The next morning the Senator of Rome held high Court in the Capitol.  From Florence, from Padua, from Pisa, even from Milan, (the dominion of the Visconti,) from Genoa, from Naples,—­came Ambassadors to welcome his return, or to thank him for having freed Italy from the freebooter De Montreal.  Venice alone, who held in her pay the Grand Company, stood aloof.  Never had Rienzi seemed more prosperous and more powerful, and never had he exhibited a more easy and cheerful majesty of demeanour.

Scarce was the audience over, when a messenger arrived from Palestrina.  The town had surrendered, the Colonna had departed, and the standard of the Senator waved from the walls of the last hold of the rebellious Barons.  Rome might now at length consider herself free, and not a foe seemed left to menace the repose of Rienzi.

The Court dissolved.  The Senator, elated and joyous, repaired towards his private apartments, previous to the banquet given to the Ambassadors.  Villani met him with his wonted sombre aspect.

“No sadness today, my Angelo,” said the Senator, gaily; “Palestrina is ours!”

“I am glad to hear such news, and to see my Lord of so fair a mien,” answered Angelo.  “Does he not now desire life?”

“Till Roman virtue revives, perhaps—­yes!  But thus are we fools of Fortune;—­today glad—­tomorrow dejected!”

“Tomorrow,” repeated Villani, mechanically:  “Ay—­tomorrow perhaps dejected.”

“Thou playest with my words, boy,” said Rienzi, half angrily, as he turned away.

But Villani heeded not the displeasure of his Lord.

The banquet was thronged and brilliant; and Rienzi that day, without an effort, played the courteous host.

Milanese, Paduan, Pisan, Neapolitan, vied with each other in attracting the smiles of the potent Senator.  Prodigal were their compliments—­lavish their promises of support.  No monarch in Italy seemed more securely throned.

The banquet was over (as usual on state occasions) at an early hour; and Rienzi, somewhat heated with wine, strolled forth alone from the Capitol.  Bending his solitary steps towards the Palatine, he saw the pale and veil-like mists that succeed the sunset, gather over the wild grass which waves above the Palace of the Caesars.  On a mound of ruins (column and arch overthrown) he stood, with folded arms, musing and intent.  In the distance lay the melancholy tombs of the Campagna, and the circling hills, crested with the purple hues soon to melt beneath the starlight.  Not a breeze stirred the dark cypress and unwaving pine.  There was something awful in the stillness of the skies, hushing the desolate grandeur of the earth below.  Many and mingled were the thoughts that swept over Rienzi’s breast:  memory was busy at his heart.  How often, in his youth, had he trodden the same spot!—­what visions had he nursed!—­what hopes conceived!  In the turbulence of his later life, Memory had long