Stefanello himself, in the first bloom of youth, bore already on his beardless countenance those traces usually the work of the passions and vices of maturest manhood.  His features were cast in the mould of the old Stephen’s; in their clear, sharp, high-bred outline might be noticed that regular and graceful symmetry, which blood, in men as in animals, will sometimes entail through generations; but the features were wasted and meagre.  His brows were knit in an eternal frown; his thin and bloodless lips wore that insolent contempt which seems so peculiarly cold and unlovely in early youth; and the deep and livid hollows round his eyes, spoke of habitual excess and premature exhaustion.  By him sat (reconciled by hatred to one another) the hereditary foes of his race; the soft, but cunning and astute features of Luca di Savelli, contrasted with the broad frame and ferocious countenance of the Prince of the Orsini.

The young head of the Colonna rose with some cordiality to receive his cousin.  “Welcome,” he said, “dear Adrian; you are arrived in time to assist us with your well-known military skill.  Think you not we shall stand a long siege, if the insolent plebeian dare adventure it?  You know our friends, the Orsini and the Savelli?  Thanks to St. Peter, or Peter’s delegate, we have now happily meaner throats to cut than those of each other!”

Thus saying, Stefanello again threw himself listlessly on his seat, and the shrill, woman’s voice of Savelli took part in the dialogue.

“I would, noble Signor, that you had come a few hours earlier:  we are still making merry at the recollection—­he, he, he!”

“Ah, excellent,” cried Stefanello, joining in the laugh; “our cousin has had a loss.  Know Adrian, that this base fellow, whom the Pope has had the impudence to create Senator, dared but yesterday to send us a varlet, whom he called—­by our Lady!—­his ambassador!”

“Would you could have seen his mantle, Signor Adrian!” chimed in the Savelli:  “purple velvet, as I live, decorated in gold, with the arms of Rome:  we soon spoiled his finery.”

“What!” exclaimed Adrian, “you did not break the laws of all nobility and knighthood?—­you offered no insult to a herald!”

“Herald, sayst thou?” cried Stefanello, frowning till his eyes were scarce visible.  “It is for Princes and Barons alone to employ heralds.  An’ I had had my will, I would have sent back the minion’s head to the usurper.”

“What did ye then?” asked Adrian, coldly.

“Bade our swineherds dip the fellow in the ditch, and gave him a night’s lodging in a dungeon to dry himself withal.”

“And this morning—­he, he, he!” added the Savelli, “we had him before us, and drew his teeth, one by one;—­I would you could have heard the fellow mumble out for mercy!”

Adrian rose hastily, and struck the table fiercely with his gauntlet.

“Stefanello Colonna,” said he, colouring with noble rage, “answer me:  did you dare to inflict this indelible disgrace upon the name we jointly bear?  Tell me, at least, that you protested against this foul treason to all the laws of civilization and of honour.  You answer not.  House of the Colonna, can such be thy representative!”