“To an Orsini alone, and for justice?”

“Alone, and for justice!—­No!” shouted Rienzi, in a loud voice, as he seized his sword, now brought to him by one of his servants, and rushed from the house; “but one man is sufficient for revenge!”

The Bishop paused for a moment’s deliberation.  “He must not be lost,” muttered he, “as he well may be, if exposed thus solitary to the wolf’s rage.  What, ho!” he cried aloud; “advance the torches!—­quick, quick!  We ourself—­we, the Vicar of the Pope—­will see to this.  Calm yourselves, good people; your young Signora shall be restored.  On! to the palace of Martino di Porto!”

Chapter 1.VI.  Irene in the Palace of Adrian di Castello.

As the Cyprian gazed on the image in which he had embodied a youth of dreams, what time the living hues flushed slowly beneath the marble,—­so gazed the young and passionate Adrian upon the form reclined before him, re-awakening gradually to life.  And, if the beauty of that face were not of the loftiest or the most dazzling order, if its soft and quiet character might be outshone by many, of loveliness less really perfect, yet never was there a countenance that, to some eyes, would have seemed more charming, and never one in which more eloquently was wrought that ineffable and virgin expression which Italian art seeks for in its models,—­in which modesty is the outward, and tenderness the latent, expression; the bloom of youth, both of form and heart, ere the first frail and delicate freshness of either is brushed away:  and when even love itself, the only unquiet visitant that should be known at such an age, is but a sentiment, and not a passion!

“Benedetta!” murmured Irene, at length opening her eyes, unconsciously, upon him who knelt beside her,—­eyes of that uncertain, that most liquid hue, on which you might gaze for years and never learn the secret of the colour, so changed it with the dilating pupil,—­darkening in the shade, and brightening into azure in the light: 

“Benedetta,” said Irene, “where art thou?  Oh, Benedetta!  I have had such a dream.”

“And I, too, such a vision!” thought Adrian.

“Where am I?” cried Irene, rising from the couch.  “This room—­these hangings—­Holy Virgin! do I dream still!—­and you!  Heavens!—­it is the Lord Adrian di Castello!”

“Is that a name thou hast been taught to fear?” said Adrian; “if so, I will forswear it.”

If Irene now blushed deeply, it was not in that wild delight with which her romantic heart motive foretold that she would listen to the first words of homage from Adrian di Castello.  Bewildered and confused,—­terrified at the strangeness of the place and shrinking even from the thought of finding herself alone with one who for years had been present to her fancies,—­alarm and distress were the emotions she felt the most, and which most were impressed upon her speaking countenance; and as Adrian now drew nearer to her, despite the gentleness of his voice and the respect of his looks, her fears, not the less strong that they were vague, increased upon her:  she retreated to the further end of the room, looked wildly round her, and then, covering her face with her hands, burst into a paroxysm of tears.