“I would fain see a warrior arm for Rome,” said the boy, with a boy’s energy.

“Bless thee, my child; there spoke one of Rome’s true sons!”

“And the Signora has promised me that I shall go with her guard to the gates, to hear the news—­”

“And report the victory?—­thou shalt.  But they must not let thee come within shaft-shot.  What! my Pandulfo, thou in mail?”

“Rome requires every man,” said the citizen, whose weak nerves were strung by the contagion of the general enthusiasm.

“She doth—­and once more I am proud to be a Roman.  Now, gentles, the Dalmaticum:  (A robe or mantle of white, borne by Rienzi; at one time belonging to the sacerdotal office, afterwards an emblem of empire.) I would that every foe should know Rienzi; and, by the Lord of Hosts, fighting at the head of the imperial people, I have a right to the imperial robe.  Are the friars prepared?  Our march to the gates shall be preceded by a solemn hymn—­so fought our sires.”

“Tribune, John di Vico is arrived with a hundred horse to support the Good Estate.”

“He hath!—­The Lord has delivered us then of a foe, and given our dungeons a traitor!—­Bring hither yon casket, Angelo.—­So—­Hark thee!  Pandulfo, read this letter.”

The citizens read, with surprise and consternation, the answer of the wily Prefect to the Colonna’s epistle.

“He promises the Baron to desert to him in the battle, with the Prefect’s banner,” said Pandulfo.  “What is to be done?”

“What!—­take my signet—­here—­see him lodged forthwith in the prison of the Capitol.  Bid his train leave Rome, and if found acting with the Barons, warn them that their Lord dies.  Go—­see to it without a moment’s delay.  Meanwhile, to the chapel—­we will hear mass.”

Within an hour the Roman army—­vast, miscellaneous—­old men and boys, mingled with the vigour of life, were on their march to the Gate of San Lorenzo; of their number, which amounted to twenty thousand foot, not one-sixth could be deemed men-at-arms; but the cavalry were well equipped, and consisted of the lesser Barons and the more opulent citizens.  At the head of these rode the Tribune in complete armour, and wearing on his casque a wreath of oak and olive leaves, wrought in silver.  Before him waved the great gonfalon of Rome, while in front of this multitudinous array marched a procession of monks, of the order of St. Francis, (for the ecclesiastical body of Rome went chiefly with the popular spirit, and its enthusiastic leader,)—­slowly chanting the following hymn, which was made inexpressibly startling and imposing at the close of each stanza, by the clash of arms, the blast of trumpets, and the deep roll of the drum; which formed, as it were, a martial chorus to the song:—­

Roman War-song.

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