As he concluded, the Knight drew himself aside to watch, upon Rienzi’s countenance, the effect which his words might produce.

A slight tremor passed over the frame of the conspirator—­for so, unless the conspiracy succeed, would Rienzi be termed, by others than Montreal:  he turned abruptly round to confront the Knight, and placed his hand involuntarily on his sword, but presently relinquished the grasp.

“Ha!” said the Roman, slowly, “if this be true, fall Rome!  There is treason even among the free!”

“No treason, brave Sir!” answered Montreal; “I possess thy secret—­but none have betrayed it to me.”

“And is it as friend or foe that thou hast learned it?”

“That as it may be,” returned Montreal, carelessly.  “Enough, at present, that I could send thee to the gibbet, if I said but the word,—­to show my power to be thy foe; enough, that I have not done it, to prove my disposition to be thy friend.”

“Thou mistakest, stranger! that man does not live who could shed my blood in the streets of Rome!  The gibbet!  Little dost thou know of the power which surrounds Rienzi.”

These words were said with some scorn and bitterness; but, after a moment’s pause, Rienzi resumed, more calmly:—­

“By the cross on thy mantle, thou belongest to one of the proudest orders of knighthood:  thou art a foreigner, and a cavalier.  What generous sympathies can convert thee into a friend of the Roman people?”

“Cola di Rienzi,” returned Montreal, “the sympathies that unite us are those which unite all men who, by their own efforts, rise above the herd.  True, I was born noble—­but powerless and poor:  at my beck now move, from city to city, the armed instruments of authority:  my breath is the law of thousands.  This empire I have not inherited; I won it by a cool brain and a fearless arm.  Know me for Walter de Montreal; is it not a name that speaks a spirit kindred to thine own?  Is not ambition a common sentiment between us?  I do not marshal soldiers for gain only, though men have termed me avaricious—­nor butcher peasants for the love of blood, though men have called me cruel.  Arms and wealth are the sinews of power; it is power that I desire;—­thou, bold Rienzi, strugglest thou not for the same?  Is it the rank breath of the garlic-chewing mob—­is it the whispered envy of schoolmen—­is it the hollow mouthing of boys who call thee patriot and freeman, words to trick the ear—­that will content thee?  These are but thy instruments to power.  Have I spoken truly?”

Whatever distaste Rienzi might conceive at this speech he masked effectually.  “Certes,” said he, “it would be in vain, renowned Captain, to deny that I seek but that power of which thou speakest.  But what union can there be between the ambition of a Roman citizen and the leader of paid armies that take their cause only according to their hire—­today, fight for liberty in Florence—­tomorrow, for tyranny in Bologna?  Pardon my frankness; for in this age that is deemed no disgrace which I impute to thy armies.  Valour and generalship are held to consecrate any cause they distinguish; and he who is the master of princes, may be well honoured by them as their equal.”