The youth looked up, as he heard that voice, and then flung himself before the steed of the old noble, and, clasping his hands, cried out in a scarce articulate tone:  “It is my brother, noble Stephen,—­a boy, a mere child!—­the best—­the mildest!  See how his blood dabbles the grass;—­back, back—­your horse’s hoofs are in the stream!  Justice, my Lord, justice!—­you are a great man.”

“Who slew him? an Orsini, doubtless; you shall have justice.”

“Thanks, thanks,” murmured Rienzi, as he tottered once more to his brother’s side, turned the boy’s face from the grass, and strove wildly to feel the pulse of his heart; he drew back his hand hastily, for it was crimsoned with blood, and lifting that hand on high, shrieked out again, “Justice! justice!”

The group round the old Stephen Colonna, hardened as they were in such scenes, were affected by the sight.  A handsome boy, whose tears ran fast down his cheeks, and who rode his palfrey close by the side of the Colonna, drew forth his sword.  “My Lord,” said he, half sobbing, “an Orsini only could have butchered a harmless lad like this; let us lose not a moment,—­let us on after the ruffians.”

“No, Adrian, no!” cried Stephen, laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder; “your zeal is to be lauded, but we must beware an ambush.  Our men have ventured too far—­what, ho, there!—­sound a return.”

The bugles, in a few minutes, brought back the pursuers,—­among them, the horseman whose spear had been so fatally misused.  He was the leader of those engaged in the conflict with Martino di Porto; and the gold wrought into his armour, with the gorgeous trappings of his charger, betokened his rank.

“Thanks, my son, thanks,” said the old Colonna to this cavalier, “you have done well and bravely.  But tell me, knowest thou, for thou hast an eagle eye, which of the Orsini slew this poor boy?—­a foul deed; his family, too, our clients!”

“Who? yon lad?” replied the horseman, lifting the helmet from his head, and wiping his heated brow; “say you so! how came he, then, with Martino’s rascals?  I fear me the mistake hath cost him dear.  I could but suppose him of the Orsini rabble, and so—­and so—­”

“You slew him!” cried Rienzi, in a voice of thunder, starting from the ground.  “Justice! then, my Lord Stephen, justice! you promised me justice, and I will have it!”

“My poor youth,” said the old man, compassionately, “you should have had justice against the Orsini; but see you not this has been an error?  I do not wonder you are too grieved to listen to reason now.  We must make this up to you.”

“And let this pay for masses for the boy’s soul; I grieve me much for the accident,” said the younger Colonna, flinging down a purse of gold.  “Ay, see us at the palace next week, young Cola—­next week.  My father, we had best return towards the boat; its safeguard may require us yet.”

“Right, Gianni; stay, some two of you, and see to the poor lad’s corpse;—­a grievous accident! how could it chance?”