“What!  Cecco del Vecchio?” interrupted Rienzi; “ah, his heart is wrought in bronze—­what did he?”

“Why, he caught me by the hem of my robe as I descended my rostrum, (oh! would you could have seen me!—­per fede I had caught your mantle!—­I was a second you!) and said, weeping like a child, ’Ah, Signor, I am but a poor man, and of little worth; but if every drop of blood in this body were a life, I would give it for my country!’”

“Brave soul,” said Rienzi, with emotion; “would Rome had but fifty such!  No man hath done us more good among his own class than Cecco del Vecchio.”

“They feel a protection in his very size,” said Pandulfo.  “It is something to hear such big words from such a big fellow.”

“Were there any voices lifted in disapprobation of the picture and its sentiment?”

“None.”

“The time is nearly ripe, then—­a few suns more, and the fruit must be gathered.  The Aventine,—­the Lateran,—­and then the solitary trumpet!” Thus saying, Rienzi, with folded arms and downcast eyes, seemed sunk into a reverie.

“By the way,” said Pandulfo, “I had almost forgot to tell thee, that the crowd would have poured themselves hither, so impatient were they to see thee; but I bade Cecco del Vecchio mount the rostrum, and tell them, in his blunt way, that it would be unseemly at the present time, when thou wert engaged in the Capitol on civil and holy affairs, to rush in so great a body into thy presence.  Did I not right?”

“Most right, my Pandulfo.”

“But Cecco del Vecchio says he must come and kiss thy hand:  and thou mayst expect him here the moment he can escape unobserved from the crowd.”

“He is welcome!” said Rienzi, half mechanically, for he was still absorbed in thought.

“And, lo! here he is,”—­as one of the scribes announced the visit of the smith.

“Let him be admitted!” said Rienzi, seating himself composedly.

When the huge smith found himself in the presence of Rienzi, it amused Pandulfo to perceive the wonderful influences of mind over matter.  That fierce and sturdy giant, who, in all popular commotions, towered above his tribe, with thews of stone, and nerves of iron, the rallying point and bulwark of the rest,—­stood now colouring and trembling before the intellect, which (so had the eloquent spirit of Rienzi waked and fanned the spark which, till then, had lain dormant in that rough bosom) might almost be said to have created his own.  And he, indeed, who first arouses in the bondsman the sense and soul of freedom, comes as near as is permitted to man, nearer than the philosopher, nearer even than the poet, to the great creative attribute of God!—­But, if the breast be uneducated, the gift may curse the giver; and he who passes at once from the slave to the freeman may pass as rapidly from the freeman to the ruffian.

“Approach, my friend,” said Rienzi, after a moment’s pause; “I know all that thou hast done, and wouldst do, for Rome!  Thou art worthy of her best days, and thou art born to share in their return.”