The windows of the Hall were yet open—­and Rienzi passed into it from the balcony—­the witness of the yesterday’s banquet was still there—­the wine, yet undried, crimsoned the floor, and goblets of gold and silver shone from the recesses.  He proceeded at once to the armory, and selected from the various suits that which he himself had worn when, nearly eight years ago, he had chased the Barons from the gates of Rome.  He arrayed himself in the mail, leaving only his head uncovered; and then taking, in his right hand, from the wall, the great Gonfalon of Rome, returned once more to the hall.  Not a man encountered him.  In that vast building, save the prisoners, and the faithful Nina, whose presence he knew not of—­the Senator was alone.

On they came, no longer in measured order, as stream after stream—­from lane, from alley, from palace and from hovel—­the raging sea received new additions.  On they came—­their passions excited by their numbers—­women and men, children and malignant age—­in all the awful array of aroused, released, unresisted physical strength and brutal wrath; “Death to the traitor—­death to the tyrant—­death to him who has taxed the people!”—­“Mora l’ traditore che ha fatta la gabella!—­Mora!” Such was the cry of the people—­such the crime of the Senator!  They broke over the low palisades of the Capitol—­they filled with one sudden rush the vast space;—­a moment before so desolate,—­now swarming with human beings athirst for blood!

Suddenly came a dead silence, and on the balcony above stood Rienzi—­his head was bared and the morning sun shone over that lordly brow, and the hair grown grey before its time, in the service of that maddening multitude.  Pale and erect he stood—­neither fear, nor anger, nor menace—­but deep grief and high resolve—­upon his features!  A momentary shame—­a momentary awe seized the crowd.

He pointed to the Gonfalon, wrought with the Republican motto and arms of Rome, and thus he began:—­

“I too am a Roman and a Citizen; hear me!”

“Hear him not! hear him not! his false tongue can charm away our senses!” cried a voice louder than his own; and Rienzi recognised Cecco del Vecchio.

“Hear him not! down with the tyrant!” cried a more shrill and youthful tone; and by the side of the artisan stood Angelo Villani.

“Hear him not! death to the death-giver!” cried a voice close at hand, and from the grating of the neighbouring prison glared near upon him, as the eye of a tiger, the vengeful gaze of the brother of Montreal.

Then from Earth to Heaven rose the roar—­“Down with the tyrant—­down with him who taxed the people!”

A shower of stones rattled on the mail of the Senator,—­still he stirred not.  No changing muscle betokened fear.  His persuasion of his own wonderful powers of eloquence, if he could but be heard, inspired him yet with hope; he stood collected in his own indignant, but determined thoughts;—­but the knowledge of that very eloquence was now his deadliest foe.  The leaders of the multitude trembled lest he should be heard; “and doubtless,” says the contemporaneous biographer, “had he but spoken he would have changed them all, and the work been marred.”