the young man, who had much of the arrogant and mock patriotism of the Romans, with a similar sentiment.  More vindictive even than grateful, he bore, too, a secret grudge against Montreal’s brothers, whose rough address had often wounded his pride; and, above all, his early recollections of the fear and execration in which Ursula seemed ever to hold the terrible Fra Moreale, impressed him with a vague belief of some ancient wrong to himself or his race, perpetrated by the Provencal, which he was not ill-pleased to have the occasion to avenge.  In truth, the words of Ursula, mystic and dark as they were in their denunciation, had left upon Villani’s boyish impressions an unaccountable feeling of antipathy and hatred to the man it was now his object to betray.  For the rest, every device seemed to him decorous and justifiable, so that it saved his master, served his country, and advanced himself.

Montreal was alone in his chamber when it was announced to him that a young Italian craved an audience.  Professionally open to access, he forthwith gave admission to the applicant.

The Knight of St. John instantly recognised the page he had encountered at Avignon; and when Angelo Villani said, with easy boldness, “I have come to remind Sir Walter de Montreal of a promise—­”

The Knight interrupted him with cordial frankness—­“Thou needest not—­I remember it.  Dost thou now require my friendship?”

“I do noble Signor!” answered Angelo; “I know not where else to seek a patron.”

“Canst thou read and write?  I fear me not.”

“I have been taught those arts,” replied Villani.

“It is well.  Is thy birth gentle?”

“It is.”

“Better still;—­thy name?”

“Angelo Villani.”

“I take thy blue eyes and low broad brow,” said Montreal, with a slight sigh, “in pledge of thy truth.  Henceforth, Angelo Villani, thou art in the list of my secretaries.  Another time thou shalt tell me more of thyself.  Thy service dates from this day.  For the rest, no man ever wanted wealth who served Walter de Montreal; nor advancement, if he served him faithfully.  My closet, through yonder door, is thy waiting-room.  Ask for, and send hither, Lusignan of Lyons; he is my chief scribe, and will see to thy comforts, and instruct thee in thy business.”

Angelo withdrew—­Montreal’s eye followed him.

“A strange likeness!” said he, musingly and sadly; “my heart leaps to that boy!”

Chapter 10.III.  Montreal’s Banquet.

Some few days after the date of the last chapter, Rienzi received news from Rome, which seemed to produce in him a joyous and elated excitement.  His troops still lay before Palestrina, and still the banners of the Barons waved over its unconquered walls.  In truth, the Italians employed half their time in brawls amongst themselves; the Velletritrani had feuds with the people of Tivoli, and the Romans were still afraid of conquering the Barons;—­“The hornet,” said they, “stings worse after he is dead; and neither an Orsini, a Savelli, nor a Colonna, was ever known to forgive.”