“My Lord—­my Lord!” cried Nina, sick with terror, “wrong not so your noble nature, your great name, your sacred rank, your chivalric blood.  You are of the knightly race of Spain, yours not the sullen, low, and inexorable vices that stain the petty tyrants of this unhappy land.  You are no Visconti—­no Castracani—­you cannot stain your laurels with revenge upon a woman.  Hear me,” she continued, and she fell abruptly at his feet; “men dupe, deceive our sex—­and for selfish purposes; they are pardoned—­even by their victims.  Did I deceive you with a false hope?  Well—­what my object?—­what my excuse?  My husband’s liberty—­my land’s salvation!  Woman,—­my Lord, alas, your sex too rarely understand her weakness or her greatness!  Erring—­all human as she is to others—­God gifts her with a thousand virtues to the one she loves!  It is from that love that she alone drinks her nobler nature.  For the hero of her worship she has the meekness of the dove—­the devotion of the saint; for his safety in peril, for his rescue in misfortune, her vain sense imbibes the sagacity of the serpent—­her weak heart, the courage of the lioness!  It is this which, in absence, made me mask my face in smiles, that the friends of the houseless exile might not despair of his fate—­it is this which brought me through forests beset with robbers, to watch the stars upon yon solitary tower—­it was this which led my steps to the revels of your hated court—­this which made me seek a deliverer in the noblest of its chiefs—­it is this which has at last opened the dungeon door to the prisoner now within your halls; and this, Lord Cardinal,” added Nina, rising, and folding her arms upon her heart—­“this, if your anger seeks a victim, will inspire me to die without a groan,—­but without dishonour!”

Albornoz remained rooted to the ground.  Amazement—­emotion—­admiration—­all busy at his heart.  He gazed at Nina’s flashing eyes and heaving bosom as a warrior of old upon a prophetess inspired.  His eyes were riveted to hers as by a spell.  He tried to speak, but his voice failed him.  Nina continued: 

“Yes, my Lord; these are no idle words!  If you seek revenge, it is in your power.  Undo what you have done.  Give Rienzi back to the dungeon, or to disgrace, and you are avenged; but not on him.  All the hearts of Italy shall become to him a second Nina!  I am the guilty one, and I the sufferer.  Hear me swear—­in that instant which sees new wrong to Rienzi, this hand is my executioner.—­My Lord, I supplicate you no longer!”

Albornoz continued deeply moved.  Nina but rightly judged him, when she distinguished the aspiring Spaniard from the barbarous and unrelenting voluptuaries of Italy.  Despite the profligacy that stained his sacred robe—­despite all the acquired and increasing callousness of a hard, scheming, and sceptical man, cast amidst the worst natures of the worst of times—­there lingered yet in his soul much of the knightly honour of his race and country.