“Away, proud man—­away!” said Adrian, impatiently waving his hand,—­“thou shouldst protect the lives of Romans, and—­oh, Gianni!—­Pietro!—­could not birth, renown, and thy green years, poor boy—­could not these save ye?”

“Pardon him, my friends,” said the Tribune to the crowd,—­“his grief is natural, and he knows not all their guilt.—­Back, I pray ye—­leave him to our ministering.”

It might have fared ill for Adrian, but for the Tribune’s brief speech.  And as the young Lord, dismounting, now bent over his kinsmen—­the Tribune also surrendering his charger to his squires, approached, and, despite Adrian’s reluctance and aversion, drew him aside,—­

“Young friend,” said he, mournfully, “my heart bleeds for you; yet bethink thee, the wrath of the crowd is fresh upon them:  be prudent.”

“Prudent!”

“Hush—­by my honour, these men were not worthy of your name.  Twice perjured—­once assassins—­twice rebels—­listen to me!”

“Tribune, I ask no other construing of what I see—­they might have died justly, or been butchered foully.  But there is no peace between the executioner of my race and me.”

“Will you, too, be forsworn?  Thine oath!—­Come, come, I hear not these words.  Be composed—­retire—­and if, three days hence, you impute any other blame to me than that of unwise lenity, I absolve you from your oath, and you are free to be my foe.  The crowd gape and gaze upon us—­a minute more, and I may not avail to save you.”

The feelings of the young patrician were such as utterly baffle description.  He had never been much amongst his house, nor ever received more than common courtesy at their hands.  But lineage is lineage still!  And there, in the fatal hazard of war, lay the tree and sapling, the prime and hope of his race.  He felt there was no answer to the Tribune, the very place of their death proved they had fallen in an assault upon their countrymen.  He sympathised not with their cause, but their fate.  And rage, revenge alike forbidden—­his heart was the more softened to the shock and paralysis of grief.  He did not therefore speak, but continued to gaze upon the dead, while large and unheeded tears flowed down his cheeks, and his attitude of dejection and sorrow was so moving, that the crowd, at first indignant, now felt for his affliction.  At length his mind seemed made up.  He turned to Rienzi, and said, falteringly, “Tribune, I blame you not, nor accuse.  If you have been rash in this, God will have blood for blood.  I wage no war with you—­you say right, my oath prevents me; and if you govern well, I can still remember that I am Roman.  But—­but—­look to that bleeding clay—­we meet no more!—­your sister—­God be with her!—­between her and me flows a dark gulf!” The young noble paused some moments, choked by his emotions, and then continued, “These papers discharge me of my mission.  Standard-bearers, lay down the banner of the Republic.  Tribune, speak not—­I would be calm—­calm.  And so farewell to Rome.”  With a hurried glance towards the dead, he sprung upon his steed, and, followed by his train, vanished through the arch.