estless spirits, as his
justice gave shelter to the more tranquil. Faults he had, but whether
those faults or the faults of the people, were to prepare his downfall,
is yet to be seen.

Meanwhile, amidst a discontented nobility and a fickle populace, urged
on by the danger of repose to the danger of enterprise; partly blinded
by his outward power, partly impelled by the fear of internal weakness;
at once made sanguine by his genius and his fanaticism, and uneasy by
the expectations of the crowd,--he threw himself headlong into the
gulf of the rushing Time, and surrendered his lofty spirit to no
other guidance than a conviction of its natural buoyancy and its
heaven-directed haven.

Chapter 4.IV. The Enemy's Camp.

While Rienzi was preparing, in concert, perhaps, with the ambassadors of
the brave Tuscan States, whose pride of country and love of liberty
were well fitted to comprehend, and even share them, his schemes for
the emancipation from all foreign yoke of the Ancient Queen, and the
Everlasting Garden, of the World; the Barons, in restless secrecy, were
revolving projects for the restoration of their own power.

One morning, the heads of the Savelli, the Orsini, and the Frangipani,
met at the disfortified palace of Stephen Colonna. Their conference
was warm and earnest--now resolute, now wavering, in its object--as
indignation or fear prevailed.

"You have heard," said Luca di Savelli, in his usual soft and womanly
voice, "that the Tribune has proclaimed, that, the day after tomorrow,
he will take the order of knighthood, and watch the night before in the
church of the Lateran: He has honoured me with a request to attend his
vigil."

"Yes, yes, the knave. What means this new fantasy?" said the brutal
Prince of the Orsini.

"Unless it be to have the cavalier's right to challenge a noble," said
old Colonna, "I cannot conjecture. Will Rome never grow weary of this
madman?"

"Rome is the more mad of the two," said Luca di Savelli; "but methinks,
in his wildness, the Tribune hath committed one error of which we may
well avail ourselves at Avignon."

"Ah," cried the old Colonna, "that must be our game; passive here, let
us fight at Avignon."

"In a word then, he hath ordered that his bath shall be prepared in the
holy porphyry vase in which once bathed the Emperor Constantine."

"Profanation! profanation!" cried Stephen. "This is enough to excuse a
bull of excommunication. The Pope shall hear of it. I