Pandulfo hemmed, and coloured.
Montreal proceeded. “A committee of trades might furnish an honourable employment to Signor Vivaldi; and the treatment of all foreign affairs—the employment of armies, &c., might be left to the Barons, with a more open competition, Signor di Bruttini, to the Barons of the second order than has hitherto been conceded to their birth and importance. Sirs, will you taste the Malvoisie?”
“Still,” said Vivaldi, after a pause—(Vivaldi anticipated at least the supplying with cloth the whole of the Grand Company)—“still, such a moderate and well-digested constitution would never be acceded to by Rienzi.”
“Why should it? what need of Rienzi?” exclaimed Bruttini. “Rienzi may take another trip to Bohemia.”
“Gently, gently,” said Montreal; “I do not despair. All open violence against the Senator would strengthen his power. No, no, humble him—admit the Barons, and then insist on your own terms. Between the two factions you might then establish a fitting balance. And in order to keep your new constitution from the encroachment of either extreme, there are warriors and knights, too, who for a certain rank in the great city of Rome would maintain horse and foot at its service. We Ultra-Montanes are often harshly judged; we are wanderers and Ishmaelites, solely because we have no honourable place of rest. Now, if I—”
“Ay, if you, noble Montreal!” said Vivaldi.
The company remained hushed in breathless attention, when suddenly there was heard—deep, solemn, muffled,—the great bell of the Capitol!
“Hark!” said Vivaldi, the bell: “It tolls for execution: an unwonted hour!”
“Sure, the Senator has not returned!” exclaimed Pandulfo di Guido, turning pale.
“No, no,” quoth Bruttini, “it is but a robber, caught two nights ago in Romagna. I heard that he was to die tonight.”