daily more needed, till at length the conspiracy of the Barons had broken out.  From that hour she scarcely dared to hope; her calm sense, unblinded by the high-wrought genius which, as too often happens, made the Tribune see harsh realities through a false and brilliant light, perceived that the Rubicon was passed; and through all the events that followed she could behold but two images—­danger to her brother, separation from her betrothed.

With Nina alone could her full heart confer; for Nina, with all the differences of character, was a woman who loved.  And this united them.  In the earlier power of Rienzi, many of their happiest hours had been passed together, remote from the gaudy crowd, alone and unrestrained, in the summer nights, on the moonlit balconies, in that interchange of thought, sympathy, and consolation, which to two impassioned and guileless women makes the most interesting occupation and the most effectual solace.  But of late, this intercourse had been much marred.  From the morning in which the Barons had received their pardon, to that on which they had marched on Rome, had been one succession of fierce excitements.  Every face Irene saw was clouded and overcast—­all gaiety was suspended—­bustling and anxious councillors, or armed soldiers, had for days been the only visitors of the palace.  Rienzi had been seen but for short moments:  his brow wrapt in care.  Nina had been more fond, more caressing than ever, but in those caresses there seemed a mournful and ominous compassion.  The attempts at comfort and hope were succeeded by a sickly smile and broken words; and Irene was prepared, by the presentiments of her own heart, for the stroke that fell—­victory was to her brother—­his foe was crushed—­Rome was free—­but the lofty house of the Colonnas had lost its stateliest props, and Adrian was gone for ever!—­She did not blame him; she could not blame her brother; each had acted as became his several station.  She was the poor sacrifice of events and fate—­the Iphigenia to the Winds which were to bear the bark of Rome to the haven, or, it might be, to whelm it in the abyss.  She was stunned by the blow; she did not even weep or complain; she bowed to the storm that swept over her, and it passed.  For two days she neither took food nor rest; she shut herself up; she asked only the boon of solitude:  but on the third morning she recovered as by a miracle, for on the third morning, the following letter was left at the palace:—­

“Irene,—­Ere this you have learned my deep cause of grief; you feel that to a Colonna Rome can no longer be a home, nor Rome’s Tribune be a brother.  While I write these words honour but feebly supports me:  all the hopes I had formed, all the prospects I had pictured, all the love I bore and bear thee, rush upon my heart, and I can only feel that I am wretched.  Irene, Irene, your sweet face rises before me, and in those beloved eyes I read that I am forgiven,—­I am understood; and dearly as I know thou lovest me, thou wouldst