rror of his soul;--and, when he felt
the penetrating gaze of Rienzi upon him, he trembled in every joint.
Rienzi alone did not, however, seem to notice his disorder; and when
Vico di Scotto, an old knight, from whose hands he received his sword,
asked him how he had passed the night, he replied, cheerfully--

"Well, well--my brave friend! Over a maiden knight some good angel
always watches. Signor Luca di Savelli, I fear you have slept but ill:
you seem pale. No matter!--our banquet today will soon brighten the
current of your gay blood."

"Blood, Tribune!" said di Scotto, who was innocent of the plot: "Thou
sayest blood, and lo! on the floor are large gouts of it not yet dry."

"Now, out on thee, old hero, for betraying my awkwardness! I pricked
myself with my own dagger in unrobing. Thank Heaven it hath no poison in
its blade!"

The Frangipani exchanged looks,--Luca di Savelli clung to a column for
support,--and the rest of the attendants seemed grave and surprised.

"Think not of it, my masters," said Rienzi: "it is a good omen,
and a true prophecy. It implies that he who girds on his sword
for the good of the state, must be ready to spill his blood for it:
that am I. No more of this--a mere scratch: it gave more
blood than I recked of from so slight a puncture, and saves
the leech the trouble of the lancet. How brightly breaks the day!
We must prepare to meet our fellow-citizens--they will be here anon.
Ha, my Pandulfo--welcome!--thou, my old friend, shalt buckle on this
mantle!"

And while Pandulfo was engaged in the task, the Tribune whispered a few
words in his ear, which, by the smile on his countenance, seemed to the
attendants one of the familiar jests with which Rienzi distinguished his
intercourse with his more confidential intimates.

Chapter 4.VI. The Celebrated Citation.

The bell of the great Lateran church sounded shrill and loud, as the
mighty multitude, greater even than that of the preceding night, swept
on. The appointed officers made way with difficulty for the barons and
ambassadors, and scarcely were those noble visitors admitted ere the
crowd closed in their ranks, poured headlong into the church, and took
the way to the chapel of Boniface VIII. There, filling every cranny,
and blocking up the entrance, the more fortunate of the press beheld the
Tribune surrounded by the splendid court his genius had collected, and
his fortune had subdued. At length, as the solemn and holy music beg