"I am used to the people and do not fear them," he said. "But Irene, child, this is no place for you. I entreat you to go with this good friend."
Irene had also entered the room, and now flushed red, but said no word.
"I have asked her to go with me for always," said Adrian. "God knows how in this hour of distress I love her and will protect her! I pray you join your word with mine."
"Do you love this man, sister?" asked Rienzi gazing at her kindly.
Irene bowed a silent "yes" and then burst into tears, clinging to her brother's hand.
"Then go with him," he continued, placing her hand in Adrian's. "I, too, have loved, and the object of my love has been Rome. As you two must cling to one another now, so must I cling to my unhappy city. Go!"
It was high time. The advance guard of the mob was already surging into the square. Without waiting a moment longer Adrian wrung his friend's hand and lifted the swooning form of Irene. Carrying her down a dim corridor and through the secret passage of which he had spoken, he bore her speedily to safety.
But Rienzi! Faithful to the last to his noble endeavour, the brave Tribune ascended the open balcony in full view of the people and tried to address them. But Cecco and the other demagogues would not permit this. They were afraid lest his matchless eloquence should once more win the people's hearts. Hooting and yelling, they picked up great stones and hurled them into the balcony where he stood. Others of the mob applied torches to the balcony and other parts of the building. Soon the heavy smoke rolled up, and then the bright scorching flame. The smoke shut the dreadful scene from view, but in the light of the fire it again stood out clearly. There, with hands uplifted, Rienzi still sought to address the people. The splendid dreamer had no thought of flying from his martyrdom.
With a mighty crash the walls of the Capitol fell in—symbol of the destruction of the government. Long were the people to mourn their work of this day! A shower of burning embers rose into the sky, then slowly settled back again upon a grey and smoking pile. It was the tomb of the Last of the Tribunes.
The Flying Dutchman