have slept on worse beds,” said the Knight, stretching himself; and in a few minutes he was fast asleep.

The brothers listened to his deep-drawn, but regular breathing, with envy and wonder, but they were in no mood to converse.  Still and speechless, they sate like statues beside the sleeper.  Time passed on, and the first cold air of the hour that succeeds to midnight crept through the bars of their cell.  The bolts crashed, the door opened, six men-at-arms entered, passed the brothers, and one of them touched Montreal.

“Ha!” said he, still sleeping, but turning round.  “Ha!” said he, in the soft Provencal tongue, “sweet Adeline, we will not rise yet ­it is so long since we met!”

“What says he?” muttered the guard, shaking Montreal roughly.  The Knight sprang up at once, and his hand grasped the head of his bed as for his sword.  He stared round bewildered, rubbed his eyes, and then gazing on the guard, became alive to the present.

“Ye are early risers in the Capitol,” said he.  “What want ye of me?”

“It waits you!”

“It!  What?” said Montreal.

“The rack!” replied the soldier, with a malignant scowl.

The Great Captain said not a word.  He looked for one moment at the six swordsmen, as if measuring his single strength against theirs.  His eye then wandered round the room.  The rudest bar of iron would have been dearer to him than he had ever yet found the proofest steel of Milan.  He completed his survey with a sigh, threw his mantle over his shoulders, nodded at his brethren, and followed the guard.

In a hall of the Capitol, hung with the ominous silk of white rays on a blood-red ground, sate Rienzi and his councillors.  Across a recess was drawn a black curtain.

“Walter de Montreal,” said a small man at the foot of the table, “Knight of the illustrious order of St. John of Jerusalem ­”

“And Captain of the Grand Company!” added the prisoner, in a firm voice.

“You stand accused of divers counts:  robbery and murder, in Tuscany, Romagna, and Apulia ­”

“For robbery and murder, brave men, and belted Knights,” said Montreal, drawing himself up, “would use the words ‘war and victory.’  To those charges I plead guilty!  Proceed.”

“You are next accused of treasonable conspiracy against the liberties of Rome for the restoration of the proscribed Barons ­and of traitorous correspondence with Stefanello Colonna at Palestrina.”

“My accuser?”

“Step forth, Angelo Villani!”

“You are my betrayer, then?” said Montreal steadily.  “I deserved this.  I beseech you, Senator of Rome, let this young man retire.  I confess my correspondence with the Colonna, and my desire to restore the Barons.”

Rienzi motioned to Villani, who bowed and withdrew.

“There rests only then for you, Walter de Montreal, to relate, fully and faithfully, the details of your conspiracy.”

“That is impossible,” replied Montreal, carelessly.

“And why?”

“Because, doing as I please with my own life, I will not betray the lives of others.”

“Bethink thee ­thou wouldst have betrayed the life of thy judge!”

“Not betrayed ­thou didst not trust me.”

“The law, Walter de Montreal, hath sharp inquisitors ­behold!”

The black curtain was drawn aside, and the eye of Montreal rested on the executioner and the rack!  His proud breast heaved indignantly.

“Senator of Rome,” said he, “these instruments are for serfs and villeins.  I have been a warrior and a leader; life and death have been in my hands ­I have used them as I listed; but to mine equal and my foe, I never proffered the insult of the rack.”

“Sir Walter de Montreal,” returned the Senator, gravely, but with some courteous respect, “your answer is that which rises naturally to the lips of brave men.  But learn from me, whom fortune hath made thy judge, that no more for serf and villein, than for knight and noble, are such instruments the engines of law, or the tests of truth.  I yielded but to the desire of these reverend councillors, to test thy nerves.  But, wert thou the meanest peasant of the Campagna, before my judgment-seat thou needst not apprehend the torture.  Walter de Montreal, amongst the Princes of Italy thou hast known, amongst the Roman Barons thou wouldst have aided, is there one who could make that boast?”

“I desired only,” said Montreal, with some hesitation, “to unite the Barons with thee; nor did I intrigue against thy life!”

Rienzi frowned ­“Enough,” he said, hastily.  “Knight of St. John, I know thy secret projects, subterfuge and evasion neither befit nor avail thee.  If thou didst not intrigue against my life, thou didst intrigue against the life of Rome.  Thou hast but one favour left to demand on earth, it is the manner of thy death.”

Montreal’s lip worked convulsively.

“Senator,” said he, in a low voice, “may I crave audience with thee alone for one minute?”

The councillors looked up.

“My Lord,” whispered the eldest of them, “doubtless he hath concealed weapons ­trust him not.”

“Prisoner,” returned Rienzi, after a moment’s pause; “if thou seekest for mercy thy request is idle, and before my coadjutors I have no secret; speak out what thou hast to say!”

“Yet listen to me,” said the prisoner, folding his arms; “it concerns not my life, but Rome’s welfare.”

“Then,” said Rienzi, in an altered tone, “thy request is granted.  Thou mayst add to thy guilt the design of the assassin, but for Rome I would dare greater danger.”

So saying, he motioned to the councillors, who slowly withdrew by the door which had admitted Villani, while the guards retired to the farthest extremity of the hall.

“Now, Walter de Montreal, be brief, for thy time is short.”

“Senator,” said Montreal, “my life can but little profit you; men will say that you destroyed your creditor in order to cancel your debt.  Fix a sum upon my life, estimate it at the price of a monarch’s; every florin shall be paid to you, and your treasury will be filled for five years to come.  If the ‘Buono Stato’ depends on your government, what I have asked, your solicitude for Rome will not permit you to refuse.”

“You mistake me, bold robber,” said Rienzi, sternly; “your treason I could guard against, and therefore forgive; your ambition, never!  Mark me, I know you!  Place your hand on your heart and say whether, could we change places, you, as Rienzi, would suffer all the gold of earth to purchase the life of Walter de Montreal?  For men’s reading of my conduct, that must I bear; for mine own reading, mine eyes must be purged from corruption.  I am answerable to God for the trust of Rome.  And Rome trembles while the head of the Grand Company lives in the plotting brain and the daring heart of Walter de Montreal.  Man ­wealthy, great, and subtle as you are, your hours are numbered; with the rise of the sun you die!”

Montreal’s eyes, fixed upon the Senator’s face, saw hope was over; his pride and his fortitude returned to him.

“We have wasted words,” said he.  “I played for a great stake, I have lost, and must pay the forfeit!  I am prepared.  On the threshold of the Unknown World, the dark spirit of prophecy rushes into us.  Lord Senator, I go before thee to announce ­that in Heaven or in Hell ­ere many days be over, room must be given to one mightier than I am!”

As he spoke, his form dilated, his eye glared; and Rienzi, cowering as never had he cowered before, shrunk back, and shaded his face with his hand.

“The manner of your death?” he asked, in a hollow voice.

“The axe:  it is that which befits knight and warrior.  For thee, Senator, Fate hath a less noble death.”

