st upon her heart.

As the absence of Adrian at the Neapolitan Court passed the anticipated
date, (for at no Court then, with a throne fiercely disputed, did
the Tribune require a nobler or more intelligent representative,--and
intrigues and counter-intrigues delayed his departure from week to
week), she grew uneasy and alarmed. Like many, themselves unseen,
inactive, the spectators of the scene, she saw involuntarily further
into the time than the deeper intellect either of the Tribune or Nina;
and the dangerous discontent of the nobles was visible and audible to
her in looks and whispers, which reached not acuter or more suspected
ears and eyes. Anxiously, restlessly, did she long for the return
of Adrian, not from selfish motives alone, but from well-founded
apprehensions for her brother. With Adrian di Castello, alike a noble
and a patriot, each party had found a mediator, and his presence grew
daily more needed, till at length the conspiracy of the Barons had
broken out. From that hour she scarcely dared to hope; her calm sense,
unblinded by the high-wrought genius which, as too often happens, made
the Tribune see harsh realities through a false and brilliant light,
perceived that the Rubicon was passed; and through all the events
that followed she could behold but two images--danger to her brother,
separation from her betrothed.

With Nina alone could her full heart confer; for Nina, with all the
differences of character, was a woman who loved. And this united them.
In the earlier power of Rienzi, many of their happiest hours had been
passed together, remote from the gaudy crowd, alone and unrestrained,
in the summer nights, on the moonlit balconies, in that interchange
of thought, sympathy, and consolation, which to two impassioned and
guileless women makes the most interesting occupation and the most
effectual solace. But of late, this intercourse had been much marred.
From the morning in which the Barons had received their pardon, to that
on which they had marched on Rome, had been one succession of fierce
excitements. Every face Irene saw was clouded and overcast--all gaiety
was suspended--bustling and anxious councillors, or armed soldiers, had
for days been the only visitors of the palace. Rienzi had been seen but
for short moments: his brow wrapt in care. Nina had been more fond, more
caressing than ever, but in those caresses there seemed a mournful and
ominous compassion. The attempts at comfort and hope