Rienzi, the Last of the Roman Tribunes by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (distant reading .txt) 📖

“We have gone too far,” whispered one of the ladies to her neighbour. “Perhaps the enterprise may not succeed; and then—”

Further remark was cut short by the sudden entrance of the Tribune. He entered with great haste, and on his brow was that dark frown which none ever saw unquailing.

“How, fair matrons!” said he, looking round the room with a rapid glance, “ye have not deserted us yet? By the blessed cross, your Lords pay a compliment to our honour, to leave us such lovely hostages, or else, God’s truth, they are ungrateful husbands. So, madam,” turning sharp round to the wife of Gianni Colonna, “your husband is fled to Palestrina; yours, Signora Orsini, to Marino; yours with him, fair bride of Frangipani,—ye came hither to—. But ye are sacred even from a word!”

The Tribune paused a moment, evidently striving to suppress his emotion, as he observed the terror he had excited—his eye fell upon Nina, who, forgetting her previous vexation, regarded him with anxious amazement. “Yes,” said he to her, “you alone, perhaps, of this fair assemblage, know not that the nobles whom I lately released from the headsman’s gripe are a second time forsworn. They have left home in the dead of the night, and already the Heralds proclaim them traitors and rebels. Rienzi forgives no more!”

“Tribune,” exclaimed the Signora Frangipani, who had more bold blood in her veins than her whole house, “were I of thine own sex, I would cast the words, Traitor and Rebel, given to my Lord, in thine own teeth!—Proud man, the Pontiff soon will fulfil that office!”

“Your Lord is blest with a dove, fair one,” said the Tribune, scornfully. “Ladies, fear not, while Rienzi lives, the wife even of his worst foe is safe and honoured. The crowd will be here anon; our guards shall attend ye home in safety, or this palace may be your shelter—for, I warn ye, that your Lords have rushed into a great peril. And ere many days be past, the streets of Rome may be as rivers of blood.”

“We accept your offer, Tribune,” said the Signora Frangipani, who was touched, and, in spite of herself, awed by the Tribune’s manner. And as she spoke, she dropped on one knee, picked up the kerchief, and, presenting it respectfully to Nina, said, “Madam, forgive me. I alone of these present respect you more in danger than in pride.”

“And I,” returned Nina, as she leaned in graceful confidence on Rienzi’s arm, “I reply, that if there be danger, the more need of pride.”

All that day and all that night rang the great bell of the Capitol. But on the following daybreak, the assemblage was thin and scattered; there was a great fear stricken into the hearts of the people, by the flight of the Barons, and they bitterly and loudly upbraided Rienzi for sparing them to this opportunity of mischief. That day the rumours continued; the murmurers for the most part remained within their houses, or assembled in listless and discontented troops. The next day dawned; the same lethargy prevailed. The Tribune summoned his Council, (which was a Representative assembly.)

“Shall we go forth as we are,” said he, “with such few as will follow the Roman standard!”

“No,” replied Pandulfo, who, by nature timid, was yet well acquainted with the disposition of the people, and therefore a sagacious counsellor. “Let us hold back; let us wait till the rebels commit themselves by some odious outrage, and then hatred will unite the waverers, and resentment lead them.”

This counsel prevailed; the event proved its wisdom. To give excuse and dignity to the delay, messengers were sent to Marino, whither the chief part of the Barons had fled, and which was strongly fortified, demanding their immediate return.

On the day on which the haughty refusal of the insurgents was brought to Rienzi, came fugitives from all parts of the Campagna. Houses burned—convents and vineyards pillaged—cattle and horses seized—attested the warfare practised by the Barons, and animated the drooping Romans, by showing the mercies they might expect for themselves. That evening, of their own accord, the Romans rushed into the place of the Capitol:—Rinaldo Orsini had seized a fortress in the immediate neighbourhood of Rome, and had set fire to a tower, the flames of which were visible to the city. The tenant of the tower, a noble lady, old and widowed, was burnt alive. Then rose the wild clamour—the mighty wrath—the headlong fury. The hour for action had arrived. (“Ardea terre, arse la Castelluzza e case, e uomini. Non si schifo di ardere una nobile donna Vedova, veterana, in una torre. Per tale crudeltade li Romani furo piu irati,” &c.—“Vita di Cola di Rienzi”, lib. i. cap. 20.)