“Ah, my Lord,” said Montreal, smiling, as he saluted Adrian; “and how is my lady at home?”

“You mistake, Sir Knight,” quoth Stephen; “my young kinsman is not yet married:  faith, as Pope Boniface remarked, when he lay stretched on a sick bed, and his confessor talked to him about Abraham’s bosom, ’that is a pleasure the greater for being deferred.’”

“The Signor will pardon my mistake,” returned Montreal.

“But not,” said Adrian, “the neglect of Sir Walter in not ascertaining the fact in person.  My thanks to him, noble kinsman, are greater than you weet of; and he promised to visit me, that he might receive them at leisure.”

“I assure you, Signor,” answered Montreal, “that I have not forgotten the invitation; but so weighty hitherto have been my affairs at Rome, that I have been obliged to parley with my impatience to better our acquaintance.”

“Oh, ye knew each other before?” said Stephen.  “And how?”

“My Lord, there is a damsel in the case!” replied Montreal.  “Excuse my silence.”

“Ah, Adrian, Adrian! when will you learn my continence!” said Stephen, solemnly stroking his grey beard.  “What an example I set you!  But a truce to this light conversation,—­let us resume our theme.  You must know, Adrian, that it is to the brave band of my guest I am indebted for those valiant gentlemen below, who keep Rome so quiet, though my poor habitation so noisy.  He has called to proffer more assistance, if need be; and to advise me on the affairs of Northern Italy.  Continue, I pray thee, Sir Knight; I have no disguises from my kinsman.”

“Thou seest,” said Montreal, fixing his penetrating eyes on Adrian, “thou seest, doubtless, my Lord, that Italy at this moment presents to us a remarkable spectacle.  It is a contest between two opposing powers, which shall destroy the other.  The one power is that of the unruly and turbulent people—­a power which they call ‘Liberty;’ the other power is that of the chiefs and princes—­a power which they more appropriately call ‘Order.’  Between these parties the cities of Italy are divided.  In Florence, in Genoa, in Pisa, for instance, is established a Free State—­a Republic, God wot! and a more riotous, unhappy state of government, cannot well be imagined.”

“That is perfectly true,” quoth Stephen; “they banished my own first cousin from Genoa.”

“A perpetual strife, in short,” continued Montreal, “between the great families; an alternation of prosecutions, and confiscations, and banishments:  today, the Guelfs proscribe the Ghibellines—­tomorrow, the Ghibellines drive out the Guelfs.  This may be liberty, but it is the liberty of the strong against the weak.  In the other cities, as Milan, as Verona, as Bologna, the people are under the rule of one man,—­who calls himself a prince, and whom his enemies call a tyrant.  Having more force than any other citizen, he preserves a firm government; having more constant demand on his intellect and energies than the other citizens, he also preserves a wise one.  These two orders of government are enlisted against each other:  whenever the people in the one rebel against their prince, the people of the other—­that is, the Free States—­send arms and money to their assistance.”