ursuit. Shouts of rejoicing followed the Tribune's
panting steed through the arch; and just as he entered the space within,
crowds of those whose infirmities, sex, or years, had not allowed them
to share the conflict,--women, and children, and drivelling age, mingled
with the bare feet and dark robes of monks and friars, apprised of the
victory, were prepared to hail his triumph.

Rienzi reined his steed by the corpse of the boy Colonna, which lay
half immersed in a pool of water, and close by it, removed from the arch
where he had fallen, lay that of Gianni Colonna,--(that Gianni Colonna
whose spear had dismissed his brother's gentle spirit.) He glanced over
the slain, as the melancholy Hesperus played upon the bloody pool and
the gory corselet, with a breast heaved with many emotions; and turning,
he saw the young Angelo, who, with some of Nina's guard, had repaired to
the spot, and had now approached the Tribune.

"Child," said Rienzi, pointing to the dead, "blessed art thou who hast
no blood of kindred to avenge!--to him who hath, sooner or later comes
the hour; and an awful hour it is!"

The words sank deep into Angelo's heart, and in after life became words
of fate to the speaker and the listener.

Ere Rienzi had well recovered himself, and as were heard around him
the shrieks of the widows and mothers of the slain--the groans of the
dying--the exhortations of the friars--mingled with sounds of joy
and triumph--a cry was raised by the women and stragglers on the
battle-field without, of "The foe!--the foe!"

"To your swords," cried the Tribune; "fall back in order;--yet they
cannot be so bold!"

The tramp of horses, the blast of a trumpet, were heard; and presently,
at full speed, some thirty horsemen dashed through the gate.

"Your bows," exclaimed the Tribune, advancing;--"yet hold--the leader
is unarmed--it is our own banner. By our Lady, it is our ambassador of
Naples, the Lord Adrian di Castello!"

Panting--breathless--covered with dust--Adrian halted at the pool red
with the blood of his kindred--and their pale faces, set in death,
glared upon him.

"Too late--alas! alas!--dread fate!--unhappy Rome!"

"They fell into the pit they themselves had digged," said the Tribune,
in a firm but hollow voice.--"Noble Adrian, would thy counsels had
prevented this!"

"Away, proud man--away!" said Adrian, impatiently waving his
hand,--"thou shouldst protect the lives of Romans, and--oh,
Gianni!--Pietro!--cou