“Robber be dumb!” cried Rienzi, passionately; “Guards, bear back the prisoner.  At sunrise, Montreal ­”

“Sets the sun of the scourge of Italy,” said the Knight, bitterly.  “Be it so.  One request more; the Knights of St. John claim affinity with the Augustine order; grant me an Augustine confessor.”

“It is granted; and in return for thy denunciations, I, who can give thee no earthly mercy, will implore the Judge of all for pardon to thy soul!”

“Senator, I have done with man’s mediation.  My brethren?  Their deaths are not necessary to thy safety or thy revenge!”

Rienzi mused a moment:  “No,” said he, “dangerous tools they were, but without the workman they may rust unharming.  They served me once, too.  Prisoner, their lives are spared.”

The Council was broken up ­Rienzi hastened to his own apartments.  Meeting Villani by the way, he pressed the youth’s hand affectionately.  “You have saved Rome and me from great peril,” said he; “the saints reward you!” Without tarrying for Villani’s answer, he hurried on.  Nina, anxious and perturbed, awaited him in their chamber.

“Not a-bed yet?” said he:  “fie, Nina, even thy beauty will not stand these vigils.”

“I could not rest till I had seen thee.  I hear (all Rome has heard it ere this) that thou hast seized Walter de Montreal, and that he will perish by the headsman.”

“The first robber that ever died so brave a death,” returned Rienzi, slowly unrobing himself.

“Cola, I have never crossed your schemes, ­your policy, even by a suggestion.  Enough for me to triumph in their success, to mourn for their failure.  Now, I ask thee one request ­spare me the life of this man.”

“Nina ­”

“Hear me, ­for thee I speak!  Despite his crimes, his valour and his genius have gained him admirers, even amongst his foes.  Many a prince, many a state that secretly rejoices at his fall, will affect horror against his judge.  Hear me farther.  His brothers aided your return; the world will term you ungrateful.  His brothers lent you monies, the world ­(out on it!) ­will term you ­”

“Hold!” interrupted the Senator.  “All that thou sayest, my mind forestalled.  But thou knowest me ­to thee I have no disguise.  No compact can bind Montreal’s faith ­no mercy win his gratitude.  Before his red right hand truth and justice are swept away.  If I condemn Montreal I incur disgrace and risk danger ­granted.  If I release him, ere the first showers of April, the chargers of the Northmen will neigh in the halls of the Capitol.  Which shall I hazard in this alternative, myself or Rome?  Ask me no more ­to bed, to bed!”

“Couldst thou read my forebodings, Cola, mystic ­gloomy ­unaccountable?”

“Forebodings! ­I have mine,” answered Rienzi, sadly, gazing on space, as if his thoughts peopled it with spectres.  Then, raising his eyes to Heaven, he said with that fanatical energy which made much both of his strength and weakness ­“Lord, mine at least not the sin of Saul! the Amalekite shall not be saved!”

While Rienzi enjoyed a short, troubled, and restless sleep, over which Nina watched ­unslumbering, anxious, tearful, and oppressed with dark and terrible forewarnings ­the accuser was more happy than the judge.  The last thoughts that floated before the young mind of Angelo Villani, ere wrapped in sleep, were bright and sanguine.  He felt no honourable remorse that he had entrapped the confidence of another ­he felt only that his scheme had prospered, that his mission had been fulfilled.  The grateful words of Rienzi rang in his ear, and hopes of fortune and power, beneath the sway of the Roman Senator, lulled him into slumber, and coloured all his dreams.

Scarce, however, had he been two hours asleep, ere he was wakened by one of the attendants of the palace, himself half awake.  “Pardon me, Messere Villani,” said he, “but there is a messenger below from the good Sister Ursula; he bids thee haste instantly to the Convent ­she is sick unto death, and has tidings that crave thy immediate presence.”

Angelo, whose morbid susceptibility as to his parentage was ever excited by vague but ambitious hopes ­started up, dressed hurriedly, and joining the messenger below, repaired to the Convent.  In the Court of the Capitol, and by the Staircase of the Lion, was already heard the noise of the workmen, and looking back, Villani beheld the scaffold, hung with black ­sleeping cloudlike in the grey light of dawn ­at the same time, the bell of the Capitol tolled heavily.  A pang shot athwart him.  He hurried on; ­despite the immature earliness of the hour, he met groups of either sex, hastening along the streets to witness the execution of the redoubted Captain of the Grand Company.  The Convent of the Augustines was at the farthest extremity of that city, even then so extensive, and the red light upon the hilltops already heralded the rising sun, ere the young man reached the venerable porch.  His name obtained him instant admittance.

“Heaven grant,” said an old Nun, who conducted him through a long and winding passage, “that thou mayst bring comfort to the sick sister:  she has pined for thee grievously since matins.”

In a cell set apart for the reception of visitors (from the outward world), to such of the Sisterhood as received the necessary dispensation, sate the aged Nun.  Angelo had only seen her once since his return to Rome, and since then disease had made rapid havoc on her form and features.  And now, in her shroudlike garments and attenuated frame, she seemed by the morning light as a spectre whom day had surprised above the earth.  She approached the youth, however, with a motion more elastic and rapid than seemed possible to her worn and ghastly form.  “Thou art come,” she said.  “Well, well!  This morning after matins, my confessor, an Augustine, who alone knows the secrets of my life, took me aside, and told me that Walter de Montreal had been seized by the Senator ­that he was adjudged to die, and that one of the Augustine brotherhood had been sent for to attend his last hours ­is it so?”

“Thou wert told aright,” said Angelo, wonderingly.  “The man at whose name thou wert wont to shudder ­against whom thou hast so often warned me ­will die at sunrise.”

“So soon! ­so soon! ­Oh, Mother of Mercy! ­fly! thou art about the person of the Senator, thou hast high favour with him; fly! down on thy knees, and as thou hopest for God’s grace, rise not till thou hast won the Provencal’s life.”

“She raves,” muttered Angelo, with white lips.

“I do not rave, ­boy!” screeched the Sister, wildly, “know that my daughter was his leman.  He disgraced our house, ­a house haughtier than his own.  Sinner that I was, I vowed revenge.  His boy ­they had only one! ­was brought up in a robber’s camp; ­a life of bloodshed ­a death of doom ­a futurity of hell ­were before him.  I plucked the child from such a fate ­I bore him away ­I told the father he was dead ­I placed him in the path to honourable fortunes.  May my sin be forgiven me!  Angelo Villani, thou art that child; ­Walter de Montreal is thy father.  But now, trembling on the verge of death, I shudder at the vindictive thoughts I once nourished.  Perhaps ­”

“Sinner and accursed!” interrupted Villani, with a loud shout: ­“sinner and accursed thou art indeed!  Know that it was I who betrayed thy daughter’s lover! ­by the son’s treason dies the father!”

