“What sings the troubadour, Lord Adrian?” said Montreal.

     “’Smiles, false smiles, should form the school
     For those who rise, and those who rule: 
     The brave they trick, and fair subdue,
     Kings deceive, the States undo. 
     Smiles, false smiles!

     “’Frowns, true frowns, ourselves betray,
     The brave arouse, the fair dismay,
     Sting the pride, which blood must heal,
     Mix the bowl, and point the steel. 
     Frowns, true frowns!’

“The lay is of France, Signor; yet methinks it brings its wisdom from Italy;—­for the serpent smile is your countrymen’s proper distinction, and the frown ill becomes them.”

“Sir Knight,” replied Adrian, sharply, and incensed at the taunt, “you Foreigners have taught us how to frown:—­a virtue sometimes.”

“But not wisdom, unless the hand could maintain what the brow menaced,” returned Montreal, with haughtiness; for he had much of the Franc vivacity which often overcame his prudence; and he had conceived a secret pique against Adrian since their interview at Stephen’s palace.

“Sir Knight,” answered Adrian, colouring, “our conversation may lead to warmer words than I would desire to have with one who has rendered me so gallant a service.”

“Nay, then, let us go back to the troubadours,” said Montreal, indifferently.  “Forgive me if I do not think highly, in general, of Italian honour, or Italian valour; your valour I acknowledge, for I have witnessed it, and valour and honour go together,—­let that suffice!”

As Adrian was about to answer, his eye fell suddenly on the burly form of Cecco del Vecchio, who was leaning his bare and brawny arms over his anvil, and gazing, with a smile, upon the group.  There was something in that smile which turned the current of Adrian’s thoughts, and which he could not contemplate without an unaccountable misgiving.

“A strong villain, that,” said Montreal, also eyeing the smith.  “I should like to enlist him.  Fellow!” cried he, aloud, “you have an arm that were as fit to wield the sword as to fashion it.  Desert your anvil, and follow the fortunes of Fra Moreale!”

The smith nodded his head.  “Signor Cavalier,” said he, gravely, “we poor men have no passion for war; we want not to kill others—­we desire only ourselves to live,—­if you will let us!”

“By the Holy Mother, a slavish answer!  But you Romans—­”

“Are slaves!” interrupted the smith, turning away to the interior of his forge.

“The dog is mutinous!” said the old Colonna.  And as the band swept on, the rude foreigners, encouraged by their leaders, had each some taunt or jest, uttered in a barbarous attempt at the southern patois, for the lazy giant, as he again appeared in front of his forge, leaning on his anvil as before, and betraying no sign of attention to his insultors, save by a heightened glow of his swarthy visage;—­and so the gallant procession passed through the streets, and quitted the Eternal City.