“Why?” asked Rienzi, abruptly.

“Have the creatures of the Captain of the Grand Company ever held faith with any man whom it suited the avarice or the ambition of Montreal to betray?  Was he not, a few months ago, the right arm of John di Vico, and did he not sell his services to John di Vico’s enemy, the Cardinal Albornoz?  These warriors barter men as cattle.”

“Thou describest Montreal rightly:  a dangerous and an awful man.  But methinks his brothers are of a duller and meaner kind; they dare not the crimes of the Robber Captain.  Howbeit, Angelo, thou hast touched a string that will make discord with sleep tonight.  Fair youth, thy young eyes have need of slumber; withdraw, and when thou hearest men envy Rienzi, think that—­”

“God never made Genius to be envied!” interrupted Villani, with an energy that overcame his respect.  “We envy not the sun, but rather the valleys that ripen beneath his beams.”

“Verily, if I be the sun,” said Rienzi, with a bitter and melancholy smile, “I long for night,—­and come it will, to the human as to the celestial Pilgrim!—­Thank Heaven, at least, that our ambition cannot make us immortal!”

Chapter 9.V.  The Biter Bit.

The next morning, when Rienzi descended to the room where his captains awaited him, his quick eye perceived that a cloud still lowered upon the brow of Messere Brettone.  Arimbaldo, sheltered by the recess of the rude casement, shunned his eye.

“A fair morning, gentles,” said Rienzi; “the Sun laughs upon our enterprise.  I have messengers from Rome betimes—­fresh troops will join us ere noon.”

“I am glad, Senator,” answered Brettone, “that you have tidings which will counteract the ill of those I have to narrate to thee.  The soldiers murmur loudly—­their pay is due to them; and, I fear me, that without money they will not march to Palestrina.”

“As they will,” returned Rienzi, carelessly.  “It is but a few days since they entered Rome; pay did they receive in advance—­if they demand more, the Colonna and Orsini may outbid me.  Draw off your soldiers, Sir Knight, and farewell.”

Brettone’s countenance fell—­it was his object to get Rienzi more and more in his power, and he wished not to suffer him to gain that strength which would accrue to him from the fall of Palestrina:  the indifference of the Senator foiled and entrapped him in his own net.

“That must not be,” said the brother of Montreal, after a confused silence; “we cannot leave you thus to your enemies—­the soldiers, it is true, demand pay—­”

“And should have it,” said Rienzi.  “I know these mercenaries—­it is ever with them, mutiny or money.  I will throw myself on my Romans, and triumph—­or fall, if so Heaven decrees, with them.  Acquaint your constables with my resolve.”

Scarce were these words spoken, ere, as previously concerted with Brettone, the chief constable of the mercenaries appeared at the door.  “Senator,” said he, with a rough semblance of aspect, “your orders to march have reached me, I have sought to marshal my men—­but—­”