Montreal waved his hand disdainfully.
“I speak not to you, good sirs, and the worthy friars in your rear know full well that I never injured herald or palmer.”
The monks, ceasing from their hymn, advanced hastily to the spot; and indeed the devotion of Montreal had ever induced him to purchase the goodwill of whatever monastery neighboured his wandering home.
“My son,” said the eldest of the brethren, “this is a strange spectacle, and a sacred: and when thou learnest all, thou wilt rather give the messenger a passport of safety from the unthinking courage of thy friends than intercept his path of peace.”
“Ye puzzle still more my simple brain,” said Montreal, impatiently, “let the youth speak for himself; I perceive that on his mantle are the arms of Rome blended with other quarterings, which are a mystery to me,—though sufficiently versed in heraldic art as befits a noble and a knight.”
“Signor,” said the youth, gravely, “know in me the messenger of Cola di Rienzi, Tribune of Rome, charged with letters to many a baron and prince in the ways between Rome and Naples. The arms wrought upon my mantle are those of the Pontiff, the City, and the Tribune.”
“Umph; thou must have bold nerves to traverse the Campagna with no other weapon than that stick of silver!”
“Thou art mistaken, Sir Knight,” replied the youth, boldly, “and judgest of the present by the past; know that not a single robber now lurks within the Campagna, the arms of the Tribune have rendered every road around the city as secure as the broadest street of the city itself.”
“Thou tellest me wonders.”
“Through the forest—and in the fortress,—through the wildest solitudes,—through the most populous towns,—have my comrades borne this silver wand unmolested and unscathed; wherever we pass along, thousands hail us, and tears of joy bless the messengers of him who hath expelled the brigand from his hold, the tyrant from his castle, and ensured the gains of the merchant and the hut of the peasant.”