“The dog is mutinous,” said one of the followers of the Orsini, succeeding the German who had passed on, “and talks of San Lorenzo!”
“Oh!” said another Orsinist, who rode abreast, “I remember him of old. He was one of Rienzi’s gang.”
“Was he?” said the other, sternly; “then we cannot begin salutary examples too soon;” and, offended at something swaggering and insolent in the butcher’s look, the Orsinist coolly thrust him through the heart with his pike, and rode on over his body.
“Shame! Shame!” “Murder! Murder!” cried the crowd: and they began to press, in the passion of the moment, round the fierce guards.
The Legate heard the cry, and saw the rush: he turned pale. “The rascals rebel again!” he faltered.
“No, your Eminence—no,” said Luca; “but it may be as well to infuse a wholesome terror; they are all unarmed; let me bid the guards disperse them. A word will do it.”
The Cardinal assented; the word was given; and, in a few minutes, the soldiery, who still smarted under the vindictive memory of defeat from an undisciplined multitude, scattered the crowd down the streets without scruple or mercy—riding over some, spearing others—filling the air with shrieks and yells, and strewing the ground with almost as many men as a few days before would have sufficed to have guarded Rome, and preserved the constitution! Through this wild, tumultuous scene, and over the bodies of its victims, rode the Legate and his train, to receive in the Hall of the Capitol the allegiance of the citizens, and to proclaim the return of the oppressors.
As they dismounted at the stairs, a placard in large letters struck the eye of the Legate. It was placed upon the pedestal of the Lion of Basalt, covering the very place that had been occupied by the bull of excommunication. The words were few, and ran thus:
“TREMBLE! RIENZI SHALL RETURN!”
“How! what means this mummery!” cried the Legate, trembling already, and looking round to the nobles.