At eve the battle ceased.  Of the Barons who had been the main object of the Tribune’s assault, the pride and boast was broken.  Of the princely line of the Colonna, three lay dead.  Giordano Orsini was mortally wounded; the fierce Rinaldo had not shared the conflict.  Of the Frangipani, the haughtiest signors were no more; and Luca, the dastard head of the Savelli, had long since saved himself by flight.  On the other hand, the slaughter of the citizens had been prodigious;—­the ground was swamped with blood—­and over heaps of slain, (steeds and riders,) the twilight star beheld Rienzi and the Romans returning victors from the pursuit.  Shouts of rejoicing followed the Tribune’s panting steed through the arch; and just as he entered the space within, crowds of those whose infirmities, sex, or years, had not allowed them to share the conflict,—­women, and children, and drivelling age, mingled with the bare feet and dark robes of monks and friars, apprised of the victory, were prepared to hail his triumph.

Rienzi reined his steed by the corpse of the boy Colonna, which lay half immersed in a pool of water, and close by it, removed from the arch where he had fallen, lay that of Gianni Colonna,—­(that Gianni Colonna whose spear had dismissed his brother’s gentle spirit.) He glanced over the slain, as the melancholy Hesperus played upon the bloody pool and the gory corselet, with a breast heaved with many emotions; and turning, he saw the young Angelo, who, with some of Nina’s guard, had repaired to the spot, and had now approached the Tribune.

“Child,” said Rienzi, pointing to the dead, “blessed art thou who hast no blood of kindred to avenge!—­to him who hath, sooner or later comes the hour; and an awful hour it is!”

The words sank deep into Angelo’s heart, and in after life became words of fate to the speaker and the listener.

Ere Rienzi had well recovered himself, and as were heard around him the shrieks of the widows and mothers of the slain—­the groans of the dying—­the exhortations of the friars—­mingled with sounds of joy and triumph—­a cry was raised by the women and stragglers on the battle-field without, of “The foe!—­the foe!”

“To your swords,” cried the Tribune; “fall back in order;—­yet they cannot be so bold!”

The tramp of horses, the blast of a trumpet, were heard; and presently, at full speed, some thirty horsemen dashed through the gate.

“Your bows,” exclaimed the Tribune, advancing;—­“yet hold—­the leader is unarmed—­it is our own banner.  By our Lady, it is our ambassador of Naples, the Lord Adrian di Castello!”

Panting—­breathless—­covered with dust—­Adrian halted at the pool red with the blood of his kindred—­and their pale faces, set in death, glared upon him.

“Too late—­alas! alas!—­dread fate!—­unhappy Rome!”

“They fell into the pit they themselves had digged,” said the Tribune, in a firm but hollow voice.—­“Noble Adrian, would thy counsels had prevented this!”