The constables withdrew in visible surprise.  Rienzi gazed a moment on the brothers, chuckling within himself—­for his sarcastic humour enjoyed his triumph.  “You lament not your devotion, my friends!”

“No,” said Brettone, rousing himself; “the sum but trivially swells our debt.”

“Frankly said—­your hands once more!—­the good people of Tivoli expect me in the Piazza—­they require some admonitions.  Adieu till noon.”

When the door closed on Rienzi, Brettone struck the handle of his sword fiercely—­“The Roman laughs at us,” said he.  “But let Walter de Montreal once appear in Rome, and the proud jester shall pay us dearly for this.”

“Hush!” said Arimbaldo, “walls have ears, and that imp of Satan, young Villani, seems to me ever at our heels!”

“A thousand florins!  I trust his heart hath as many drops,” growled the chafed Brettone, unheeding his brother.

The soldiers were paid—­the army marched—­the eloquence of the Senator had augmented his force by volunteers from Tivoli, and wild and half armed peasantry joined his standard from the Campagna and the neighbouring mountains.

Palestrina was besieged:  Rienzi continued dexterously to watch the brothers of Montreal.  Under pretext of imparting to the Italian volunteers the advantage of their military science, he separated them from their mercenaries, and assigned to them the command of the less disciplined Italians, with whom, he believed, they could not venture to tamper.  He himself assumed the lead of the Northmen—­and, despite themselves, they were fascinated by his artful, yet dignified affability, and the personal courage he displayed in some sallies of the besieged Barons.  But as the huntsmen upon all the subtlest windings of their prey,—­so pressed the relentless and speeding Fates upon Cola di Rienzi!

Chapter 9.VI.  The Events Gather to the End.

While this the state of the camp of the besiegers, Luca di Savelli and Stefanello Colonna were closeted with a stranger, who had privately entered Palestrina on the night before the Romans pitched their tents beneath its walls.  This visitor, who might have somewhat passed his fortieth year, yet retained, scarcely diminished, the uncommon beauty of form and countenance for which his youth had been remarkable.  But it was no longer that character of beauty which has been described in his first introduction to the reader.  It was no longer the almost woman delicacy of feature and complexion, or the highborn polish, and graceful suavity of manner, which distinguished Walter de Montreal:  a life of vicissitude and war had at length done its work.  His bearing was now abrupt and imperious, as that of one accustomed to rule wild spirits, and he had exchanged the grace of persuasion for the sternness of command.  His athletic form had grown more spare and sinewy, and instead of the brow half shaded by fair and clustering curls, his forehead, though