Not a moment more did he tarry:  he waited not to witness the effect his words produced.  As one frantic ­as one whom a fiend possesses or pursues ­he rushed from the Convent ­he flew through the desolate streets.  The death-bell came, first indistinct, then loud, upon his ear.  Every sound seemed to him like the curse of God; on ­on ­he passed the more deserted quarter ­crowds swept before him ­he was mingled with the living stream, delayed, pushed back ­thousands on thousands around, before him.  Breathless, gasping, he still pressed on ­he forced his way ­he heard not ­he saw not ­all was like a dream.  Up burst the sun over the distant hills! ­the bell ceased!  From right to left he pushed aside the crowd ­his strength was as a giant’s.  He neared the fatal spot.  A dead hush lay like a heavy air over the multitude.  He heard a voice, as he pressed along, deep and clear ­it was the voice of his father! ­it ceased ­the audience breathed heavily ­they murmured ­they swayed to and fro.  On, on, went Angelo Villani.  The guards of the Senator stopped his way; ­he dashed aside their pikes ­he eluded their grasp ­he pierced the armed barrier ­he stood on the Place of the Capitol.  “Hold, hold!” he would have cried ­but horror struck him dumb.  He beheld the gleaming axe ­he saw the bended neck.  Ere another breath passed his lips, a ghastly and trunkless face was raised on high ­Walter de Montreal was no more!

Villani saw ­swooned not ­shrunk not ­breathed not! ­but he turned his eyes from that lifted head, dropping gore, to the balcony, in which, according to custom, sate, in solemn pomp, the Senator of Rome ­and the face of that young man was as the face of a demon!

“Ha!” said he, muttering to himself, and recalling the words of Rienzi seven years before ­“Blessed art thou who hast no blood of kindred to avenge!”

Walter de Montreal was buried in the church of St. Maria dell’ Araceli.  But the “evil that he did lived after him!” Although the vulgar had, until his apprehension, murmured against Rienzi for allowing so notorious a freebooter to be at large, he was scarcely dead ere they compassionated the object of their terror.  With that singular species of piety which Montreal had always cultivated, as if a decorous and natural part of the character of a warrior, no sooner was his sentence fixed, than he had surrendered himself to the devout preparation for death.  With the Augustine Friar he consumed the brief remainder of the night in prayer and confession, comforted his brothers, and passed to the scaffold with the step of a hero and the self-acquittal of a martyr.  In the wonderful delusions of the human heart, far from feeling remorse at a life of professional rapine and slaughter, almost the last words of the brave warrior were in proud commendation of his own deeds.  “Be valiant like me,” he said to his brothers, “and remember that ye are now the heirs to the Humbler of Apulia, Tuscany, and La Marca.”

(Pregovi che vi amiate e siate valorosi al mondo, come fui io, che mi feci fare obbedienza a la Puglia, Toscana, e a La Marca.” ­“Vita di Cola di Rienzi”, lib. ii. ca.  “I pray you love one another, and be valorous as was I, who made Apulia, Tuscany and La Marca own obedience to me.” ­“Life of Cola di Rienzi".)

This confidence in himself continued at the scaffold.  “I die,” he said, addressing the Romans ­“I die contented, since my bones shall rest in the Holy City of St. Peter and St. Paul, and the Soldier of Christ shall have the burial-place of the Apostles.  But I die unjustly.  My wealth is my crime ­the poverty of your state my accuser.  Senator of Rome, thou mayst envy my last hour ­men like Walter de Montreal perish not unavenged.”  So saying, he turned to the East, murmured a brief prayer, knelt down deliberately, and said as to himself, “Rome guard my ashes! ­Earth my memory ­Fate my revenge; ­and, now, Heaven receive my soul! ­Strike!” At the first blow, the head was severed from the body.

His treason but imperfectly known, the fear of him forgotten, all that remained of the recollection of Walter de Montreal (The military renown and bold exploits of Montreal are acknowledged by all the Italian authorities.  One of them declares that since the time of Cæsar, Italy had never known so great a Captain.  The biographer of Rienzi, forgetting all the offences of the splendid and knightly robber, seems to feel only commiseration for his fate.  He informs us, moreover, that at Tivoli one of his servants (perhaps our friend, Rodolf of Saxony), hearing his death, died of grief the following day.) in Rome, was admiration for his heroism, and compassion for his end.  The fate of Pandulfo di Guido, which followed some days afterwards, excited a yet deeper, though more quiet, sentiment, against the Senator.  “He was once Rienzi’s friend!” said one man; “He was an honest, upright citizen!” muttered another; “He was an advocate of the people!” growled Cecco del Vecchio.  But the Senator had wound himself up to a resolve to be inflexibly just, and to regard every peril to Rome as became a Roman.  Rienzi remembered that he had never confided but he had been betrayed; he had never forgiven but to sharpen enmity.  He was amidst a ferocious people, uncertain friends, wily enemies; and misplaced mercy would be but a premium to conspiracy.  Yet the struggle he underwent was visible in the hysterical emotions he betrayed.  He now wept bitterly, now laughed wildly.  “Can I never again have the luxury to forgive?” said he.  The coarse spectators of that passion deemed it, ­some imbecility, some hypocrisy.  But the execution produced the momentary effect intended.  All sedition ceased, terror crept throughout the city, order and peace rose to the surface; but beneath, in the strong expression of a contemporaneous writer, “Lo mormorito quetamente suonava.” ("The murmur quietly sounded.”)

On examining dispassionately the conduct of Rienzi at this awful period of his life, it is scarcely possible to condemn it of a single error in point of policy.  Cured of his faults, he exhibited no unnecessary ostentation ­he indulged in no exhibitions of intoxicated pride ­that gorgeous imagination rather than vanity, which had led the Tribune into spectacle and pomp, was now lulled to rest, by the sober memory of grave vicissitudes, and the stern calmness of a maturer intellect.  Frugal, provident, watchful, self-collected, ‘never was seen,’ observes no partial witness, ‘so extraordinary a man.’ ("Vita di Cola di Rienzi”, lib. ii. .) ’In him was concentrated every thought for every want of Rome.  Indefatigably occupied, he inspected, ordained, regulated all things; in the city, in the army, for peace, or for war.  But he was feebly supported, and those he employed were lukewarm and lethargic.’  Still his arms prospered.  Place after place, fortress after fortress, yielded to the Lieutenant of the Senator:  and the cession of Palestrina itself was hourly expected.  His art and address were always strikingly exhibited in difficult situations, and the reader cannot fail to have noticed how conspicuously they were displayed in delivering himself from the iron tutelage of his foreign mercenaries.  Montreal executed, his brothers imprisoned, (though their lives were spared,) a fear that induced respect was stricken into the breasts of those bandit soldiers.  Removed from Rome, and, under Annibaldi, engaged against the Barons, constant action and constant success, withheld those necessary fiends from falling on their Master; while Rienzi, willing to yield to the natural antipathy of the Romans, thus kept the Northmen from all contact with the city; and as he boasted, was the only chief in Italy who reigned in his palace guarded only by his citizens.

