“Surely,” interrupted Pandulfo, “I hear steps below.”

“The mob going to the robber’s execution,” said Bruttini; “proceed, Sir Knight!”

“And,” continued Montreal, surveying his audience before he proceeded farther, “what think ye—­(I do but ask your opinion, wiser than mine)—­what think ye, as a fitting precaution against too arbitrary a power in the Senator—­what think ye of the return of the Colonna, and the bold Barons of Palestrina?”

“Here’s to their health!” cried Vivaldi, rising.

As by a sudden impulse, the company rose.  “To the health of the besieged Barons!” was shouted aloud.

“Next, what if—­(I do but humbly suggest)—­what if you gave the Senator a colleague?—­it is no affront to him.  It was but as yesterday that one of the Colonna, who was Senator, received a colleague in Bertoldo Orsini.”

“A most wise precaution,” cried Vivaldi.  “And where a colleague like Pandulfo di Guido?”

“Viva Pandulfo di Guido!” cried the guests, and again their goblets were drained to the bottom.

“And if in this I can assist ye by fair words with the Senator, (ye know he owes me monies—­my brothers have served him), command Walter de Montreal.”

“And if fair words fail?” said Vivaldi.

“The Grand Company—­(heed me, ye are the counsellors)—­the Grand Company is accustomed to forced marches!”

“Viva Fra Moreale!” cried Bruttini and Vivaldi, simultaneously.  “A health to all, my friends;” continued Bruttini; “a health to the Barons, Rome’s old friends; to Pandulfo di Guido, the Senator’s new colleague, and to Fra Moreale, Rome’s new Podesta.”

“The bell has ceased,” said Vivaldi, putting down his goblet.

“Heaven have mercy on the robber!” added Bruttini.

Scarce had he spoken, ere three taps were heard at the door—­the guests looked at each other in dumb amaze.

“New guests!” said Montreal.  “I asked some trusty friends to join us this evening.  By my faith they are welcome!  Enter!”

The door opened slowly; three by three entered, in complete armour, the guards of the Senator.  On they marched, regular and speechless.  They surrounded the festive board—­they filled the spacious hall, and the lights of the banquet were reflected upon their corselets as on a wall of steel.

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.