the Page.
It was on the following evening that a considerable crowd had gathered
in the streets of Avignon. It was the second day of the examination
of Rienzi, and with every moment was expected the announcement of the
verdict. Amongst the foreigners of all countries assembled in that seat
of the Papal splendour, the interest was intense. The Italians, even of
the highest rank, were in favour of the Tribune, the French against him.
As for the good townspeople of Avignon themselves, they felt but little
excitement in any thing that did not bring money into their pockets; and
if it had been put to the secret vote, no doubt there would have been a
vast majority for burning the prisoner, as a marketable speculation!
Amongst the crowd was a tall man in a plain and rusty suit of armour,
but with an air of knightly bearing, which somewhat belied the
coarseness of his mail; he wore no helmet, but a small morion of black
leather, with a long projecting shade, much used by wayfarers in the
hot climates of the south. A black patch covered nearly the whole of
one cheek, and altogether he bore the appearance of a grim soldier, with
whom war had dealt harshly, both in purse and person.
Many were the jests at the shabby swordsman’s expense, with which that
lively population amused their impatience; and though the shade of the
morion concealed his eyes, an arch and merry smile about the corners of
his mouth shewed that he could take a jest at himself.
“Well,” said one of the crowd, (a rich Milanese,) “I am of a state that
was free, and I trust the People’s man will have justice shewn him.”
“Amen,” said a grave Florentine.
“They say,” whispered a young student from Paris, to a learned doctor of
laws, with whom he abode, “that his defence has been a masterpiece.”
“He hath taken no degrees,” replied the doctor, doubtingly. “Ho, friend,
why dost thou push me so? thou hast rent my robe.”
This was said to a minstrel, or jongleur, who, with a small lute slung
round him, was making his way, with great earnestness, through the
throng.
“I beg pardon, worthy sir,” said the minstrel; “but this is a scene to
be sung of! Centuries hence; ay, and in lands remote, legend and song
will tell the fortunes of Cola di Rienzi, the friend of Petrarch and the
Tribune of Rome!”
The young French student turned quickly round to the minstrel, with
a glow on his pale face; not sharing the general sentiments of his
countrymen against Rienzi, he felt that it was an era in the world when
a minstrel spoke thus of the heroes of intellect--not of war.
At this time the tall soldier was tapped impatiently on the back.
“I pray thee, great sir,” said a sharp and imperious voice, “to withdraw
that tall bulk of thine a little on one side--I cannot see through thee;
and I would fain my eyes were among the first to catch a glimpse of
Rienzi as he passes from the court.”
“Fair sir page,” replied the soldier, good-humouredly, as he made way
for Angelo Villani, “thou wilt not always find that way in the world is
won by commanding the strong. When thou art older thou wilt beard the
weak, and the strong thou wilt wheedle.”
“I must change my nature, then,” answered Angelo, (who was of somewhat
small stature, and not yet come to his full growth,) trying still to
raise himself above the heads of the crowd.
The soldier looked at him approvingly; and as he looked he sighed, and
his lips worked with some strange emotion.
“Thou speakest well,” said he, after a pause. “Pardon me the rudeness
of the question; but art thou of Italy?--thy tongue savours of the Roman
dialect; yet I have seen lineaments like thine on this side the Alps.”
“It may be, good fellow,” said the page, haughtily; “but I thank Heaven
that I am of Rome.”
At this moment a loud shout burst from that part of the crowd nearest
the court. The sound of trumpets again hushed the throng into deep and
breathless silence, while the Pope’s guards, ranged along the space
conducting from the court, drew themselves up more erect, and fell a
step or two back upon the crowd.
As the trumpet ceased, the voice of a herald was heard, but it did not
penetrate within several yards of the spot where Angelo and the soldier
stood; and it was only by a mighty shout that in a moment circled
through, and was echoed back by, the wide multitude--by the waving of
kerchiefs from the windows--by broken ejaculations, which were caught up
from lip to lip, that the page knew that Rienzi was acquitted.
“I would I could see his face!” sighed the page, querulously.
“And thou shalt,” said the soldier; and he caught up the boy in his
arms, and pressed on with the strength of a giant, parting the living
stream from right to left, as he took his way to a place near the
guards, and by which Rienzi was sure to pass.
The page, half-pleased, half-indignant, struggled a little, but finding
it in vain, consented tacitly to what he felt an outrage on his dignity.
“Never mind,” said the soldier, “thou art the first I ever willingly
raised above myself; and I do it now for the sake of thy fair face,
which reminds me of one I loved.”
But these last words were spoken low, and the boy, in his anxiety to see
the hero of Rome, did not hear or heed them. Presently Rienzi came by;
two gentlemen, of the Pope’s own following, walked by his side. He moved
slowly, amidst the greetings and clamour of the crowd, looking neither
to the right nor left. His bearing was firm and collected, and, save by
the flush of his cheek, there was no external sign of joy or excitement.
Flowers dropped from every balcony on his path; and just when he came to
a broader space, where the ground was somewhat higher, and where he
was in fuller view of the houses around, he paused--and, uncovering,
acknowledged the homage he had received, with a look--a gesture--which
each who beheld never forgot. It haunted even that gay and thoughtless
court, when the last tale of Rienzi’s life reached their ears. And
Angelo, clinging then round that soldier’s neck, recalled--but we must
not anticipate.
It was not, however, to the dark tower that Rienzi returned. His home
was prepared at the palace of the Cardinal d’Albornoz. The next day he
was admitted to the Pope’s presence, and on the evening of that day he
was proclaimed Senator of Rome.
Meanwhile the soldier had placed Angelo on the ground; and as the page
faltered out no courteous thanks, he interrupted him in a sad and kind
voice, the tone of which struck the page forcibly, so little did it suit
the rough and homely appearance of the man.
“We part,” he said, “as strangers, fair boy; and since thou sayest thou
art of Rome, there is no reason why my heart should have warmed to thee
as it has done; yet if ever thou wantest a friend,--seek him”--and the
soldier’s voice sunk into a whisper--“in Walter de Montreal.”
Ere the page recovered his surprise at that redoubted name, which his
earliest childhood had been taught to dread, the Knight of St. John had
vanished amongst the crowd.