Despite his perilous situation ­despite his suspicions, and his fears, no wanton cruelty stained his stern justice ­Montreal and Pandulfo di Guido were the only state victims he demanded.  If, according to the dark Machiavelism of Italian wisdom, the death of those enemies was impolitic, it was not in the act, but the mode of doing it.  A prince of Bologna, or of Milan would have avoided the sympathy excited by the scaffold, and the drug or the dagger would have been the safer substitute for the axe.  But with all his faults, real and imputed, no single act of that foul and murtherous policy, which made the science of the more fortunate princes of Italy, ever advanced the ambition or promoted the security of the Last of the Roman Tribunes.  Whatever his errors, he lived and died as became a man, who dreamed the vain but glorious dream, that in a corrupt and dastard populace he could revive the genius of the old Republic.

Of all who attended on the Senator, the most assiduous and the most honoured was still Angelo Villani.  Promoted to a high civil station, Rienzi felt it as a return of youth, to find one person entitled to his gratitude; ­he loved and confided in the youth as a son.  Villani was never absent from his side, except in intercourse with the various popular leaders in the various quarters of the city; and in this intercourse his zeal was indefatigable ­it seemed even to prey upon his health; and Rienzi chid him fondly, whenever starting from his own reveries, he beheld the abstracted eye and the livid paleness which had succeeded the sparkle and bloom of youth.

Such chiding the young man answered only by the same unvarying words.

“Senator, I have a great trust to fulfil;” ­and at these words he smiled.

One day Villani, while with the Senator, said rather abruptly, “Do you remember, my Lord, that before Viterbo, I acquitted myself so in arms, that even the Cardinal d’Albornoz was pleased to notice me?”

“I remember your valour well, Angelo; but why the question?”

“My Lord, Bellini, the Captain of the Guard of the Capitol is dangerously ill.”

“I know it.”

“Whom can my Lord trust at the post?”

“Why, the Lieutenant.”

“What! ­a soldier that has served under the Orsini!”

“True.  Well!  There is Tommaso Filangieri.”

“An excellent man; but is he not kin by blood to Pandulfo di Guido?”

“Ay ­is he so?  It must be thought of.  Hast thou any friend to name?” said the Senator, smiling, “Methinks thy cavils point that way.”

“My Lord,” replied Villani, colouring; “I am too young perhaps; but the post is one that demands fidelity more than it does years.  Shall I own it? ­My tastes are rather to serve thee with my sword than with my pen.”

“Wilt thou, indeed, accept the office?  It is of less dignity and emolument than the one you hold; and you are full young to lead these stubborn spirits.”

“Senator, I led taller men than they are to the assault at Viterbo.  But, be it as seems best to your superior wisdom.  Whatever you do, I pray you to be cautious.  If you select a traitor to the command of the Capitol Guard! ­I tremble at the thought!”

“By my faith, thou dost turn pale at it, dear boy; thy affection is a sweet drop in a bitter draught.  Whom can I choose better than thee? ­thou shalt have the post, at least during Bellini’s illness.  I will attend to it today.  The business, too, will less fatigue thy young mind than that which now employs thee.  Thou art over-laboured in our cause.”

“Senator, I can but repeat my usual answer ­I have a great trust to fulfil!”

These formidable conspiracies quelled, the Barons nearly subdued, and three parts of the Papal territory reunited to Rome, Rienzi now deemed he might safely execute one of his favourite projects for the preservation of the liberties of his native city; and this was to raise and organize in each quarter of Rome a Roman Legion.  Armed in the defence of their own institutions, he thus trusted to establish amongst her own citizens the only soldiery requisite for Rome.

But so base were the tools with which this great man was condemned to work out his noble schemes, that none could be found to serve their own country, without a pay equal to that demanded by foreign hirelings.  With the insolence so peculiar to a race that has once been great, each Roman said, “Am I not better than a German? ­Pay me, then, accordingly.”

The Senator smothered his disgust ­he had learned at last to know that the age of the Catos was no more.  From a daring enthusiast, experience had converted him into a practical statesman.  The Legions were necessary to Rome ­they were formed ­gallant their appearance and faultless their caparisons.  How were they to be paid?  There was but one means to maintain Rome ­Rome must be taxed.  A gabelle was put upon wine and salt.

The Proclamation ran thus: ­

“Romans! raised to the rank of your Senator, my whole thought has been for your liberties and welfare; already treason defeated in the City, our banners triumphant without, attest the favour with which the Deity regards men who seek to unite liberty with law.  Let us set an example to Italy and the World!  Let us prove that the Roman sword can guard the Roman Forum!  In each Rione of the City is provided a Legion of the Citizens, collected from the traders and artisans of the town; they allege that they cannot leave their callings without remuneration.  Your senator calls upon you willingly to assist in your own defence.  He has given you liberty; he has restored to you peace:  your oppressors are scattered over the earth.  He asks you now to preserve the treasures you have gained.  To be free, you must sacrifice something; for freedom, what sacrifice too great?  Confident of your support, I at length, for the first time, exert the right entrusted to me by office ­and for Rome’s salvation I tax the Romans!”

Then followed the announcement of the gabelle.

The Proclamation was set up in the public thoroughfares.  Round one of the placards a crowd assembled.  Their gestures were vehement and unguarded ­their eyes sparkled ­they conversed low, but eagerly.

“He dares to tax us, then!  Why, the Barons or the Pope could not do more than that!”

“Shame! shame!” cried a gaunt female; “we, who were his friends!  How are our little ones to get bread?”

“He should have seized the Pope’s money!” quoth an honest wine-vender.

“Ah!  Pandulfo di Guido would have maintained an army at his own cost.  He was a rich man.  What insolence in the innkeeper’s son to be a Senator!”

“We are not Romans if we suffer this!” said a deserter from Palestrina.

“Fellow-citizens!” exclaimed gruffly a tall man, who had hitherto been making a clerk read to him the particulars of the tax imposed, and whose heavy brain at length understood that wine was to be made dearer ­“Fellow-citizens, we must have a new revolution!  This is indeed gratitude!  What have we benefited by restoring this man!  Are we always to be ground to the dust?  To pay ­pay ­pay!  Is that all we are fit for?”

“Hark to Cecco del Vecchio!”

“No, no; not now,” growled the smith.  “Tonight the artificers have a special meeting.  We’ll see ­we’ll see!”

A young man, muffled in a cloak, who had not been before observed, touched the smith.

“Whoever storms the Capitol the day after tomorrow at the dawn,” he whispered, “shall find the guards absent!”

He was gone before the smith could look round.

The same night Rienzi, retiring to rest, said to Angelo Villani ­“A bold but necessary measure this of mine!  How do the people take it?”

“They murmur a little, but seem to recognise the necessity.  Cecco del Vecchio was the loudest grumbler, but is now the loudest approver.”

“The man is rough; he once deserted me; ­but then that fatal excommunication!  He and the Romans learned a bitter lesson in that desertion, and experience has, I trust, taught them to be honest.  Well, if this tax be raised quietly, in two years Rome will be again the Queen of Italy; ­her army manned ­her Republic formed; and then ­then ­”

“Then what, Senator?”

“Why then, my Angelo, Cola di Rienzi may die in peace!  There is a want which a profound experience of power and pomp brings at last to us ­a want gnawing as that of hunger, wearing as that of sleep! ­my Angelo, it is the want to die!”

