“A strange man, and various fortunes.  What will be the end of both!”

“Swift murder to the first, and eternal fame to the last,” answered Montreal, calmly.  “Rienzi will be restored; that brave phoenix will wing its way through storm and cloud to its own funereal pyre:  I foresee, I compassionate, I admire.—­And then,” added Montreal, “I look beyond!”

“But wherefore feel you so certain that, if restored, Rienzi must fall?”

“Is it not clear to every eye, save his, whom ambition blinds?  How can mortal genius, however great, rule that most depraved people by popular means?  The Barons—­(you know their indomitable ferocity)—­wedded to abuse, and loathing every semblance to law; the Barons, humbled for a moment, will watch their occasion, and rise.  The people will again desert.  Or else, grown wise in one respect by experience, the new Senator will see that popular favour has a loud voice, but a recreant arm.  He will, like the Barons, surround himself by foreign swords.  A detachment from the Grand Company will be his courtiers; they will be his masters!  To pay them the people must be taxed.  Then the idol is execrated.  No Italian hand can govern these hardy demons of the north; they will mutiny and fall away.  A new demagogue will lead on the people, and Rienzi will be the victim.  Mark my prophecy!”

“And then the ‘beyond’ to which you look?”

“Utter prostration of Rome, for new and long ages; God makes not two Rienzis; or,” said Montreal, proudly, “the infusion of a new life into the worn-out and diseased frame,—­the foundation of a new dynasty.  Verily, when I look around me, I believe that the Ruler of nations designs the restoration of the South by the irruptions of the North; and that out of the old Franc and Germanic race will be built up the thrones of the future world!”

As Montreal thus spoke, leaning on his great war-sword, with his fair and heroic features—­so different, in their frank, bold, fearless expression, from the dark and wily intellect that characterises the lineaments of the South—­eloquent at once with enthusiasm and thought—­he might have seemed no unfitting representative of the genius of that northern chivalry of which he spake.  And Adrian half fancied that he saw before him one of the old Gothic scourges of the Western World.

Their conversation was here interrupted by the sound of a trumpet, and presently an officer entering, announced the arrival of ambassadors from Florence.

“Again you must pardon me, noble Adrian,” said Montreal, “and let me claim you as my guest at least for tonight.  Here you may rest secure, and on parting, my men shall attend you to the frontiers of whatsoever territory you design to visit.”

Adrian, not sorry to see more of a man so celebrated, accepted the invitation.

Left alone, he leaned his head upon his hand, and soon became lost in his reflections.

Chapter 8.III.  Faithful and Ill-fated Love.—­The Aspirations Survive the Affections.