“No, the heat was oppressive. But nevertheless, Cola, I have not lacked company—half the matronage of Rome has crowded the palace.”
“Ah, I warrant it.—But yon boy, is he not a new face?”
“Hush, Cola, speak to him kindly, I entreat: of his story anon. Angelo, approach. You see your new master, the Tribune of Rome.”
Angelo approached with a timidity not his wont, for an air of majesty was at all times natural to Rienzi, and since his power it had naturally taken a graver and austerer aspect, which impressed those who approached him, even the ambassadors of princes, with a certain involuntary awe. The Tribune smiled at the effect he saw he had produced, and being by temper fond of children, and affable to all but the great, he hastened to dispel it. He took the child affectionately in his arms, kissed him, and bade him welcome.
“May we have a son as fair!” he whispered to Nina, who blushed, and turned away.
“Thy name, my little friend?”
“Angelo Villani.”
“A Tuscan name. There is a man of letters at Florence, doubtless writing our annals from hearsay at this moment, called Villani. Perhaps akin to thee?”
“I have no kin,” said the boy, bluntly; “and therefore I shall the better love the Signora and honour you, if you will let me. I am Roman—all the Roman boys honour Rienzi.”
“Do they, my brave lad?” said the Tribune, colouring with pleasure; “that is a good omen of my continued prosperity.” He put down the boy, and threw himself on the cushions, while Nina placed herself on a kind of low stool beside him.