As Rienzi thus spoke, his face grew pale, his hair seemed to bristle, his tall and proud form trembled visibly, and presently he sunk down on a seat, and covered his face with his hands.

An awe crept over Nina, though not unaccustomed to such strange and preternatural emotions, which appeared yet the more singular in one who in common life was so calm, stately, and self-possessed.  But with every increase of prosperity and power, those emotions seemed to increase in their fervour, as if in such increase the devout and overwrought superstition of the Tribune recognised additional proof of a mysterious guardianship mightier than the valour or art of man.

She approached fearfully, and threw her arms around him, but without speaking.

Ere yet the Tribune had well recovered himself, a slight tap at the door was heard, and the sound seemed at once to recall his self-possession.

“Enter,” he said, lifting his face, to which the wonted colour slowly returned.

An officer, half-opening the door, announced that the person he had sent for waited his leisure.

“I come!—­Core of my heart,” (he whispered to Nina,) “we will sup alone tonight, and will converse more on these matters:”  so saying, with somewhat less than his usual loftiness of mien, he left the room, and sought his cabinet, which lay at the other side of the reception chamber.  Here he found Cecco del Vecchio.

“How, my bold fellow,” said the Tribune, assuming with wonderful ease that air of friendly equality which he always adopted with those of the lower class, and which made a striking contrast with the majesty, no less natural, which marked his manner to the great.  “How now, my Cecco!  Thou bearest thyself bravely, I see, during these sickly heats; we labourers—­for both of us labour, Cecco—­are too busy to fall ill as the idle do, in the summer, or the autumn, of Roman skies.  I sent for thee, Cecco, because I would know how thy fellow-craftsmen are like to take the Orsini’s execution.”

“Oh!  Tribune,” replied the artificer, who, now familiarized with Rienzi, had lost much of his earlier awe of him, and who regarded the Tribune’s power as partly his own creation; “they are already out of their honest wits, at your courage in punishing the great men as you would the small.”

“So;—­I am repaid!  But hark you, Cecco, it will bring, perhaps, hot work upon us.  Every Baron will dread lest it be his turn next, and dread will make them bold, like rats in despair.  We may have to fight for the Good Estate.”

“With all my heart, Tribune,” answered Cecco, gruffly.  “I, for one, am no craven.”

“Then keep the same spirit in all your meetings with the artificers.  I fight for the people.  The people at a pinch must fight with me.”

“They will,” replied Cecco; “they will!”

“Cecco, this city is under the spiritual dominion of the Pontiff—­so be it—­it is an honour, not a burthen.  But the temporal dominion, my friend, should be with Romans only.  Is it not a disgrace to Republican Rome, that while we now speak, certain barbarians, whom we never heard of, should be deciding beyond the Alps on the merits of two sovereigns, whom we never saw?  Is not this a thing to be resisted?  An Italian city,—­what hath it to do with a Bohemian Emperor?”