“The question admits a double reply.  He who is born a ruler, and maintains a foreign army, governing by fear, should be penurious.  He who is made ruler, who courts the people, and would reign by love, must win their affection by generosity, and dazzle their fancies by pomp.  Such, I believe, is the usual maxim in Italy, which is rife in all experience of state wisdom.”

The Barons unanimously applauded the discreet reply of Savelli, excepting only the old Colonna.

“Yet pardon me, Tribune,” said Stephen, “if I depart from the courtier-like decision of our friend, and opine, though with all due respect, that even a friar’s coarse serge, (’Vestimenta da Bizoco,’ was the phrase used by Colonna; a phrase borrowed from certain heretics (bizocchi) who affected extreme austerity; afterwards the word passed into a proverb.—­See the comments of Zerfirino Re, in ’Vita di Cola di Rienzi’.) the parade of humility, would better become thee, than this gaudy pomp, the parade of pride!” So saying, he touched the large loose sleeve fringed with gold, of the Tribune’s purple robe.

“Hush, father!” said Gianni, Colonna’s son, colouring at the unprovoked rudeness and dangerous candour of the veteran.

“Nay, it matters not,” said the Tribune, with affected indifference, though his lip quivered, and his eye shot fire; and then, after a pause, he resumed with an awful smile—­“If the Colonna love the serge of the friar, he may see enough of it ere we part.  And now, my Lord Savelli, for my question, which I pray you listen to; it demands all your wit.  Is it best for a State’s Ruler to be over-forgiving, or over-just?  Take breath to answer:  you look faint—­you grow pale—­you tremble—­you cover your face!  Traitor and assassin, your conscience betrays you!  My Lords, relieve your accomplice, and take up the answer.”

“Nay, if we are discovered,” said the Orsini, rising in despair, “we will not fall unavenged—­die, tyrant!”

He rushed to the place where Rienzi stood—­for the Tribune also rose,—­and made a thrust at his breast with his dagger; the steel pierced the purple robe, yet glanced harmlessly away—­and the Tribune regarded the disappointed murtherer with a scornful smile.

“Till yesternight, I never dreamt that under the robe of state I should need the secret corselet,” said he.  “My Lords, you have taught me a dark lesson, and I thank ye.”

So saying, he clapped his hands, and suddenly the folding doors at the end of the hall flew open, and discovered the saloon of the Council hung with silk of a blood-red, relieved by rays of white,—­the emblem of crime and death.  At a long table sate the councillors in their robes; at the bar stood a ruffian form, which the banqueters too well recognised.

“Bid Rodolf of Saxony approach!” said the Tribune.

And led by two guards, the robber entered the hall.

“Wretch, you then betrayed us!” said one of the Frangipani.