“Vex not yourself, holy Raimond, I will answer it to the Pontiff.”  While they spoke the bell tolled heavily and loudly.

Colonna started.

“Great Tribune,” said he, with a slight sneer, “deign to pause ere it be too late.  I know not that I ever before bent to you a suppliant; and I ask you now to spare mine own foe.  Stephen Colonna prays Cola di Rienzi to spare the life of an Orsini.”

“I understand thy taunt, old Lord,” said Rienzi, calmly, “but I resent it not.  You are foe to the Orsini, yet you plead for him—­it sounds generous; but hark you,—­you are more a friend to your order than a foe to your rival.  You cannot bear that one, great enough to have contended with you, should perish like a thief.  I give full praise to such noble forgiveness; but I am no noble, and I do not sympathize with it.  One word more;—­if this were the sole act of fraud and violence that this bandit baron had committed, your prayers should plead for him; but is not his life notorious?  Has he not been from boyhood the terror and disgrace of Rome?  How many matrons violated, merchants pillaged, peaceful men stilettoed in the daylight, rise in dark witness against the prisoner?  And for such a man do I live to hear an aged prince and a pope’s vicar plead for mercy?—­Fie, fie!  But I will be even with ye.  The next poor man whom the law sentences to death, for your sake will I pardon.”

Raimond again drew aside the Tribune, while Colonna struggled to suppress his rage.

“My friend,” said the Bishop, “the nobles will feel this as an insult to their whole order; the very pleading of Orsini’s worst foe must convince thee of this.  Martino’s blood will seal their reconciliation with each other, and they will be as one man against thee.”

“Be it so:  with God and the People on my side, I will dare, though a Roman, to be just.  The bell ceases—­you are already too late.”  So saying, Rienzi threw open the casement; and by the staircase of the Lion rose a gibbet from which swung with a creaking sound, arrayed in his patrician robes, the yet palpitating corpse of Martino di Porto.

“Behold!” said the Tribune, sternly, “thus die all robbers.  For traitors, the same law has the axe and the scaffold!”

Raimond drew back and turned pale.  Not so the veteran noble.  Tears of wounded pride started from his eyes; he approached, leaning on his staff, to Rienzi, touched him on his shoulder, and said,—­

“Tribune, a judge has lived to envy his victim!”

Rienzi turned with an equal pride to the Baron.

“We forgive idle words in the aged.  My Lord, have you done with us?—­we would be alone.”

“Give me thy arm, Raimond,” said Stephen.  “Tribune—­farewell.  Forget that the Colonna sued thee,—­an easy task, methinks; for, wise as you are, you forget what every one else can remember.”

“Ay, my Lord, what?”

“Birth, Tribune, birth—­that’s all!”