“How! Dolt—fool! Came you then to Rome alone! Are we alone with this dread man?”
“You are the dolt! Why came you hither?” answered the brother.
“Why, indeed! but that I knew thou wast the Captain of the army; and—but thou said’st right—the folly is mine, to have played against the crafty Tribune so unequal a brain as thine. Enough! Reproaches are idle. When were ye arrested?”
“At dusk—the instant we entered the gates of Rome. Rienzi entered privately.”
“Humph! What can he know against me? Who can have betrayed me? My secretaries are tried—all trustworthy—except that youth, and he so seemingly zealous—that Angelo Villani!”
“Villani! Angelo Villani!” cried the brothers in a breath. “Hast thou confided aught to him?”
“Why, I fear he must have seen—at least in part—my correspondence with you, and with the Barons—he was among my scribes. Know you aught of him?”
“Walter, Heaven hath demented you!” returned Brettone. “Angelo Villani is the favourite menial of the Senator.”
“Those eyes deceived me, then,” muttered Montreal, solemnly and shuddering; “and, as if her ghost had returned to earth, God smites me from the grave!”
There was a long silence. At length Montreal, whose bold and sanguine temper was never long clouded, spoke again.