Rienzi, the Last of the Roman Tribunes by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (best summer reads .txt) 📗

In a hall of the Capitol, hung with the ominous silk of white rays on a blood-red ground, sate Rienzi and his councillors. Across a recess was drawn a black curtain.

“Walter de Montreal,” said a small man at the foot of the table, “Knight of the illustrious order of St. John of Jerusalem—”

“And Captain of the Grand Company!” added the prisoner, in a firm voice.

“You stand accused of divers counts: robbery and murder, in Tuscany, Romagna, and Apulia—”

“For robbery and murder, brave men, and belted Knights,” said Montreal, drawing himself up, “would use the words ‘war and victory.’ To those charges I plead guilty! Proceed.”

“You are next accused of treasonable conspiracy against the liberties of Rome for the restoration of the proscribed Barons—and of traitorous correspondence with Stefanello Colonna at Palestrina.”

“My accuser?”

“Step forth, Angelo Villani!”

“You are my betrayer, then?” said Montreal steadily. “I deserved this. I beseech you, Senator of Rome, let this young man retire. I confess my correspondence with the Colonna, and my desire to restore the Barons.”

Rienzi motioned to Villani, who bowed and withdrew.

“There rests only then for you, Walter de Montreal, to relate, fully and faithfully, the details of your conspiracy.”

“That is impossible,” replied Montreal, carelessly.

“And why?”

“Because, doing as I please with my own life, I will not betray the lives of others.”

“Bethink thee—thou wouldst have betrayed the life of thy judge!”

“Not betrayed—thou didst not trust me.”

“The law, Walter de Montreal, hath sharp inquisitors—behold!”

The black curtain was drawn aside, and the eye of Montreal rested on the executioner and the rack! His proud breast heaved indignantly.

“Senator of Rome,” said he, “these instruments are for serfs and villeins. I have been a warrior and a leader; life and death have been in my hands—I have used them as I listed; but to mine equal and my foe, I never proffered the insult of the rack.”

“Sir Walter de Montreal,” returned the Senator, gravely, but with some courteous respect, “your answer is that which rises naturally to the lips of brave men. But learn from me, whom fortune hath made thy judge, that no more for serf and villein, than for knight and noble, are such instruments the engines of law, or the tests of truth. I yielded but to the desire of these reverend councillors, to test thy nerves. But, wert thou the meanest peasant of the Campagna, before my judgment-seat thou needst not apprehend the torture. Walter de Montreal, amongst the Princes of Italy thou hast known, amongst the Roman Barons thou wouldst have aided, is there one who could make that boast?”

“I desired only,” said Montreal, with some hesitation, “to unite the Barons with thee; nor did I intrigue against thy life!”

Rienzi frowned—“Enough,” he said, hastily. “Knight of St. John, I know thy secret projects, subterfuge and evasion neither befit nor avail thee. If thou didst not intrigue against my life, thou didst intrigue against the life of Rome. Thou hast but one favour left to demand on earth, it is the manner of thy death.”

Montreal’s lip worked convulsively.

“Senator,” said he, in a low voice, “may I crave audience with thee alone for one minute?”

The councillors looked up.

“My Lord,” whispered the eldest of them, “doubtless he hath concealed weapons—trust him not.”

“Prisoner,” returned Rienzi, after a moment’s pause; “if thou seekest for mercy thy request is idle, and before my coadjutors I have no secret; speak out what thou hast to say!”

“Yet listen to me,” said the prisoner, folding his arms; “it concerns not my life, but Rome’s welfare.”

“Then,” said Rienzi, in an altered tone, “thy request is granted. Thou mayst add to thy guilt the design of the assassin, but for Rome I would dare greater danger.”

So saying, he motioned to the councillors, who slowly withdrew by the door which had admitted Villani, while the guards retired to the farthest extremity of the hall.

“Now, Walter de Montreal, be brief, for thy time is short.”

“Senator,” said Montreal, “my life can but little profit you; men will say that you destroyed your creditor in order to cancel your debt. Fix a sum upon my life, estimate it at the price of a monarch’s; every florin shall be paid to you, and your treasury will be filled for five years to come. If the ‘Buono Stato’ depends on your government, what I have asked, your solicitude for Rome will not permit you to refuse.”

“You mistake me, bold robber,” said Rienzi, sternly; “your treason I could guard against, and therefore forgive; your ambition, never! Mark me, I know you! Place your hand on your heart and say whether, could we change places, you, as Rienzi, would suffer all the gold of earth to purchase the life of Walter de Montreal? For men’s reading of my conduct, that must I bear; for mine own reading, mine eyes must be purged from corruption. I am answerable to God for the trust of Rome. And Rome trembles while the head of the Grand Company lives in the plotting brain and the daring heart of Walter de Montreal. Man—wealthy, great, and subtle as you are, your hours are numbered; with the rise of the sun you die!”

Montreal’s eyes, fixed upon the Senator’s face, saw hope was over; his pride and his fortitude returned to him.

“We have wasted words,” said he. “I played for a great stake, I have lost, and must pay the forfeit! I am prepared. On the threshold of the Unknown World, the dark spirit of prophecy rushes into us. Lord Senator, I go before thee to announce—that in Heaven or in Hell—ere many days be over, room must be given to one mightier than I am!”

As he spoke, his form dilated, his eye glared; and Rienzi, cowering as never had he cowered before, shrunk back, and shaded his face with his hand.

“The manner of your death?” he asked, in a hollow voice.

“The axe: it is that which befits knight and warrior. For thee, Senator, Fate hath a less noble death.”

“Robber be dumb!” cried Rienzi, passionately; “Guards, bear back the prisoner. At sunrise, Montreal—”

“Sets the sun of the scourge of Italy,” said the Knight, bitterly. “Be it so. One request more; the Knights of St. John claim affinity with the Augustine order; grant me an Augustine confessor.”

“It is granted; and in return for thy denunciations, I, who can give thee no earthly mercy, will implore the Judge of all for pardon to thy soul!”

“Senator, I have done