“Viva Fra Moreale!” cried Bruttini and Vivaldi, simultaneously. “A health to all, my friends;” continued Bruttini; “a health to the Barons, Rome’s old friends; to Pandulfo di Guido, the Senator’s new colleague, and to Fra Moreale, Rome’s new Podesta.”
“The bell has ceased,” said Vivaldi, putting down his goblet.
“Heaven have mercy on the robber!” added Bruttini.
Scarce had he spoken, ere three taps were heard at the door—the guests looked at each other in dumb amaze.
“New guests!” said Montreal. “I asked some trusty friends to join us this evening. By my faith they are welcome! Enter!”
The door opened slowly; three by three entered, in complete armour, the guards of the Senator. On they marched, regular and speechless. They surrounded the festive board—they filled the spacious hall, and the lights of the banquet were reflected upon their corselets as on a wall of steel.
Not a syllable was uttered by the feasters, they were as if turned to stone. Presently the guards gave way, and Rienzi himself appeared. He approached the table, and folding his arms, turned his gaze deliberately from guest to guest, till at last, his eyes rested on Montreal, who had also risen, and who alone of the party had recovered the amaze of the moment.
And there, as these two men, each so celebrated, so proud, able, and ambitious, stood, front to front—it was literally as if the rival Spirits of Force and Intellect, Order and Strife, of the Falchion and the Fasces—the Antagonist Principles by which empires are ruled and empires overthrown, had met together, incarnate and opposed. They stood, both silent,—as if fascinated by each other’s gaze,—loftier in stature, and nobler in presence than all around.
Montreal spoke first, and with a forced smile.
“Senator of Rome!—dare I believe that my poor banquet tempts thee, and may I trust that these armed men are a graceful compliment to one to whom arms have been a pastime?”