deliverance, the two patron saints—­the two mighty guardians of your city!  People of Rome, farewell!  The parable is finished.” (M.  Sismondi attributes to Rienzi a fine oration at the showing of the picture, in which he thundered against the vices of the patricians.  The contemporary biographer of Rienzi says nothing of this harangue.  But, apparently (since history has its liberties as well as fiction), M. Sismondi has thought it convenient to confound two occasions very distinct in themselves.)

Chapter 1.X.  A Rough Spirit Raised, Which May Hereafter Rend the Wizard.

While thus animated was the scene around the Capitol, within one of the apartments of the palace sat the agent and prime cause of that excitement.  In the company of his quiet scribes, Rienzi appeared absorbed in the patient details of his avocation.  While the murmur and the hum, the shout and the tramp, of multitudes, rolled to his chamber, he seemed not to heed them, nor to rouse himself a moment from his task.  With the unbroken regularity of an automaton, he continued to enter in his large book, and with the clear and beautiful characters of the period, those damning figures which taught him, better than declamations, the frauds practised on the people, and armed him with that weapon of plain fact which it is so difficult for abuse to parry.

“Page 2, Vol.  B.,” said he, in the tranquil voice of business, to the clerks; “see there, the profits of the salt duty; department No.3—­very well.  Page 9, Vol.  D.—­what is the account rendered by Vescobaldi, the collector?  What! twelve thousand florins?—­no more?—­unconscionable rascal!” (Here was a loud shout without of ’Pandulfo!—­long live Pandulfo!’) “Pastrucci, my friend, your head wanders; you are listening to the noise without—­please to amuse yourself with the calculation I entrusted to you.  Santi, what is the entry given in by Antonio Tralli?”

A slight tap was heard at the door, and Pandulfo entered.

The clerks continued their labour, though they looked up hastily at the pale and respectable visitor, whose name, to their great astonishment, had thus become a popular cry.

“Ah, my friend,” said Rienzi, calmly enough in voice, but his hands trembled with ill-suppressed emotion, “you would speak to me alone, eh? well, well—­this way.”  Thus saying, he led the citizen into a small cabinet in the rear of the room of office, carefully shut the door, and then giving himself up to the natural impatience of his character, seized Pandulfo by the hand:  “Speak!” cried he:  “do they take the interpretation?—­have you made it plain and palpable enough?—­has it sunk deep into their souls?”

“Oh, by St. Peter! yes!” returned the citizen, whose spirits were elevated by his recent discovery that he, too, was an orator—­a luxurious pleasure for a timid man.  “They swallowed every word of the interpretation; they are moved to the marrow—­you might lead them this very hour to battle, and find them heroes.  As for the sturdy smith—­”