Beauteous on the mountains—­lo, The feet of him glad tidings gladly bringing; The flowers along his pathway grow, And voices, heard aloft, to angel harps are singing:  And strife and slaughter cease Before thy blessed way, Young Messenger of Peace!  O’er the mount, and through the moor, Glide thy holy steps secure.  Day and night no fear thou knowest, Lonely—­but with God thou goest.  Where the Heathen rage the fiercest, Through the armed throng thou piercest.  For thy coat of mail, bedight In thy spotless robe of white.  For the sinful sword—­thy hand Bearing bright the silver wand:  Through the camp and through the court, Through the bandit’s gloomy fort, On the mission of the dove, Speeds the minister of love; By a word the wildest taming, And the world to Christ reclaiming:  While, as once the waters trod By the footsteps of thy God, War, and wrath, and rapine cease, Hush’d round thy charmed path, O Messenger of Peace!

The stranger to whom these honours were paid was a young, unbearded man, clothed in white wrought with silver; he was unarmed and barefooted:  in his hand he held a tall silver wand.  Montreal and his party halted in astonishment and wonder, and the Knight, spurring his horse toward the crowd, confronted the stranger.

“How, friend,” quoth the Provencal, “is thine a new order of pilgrims, or what especial holiness has won thee this homage?”

“Back, back,” cried some of the bolder of the crowd, “let not the robber dare arrest the Messenger of Peace.”

Montreal waved his hand disdainfully.

“I speak not to you, good sirs, and the worthy friars in your rear know full well that I never injured herald or palmer.”

The monks, ceasing from their hymn, advanced hastily to the spot; and indeed the devotion of Montreal had ever induced him to purchase the goodwill of whatever monastery neighboured his wandering home.

“My son,” said the eldest of the brethren, “this is a strange spectacle, and a sacred:  and when thou learnest all, thou wilt rather give the messenger a passport of safety from the unthinking courage of thy friends than intercept his path of peace.”

“Ye puzzle still more my simple brain,” said Montreal, impatiently, “let the youth speak for himself; I perceive that on his mantle are the arms of Rome blended with other quarterings, which are a mystery to me,—­though sufficiently versed in heraldic art as befits a noble and a knight.”

“Signor,” said the youth, gravely, “know in me the messenger of Cola di Rienzi, Tribune of Rome, charged with letters to many a baron and prince in the ways between Rome and Naples.  The arms wrought upon my mantle are those of the Pontiff, the City, and the Tribune.”

“Umph; thou must have bold nerves to traverse the Campagna with no other weapon than that stick of silver!”

“Thou art mistaken, Sir Knight,” replied the youth, boldly, “and judgest of the present by the past; know that not a single robber now lurks within the Campagna, the arms of the Tribune have rendered every road around the city as secure as the broadest street of the city itself.”