The soldiers of the Barons had already mixed themselves with the throng—­more deadly weapons than stones aided the wrath of the multitude—­darts and arrows darkened the air; and now a voice was heard shrieking, “Way for the torches!” And red in the sunlight the torches tossed and waved, and danced to and fro, above the heads of the crowd, as if the fiends were let loose amongst the mob!  And what place in hell hath fiends like those a mad mob can furnish?  Straw, and wood, and litter, were piled hastily round the great doors of the Capitol, and the smoke curled suddenly up, beating back the rush of the assailants.

Rienzi was no longer visible, an arrow had pierced his hand—­the right hand that supported the flag of Rome—­the right hand that had given a constitution to the Republic.  He retired from the storm into the desolate hall.

He sat down;—­and tears, springing from no weak and woman source, but tears from the loftiest fountain of emotion—­tears that befit a warrior when his own troops desert him—­a patriot when his countrymen rush to their own doom—­a father when his children rebel against his love,—­tears such as these forced themselves from his eyes and relieved,—­but they changed, his heart!

“Enough, enough!” he said, presently rising and dashing the drops scornfully away; “I have risked, dared, toiled enough for this dastard and degenerate race.  I will yet baffle their malice—­I renounce the thought of which they are so little worthy!—­Let Rome perish!—­I feel, at last, that I am nobler than my country!—­she deserves not so high a sacrifice!”

With that feeling, Death lost all the nobleness of aspect it had before presented to him; and he resolved, in very scorn of his ungrateful foes, in very defeat of their inhuman wrath, to make one effort for his life!  He divested himself of his glittering arms; his address, his dexterity, his craft, returned to him.  His active mind ran over the chances of disguise—­of escape;—­he left the hall—­passed through the humbler rooms, devoted to the servitors and menials—­found in one of them a coarse working garb—­indued himself with it—­placed upon his head some of the draperies and furniture of the palace, as if escaping with them; and said, with his old “fantastico riso” ("Fantastic smile or laugh.")—­“When all other friends desert me, I may well forsake myself!” With that he awaited his occasion.

Meanwhile the flames burnt fierce and fast; the outer door below was already consumed; from the apartment he had deserted the fire burst out in volleys of smoke—­the wood crackled—­the lead melted—­with a crash fell the severed gates—­the dreadful entrance was opened to all the multitude—­the proud Capitol of the Caesars was already tottering to its fall!—­Now was the time!—­he passed the flaming door—­the smouldering threshold;—­he passed the outer gate unscathed—­he was in the middle of the crowd.  “Plenty of pillage within,” he said to the bystanders, in the Roman patois, his face concealed by his load—­“Suso, suso a gliu traditore!” (Down, down with the traitor.) The mob rushed past him—­he went on—­he gained the last stair descending into the open streets—­he was at the last gate—­liberty and life were before him.