“Villani!  Angelo Villani!” cried the brothers in a breath.  “Hast thou confided aught to him?”

“Why, I fear he must have seen—­at least in part—­my correspondence with you, and with the Barons—­he was among my scribes.  Know you aught of him?”

“Walter, Heaven hath demented you!” returned Brettone.  “Angelo Villani is the favourite menial of the Senator.”

“Those eyes deceived me, then,” muttered Montreal, solemnly and shuddering; “and, as if her ghost had returned to earth, God smites me from the grave!”

There was a long silence.  At length Montreal, whose bold and sanguine temper was never long clouded, spoke again.

“Are the Senator’s coffers full?—­But that is impossible.”

“Bare as a Dominican’s.”

“We are saved, then.  He shall name his price for our heads.  Money must be more useful to him than blood.”

And as if with that thought all further meditation were rendered unnecessary, Montreal doffed his mantle, uttered a short prayer, and flung himself on a pallet in a corner of the cell.

“I have slept on worse beds,” said the Knight, stretching himself; and in a few minutes he was fast asleep.

The brothers listened to his deep-drawn, but regular breathing, with envy and wonder, but they were in no mood to converse.  Still and speechless, they sate like statues beside the sleeper.  Time passed on, and the first cold air of the hour that succeeds to midnight crept through the bars of their cell.  The bolts crashed, the door opened, six men-at-arms entered, passed the brothers, and one of them touched Montreal.

“Ha!” said he, still sleeping, but turning round.  “Ha!” said he, in the soft Provencal tongue, “sweet Adeline, we will not rise yet—­it is so long since we met!”

“What says he?” muttered the guard, shaking Montreal roughly.  The Knight sprang up at once, and his hand grasped the head of his bed as for his sword.  He stared round bewildered, rubbed his eyes, and then gazing on the guard, became alive to the present.

“Ye are early risers in the Capitol,” said he.  “What want ye of me?”

“It waits you!”

“It!  What?” said Montreal.

“The rack!” replied the soldier, with a malignant scowl.

The Great Captain said not a word.  He looked for one moment at the six swordsmen, as if measuring his single strength against theirs.  His eye then wandered round the room.  The rudest bar of iron would have been dearer to him than he had ever yet found the proofest steel of Milan.  He completed his survey with a sigh, threw his mantle over his shoulders, nodded at his brethren, and followed the guard.

In a hall of the Capitol, hung with the ominous silk of white rays on a blood-red ground, sate Rienzi and his councillors.  Across a recess was drawn a black curtain.

“Walter de Montreal,” said a small man at the foot of the table, “Knight of the illustrious order of St. John of Jerusalem—­”