Meanwhile the insurgent Patricians, who had marched that morning from a place called the Monument, four miles distant, came gallantly and boldly on.

With old Stephen, whose great height, gaunt frame, and lordly air, shewed well in his gorgeous mail, rode his sons,—­the Frangipani and the Savelli, and Giordano Orsini, brother to Rinaldo.

“Today the tyrant shall perish!” said the proud Baron; “and the flag of the Colonna shall wave from the Capitol.”

“The flag of the Bear,” said Giordano Orsini, angrily.—­“The victory will not be yours alone, my Lord!”

“Our house ever took precedence in Rome,” replied the Colonna, haughtily.

“Never, while one stone of the palaces of the Orsini stands upon another.”

“Hush!” said Luca di Savelli; “are ye dividing the skin while the lion lives?  We shall have fierce work today.”

“Not so,” said the old Colonna; “John di Vico will turn, with his Romans, at the first onset, and some of the malcontents within have promised to open the gates.—­How, knave?” as a scout rode up breathless to the Baron.  “What tidings?”

“The gates are opened—­not a spear gleams from the walls!”

“Did I not tell ye, Lords?” said the Colonna, turning round triumphantly.  “Methinks we shall win Rome without a single blow.—­Grandson, where now are thy silly forebodings?” This was said to Pietro, one of his grandsons—­the first-born of Gianni—­a comely youth, not two weeks wedded, who made no reply.  “My little Pietro here,” continued the Baron, speaking to his comrades, “is so new a bridegroom, that last night he dreamed of his bride; and deems it, poor lad, a portent.”

“She was in deep mourning, and glided from my arms, uttering, ’Woe, woe, to the Colonna!” said the young man, solemnly.

“I have lived nearly ninety years,” replied the old man, “and I may have dreamed, therefore, some forty thousand dreams; of which, two came true, and the rest were false.  Judge, then, what chances are in favour of the science!”

Thus conversing, they approached within bow-shot of the gates, which were still open.  All was silent as death.  The army, which was composed chiefly of foreign mercenaries, halted in deliberation—­when, lo!—­a torch was suddenly cast on high over the walls; it gleamed a moment—­and then hissed in the miry pool below.

“It is the signal of our friends within, as agreed on,” cried old Colonna.  “Pietro, advance with your company!” The young nobleman closed his visor, put himself at the head of the band under his command; and, with his lance in his rest, rode in a half gallop to the gates.  The morning had been clouded and overcast, and the sun, appearing only at intervals, now broke out in a bright stream of light—­as it glittered on the waving plume and shining mail of the young horseman, disappearing under the gloomy arch, several paces in advance of his troop.  On swept his followers—­forward went the cavalry headed by Gianni Colonna, Pietro’s father.—­there was a minute’s silence, broken only by the clatter of the arms, and tramp of hoofs,—­when from within the walls rose the abrupt cry—­“Rome, the Tribune, and the People!  Spirito Santo, Cavaliers!” The main body halted aghast.  Suddenly Gianni Colonna was seen flying backward from the gate at full speed.