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!”