As the trumpet ceased, the voice of a herald was heard, but it did not penetrate within several yards of the spot where Angelo and the soldier stood; and it was only by a mighty shout that in a moment circled through, and was echoed back by, the wide multitude—­by the waving of kerchiefs from the windows—­by broken ejaculations, which were caught up from lip to lip, that the page knew that Rienzi was acquitted.

“I would I could see his face!” sighed the page, querulously.

“And thou shalt,” said the soldier; and he caught up the boy in his arms, and pressed on with the strength of a giant, parting the living stream from right to left, as he took his way to a place near the guards, and by which Rienzi was sure to pass.

The page, half-pleased, half-indignant, struggled a little, but finding it in vain, consented tacitly to what he felt an outrage on his dignity.

“Never mind,” said the soldier, “thou art the first I ever willingly raised above myself; and I do it now for the sake of thy fair face, which reminds me of one I loved.”

But these last words were spoken low, and the boy, in his anxiety to see the hero of Rome, did not hear or heed them.  Presently Rienzi came by; two gentlemen, of the Pope’s own following, walked by his side.  He moved slowly, amidst the greetings and clamour of the crowd, looking neither to the right nor left.  His bearing was firm and collected, and, save by the flush of his cheek, there was no external sign of joy or excitement.  Flowers dropped from every balcony on his path; and just when he came to a broader space, where the ground was somewhat higher, and where he was in fuller view of the houses around, he paused—­and, uncovering, acknowledged the homage he had received, with a look—­a gesture—­which each who beheld never forgot.  It haunted even that gay and thoughtless court, when the last tale of Rienzi’s life reached their ears.  And Angelo, clinging then round that soldier’s neck, recalled—­but we must not anticipate.

It was not, however, to the dark tower that Rienzi returned.  His home was prepared at the palace of the Cardinal d’Albornoz.  The next day he was admitted to the Pope’s presence, and on the evening of that day he was proclaimed Senator of Rome.

Meanwhile the soldier had placed Angelo on the ground; and as the page faltered out no courteous thanks, he interrupted him in a sad and kind voice, the tone of which struck the page forcibly, so little did it suit the rough and homely appearance of the man.

“We part,” he said, “as strangers, fair boy; and since thou sayest thou art of Rome, there is no reason why my heart should have warmed to thee as it has done; yet if ever thou wantest a friend,—­seek him”—­and the soldier’s voice sunk into a whisper—­“in Walter de Montreal.”

Ere the page recovered his surprise at that redoubted name, which his earliest childhood had been taught to dread, the Knight of St. John had vanished amongst the crowd.