Many were the jests at the shabby swordsman’s expense, with which that lively population amused their impatience; and though the shade of the morion concealed his eyes, an arch and merry smile about the corners of his mouth shewed that he could take a jest at himself.

“Well,” said one of the crowd, (a rich Milanese,) “I am of a state that was free, and I trust the People’s man will have justice shewn him.”

“Amen,” said a grave Florentine.

“They say,” whispered a young student from Paris, to a learned doctor of laws, with whom he abode, “that his defence has been a masterpiece.”

“He hath taken no degrees,” replied the doctor, doubtingly.  “Ho, friend, why dost thou push me so? thou hast rent my robe.”

This was said to a minstrel, or jongleur, who, with a small lute slung round him, was making his way, with great earnestness, through the throng.

“I beg pardon, worthy sir,” said the minstrel; “but this is a scene to be sung of!  Centuries hence; ay, and in lands remote, legend and song will tell the fortunes of Cola di Rienzi, the friend of Petrarch and the Tribune of Rome!”

The young French student turned quickly round to the minstrel, with a glow on his pale face; not sharing the general sentiments of his countrymen against Rienzi, he felt that it was an era in the world when a minstrel spoke thus of the heroes of intellect—­not of war.

At this time the tall soldier was tapped impatiently on the back.

“I pray thee, great sir,” said a sharp and imperious voice, “to withdraw that tall bulk of thine a little on one side—­I cannot see through thee; and I would fain my eyes were among the first to catch a glimpse of Rienzi as he passes from the court.”

“Fair sir page,” replied the soldier, good-humouredly, as he made way for Angelo Villani, “thou wilt not always find that way in the world is won by commanding the strong.  When thou art older thou wilt beard the weak, and the strong thou wilt wheedle.”

“I must change my nature, then,” answered Angelo, (who was of somewhat small stature, and not yet come to his full growth,) trying still to raise himself above the heads of the crowd.

The soldier looked at him approvingly; and as he looked he sighed, and his lips worked with some strange emotion.

“Thou speakest well,” said he, after a pause.  “Pardon me the rudeness of the question; but art thou of Italy?—­thy tongue savours of the Roman dialect; yet I have seen lineaments like thine on this side the Alps.”

“It may be, good fellow,” said the page, haughtily; “but I thank Heaven that I am of Rome.”

At this moment a loud shout burst from that part of the crowd nearest the court.  The sound of trumpets again hushed the throng into deep and breathless silence, while the Pope’s guards, ranged along the space conducting from the court, drew themselves up more erect, and fell a step or two back upon the crowd.