“I thought of that before,” returned Montreal; “it shall be done.  For the present, farewell!”

     “’His barb, and his sword,
     And his lady, the peerless,
     Are all that are prized
     By Orlando the fearless.

     “’Success to the Norman,
     The darling of story;
     His glory is pleasure—­
     His pleasure is glory.’”

Chanting this rude ditty as he resumed his mantle, the Knight waved his hand to Rienzi, and departed.

Rienzi watched the receding form of his guest with an expression of hate and fear upon his countenance.  “Give that man the power,” he muttered, “and he may be a second Totila. (Innocent vi., some years afterwards, proclaimed Montreal to be worse than Totila.) Methinks I see, in his griping and ferocious nature,—­through all the gloss of its gaiety and knightly grace,—­the very personification of our old Gothic foes.  I trust I have lulled him!  Verily, two suns could no more blaze in one hemisphere, than Walter de Montreal and Cola di Rienzi live in the same city.  The star-seers tell us that we feel a secret and uncontrollable antipathy to those whose astral influences destine them to work us evil; such antipathy do I feel for yon fair-faced homicide.  Cross not my path, Montreal!—­cross not my path!”

With this soliloquy Rienzi turned within, and, retiring to his apartment, was seen no more that night.

Chapter 2.V.  The Procession of the Barons.—­The Beginning of the End.

It was the morning of the 19th of May, the air was brisk and clear, and the sun, which had just risen, shone cheerily upon the glittering casques and spears of a gallant procession of armed horsemen, sweeping through the long and principal street of Rome.  The neighing of the horses, the ringing of the hoofs, the dazzle of the armour, and the tossing to and fro of the standards, adorned with the proud insignia of the Colonna, presented one of the gay and brilliant spectacles peculiar to the middle ages.

At the head of the troop, on a stout palfrey, rode Stephen Colonna.  At his right was the Knight of Provence, curbing, with an easy hand, a slight, but fiery steed of the Arab race:  behind him followed two squires, the one leading his war-horse, the other bearing his lance and helmet.  At the left of Stephen Colonna rode Adrian, grave and silent, and replying only by monosyllables to the gay bavardage of the Knight of Provence.  A considerable number of the flower of the Roman nobles followed the old Baron; and the train was closed by a serried troop of foreign horsemen, completely armed.

There was no crowd in the street,—­the citizens looked with seeming apathy at the procession from their half-closed shops.

“Have these Romans no passion for shows?” asked Montreal; “if they could be more easily amused they would be more easily governed.”

“Oh, Rienzi, and such buffoons, amuse them.  We do better,—­we terrify!” replied Stephen.