ength, wearied with his own
reflections, he cast himself on the bed. It was an omen which graver
history has not neglected to record, that the moment he pressed the bed,
new prepared for the occasion, part of it sank under him: he himself was
affected by the accident, and sprung forth, turning pale and muttering;
but, as if ashamed of his weakness, after a moment's pause, again
composed himself to rest, and drew the drapery round him.

The moonbeams grew fainter and more faint as the time proceeded, and
the sharp distinction between light and shade faded fast from the marble
floor; when from behind a column at the furthest verge of the building,
a strange shadow suddenly crossed the sickly light--it crept on--it
moved, but without an echo,--from pillar to pillar it flitted--it rested
at last behind the column nearest to the Tribune's bed--it remained
stationary.

The shades gathered darker and darker round; the stillness seemed to
deepen; the moon was gone; and, save from the struggling ray of the lamp
beside Rienzi, the blackness of night closed over the solemn and ghostly
scene.

In one of the side chapels, as I have before said, which, in the many
alterations the church has undergone, is probably long since destroyed,
were Savelli and the few attendants retained by the Tribune. Savelli
alone slept not; he remained sitting erect, breathless and listening,
while the tall lights in the chapel rendered yet more impressive the
rapid changes of his countenance.

"Now pray Heaven," said he, "the knave miscarry not! Such an occasion
may never again occur! He has a strong arm and a dexterous hand,
doubtless; but the other is a powerful man. The deed once done, I care
not whether the doer escape or not; if not, why we must stab him! Dead
men tell no tales. At the worst, who can avenge Rienzi? There is no
other Rienzi! Ourselves and the Frangipani seize the Aventine, the
Colonna and the Orsini the other quarters of the city; and without the
master-spirit, we may laugh at the mad populace. But if discovered;--"
and Savelli, who, fortunately for his foes, had not nerves equal to his
will, covered his face and shuddered;--"I think I hear a noise!--no--is
it the wind?--tush, it must be old Vico de Scotto, turning in his shell
of mail!--silent--I like not that silence! No cry--no sound! Can the
ruffian have played us false? or could he not scale the casement? It is
but a child's effort;--or did the sentry spy him?"

Time passe