“I would fain see a warrior arm for Rome,” said the boy, with a boy’s energy.
“Bless thee, my child; there spoke one of Rome’s true sons!”
“And the Signora has promised me that I shall go with her guard to the gates, to hear the news—”
“And report the victory?—thou shalt. But they must not let thee come within shaft-shot. What! my Pandulfo, thou in mail?”
“Rome requires every man,” said the citizen, whose weak nerves were strung by the contagion of the general enthusiasm.
“She doth—and once more I am proud to be a Roman. Now, gentles, the Dalmaticum: (A robe or mantle of white, borne by Rienzi; at one time belonging to the sacerdotal office, afterwards an emblem of empire.) I would that every foe should know Rienzi; and, by the Lord of Hosts, fighting at the head of the imperial people, I have a right to the imperial robe. Are the friars prepared? Our march to the gates shall be preceded by a solemn hymn—so fought our sires.”
“Tribune, John di Vico is arrived with a hundred horse to support the Good Estate.”
“He hath!—The Lord has delivered us then of a foe, and given our dungeons a traitor!—Bring hither yon casket, Angelo.—So—Hark thee! Pandulfo, read this letter.”
The citizens read, with surprise and consternation, the answer of the wily Prefect to the Colonna’s epistle.
“He promises the Baron to desert to him in the battle, with the Prefect’s banner,” said Pandulfo. “What is to be done?”