“Ay,—­even though it be exercised against the arch offenders—­against the supporters of the brigands—­against the haughtiest of the nobles themselves?”

The Bishop paused, and looked hard in the face of the speaker.  “I repeat,” said he, at length, sinking his voice, and with a significant tone, “in these bold attempts, success is the sole sanction.  Succeed, and we will excuse thee all—­even to the—­”

“Death of a Colonna or an Orsini, should justice demand it; and provided it be according to the law, and only incurred by the violation of the law!” added Rienzi, firmly.

The Bishop did not reply in words, but a slight motion of his head was sufficient answer to Rienzi.

“My Lord,” said he, “from this time, then, all is well; I date the revolution—­the restoration of order, of the state—­from this hour, this very conference.  Till now, knowing that justice must never wink upon great offenders, I had hesitated, through fear lest thou and his Holiness might deem it severity, and blame him who replaces the law, because he smites the violaters of law.  Now I judge ye more rightly.  Your hand, my Lord.”

The Bishop extended his hand; Rienzi grasped it firmly, and then raised it respectfully to his lips.  Both felt that the compact was sealed.

This conference, so long in recital, was short in the reality; but its object was already finished, and the Bishop rose to depart.  The outer portal of the house was opened, the numerous servitors of the Bishop held on high their torches, and he had just termed from Rienzi, who had attended him to the gate, when a female passed hastily through the Prelate’s train, and starting as she beheld Rienzi, flung herself at his feet.

“Oh, hasten, Sir! hasten, for the love of God, hasten! or the young Signora is lost for ever!”

“The Signora!—­Heaven and earth, Benedetta, of whom do you speak?—­of my sister—­of Irene? is she not within?”

“Oh, Sir—­the Orsini—­the Orsini!”

“What of them?—­speak, woman!”

Here, breathlessly, and with many a break, Benedetta recounted to Rienzi, in whom the reader has already recognised the brother of Irene, so far of the adventure with Martino di Porto as she had witnessed:  of the termination and result of the contest she knew nought.

Rienzi listened in silence; but the deadly paleness of his countenance, and the writhing of the nether lip, testified the emotions to which he gave no audible vent.

“You hear, my Lord Bishop—­you hear,” said he, when Benedetta had concluded; and turning to the Bishop, whose departure the narrative had delayed—­“you hear to what outrage the citizens of Rome are subjected.  My hat and sword! instantly!  My Lord, forgive my abruptness.”

“Whither art thou bent, then?” asked Raimond.

“Whither—­whither!—­Ay, I forgot, my Lord, you have no sister.  Perhaps too, you had no brother?—­No, no; one victim at least I will live to save.  Whither, you ask me?—­to the palace of Martino di Porto.”