“Cola,—”
“Look not on me thus.—in power, in state, in safety—you were my ornament and counsellor. Now you but embarrass me. And—”
“Oh, Cola, speak not thus! What hath chanced? Be not so cold—frown not—turn not away! Am I not something more to thee, than the partner of joyous hours—the minion of love? Am I not thy wife, Cola—not thy leman?”
“Too dear—too dear to me,” muttered the Tribune; “with thee by my side I shall be but half a Roman. Nina, the base slaves whom I myself made free desert me.—Now, in the very hour in which I might sweep away for ever all obstacles to the regeneration of Rome—now, when one conquest points the path to complete success—now when the land is visible, my fortune suddenly leaves me in the midst of the seas! There is greater danger now than in the rage of the Barons—the Barons are fled; it is the People who are becoming traitors to Rome and to me.”
“And wouldst thou have me traitor also! No, Cola; in death itself Nina shall be beside thee. Life and honour are reflected but from thee, and the stroke that slays the substance, shall destroy the humble shadow. I will not part from thee.”
“Nina,” said the Tribune, contending with strong and convulsive emotion—“it may be literally of death that you speak.—Go! leave one who can no longer protect you or Rome!”
“Never—Never.”
“You are resolved?”
“I am.”
“Be it so,” said the Tribune, with deep sadness in his tone. “Arm thyself for the worst.”