Rienzi, the Last of the Roman Tribunes. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

is Cecco del Vecchio!” cried those of the populace, who were near enough to perceive the interruption and its cause.

      “Ay,” said one, “the good Vicar has put many of the stoutest fellows in the Pope’s livery, in order the better to keep peace. He could have chosen none better than Cecco.”

      “But he must not fall!” cried another, as Orsini, glaring on the smith, drew back his sword as if to plunge it through his bosom.

      “Shame—shame! shall the Pope be thus insulted in his own city?” cried several voices. “Down with the sacrilegious—down!” And, as if by a preconcerted plan, a whole body of the mob broke at once through the lane, and swept like a torrent over Orsini and his jostled and ill-assorted train. Orsini himself was thrown on the ground with violence, and trampled upon by a hundred footsteps; his men, huddled and struggling as much against themselves as against the mob, were scattered and overset; and when, by a great effort of the guards, headed by the smith himself, order was again restored, and the line reformed, Orsini, well nigh choked with his rage and humiliation, and greatly bruised by the rude assaults he had received, could scarcely stir from the ground. The officers of the Pope raised him, and, when he was on his legs, he looked wildly around for his sword, which, falling from his hand, had been kicked amongst the crowd, and seeing it not, he said, between his ground teeth, to Cecco del Vecchio—

      “Fellow, thy neck shall answer this outrage, or may God desert me!” and passed along through the space; while a half-suppressed and exultant hoot from the bystanders followed his path.

      “Way there!” cried the smith, “for the Lord Martino di Porto, and may all the people know that he has threatened to take my life for the discharge of my duty in obedience to the Pope’s Vicar!”

      “He dare not!” shouted out a thousand voices; “the people can protect their own!”

      This scene had not been lost on the Provencal, who well knew how to construe the wind by the direction of straws, and saw at once, by the boldness of the populace, that they themselves were conscious of a coming tempest. “Par Dieu,” said he, as he saluted Adrian, who, gravely, and without looking behind, had now won the steps of the church, “yon tall fellow has a brave heart, and many friends, too. What think you,” he added, in a low whisper, “is not this scene a proof that the nobles are less safe than they wot of?”

      “The beast begins to kick against the spur, Sir Knight,” answered Adrian, “a wise horseman should, in such a case, take care how he pull the rein too tight, lest the beast should rear, and he be overthrown—yet that is the policy thou wouldst recommend.”

      “You mistake,” returned Montreal, “my wish was to give Rome one sovereign instead of many tyrants,—but hark! what means that bell?”

      “The ceremony is about to begin,” answered Adrian. “Shall we enter the church together?”

      Seldom had a temple consecrated to God witnessed so singular a spectacle as that which now animated the solemn space of the Lateran.

      In the centre of the church, seats were raised in an amphitheatre, at the far end of which was a scaffolding, a little higher than the rest; below this spot, but high enough to be in sight of all the concourse, was placed a vast table of iron, on which was graven an ancient inscription, and bearing in its centre a clear and prominent device, presently to be explained.