“My Lord, I would give this right hand,” cried Villani, earnestly, “to hear you say you were attached to life!”

“You are a good youth, Angelo!” said Rienzi, as he passed to Nina’s chamber; and in her smile and wistful tenderness, forgot for a while ­that he was a great man!

The next morning the Senator of Rome held high Court in the Capitol.  From Florence, from Padua, from Pisa, even from Milan, (the dominion of the Visconti,) from Genoa, from Naples, ­came Ambassadors to welcome his return, or to thank him for having freed Italy from the freebooter De Montreal.  Venice alone, who held in her pay the Grand Company, stood aloof.  Never had Rienzi seemed more prosperous and more powerful, and never had he exhibited a more easy and cheerful majesty of demeanour.

Scarce was the audience over, when a messenger arrived from Palestrina.  The town had surrendered, the Colonna had departed, and the standard of the Senator waved from the walls of the last hold of the rebellious Barons.  Rome might now at length consider herself free, and not a foe seemed left to menace the repose of Rienzi.

The Court dissolved.  The Senator, elated and joyous, repaired towards his private apartments, previous to the banquet given to the Ambassadors.  Villani met him with his wonted sombre aspect.

“No sadness today, my Angelo,” said the Senator, gaily; “Palestrina is ours!”

“I am glad to hear such news, and to see my Lord of so fair a mien,” answered Angelo.  “Does he not now desire life?”

“Till Roman virtue revives, perhaps ­yes!  But thus are we fools of Fortune; ­today glad ­tomorrow dejected!”

“Tomorrow,” repeated Villani, mechanically:  “Ay ­tomorrow perhaps dejected.”

“Thou playest with my words, boy,” said Rienzi, half angrily, as he turned away.

But Villani heeded not the displeasure of his Lord.

The banquet was thronged and brilliant; and Rienzi that day, without an effort, played the courteous host.

Milanese, Paduan, Pisan, Neapolitan, vied with each other in attracting the smiles of the potent Senator.  Prodigal were their compliments ­lavish their promises of support.  No monarch in Italy seemed more securely throned.

The banquet was over (as usual on state occasions) at an early hour; and Rienzi, somewhat heated with wine, strolled forth alone from the Capitol.  Bending his solitary steps towards the Palatine, he saw the pale and veil-like mists that succeed the sunset, gather over the wild grass which waves above the Palace of the Caesars.  On a mound of ruins (column and arch overthrown) he stood, with folded arms, musing and intent.  In the distance lay the melancholy tombs of the Campagna, and the circling hills, crested with the purple hues soon to melt beneath the starlight.  Not a breeze stirred the dark cypress and unwaving pine.  There was something awful in the stillness of the skies, hushing the desolate grandeur of the earth below.  Many and mingled were the thoughts that swept over Rienzi’s breast:  memory was busy at his heart.  How often, in his youth, had he trodden the same spot! ­what visions had he nursed! ­what hopes conceived!  In the turbulence of his later life, Memory had long slept; but at that hour, she re-asserted her shadowy reign with a despotism that seemed prophetic.  He was wandering ­a boy, with his young brother, hand in hand, by the riverside at eve:  anon he saw a pale face and gory side, and once more uttered his imprecations of revenge!  His first successes, his virgin triumphs, his secret love, his fame, his power, his reverses, the hermitage of Maiella, the dungeon of Avignon, the triumphal return to Rome, ­all swept across his breast with a distinctness as if he were living those scenes again! ­and now! ­he shrunk from the present, and descended the hill.  The moon, already risen, shed her light over the Forum, as he passed through its mingled ruins.  By the Temple of Jupiter, two figures suddenly emerged; the moonlight fell upon their faces, and Rienzi recognised Cecco del Vecchio and Angelo Villani.  They saw him not; but, eagerly conversing, disappeared by the Arch of Trajan.

“Villani! ever active in my service!” thought the Senator; “methinks this morning I spoke to him harshly ­it was churlish in me!”

He re-entered the Place of the Capitol ­he stood by the staircase of the Lion; there was a red stain upon the pavement, unobliterated since Montreal’s execution, and the Senator drew himself aside with an inward shudder.  Was it the ghastly and spectral light of the Moon, or did the face of that old Egyptian Monster wear an aspect that was as of life?  The stony eyeballs seemed bent upon him with a malignant scowl; and as he passed on, and looked behind, they appeared almost preternaturally to follow his steps.  A chill, he knew not why, sunk into his heart.  He hastened to regain his palace.  The sentinels made way for him.

“Senator,” said one of them, doubtingly, “Messere Angelo Villani is our new captain ­we are to obey his orders?”

“Assuredly,” returned the Senator, passing on.  The man lingered uneasily, as if he would have spoken, but Rienzi observed it not.  Seeking his chamber, he found Nina and Irene waiting for him.  His heart yearned to his wife.  Care and toil had of late driven her from his thoughts, and he felt it remorsefully, as he gazed upon her noble face, softened by the solicitude of untiring and anxious love.

“Sweetest,” said he, winding his arms around her tenderly; “thy lips never chide me, but thine eyes sometimes do!  We have been apart too long.  Brighter days dawn upon us, when I shall have leisure to thank thee for all thy care.  And you, my fair sister, you smile on me! ­ah, you have heard that your lover, ere this, is released by the cession of Palestrina, and tomorrow’s sun will see him at your feet.  Despite all the cares of the day, I remembered thee, my Irene, and sent a messenger to bring back the blush to that pale cheek.  Come, come, we shall be happy again!” And with that domestic fondness common to him, when harsher thoughts permitted, he sate himself beside the two persons dearest to his hearth and heart.

“So happy ­if we could have many hours like this!” murmured Nina, sinking on his breast.  “Yet sometimes I wish ­”

“And I too,” interrupted Rienzi; “for I read thy woman’s thought ­I too sometimes wish that fate had placed us in the lowlier valleys of life!  But it may come yet!  Irene wedded to Adrian ­Rome married to Liberty ­and then, Nina, methinks you and I would find some quiet hermitage, and talk over old gauds and triumphs, as of a summer’s dream.  Beautiful, kiss me!  Couldst thou resign these pomps?”

“For a desert with thee, Cola!”

“Let me reflect,” resumed Rienzi; “is not today the seventh of October?  Yes! on the seventh, be it noted, my foes yielded to my power!  Seven! my fated number, whether ominous of good or evil!  Seven months did I reign as Tribune ­seven (There was the lapse of one year between the release of Rienzi from Avignon, and his triumphal return to Rome:  a year chiefly spent in the campaign of Albornoz.) years was I absent as an exile; tomorrow, that sees me without an enemy, completes my seventh week of return!”

“And seven was the number of the crowns the Roman Convents and the Roman Council awarded thee, after the ceremony which gave thee the knighthood of the Santo Spirito!” (This superstition had an excuse in strange historical coincidences; and the number seven was indeed to Rienzi what the 3rd of September was to Cromwell.  The ceremony of the seven crowns which he received after his knighthood, on the nature of which ridiculous ignorance has been shown by many recent writers, was, in fact, principally a religious and typical donation, (symbolical of the gifts of the Holy Spirit,) conferred by the heads of convents ­and that part of the ceremony which was political, was republican, not regal.) said Nina, adding, with woman’s tender wit, “the brightest association of all!”

