slept; but at that hour, she re-asserted her shadowy reign with a despotism that seemed prophetic.  He was wandering—­a boy, with his young brother, hand in hand, by the riverside at eve:  anon he saw a pale face and gory side, and once more uttered his imprecations of revenge!  His first successes, his virgin triumphs, his secret love, his fame, his power, his reverses, the hermitage of Maiella, the dungeon of Avignon, the triumphal return to Rome,—­all swept across his breast with a distinctness as if he were living those scenes again!—­and now!—­he shrunk from the present, and descended the hill.  The moon, already risen, shed her light over the Forum, as he passed through its mingled ruins.  By the Temple of Jupiter, two figures suddenly emerged; the moonlight fell upon their faces, and Rienzi recognised Cecco del Vecchio and Angelo Villani.  They saw him not; but, eagerly conversing, disappeared by the Arch of Trajan.

“Villani! ever active in my service!” thought the Senator; “methinks this morning I spoke to him harshly—­it was churlish in me!”

He re-entered the Place of the Capitol—­he stood by the staircase of the Lion; there was a red stain upon the pavement, unobliterated since Montreal’s execution, and the Senator drew himself aside with an inward shudder.  Was it the ghastly and spectral light of the Moon, or did the face of that old Egyptian Monster wear an aspect that was as of life?  The stony eyeballs seemed bent upon him with a malignant scowl; and as he passed on, and looked behind, they appeared almost preternaturally to follow his steps.  A chill, he knew not why, sunk into his heart.  He hastened to regain his palace.  The sentinels made way for him.

“Senator,” said one of them, doubtingly, “Messere Angelo Villani is our new captain—­we are to obey his orders?”

“Assuredly,” returned the Senator, passing on.  The man lingered uneasily, as if he would have spoken, but Rienzi observed it not.  Seeking his chamber, he found Nina and Irene waiting for him.  His heart yearned to his wife.  Care and toil had of late driven her from his thoughts, and he felt it remorsefully, as he gazed upon her noble face, softened by the solicitude of untiring and anxious love.

“Sweetest,” said he, winding his arms around her tenderly; “thy lips never chide me, but thine eyes sometimes do!  We have been apart too long.  Brighter days dawn upon us, when I shall have leisure to thank thee for all thy care.  And you, my fair sister, you smile on me!—­ah, you have heard that your lover, ere this, is released by the cession of Palestrina, and tomorrow’s sun will see him at your feet.  Despite all the cares of the day, I remembered thee, my Irene, and sent a messenger to bring back the blush to that pale cheek.  Come, come, we shall be happy again!” And with that domestic fondness common to him, when harsher thoughts permitted, he sate himself beside the two persons dearest to his hearth and heart.