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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Not a syllable was uttered by the feasters, they were as if turned to stone. Presently the guards gave way, and Rienzi himself appeared. He approached the table, and folding his arms, turned his gaze deliberately from guest to guest, till at last, his eyes rested on Montreal, who had also risen, and who alone of the party had recovered the amaze of the moment.
And there, as these two men, each so celebrated, so proud, able, and ambitious, stood, front to front—it was literally as if the rival Spirits of Force and Intellect, Order and Strife, of the Falchion and the Fasces—the Antagonist Principles by which empires are ruled and empires overthrown, had met together, incarnate and opposed. They stood, both silent,—as if fascinated by each other’s gaze,—loftier in stature, and nobler in presence than all around.
Montreal spoke first, and with a forced smile.
“Senator of Rome!—dare I believe that my poor banquet tempts thee, and may I trust that these armed men are a graceful compliment to one to whom arms have been a pastime?”
Rienzi answered not, but waved his hand to his guards. Montreal was seized on the instant. Again he surveyed the guests—as a bird from the rattle-snake,—shrunk Pandulfo di Guido, trembling, motionless, aghast, from the glittering eye of the Senator. Slowly Rienzi raised his fatal hand towards the unhappy citizen—Pandulfo saw,—felt his doom,—shrieked,—and fell senseless in the arms of the soldiers.
One other and rapid glance cast the Senator round the board, and then, with a disdainful smile, as if anxious for no meaner prey, turned away. Not a breath had hitherto passed his lips—all had been dumb show—and his grim silence had imparted a more freezing terror to his unguessed-for apparition. Only, when he reached the door, he turned back, gazed upon the Knight of St. John’s bold and undaunted face, and said, almost in a whisper, “Walter de Montreal!—you heard the death-knell!”
Chapter 10.IV. The Sentence of Walter de Montreal.
In silence the Captain of the Grand Company was borne to the prison of the Capitol. In the same building lodged the rivals for the government of Rome; the one occupied the prison, the other the palace. The guards forebore the ceremony of fetters, and leaving a lamp on the table, Montreal perceived he was not alone,—his brothers had preceded him.
“Ye are happily met,” said the Knight of St. John; “we have passed together pleasanter nights than this is likely to be.”
“Can you jest, Walter?” said Arimbaldo, half-weeping. “Know you not that our doom is fixed? Death scowls upon us.”
“Death!” repeated Montreal, and for the first time his countenance changed; perhaps for the first time in his life he felt the thrill and agony of fear.
“Death!” he repeated again. “Impossible! He dare not, Brettone; the soldiers, the Northmen!—they will mutiny, they will pluck us back from the grasp of the headsman!”
“Cast from you so vain a hope,” said Brettone sullenly; “the soldiers are encamped at Palestrina.”
“How! Dolt—fool! Came you then to Rome alone! Are we alone with this dread man?”
“You are the dolt! Why came you hither?” answered the brother.
“Why, indeed! but that I knew thou wast the Captain of the army; and—but thou said’st right—the folly is mine, to have played against the crafty Tribune so unequal a brain as thine. Enough! Reproaches are idle. When were ye arrested?”
“At dusk—the instant we entered the gates of Rome. Rienzi entered privately.”
“Humph! What can he know against me? Who can have betrayed me? My secretaries are tried—all trustworthy—except that youth, and he so seemingly zealous—that Angelo Villani!”
“Villani! Angelo Villani!” cried the brothers in a breath. “Hast thou confided aught to him?”
“Why, I fear he must have seen—at least in part—my correspondence with you, and with the Barons—he was among my scribes. Know you aught of him?”
“Walter, Heaven hath demented you!” returned Brettone. “Angelo Villani is the favourite menial of the Senator.”
“Those eyes deceived me, then,” muttered Montreal, solemnly and shuddering; “and, as if her ghost had returned to earth, God smites me from the grave!”
There was a long silence. At length Montreal, whose bold and sanguine temper was never long clouded, spoke again.
“Are the Senator’s coffers full?—But that is impossible.”
“Bare as a Dominican’s.”
“We are saved, then. He shall name his price for our heads. Money must be more useful to him than blood.”
And as if with that thought all further meditation were rendered unnecessary, Montreal doffed his mantle, uttered a short prayer, and flung himself on a pallet in a corner of the cell.
“I have slept on worse beds,” said the Knight, stretching himself; and in a few minutes he was fast asleep.
The brothers listened to his deep-drawn, but regular breathing, with envy and wonder, but they were in no mood to converse. Still and speechless, they sate like statues beside the sleeper. Time passed on, and the first cold air of the hour that succeeds to midnight crept through the bars of their cell. The bolts crashed, the door opened, six men-at-arms entered, passed the brothers, and one of them touched Montreal.
“Ha!” said he, still sleeping, but turning round. “Ha!” said he, in the soft Provencal tongue, “sweet Adeline, we will not rise yet—it is so long since we met!”
“What says he?” muttered the guard, shaking Montreal roughly. The Knight sprang up at once, and his hand grasped the head of his bed as for his sword. He stared round bewildered, rubbed his eyes, and then gazing on the guard, became alive to the present.
“Ye are early risers in the Capitol,” said he. “What want ye of me?”
“It waits you!”
“It! What?” said Montreal.
“The rack!” replied the soldier, with a malignant scowl.
The Great Captain said not a word. He looked for one moment at the six swordsmen, as if measuring his single strength against theirs. His eye then wandered round the room. The rudest bar of iron would have been dearer to him than he had ever yet found the proofest steel of Milan. He completed his survey with a sigh, threw his mantle over his shoulders, nodded at his brethren, and followed the guard.
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