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

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.

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