The assassin thus foiled was a man used to all form and shape of danger, and he did not now lose his presence of mind.

“Hold!” said he; “if you kill me, you will die yourself.  Spare me, and I will save you.”

“Miscreant!”

“Hush—­not so loud, or you will disturb your attendants, and some of them may do what I have failed to execute.  Spare me, I say, and I will reveal that which were worth more than my life; but call not—­speak not aloud, I warn you!”

The Tribune felt his heart stand still:  in that lonely place, afar from his idolizing people—­his devoted guards—­with but loathing barons, or, it might be, faithless menials, within call, might not the baffled murtherer give a wholesome warning?—­and those words and that doubt seemed suddenly to reverse their respective positions, and leave the conqueror still in the assassin’s power.

“Thou thinkest to deceive me,” said he, but in a voice whispered and uncertain, which shewed the ruffian the advantage he had gained:  “thou wouldst that I might release thee without summoning my attendants, that thou mightst a second time attempt my life.”

“Thou hast disabled my right arm, and disarmed me of my only weapon.”

“How camest thou hither?”

“By connivance.”

“Whence this attempt?”

“The dictation of others.”

“If I pardon thee—­”

“Thou shalt know all!”

“Rise,” said the Tribune, releasing his prisoner, but with great caution, and still grasping his shoulder with one hand, while the other pointed the dagger at his throat.

“Did my sentry admit thee?  There is but one entrance to the church, methinks.”

“He did not; follow me, and I will tell thee more.”

“Dog! thou hast accomplices?”

“If I have, thou hast the knife at my throat.”

“Wouldst thou escape?”

“I cannot, or I would.”

Rienzi looked hard, by the dull light of the lamp, at the assassin.  His rugged and coarse countenance, rude garb, and barbarian speech, seemed to him proof sufficient that he was but the hireling of others; and it might be wise to brave one danger present and certain, to prevent much danger future and unforeseen.  Rienzi, too, was armed, strong, active, in the prime of life;—­and at the worst, there was no part of the building whence his voice would not reach those within the chapel,—­if they could be depended upon.

“Shew me then thy place and means of entrance,” said he; “and if I but suspect thee as we move—­thou diest.  Take up the lamp.”

The ruffian nodded; with his left hand took up the lamp as he was ordered; and with Rienzi’s grasp on his shoulder, while the wound from his right arm dropped gore as he passed, he moved noiselessly along the church—­gained the altar—­to the left of which was a small room for the use or retirement of the priest.  To this he made his way.  Rienzi’s heart misgave him a moment.