As Rienzi rose to depart, which he did early, for the banquet took place while yet morning, Raimond, eager to escape and confer with some of his spiritual friends, as to the report he should make to the Pontiff, was beginning his expressions of farewell, when the merciless Tribune said to him gravely—­

“My Lord, we want you on urgent business at the Capitol.  A prisoner—­a trial—­perhaps (he added with his portentous and prophetic frown) an execution waits us!  Come.”

“Verily, Tribune,” stammered the good Bishop, “this is a strange time for execution!”

“Last night was a time yet more strange.—­Come.”

There was something in the way in which the final word was pronounced, that Raimond could not resist.  He sighed, muttered, twitched his robes, and followed the Tribune.  As he passed through the halls, the company rose on all sides.  Rienzi repaid their salutations with smiles and whispers of frank courtesy and winning address.  Young as he yet was, and of a handsome and noble presence, that took every advantage from splendid attire, and yet more from an appearance of intellectual command in his brow and eye, which the less cultivated signors of that dark age necessarily wanted—­he glittered through the court as one worthy to form, and fitted to preside over, it; and his supposed descent from the Teuton Emperor, which, since his greatness, was universally bruited and believed abroad, seemed undeniably visible to the foreign lords in the majesty of his mien and the easy blandness of his address.

“My Lord Prefect,” said he to a dark and sullen personage in black velvet, the powerful and arrogant John di Vico, prefect of Rome, “we are rejoiced to find so noble a guest at Rome:  we must repay the courtesy by surprising you in your own palace ere long;—­nor will you, Signor (as he turned to the envoy from Tivoli,) refuse us a shelter amidst your groves and waterfalls ere the vintage be gathered.  Methinks Rome, united with sweet Tivoli, grows reconciled to the Muses.  Your suit is carried, Master Venoni:  the council recognises its justice; but I reserved the news for this holyday—­you do not blame me, I trust.”  This was whispered, with a half-affectionate frankness, to a worthy citizen, who, finding himself amidst so many of the great, would have shrunk from the notice of the Tribune; but it was the policy of Rienzi to pay an especial and marked attention to those engaged in commercial pursuits.  As, after tarrying a moment or two with the merchant, he passed on, the tall person of the old Colonna caught his eye—­

“Signor,” said he, with a profound inclination of his head, but with a slight emphasis of tone, “you will not fail us this evening.”

“Tribune—­” began the Colonna.

“We receive no excuse,” interrupted the Tribune, hastily, and passed on.

He halted for a few moments before a small group of men plainly attired, who were watching him with intense interest; for they, too, were scholars, and in Rienzi’s rise they saw another evidence of that wonderful and sudden power which intellect had begun to assume over brute force.  With these, as if abruptly mingled with congenial spirits, the Tribune relaxed all the gravity of his brow.  Happier, perhaps, his living career—­more unequivocal his posthumous renown—­had his objects as his tastes been theirs!