Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Rienzi, the Last of the Roman Tribunes by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (distant reading .txt) 📖
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“To me these words!” said Stefanello, trembling with passion. “Beware! Methinks thou art the traitor, leagued perhaps with yon rascal mob. Well do I remember that thou, the betrothed of the Demagogue’s sister, didst not join with my uncle and my father of old, but didst basely leave the city to her plebeian tyrant.”
“That did he!” said the fierce Orsini, approaching Adrian menacingly, while the gentle cowardice of Savelli sought in vain to pluck him back by the mantle—“that did he! and but for thy presence, Stefanello—”
“Coward and blusterer!” interrupted Adrian, fairly beside himself with indignation and shame, and dashing his gauntlet in the very face of the advancing Orsini—“wouldst thou threaten one who has maintained, in every list of Europe, and against the stoutest Chivalry of the North, the honour of Rome, which thy deeds the while disgraced? By this gage, I spit upon and defy thee. With lance and with brand, on horse and on foot, I maintain against thee and all thy line, that thou art no knight to have thus maltreated, in thy strongholds, a peaceful and unarmed herald. Yes, even here, on the spot of thy disgrace, I challenge thee to arms!”
“To the court below! Follow me,” said Orsini, sullenly, and striding towards the threshold. “What, ho there! my helmet and breast-plate!”
“Stay, noble Orsini,” said Stefanello. “The insult offered to thee is my quarrel—mine was the deed—and against me speaks this degenerate scion of our line. Adrian di Castello—sometime called Colonna—surrender your sword: you are my prisoner!”
“Oh!” said Adrian, grinding his teeth, “that my ancestral blood did not flow through thy veins—else—but enough! Me! your equal, and the favoured Knight of the Emperor, whose advent now brightens the frontiers of Italy!—me—you dare not detain. For your friends, I shall meet them yet perhaps, ere many days are over, where none shall separate our swords. Till then, remember, Orsini, that it is against no unpractised arm that thou wilt have to redeem thine honour!”
Adrian, his drawn sword in his hand, strode towards the door, and passed the Orsini, who stood, lowering and irresolute, in the centre of the apartment.
Savelli whispered Stefanello. “He says, ‘Ere many days be past!’ Be sure, dear Signor, that he goes to join Rienzi. Remember, the alliance he once sought with the Tribune’s sister may be renewed. Beware of him! Ought he to leave the castle? The name of a Colonna, associated with the mob, would distract and divide half our strength.”
“Fear me not,” returned Stefanello, with a malignant smile. “Ere you spoke, I had determined!”
The young Colonna lifted the arras from the wall, opened a door, and passed into a low hall, in which sate twenty mercenaries.
“Quick!” said he. “Seize and disarm yon stranger in the green mantle—but slay him not. Bid the guard below find dungeons for his train. Quick! ere he reach the gate.”
Adrian had gained the open hall below—his train and his steed were in sight in the court—when suddenly the soldiery of the Colonna, rushing through another passage than that which he had passed, surrounded and intercepted his retreat.
“Yield thee, Adrian di Castello,” cried Stefanello from the summit of the stairs; “or your blood be on your own head.”
Three steps did Adrian make through the press, and three of his enemies fell beneath his sword. “To the rescue!” he shouted to his band, and already those bold and daring troopers had gained the hall. Presently the alarum bell tolled loud—the court swarmed with soldiers. Oppressed by numbers, beat down rather than subdued, Adrian’s little train was soon secured, and the flower of the Colonna, wounded, breathless, disarmed, but still uttering loud defiance, was a prisoner in the fortress of his kinsman.
Chapter 9.IV. The Position of the Senator.—The Work of Years.—The
Rewards of Ambition.
The indignation of Rienzi may readily be conceived, on the return of his herald mutilated and dishonoured. His temper, so naturally stern, was rendered yet more hard by the remembrance of his wrongs and trials; and the result which attended his overtures of conciliation to Stefanello Colonna stung him to the soul.
The bell of the Capitol tolled to arms within ten minutes after the return of the herald. The great gonfalon of Rome was unfurled on the highest tower; and the very evening after Adrian’s arrest, the forces of the Senator, headed by Rienzi in person, were on the road to Palestrina. The troopers of the Barons had, however, made incursions as far as Tivoli with the supposed connivance of the inhabitants, and Rienzi halted at that beautiful spot to raise recruits, and receive the allegiance of the suspected, while his soldiers, with Arimbaldo and Brettone at their head, went in search of the marauders. The brothers of Montreal returned late at night with the intelligence, that the troopers of the Barons had secured themselves amidst the recesses of the wood of Pantano.
The red spot mounted to Rienzi’s brow. He gazed hard at Brettone, who stated the news to him, and a natural suspicion shot across his mind.
“How!—escaped!” he said. “Is it possible? Enough of such idle skirmishes with these lordly robbers. Will the hour ever come when I shall meet them hand to hand? Brettone,” and the brother of Montreal felt the dark eye of Rienzi pierce to his very heart; “Brettone!” said he, with an abrupt change of voice, “are your men to be trusted? Is there no connivance with the Barons?”
“How!” said Brettone, sullenly, but somewhat confused.
“How me no hows!” quoth the Tribune-Senator, fiercely. “I know that thou art a valiant Captain of valiant men. Thou and thy brother Arimbaldo have served me well, and I have rewarded ye well! Have I not? Speak!”
“Senator,” answered Arimbaldo, taking up the word, “you have kept your word to us. You have raised us to the highest rank your power could bestow, and this has amply atoned our humble services.”
“I am glad ye allow thus much,” said the Tribune.
Arimbaldo proceeded, somewhat more loftily, “I trust, my Lord, you do not doubt us?”
“Arimbaldo,” replied Rienzi, in a voice of deep, but half-suppressed emotion; “you are a lettered man, and you have seemed to share my projects for the regeneration of our common kind. You ought not to betray me. There is something in unison between us. But, chide me not, I am surrounded by treason, and the very air I breathe seems poison to my lips.”
There was a pathos mingled with Rienzi’s words which touched the milder brother of Montreal. He bowed in silence. Rienzi surveyed him wistfully, and sighed. Then, changing the conversation, he spoke of their intended siege of Palestrina, and shortly afterwards retired to rest.
Left alone, the brothers regarded each other for some moments in silence. “Brettone,” said Arimbaldo at length, in a whispered voice, “my heart misgives me. I like not Walter’s ambitious
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