had first derided his arrogance, and now cringed to his power.  There, were not only the ambassadors of Florence, of Sienna, of Arezzo (which last subjected its government to the Tribune,) of Todi, of Spoleto, and of countless other lesser towns and states, but of the dark and terrible Visconti, prince of Milan; of Obizzo of Ferrara, and the tyrant rulers of Verona and Bologna; even the proud and sagacious Malatesta, lord of Rimini, whose arm afterwards broke for awhile the power of Montreal, at the head of his Great Company, had deputed his representative in his most honoured noble.  John di Vico, the worst and most malignant despot of his day, who had sternly defied the arms of the Tribune, now subdued and humbled, was there in person; and the ambassadors of Hungary and of Naples mingled with those of Bavaria and Bohemia, whose sovereigns that day had been cited to the Roman Judgment Court.  The nodding of plumes, the glitter of jewels and cloth of gold, the rustling of silks and jingle of golden spurs, the waving of banners from the roof, the sounds of minstrelsy from the galleries above, all presented a picture of such power and state—­a court and chivalry of such show—­as the greatest of the feudal kings might have beheld with a sparkling eye and a swelling heart.  But at that moment the cause and lord of all that splendour, recovered from his late exhilaration, sat moody and abstracted, remembering with a thoughtful brow the adventure of the past night, and sensible that amongst his gaudiest revellers lurked his intended murtherers.  Amidst the swell of the minstrelsy and the pomp of the crowd, he felt that treason scowled beside him; and the image of the skeleton obtruding, as of old, its grim thought of death upon the feast, darkened the ruby of the wine, and chilled the glitter of the scene.

It was while the feast was loudest that Rienzi’s page was seen gliding through the banquet, and whispering several of the nobles; each bowed low, but changed colour as he received the message.

“My Lord Savelli,” said Orsini, himself trembling, “bear yourself more bravely.  This must be meant in honour, not revenge.  I suppose your summons corresponds with mine.”

“He—­he—­asks—­asks—­me to supper at the Capitol; a fri-endly meeting—­(pest on his friendship!)—­after the noise of the day.”

“The words addressed also to me!” said Orsini, turning to one of the Frangipani.

Those who received the summons soon broke from the feast, and collected in a group, eagerly conferring.  Some were for flight, but flight was confession; their number, rank, long and consecrated impunity, reassured them, and they resolved to obey.  The old Colonna, the sole innocent Baron of the invited guests, was also the only one who refused the invitation.  “Tush!” said he, peevishly; “here is feasting enough for one day!  Tell the Tribune that ere he sups I hope to be asleep.  Grey hairs cannot encounter all this fever of festivity.”