Rienzi [191]
sobered, and his ambition hardened and concentered) was the rival with Rienzi for the mastery of Rome.
Chapter 7.VIII. The Crowd. - The Trial. - The Verdict. - The Soldier and the Page.
It was on the following evening that a considerable crowd had gathered in the streets of Avignon. It was the second day of the examination of Rienzi, and with every moment was expected the announcement of the verdict. Amongst the foreigners of all countries assembled in that seat of the Papal splendour, the interest was intense. The Italians, even of the highest rank, were in favour of the Tribune, the French against him. As for the good townspeople of Avignon themselves, they felt but little excitement in any thing that did not bring money into their pockets; and if it had been put to the secret vote, no doubt there would have been a vast majority for burning the prisoner, as a marketable speculation!
Amongst the crowd was a tall man in a plain and rusty suit of armour, but with an air of knightly bearing, which somewhat belied the coarseness of his mail; he wore no helmet, but a small morion of black leather, with a long projecting shade, much used by wayfarers in the hot climates of the south. A black patch covered nearly the whole of one cheek, and altogether he bore the appearance of a grim soldier, with whom war had dealt harshly, both in purse and person.
Many were the jests at the shabby swordsman's expense, with which that lively population amused their impatience; and though the shade of the morion concealed his eyes, an arch and merry smile about the corners of his mouth shewed that he could take a jest at himself.
"Well," said one of the crowd, (a rich Milanese,) "I am of a state that was free, and I trust the People's man will have justice shewn him."
"Amen," said a grave Florentine.
"They say," whispered a young student from Paris, to a learned doctor of laws, with whom he abode, "that his defence has been a masterpiece."
"He hath taken no degrees," replied the doctor, doubtingly. "Ho, friend, why dost thou push me so? thou hast rent my robe."
This was said to a minstrel, or jongleur, who, with a small lute slung round him, was making his way, with great earnestness, through the throng.
"I beg pardon, worthy sir," said the minstrel; "but this is a scene to be sung of! Centuries hence; ay, and in lands remote, legend and song will tell the fortunes of Cola di Rienzi, the friend of Petrarch and the Tribune of Rome!"
The young French student turned quickly round to the minstrel, with a glow on his pale face; not sharing the general sentiments of his countrymen against Rienzi, he felt that it was an era in the world when a minstrel spoke thus of the heroes of intellect - not of war.
At this time the tall soldier was tapped impatiently on the back.
"I pray thee, great sir," said a sharp and imperious voice, "to withdraw that tall bulk of thine a little on one side - I cannot see through thee; and I would fain my eyes were among the first to catch a glimpse of Rienzi as he passes from the court."
"Fair sir page," replied the soldier, good-humouredly, as he made way for Angelo Villani, "thou wilt not always find that way in the world is won by commanding the strong. When thou art older thou wilt beard the weak, and the strong thou wilt wheedle."
"I must change my nature, then," answered Angelo, (who was of somewhat small stature, and not yet come to his full growth,) trying still to raise himself above the heads of the crowd.
The soldier looked at him approvingly; and as he looked he sighed, and his lips worked with some strange emotion.
"Thou speakest well," said he, after a pause. "Pardon me the rudeness of the question; but art thou of Italy? - thy tongue savours of the Roman dialect; yet I have seen lineaments like thine on this side the Alps."
"It may be, good fellow," said the page, haughtily; "but I thank Heaven that I am of Rome."
At this moment a loud shout burst from that part of the crowd nearest the court. The sound of trumpets again hushed the throng
Chapter 7.VIII. The Crowd. - The Trial. - The Verdict. - The Soldier and the Page.
It was on the following evening that a considerable crowd had gathered in the streets of Avignon. It was the second day of the examination of Rienzi, and with every moment was expected the announcement of the verdict. Amongst the foreigners of all countries assembled in that seat of the Papal splendour, the interest was intense. The Italians, even of the highest rank, were in favour of the Tribune, the French against him. As for the good townspeople of Avignon themselves, they felt but little excitement in any thing that did not bring money into their pockets; and if it had been put to the secret vote, no doubt there would have been a vast majority for burning the prisoner, as a marketable speculation!
Amongst the crowd was a tall man in a plain and rusty suit of armour, but with an air of knightly bearing, which somewhat belied the coarseness of his mail; he wore no helmet, but a small morion of black leather, with a long projecting shade, much used by wayfarers in the hot climates of the south. A black patch covered nearly the whole of one cheek, and altogether he bore the appearance of a grim soldier, with whom war had dealt harshly, both in purse and person.
Many were the jests at the shabby swordsman's expense, with which that lively population amused their impatience; and though the shade of the morion concealed his eyes, an arch and merry smile about the corners of his mouth shewed that he could take a jest at himself.
"Well," said one of the crowd, (a rich Milanese,) "I am of a state that was free, and I trust the People's man will have justice shewn him."
"Amen," said a grave Florentine.
"They say," whispered a young student from Paris, to a learned doctor of laws, with whom he abode, "that his defence has been a masterpiece."
"He hath taken no degrees," replied the doctor, doubtingly. "Ho, friend, why dost thou push me so? thou hast rent my robe."
This was said to a minstrel, or jongleur, who, with a small lute slung round him, was making his way, with great earnestness, through the throng.
"I beg pardon, worthy sir," said the minstrel; "but this is a scene to be sung of! Centuries hence; ay, and in lands remote, legend and song will tell the fortunes of Cola di Rienzi, the friend of Petrarch and the Tribune of Rome!"
The young French student turned quickly round to the minstrel, with a glow on his pale face; not sharing the general sentiments of his countrymen against Rienzi, he felt that it was an era in the world when a minstrel spoke thus of the heroes of intellect - not of war.
At this time the tall soldier was tapped impatiently on the back.
"I pray thee, great sir," said a sharp and imperious voice, "to withdraw that tall bulk of thine a little on one side - I cannot see through thee; and I would fain my eyes were among the first to catch a glimpse of Rienzi as he passes from the court."
"Fair sir page," replied the soldier, good-humouredly, as he made way for Angelo Villani, "thou wilt not always find that way in the world is won by commanding the strong. When thou art older thou wilt beard the weak, and the strong thou wilt wheedle."
"I must change my nature, then," answered Angelo, (who was of somewhat small stature, and not yet come to his full growth,) trying still to raise himself above the heads of the crowd.
The soldier looked at him approvingly; and as he looked he sighed, and his lips worked with some strange emotion.
"Thou speakest well," said he, after a pause. "Pardon me the rudeness of the question; but art thou of Italy? - thy tongue savours of the Roman dialect; yet I have seen lineaments like thine on this side the Alps."
"It may be, good fellow," said the page, haughtily; "but I thank Heaven that I am of Rome."
At this moment a loud shout burst from that part of the crowd nearest the court. The sound of trumpets again hushed the throng