“Follies seem these thoughts to others, and to philosophy, in truth, they are so,” said Rienzi; “but all my life long, omen and type and shadow have linked themselves to action and event:  and the atmosphere of other men hath not been mine.  Life itself a riddle, why should riddles amaze us?  The Future! ­what mystery in the very word!  Had we lived all through the Past, since Time was, our profoundest experience of a thousand ages could not give us a guess of the events that wait the very moment we are about to enter!  Thus deserted by Reason, what wonder that we recur to the Imagination, on which, by dream and symbol, God sometimes paints the likeness of things to come?  Who can endure to leave the Future all unguessed, and sit tamely down to groan under the fardel of the Present?  No, no! that which the foolish-wise call Fanaticism, belongs to the same part of us as Hope.  Each but carries us onward ­from a barren strand to a glorious, if unbounded sea.  Each is the yearning for the great beyond, which attests our immortality.  Each has its visions and chimeras ­some false, but some true!  Verily, a man who becomes great is often but made so by a kind of sorcery in his own soul ­a Pythia which prophesies that he shall be great ­and so renders the life one effort to fulfil the warning!  Is this folly? ­it were so, if all things stopped at the grave!  But perhaps the very sharpening, and exercising, and elevating the faculties here ­though but for a bootless end on earth ­may be designed to fit the soul, thus quickened and ennobled, to some high destiny beyond the earth!  Who can tell? not I! ­Let us pray!”

While the Senator was thus employed, Rome in her various quarters presented less holy and quiet scenes.

In the fortress of the Orsini lights flitted to and fro, through the gratings of the great court.  Angelo Villani might be seen stealing from the postern-gate.  Another hour, and the Moon was high in heaven; toward the ruins of the Colosseum, men, whose dress bespoke them of the lowest rank, were seen creeping from lanes and alleys, two by two; from these ruins glided again the form of the son of Montreal.  Later yet ­the Moon is sinking ­a grey light breaking in the East ­and the gates of Rome, by St. John of Lateran, are open!  Villani is conversing with the sentries!  The Moon has set ­the mountains are dim with a mournful and chilling haze ­Villani is before the palace of the Capitol ­the only soldier there!  Where are the Roman legions that were to guard alike the freedom and the deliverer of Rome?

It was the morning of the 8th of October, 1354.  Rienzi, who rose betimes, stirred restlessly in his bed.  “It is yet early,” he said to Nina, whose soft arm was round his neck; “none of my people seem to be astir.  Howbeit, my day begins before theirs.”

“Rest yet, my Cola; you want sleep.”

“No; I feel feverish, and this old pain in the side torments me.  I have letters to write.”

“Let me be your secretary, dearest,” said Nina.

Rienzi smiled affectionately as he rose; he repaired to his closet adjoining his sleeping apartment, and used the bath, as was his wont.  Then dressing himself, he returned to Nina, who, already loosely robed, sate by the writing-table, ready for her office of love.

“How still are all things!” said Rienzi.  “What a cool and delicious prelude, in these early hours, to the toilsome day.”

Leaning over his wife, he then dictated different letters, interrupting the task at times by such observations as crossed his mind.

“So, now to Annibaldi!  By the way, young Adrian should join us today; how I rejoice for Irene’s sake!”

“Dear sister ­yes! she loves, ­if any, Cola, can so love, ­as we do.”

“Well, but to your task, my fair scribe.  Ha! what noise is that?  I hear an armed step ­the stairs creak ­some one shouts my name.”

Rienzi flew to his sword! the door was thrown rudely open, and a figure in complete armour appeared within the chamber.

“How! what means this?” said Rienzi, standing before Nina, with his drawn sword.

The intruder lifted his visor ­it was Adrian Colonna.

“Fly, Rienzi! ­hasten, Signora!  Thank Heaven, I can save ye yet!  Myself and train released by the capture of Palestrina, the pain of my wound detained me last night at Tivoli.  The town was filled with armed men ­not thine, Senator.  I heard rumours that alarmed me.  I resolved to proceed onward ­I reached Rome, the gates of the city were wide open!”

“How!”

“Your guard gone.  Presently I came upon a band of the retainers of the Savelli.  My insignia, as a Colonna, misled them.  I learned that this very hour some of your enemies are within the city, the rest are on their march ­the people themselves arm against you.  In the obscurer streets I passed through, the mob were already forming.  They took me for thy foe, and shouted.  I came hither ­thy sentries have vanished.  The private door below is unbarred and open.  Not a soul seems left in thy palace.  Haste ­fly ­save thyself! ­Where is Irene?”

“The Capitol deserted! ­impossible!” cried Rienzi.  He strode across the chambers to the ante-room, where his night-guard usually waited ­it was empty!  He passed hastily to Villani’s room ­it was untenanted!  He would have passed farther, but the doors were secured without.  It was evident that all egress had been cut off, save by the private door below, ­and that had been left open to admit his murtherers!

He returned to his room ­Nina had already gone to rouse and prepare Irene, whose chamber was on the other side, within one of their own.

“Quick, Senator!” said Adrian.  “Methinks there is yet time.  We must make across to the Tiber.  I have stationed my faithful squires and Northmen there.  A boat waits us.”

“Hark!” interrupted Rienzi, whose senses had of late been preternaturally quickened.  “I hear a distant shout ­a familiar shout, ’Viva ‘l Popolo!’ Why, so say I!  These must be friends.”

“Deceive not thyself; thou hast scarce a friend at Rome.”

“Hist!” said Rienzi, in a whisper; “save Nina ­save Irene.  I cannot accompany thee.”

“Art thou mad?”

“No! but fearless.  Besides, did I accompany, I might but destroy you all.  Were I found with you, you would be massacred with me.  Without me ye are safe.  Yes, even the Senator’s wife and sister have provoked no revenge.  Save them, noble Colonna!  Cola di Rienzi puts his trust in God alone!”

By this time Nina had returned; Irene with her.  Afar was heard the tramp ­steady ­slow ­gathering ­of the fatal multitude.

“Now, Cola,” said Nina, with a bold and cheerful air, and she took her husband’s arm, while Adrian had already found his charge in Irene.

“Yes, now, Nina!” said Rienzi; “at length we part!  If this is my last hour ­in my last hour I pray God to bless and shield thee! for verily, thou hast been my exceeding solace ­provident as a parent, tender as a child, the smile of my hearth, the ­the ­”

Rienzi was almost unmanned.  Emotions, deep, conflicting, unspeakably fond and grateful, literally choked his speech.

“What!” cried Nina, clinging to his breast, and parting her hair from her eyes, as she sought his averted face.  “Part! ­never!  This is my place ­all Rome shall not tear me from it!”

Adrian, in despair, seized her hand, and attempted to drag her thence.

