From courtesy, Rienzi and his family remained at first unmasked.  They stood at the head of the stairs to which the old Egyptian Lion gave the name.  The lights shone over that Colossal Monument—­which, torn from its antique home, had witnessed, in its grim repose, the rise and lapse of countless generations, and the dark and stormy revolutions of avenging fate.  It was an ill omen, often afterwards remarked, that the place of that state festival was the place also of the state executions.  But at that moment, as group after group pressed forward to win smile and word from the celebrated man, whose fortunes had been the theme of Europe, or to bend in homage to the lustrous loveliness of Nina, no omen and no warning clouded the universal gladness.

Behind Nina, well contented to shrink from the gaze of the throng, and to feel her softer beauty eclipsed by the dazzling and gorgeous charms of her brother’s wife, stood Irene.  Amidst the crowd on her alone Adrian fixed his eyes.  The years which had flown over the fair brow of the girl of sixteen—­then animated by, yet trembling beneath, the first wild breath of Love;—­youth in every vein—­passion and childish tenderness in every thought, had not marred, but they had changed, the character of Irene’s beauty.  Her cheek, no longer varying with every instant, was settled into a delicate and thoughtful paleness—­her form, more rounded to the proportions of Roman beauty, had assumed an air of dignified and calm repose.  No longer did the restless eye wander in search of some imagined object; no longer did the lip quiver into smiles at some untold hope or half-unconscious recollection.  A grave and mournful expression gave to her face (still how sweet!) a gravity beyond her years.  The bloom, the flush, the April of the heart, was gone; but yet neither time, nor sorrow, nor blighted love, had stolen from her countenance its rare and angelic softness—­nor that inexpressible and virgin modesty of form and aspect, which, contrasting the bolder beauties of Italy, had more than aught else distinguished to Adrian, from all other women, the idol of his heart.  And feeding his gaze upon those dark deep eyes, which spoke of thought far away and busy with the past, Adrian felt again and again that he was not forgotten!  Hovering near her, but suffering the crowd to press one after another before him, he did not perceive that he had attracted the eagle eye of the Senator.

In fact, as one of the maskers passed Rienzi, he whispered, “Beware, a Colonna is among the masks! beneath the reveller’s domino has often lurked the assassin’s dagger.  Yonder stands your foe—­mark him!”

These words were the first sharp and thrilling intimation of the perils into which he had rushed, that the Tribune-Senator had received since his return.  He changed colour slightly; and for some minutes the courtly smile and ready greeting with which he had hitherto delighted every guest, gave way to a moody abstraction.