“Roman!  Know, my Lord, that I have a purpose in calling myself of Naples.  To your discretion I intrust my secret—­I am of Rome!  Tell me of her state.”

“Fairest one,” returned the Cardinal, “I should have known that that brow and presence were not of the light Campania.  My reason should have told me that they bore the stamp of the Empress of the World.  The state of Rome,” continued Albornoz, in a graver tone, “is briefly told.  Thou knowest that after the fall of the able but insolent Rienzi, Pepin, count of Minorbino, (a creature of Montreal’s) who had assisted in expelling him, would have betrayed Rome to Montreal,—­but he was neither strong enough nor wise enough, and the Barons chased him as he had chased the Tribune.  Some time afterwards a new demagogue, John Cerroni, was installed in the Capitol.  He once more expelled the nobles; new revolutions ensued—­the Barons were recalled.  The weak successor of Rienzi summoned the people to arms—­in vain:  in terror and despair he abdicated his power, and left the city a prey to the interminable feuds of the Orsini, the Colonna, and the Savelli.”

“Thus much I know, my Lord; but when his Holiness succeeded to the chair of Clement vi.—­”

“Then,” said Albornoz, and a slight frown darkened his sallow brow, “then came the blacker part of the history.  Two senators were elected in concert by the Pope.”

“Their names?”

“Bertoldo Orsini, and one of the Colonna.  A few weeks afterwards, the high price of provisions stung the rascal stomachs of the mob—­they rose, they clamoured, they armed, they besieged the Capitol—­”

“Well, well,” cried the Signora, clasping her hands, and betokening in every feature her interest in the narration.

“Colonna only escaped death by a vile disguise; Bertoldo Orsini was stoned.”

“Stoned!—­there fell one!”

“Yes, lady, one of a great house; the least drop of whose blood were worth an ocean of plebeian puddle.  At present, all is disorder, misrule, anarchy, at Rome.  The contests of the nobles shake the city to the centre; and prince and people, wearied of so many experiments to establish a government, have now no governor but the fear of the sword.  Such, fair madam, is the state of Rome.  Sigh not, it occupies now our care.  It shall be remedied; and I, madam, may be the happy instrument of restoring peace to your native city.”

“There is but one way of restoring peace to Rome,” answered the Signora, abruptly, “and that is—­The restoration of Rienzi!”

The Cardinal started.  “Madam,” said he, “do I hear aright?—­are you not nobly born?—­can you desire the rise of a plebeian?  Did you not speak of revenge, and now you ask for mercy?”

“Lord Cardinal,” said the beautiful Signora, earnestly, “I do not ask for mercy:  such a word is not for the lips of one who demands justice.  Nobly born I am—­ay, and from a stock to whose long descent from the patricians of ancient Rome the high line of Aragon itself would be of yesterday.  Nay, I would not offend you, Monsignore; your greatness is not borrowed from pedigrees and tombstones—­your greatness is your own achieving:  would you speak honestly, my Lord, you would own that you are proud only of your own laurels, and that, in your heart, you laugh at the stately fools who trick themselves out in the mouldering finery of the dead!”