And, now—hark! the artillery roars—Montoni salutes her Regent: the guard of honour presents arms; the martial music plays a national air; and the conqueror enters the capital. The men-of-war in the roadstead thunder forth echoes to the cannon on the ramparts; and the yards are manned in token of respect for the representative of the sovereign power.
What were Richard's feelings now? But little more than two months had elapsed since he had first entered that city, a prisoner—vanquished—with shattered hopes—and uncertain as to the fate that might be in store for him. How changed were his circumstances! As a conqueror—a noble—and a ruler did he now make his appearance in a capital where his name was upon every tongue, and where his great deeds excited the enthusiasm, the admiration, and the respect of every heart.
Then his ideas were reflected still farther back; and he thought of the time when he was a prisoner, though innocent, in an English gaol. Far more rapidly than we can record his meditations, did memory whirl him through all past adversities—reproduce before his mental eyes his recent wanderings in Castelcicala—and hurry him on to this glorious consummation, when he finds himself entering the capital as the highest peer in the State.
On his right hand was Colonel Cossario; and close behind him—amidst his brilliant staff—was Morcar,—the faithful gipsy whose devotedness to his master had not a little contributed to this grand result.
On went the procession amidst the enthusiastic applause of the myriads collected to welcome the conquerors,—on through streets crowded to the roof-tops with happy faces,—on to the ducal palace, in whose great square ten thousand troops were assembled to receive the Regent.
Richard alighted from his horse at the gate of the princely abode, on the threshold of which the municipal authorities were gathered to receive him.
Oh! at that moment how deeply—how sincerely did he regret the loss of General Grachia, Colonel Morosino, and the other patriots who had fallen in the fatal conflict of Ossore!
Nor less did memory recall the prophetic words of that departed girl who had loved him so devotedly, but so unhappily;—those words which Mary-Anne, with sybilline inspiration, had uttered upon her death-bed:—"Brilliant destinies await you, Richard! All your enduring patience, your resignation under the oppression of foul wrong, will meet with a glorious reward. Yes—for I know all:—that angel Isabella has kept no secret from me. She is a Princess, Richard; and by your union with her, you yourself will become one of the greatest Princes in Europe! Her father, too, shall succeed to his just rights; and then, Richard, then—how small will be the distance between yourself and the Castelcicalan throne!"
CHAPTER CXC.
TWO OF OUR OLD ACQUAINTANCES.
We must again transport our readers to the great metropolis of England.