Meanwhile, Adrian, having gained a street which, though in the neighbourhood of the crowd, was empty and desolate, turned to his fierce comrade.  “Rodolf!” said he, “mark!—­no violence to the citizens.  Return to the crowd, collect the friends of our house, withdraw them from the scene; let not the Colonna be blamed for this day’s violence; and assure our followers, in my name, that I swear, by the knighthood I received at the Emperor’s hands, that by my sword shall Martino di Porto be punished for his outrage.  Fain would I, in person, allay the tumult, but my presence only seems to sanction it.  Go—­thou hast weight with them all.”

“Ay, Signor, the weight of blows!” answered the grim soldier.  “But the command is hard; I would fain let their puddle-blood flow an hour or two longer.  Yet, pardon me; in obeying thy orders, do I obey those of my master, thy kinsman?  It is old Stephen Colonna—­who seldom spares blood or treasure, God bless him—­(save his own!)—­whose money I hold, and to whose hests I am sworn.”

“Diavolo!” muttered the cavalier, and the angry spot was on his cheek; but, with the habitual self-control of the Italian nobles, he smothered his rising choler, and said aloud, with calmness, but dignity—­

“Do as I bid thee; check this tumult—­make us the forbearing party.  Let all be still within one hour hence, and call on me tomorrow for thy reward; be this purse an earnest of my future thanks.  As for my kinsman, whom I command thee to name more reverently, ’tis in his name I speak.  Hark! the din increases—­the contest swells—­go—­lose not another moment.”

Somewhat awed by the quiet firmness of the patrician, Rodolf nodded, without answer, slid the money into his bosom, and stalked away into the thickest of the throng.  But, even ere he arrived, a sudden reaction had taken place.

The young cavalier, left alone in that spot, followed with his eyes the receding form of the mercenary, as the sun, now setting, shone slant upon his glittering casque, and said bitterly to himself—­“Unfortunate city, fountain of all mighty memories—­fallen queen of a thousand nations—­how art thou decrowned and spoiled by thy recreant and apostate children!  Thy nobles divided against themselves—­thy people cursing thy nobles—­thy priests, who should sow peace, planting discord—­the father of thy church deserting thy stately walls, his home a refuge, his mitre a fief, his court a Gallic village—­and we! we, of the haughtiest blood of Rome—­we, the sons of Caesars, and of the lineage of demigods, guarding an insolent and abhorred state by the swords of hirelings, who mock our cowardice while they receive our pay—­who keep our citizens slaves, and lord it over their very masters in return!  Oh, that we, the hereditary chiefs of Rome, could but feel—­oh, that we could but find, our only legitimate safeguard in the grateful hearts of our countrymen!”

So deeply did the young Adrian feel the galling truth of all he uttered, that the indignant tears rolled down his cheeks as he spoke.  He felt no shame as he dashed them away; for that weakness which weeps for a fallen race, is the tenderness not of women but of angels.