“Touch me not, sir!” said Nina, waving her arm with angry majesty, while her eyes sparkled as a lioness, whom the huntsmen would sever from her young.  “I am the wife of Cola di Rienzi, the Great Senator of Rome, and by his side will I live and die!”

“Take her hence:  quick! ­quick!  I hear the crowd advancing.”

Irene tore herself from Adrian, and fell at the feet of Rienzi ­she clasped his knees.

“Come, my brother, come!  Why lose these precious moments?  Rome forbids you to cast away a life in which her very self is bound up.”

“Right, Irene; Rome is bound up with me, and we will rise or fall together! ­no more!”

“You destroy us all!” said Adrian, with generous and impatient warmth.  “A few minutes more, and we are lost.  Rash man! it is not to fall by an infuriate mob that you have been preserved from so many dangers.”

“I believe it,” said the Senator, as his tall form seemed to dilate as with the greatness of his own soul.  “I shall triumph yet!  Never shall mine enemies ­never shall posterity say that a second time Rienzi abandoned Rome!  Hark!  ’Viva ‘l Popolo!’ still the cry of ‘the people.’  That cry scares none but tyrants!  I shall triumph and survive!”

“And I with thee!” said Nina, firmly.  Rienzi paused a moment, gazed on his wife, passionately clasped her to his heart, kissed her again and again, and then said, “Nina, I command thee, ­Go!”

“Never!”

He paused.  Irene’s face, drowned in tears, met his eyes.

“We will all perish with you,” said his sister; “you only, Adrian, you leave us!”

“Be it so,” said the Knight, sadly; “we will all remain,” and he desisted at once from further effort.

There was a dead but short pause, broken but by a convulsive sob from Irene.  The tramp of the raging thousands sounded fearfully distinct.  Rienzi seemed lost in thought ­then lifting his head, he said, calmly, “ye have triumphed ­I join ye ­I but collect these papers, and follow you.  Quick, Adrian ­save them!” and he pointed meaningly to Nina.

Waiting no other hint, the young Colonna seized Nina in his strong grasp ­with his left hand he supported Irene, who with terror and excitement was almost insensible.  Rienzi relieved him of the lighter load ­he took his sister in his arms, and descended the winding stairs.  Nina remained passive ­she heard her husband’s step behind, it was enough for her ­she but turned once to thank him with her eyes.  A tall Northman clad in armour stood at the open door.  Rienzi placed Irene, now perfectly lifeless, in the soldier’s arms, and kissed her pale cheek in silence.

“Quick, my Lord,” said the Northman, “on all sides they come!” So saying, he bounded down the descent with his burthen.  Adrian followed with Nina; the Senator paused one moment, turned back, and was in his room ere Adrian was aware that he had vanished.

Hastily he drew the coverlid from his bed, fastened it to the casement bars, and by its aid dropped (at a distance of several feet) into the balcony below.  “I will not die like a rat,” said he, “in the trap they have set for me!  The whole crowd shall, at least, see and hear me.”

This was the work of a moment.

Meanwhile, Nina had scarcely proceeded six paces, before she discovered that she was alone with Adrian.

“Ha!  Cola!” she cried, “where is he? he has gone!”

“Take heart, Lady, he has returned but for some secret papers he has forgotten.  He will follow us anon.”

“Let us wait, then.”

“Lady,” said Adrian, grinding his teeth, “hear you not the crowd? ­on, on!” and he flew with a swifter step.  Nina struggled in his grasp ­Love gave her the strength of despair.  With a wild laugh she broke from him.  She flew back ­the door was closed ­but unbarred ­her trembling hands lingered a moment round the spring.  She opened it, drew the heavy bolt across the panels, and frustrated all attempt from Adrian to regain her.  She was on the stairs, ­she was in the room.  Rienzi was gone!  She fled, shrieking his name, through the State Chambers ­all was desolate.  She found the doors opening on the various passages that admitted to the rooms below barred without.  Breathless and gasping, she returned to the chamber.  She hurried to the casement ­she perceived the method by which he had descended below ­her brave heart told her of his brave design; ­she saw they were separated, ­“But the same roof holds us,” she cried, joyously, “and our fate shall be the same!” With that thought she sank in mute patience on the floor.

Forming the generous resolve not to abandon the faithful and devoted pair without another effort, Adrian had followed Nina, but too late ­the door was closed against his efforts.  The crowd marched on ­he heard their cry change on a sudden ­it was no longer “Live the people!” but “Death to the traitor!” His attendant had already disappeared, and waking now only to the danger of Irene, the Colonna in bitter grief turned away, lightly sped down the descent, and hastened to the riverside, where the boat and his band awaited him.

The balcony on which Rienzi had alighted was that from which he had been accustomed to address the people ­it communicated with a vast hall used on solemn occasions for State festivals ­and on either side were square projecting towers, whose grated casements looked into the balcony.  One of these towers was devoted to the armory, the other contained the prison of Brettone, the brother of Montreal.  Beyond the latter tower was the general prison of the Capitol.  For then the prison and the palace were in awful neighbourhood!

The windows of the Hall were yet open ­and Rienzi passed into it from the balcony ­the witness of the yesterday’s banquet was still there ­the wine, yet undried, crimsoned the floor, and goblets of gold and silver shone from the recesses.  He proceeded at once to the armory, and selected from the various suits that which he himself had worn when, nearly eight years ago, he had chased the Barons from the gates of Rome.  He arrayed himself in the mail, leaving only his head uncovered; and then taking, in his right hand, from the wall, the great Gonfalon of Rome, returned once more to the hall.  Not a man encountered him.  In that vast building, save the prisoners, and the faithful Nina, whose presence he knew not of ­the Senator was alone.

On they came, no longer in measured order, as stream after stream ­from lane, from alley, from palace and from hovel ­the raging sea received new additions.  On they came ­their passions excited by their numbers ­women and men, children and malignant age ­in all the awful array of aroused, released, unresisted physical strength and brutal wrath; “Death to the traitor ­death to the tyrant ­death to him who has taxed the people!” ­“Mora l’ traditore che ha fatta la gabella! ­Mora!” Such was the cry of the people ­such the crime of the Senator!  They broke over the low palisades of the Capitol ­they filled with one sudden rush the vast space; ­a moment before so desolate, ­now swarming with human beings athirst for blood!

Suddenly came a dead silence, and on the balcony above stood Rienzi ­his head was bared and the morning sun shone over that lordly brow, and the hair grown grey before its time, in the service of that maddening multitude.  Pale and erect he stood ­neither fear, nor anger, nor menace ­but deep grief and high resolve ­upon his features!  A momentary shame ­a momentary awe seized the crowd.

He pointed to the Gonfalon, wrought with the Republican motto and arms of Rome, and thus he began: ­

“I too am a Roman and a Citizen; hear me!”

“Hear him not! hear him not! his false tongue can charm away our senses!” cried a voice louder than his own; and Rienzi recognised Cecco del Vecchio.

“Hear him not! down with the tyrant!” cried a more shrill and youthful tone; and by the side of the artisan stood Angelo Villani.

