It was the morning of the 19th of May, the air was brisk and clear,
and the sun, which had just risen, shone cheerily upon the glittering
casques and spears of a gallant procession of armed horsemen, sweeping
through the long and principal street of Rome. The neighing of the
horses, the ringing of the hoofs, the dazzle of the armour, and the
tossing to and fro of the standards, adorned with the proud insignia of
the Colonna, presented one of the gay and brilliant spectacles peculiar
to the middle ages.
At the head of the troop, on a stout palfrey, rode Stephen Colonna.
At his right was the Knight of Provence, curbing, with an easy hand,
a slight, but fiery steed of the Arab race: behind him followed two
squires, the one leading his war-horse, the other bearing his lance and
helmet. At the left of Stephen Colonna rode Adrian, grave and silent,
and replying only by monosyllables to the gay bavardage of the Knight
of Provence. A considerable number of the flower of the Roman nobles
followed the old Baron; and the train was closed by a serried troop of
foreign horsemen, completely armed.
There was no crowd in the street,--the citizens looked with seeming
apathy at the procession from their half-closed shops.
“Have these Romans no passion for shows?” asked Montreal; “if they could
be more easily amused they would be more easily governed.”
“Oh, Rienzi, and such buffoons, amuse them. We do better,--we terrify!”
replied Stephen.
“What sings the troubadour, Lord Adrian?” said Montreal.
“‘Smiles, false smiles, should form the school
For those who rise, and those who rule:
The brave they trick, and fair subdue,
Kings deceive, the States undo.
Smiles, false smiles!
“‘Frowns, true frowns, ourselves betray,
The brave arouse, the fair dismay,
Sting the pride, which blood must heal,
Mix the bowl, and point the steel.
Frowns, true frowns!’
“The lay is of France, Signor; yet methinks it brings its wisdom from
Italy;--for the serpent smile is your countrymen’s proper distinction,
and the frown ill becomes them.”
“Sir Knight,” replied Adrian, sharply, and incensed at the taunt, “you
Foreigners have taught us how to frown:--a virtue sometimes.”
“But not wisdom, unless the hand could maintain what the brow menaced,”
returned Montreal, with haughtiness; for he had much of the Franc
vivacity which often overcame his prudence; and he had conceived a
secret pique against Adrian since their interview at Stephen’s palace.
“Sir Knight,” answered Adrian, colouring, “our conversation may lead to
warmer words than I would desire to have with one who has rendered me so
gallant a service.”
“Nay, then, let us go back to the troubadours,” said Montreal,
indifferently. “Forgive me if I do not think highly, in general, of
Italian honour, or Italian valour; your valour I acknowledge, for I have
witnessed it, and valour and honour go together,--let that suffice!”
As Adrian was about to answer, his eye fell suddenly on the burly form
of Cecco del Vecchio, who was leaning his bare and brawny arms over his
anvil, and gazing, with a smile, upon the group. There was something in
that smile which turned the current of Adrian’s thoughts, and which he
could not contemplate without an unaccountable misgiving.
“A strong villain, that,” said Montreal, also eyeing the smith. “I
should like to enlist him. Fellow!” cried he, aloud, “you have an arm
that were as fit to wield the sword as to fashion it. Desert your anvil,
and follow the fortunes of Fra Moreale!”
The smith nodded his head. “Signor Cavalier,” said he, gravely, “we poor
men have no passion for war; we want not to kill others--we desire only
ourselves to live,--if you will let us!”
“By the Holy Mother, a slavish answer! But you Romans--”
“Are slaves!” interrupted the smith, turning away to the interior of his
forge.
“The dog is mutinous!” said the old Colonna. And as the band swept on,
the rude foreigners, encouraged by their leaders, had each some taunt
or jest, uttered in a barbarous attempt at the southern patois, for the
lazy giant, as he again appeared in front of his forge, leaning on his
anvil as before, and betraying no sign of attention to his insultors,
save by a heightened glow of his swarthy visage;--and so the gallant
procession passed through the streets, and quitted the Eternal City.
There was a long interval of deep silence--of general calm--throughout
the whole of Rome: the shops were still but half-opened; no man betook
himself to his business; it was like the commencement of some holyday,
when indolence precedes enjoyment.
About noon, a few small knots of men might be seen scattered about the
streets, whispering to each other, but soon dispersing; and every now
and then, a single passenger, generally habited in the long robes used
by the men of letters, or in the more sombre garb of monks, passed
hurriedly up the street towards the Church of St. Mary of Egypt, once
the Temple of Fortune. Then, again, all was solitary and deserted.
Suddenly, there was heard the sound of a single trumpet! It swelled--it
gathered on the ear. Cecco del Vecchio looked up from his anvil! A
solitary horseman paced slowly by the forge, and wound a long loud blast
of the trumpet suspended round his neck, as he passed through the middle
of the street. Then might you see a crowd, suddenly, and as by magic,
appear emerging from every corner; the street became thronged with
multitudes; but it was only by the tramp of their feet, and an
indistinct and low murmur, that they broke the silence. Again
the horseman wound his trump, and when the note ceased, he cried
aloud--“Friends and Romans! tomorrow, at dawn of day, let each man find
himself unarmed before the Church of St. Angelo. Cola di Rienzi convenes
the Romans to provide for the good state of Rome.” A shout, that seemed
to shake the bases of the seven hills, broke forth at the end of
this brief exhortation; the horseman rode slowly on, and the crowd
followed.--This was the commencement of the Revolution!