“Hear him not! death to the death-giver!” cried a voice close at hand, and from the grating of the neighbouring prison glared near upon him, as the eye of a tiger, the vengeful gaze of the brother of Montreal.

Then from Earth to Heaven rose the roar ­“Down with the tyrant ­down with him who taxed the people!”

A shower of stones rattled on the mail of the Senator, ­still he stirred not.  No changing muscle betokened fear.  His persuasion of his own wonderful powers of eloquence, if he could but be heard, inspired him yet with hope; he stood collected in his own indignant, but determined thoughts; ­but the knowledge of that very eloquence was now his deadliest foe.  The leaders of the multitude trembled lest he should be heard; “and doubtless,” says the contemporaneous biographer, “had he but spoken he would have changed them all, and the work been marred.”

The soldiers of the Barons had already mixed themselves with the throng ­more deadly weapons than stones aided the wrath of the multitude ­darts and arrows darkened the air; and now a voice was heard shrieking, “Way for the torches!” And red in the sunlight the torches tossed and waved, and danced to and fro, above the heads of the crowd, as if the fiends were let loose amongst the mob!  And what place in hell hath fiends like those a mad mob can furnish?  Straw, and wood, and litter, were piled hastily round the great doors of the Capitol, and the smoke curled suddenly up, beating back the rush of the assailants.

Rienzi was no longer visible, an arrow had pierced his hand ­the right hand that supported the flag of Rome ­the right hand that had given a constitution to the Republic.  He retired from the storm into the desolate hall.

He sat down; ­and tears, springing from no weak and woman source, but tears from the loftiest fountain of emotion ­tears that befit a warrior when his own troops desert him ­a patriot when his countrymen rush to their own doom ­a father when his children rebel against his love, ­tears such as these forced themselves from his eyes and relieved, ­but they changed, his heart!

“Enough, enough!” he said, presently rising and dashing the drops scornfully away; “I have risked, dared, toiled enough for this dastard and degenerate race.  I will yet baffle their malice ­I renounce the thought of which they are so little worthy! ­Let Rome perish! ­I feel, at last, that I am nobler than my country! ­she deserves not so high a sacrifice!”

With that feeling, Death lost all the nobleness of aspect it had before presented to him; and he resolved, in very scorn of his ungrateful foes, in very defeat of their inhuman wrath, to make one effort for his life!  He divested himself of his glittering arms; his address, his dexterity, his craft, returned to him.  His active mind ran over the chances of disguise ­of escape; ­he left the hall ­passed through the humbler rooms, devoted to the servitors and menials ­found in one of them a coarse working garb ­indued himself with it ­placed upon his head some of the draperies and furniture of the palace, as if escaping with them; and said, with his old “fantastico riso” ("Fantastic smile or laugh.") ­“When all other friends desert me, I may well forsake myself!” With that he awaited his occasion.

Meanwhile the flames burnt fierce and fast; the outer door below was already consumed; from the apartment he had deserted the fire burst out in volleys of smoke ­the wood crackled ­the lead melted ­with a crash fell the severed gates ­the dreadful entrance was opened to all the multitude ­the proud Capitol of the Caesars was already tottering to its fall! ­Now was the time! ­he passed the flaming door ­the smouldering threshold; ­he passed the outer gate unscathed ­he was in the middle of the crowd.  “Plenty of pillage within,” he said to the bystanders, in the Roman patois, his face concealed by his load ­“Suso, suso a gliu traditore!” (Down, down with the traitor.) The mob rushed past him ­he went on ­he gained the last stair descending into the open streets ­he was at the last gate ­liberty and life were before him.

A soldier (one of his own) seized him.  “Pass not ­whither goest thou?”

“Beware, lest the Senator escape disguised!” cried a voice behind ­it was Villani’s.  The concealing load was torn from his head ­Rienzi stood revealed!

“I am the Senator!” he said in a loud voice.  “Who dare touch the Representative of the People?”

The multitude were round him in an instant.  Not led, but rather hurried and whirled along, the Senator was borne to the Place of the Lion.  With the intense glare of the bursting flames, the grey image reflected a lurid light, and glowed ­(that grim and solemn monument!) ­as if itself of fire!

There arrived, the crowd gave way, terrified by the greatness of their victim.  Silent he stood, and turned his face around; nor could the squalor of his garb, nor the terror of the hour, nor the proud grief of detection, abate the majesty of his mien, or reassure the courage of the thousands who gathered, gazing, round him.  The whole Capitol wrapped in fire, lighted with ghastly pomp the immense multitude.  Down the long vista of the streets extended the fiery light and the serried throng, till the crowd closed with the gleaming standards of the Colonna ­the Orsini ­the Savelli!  Her true tyrants were marching into Rome!  As the sound of their approaching horns and trumpets broke upon the burning air, the mob seemed to regain their courage.  Rienzi prepared to speak; his first word was as the signal of his own death.

“Die, tyrant!” cried Cecco del Vecchio:  and he plunged his dagger in the Senator’s breast.

“Die, executioner of Montreal!” muttered Villani:  “thus the trust is fulfilled!” and his was the second stroke.  Then as he drew back, and saw the artisan in all the drunken fury of his brute passion, tossing up his cap, shouting aloud, and spurning the fallen lion, ­the young man gazed upon him with a look of withering and bitter scorn, and said, while he sheathed his blade, and slowly turned to quit the crowd,

“Fool, miserable fool! thou and these at least had no blood of kindred to avenge!”

They heeded not his words ­they saw him not depart; for as Rienzi, without a word, without a groan, fell to the earth, ­as the roaring waves of the multitude closed over him, ­a voice, shrill, sharp, and wild, was heard above all the clamour.  At the casement of the Palace, (the casement of her bridal chamber,) Nina stood! ­through the flames that burst below and around, her face and outstretched arms alone visible!  Ere yet the sound of that thrilling cry passed from the air, down with a mighty crash thundered that whole wing of the Capitol, ­a blackened and smouldering mass.

At that hour, a solitary boat was gliding swiftly along the Tiber.  Rome was at a distance, but the lurid blow of the conflagration cast its reflection upon the placid and glassy stream:  fair beyond description was the landscape; soft beyond all art of Painter and of Poet, the sunlight quivering over the autumnal herbage, and hushing into tender calm the waves of the golden River!

Adrian’s eyes were strained towards the towers of the Capitol, distinguished by the flames from the spires and domes around; ­senseless, and clasped to his guardian breast, Irene was happily unconscious of the horrors of the time.

“They dare not ­they dare not,” said the brave Colonna, “touch a hair of that sacred head! ­if Rienzi fall, the liberties of Rome fall for ever!  As those towers that surmount the flames, the pride and monument of Rome, he shall rise above the dangers of the hour.  Behold, still unscathed amidst the raging element, the Capitol itself is his emblem!”

Scarce had he spoken, when a vast volume of smoke obscured the fires afar off, a dull crash (deadened by the distance) travelled to his ear, and the next moment, the towers on which he gazed had vanished from the scene, and one intense and sullen glare seemed to settle over the atmosphere, ­making all Rome itself the funeral pyre of the last of the Roman tribunes!