ou have no sister. Perhaps
too, you had no brother?--No, no; one victim at least I will live to
save. Whither, you ask me?--to the palace of Martino di Porto."

"To an Orsini alone, and for justice?"

"Alone, and for justice!--No!" shouted Rienzi, in a loud voice, as he
seized his sword, now brought to him by one of his servants, and rushed
from the house; "but one man is sufficient for revenge!"

The Bishop paused for a moment's deliberation. "He must not be lost,"
muttered he, "as he well may be, if exposed thus solitary to the wolf's
rage. What, ho!" he cried aloud; "advance the torches!--quick, quick! We
ourself--we, the Vicar of the Pope--will see to this. Calm yourselves,
good people; your young Signora shall be restored. On! to the palace of
Martino di Porto!"

Chapter 1.VI. Irene in the Palace of Adrian di Castello.

As the Cyprian gazed on the image in which he had embodied a youth of
dreams, what time the living hues flushed slowly beneath the marble,--so
gazed the young and passionate Adrian upon the form reclined before him,
re-awakening gradually to life. And, if the beauty of that face were
not of the loftiest or the most dazzling order, if its soft and quiet
character might be outshone by many, of loveliness less really perfect,
yet never was there a countenance that, to some eyes, would have seemed
more charming, and never one in which more eloquently was wrought that
ineffable and virgin expression which Italian art seeks for in its
models,--in which modesty is the outward, and tenderness the latent,
expression; the bloom of youth, both of form and heart, ere the first
frail and delicate freshness of either is brushed away: and when even
love itself, the only unquiet visitant that should be known at such an
age, is but a sentiment, and not a passion!

"Benedetta!" murmured Irene, at length opening her eyes, unconsciously,
upon him who knelt beside her,--eyes of that uncertain, that most liquid
hue, on which you might gaze for years and never learn the secret of the
colour, so changed it with the dilating pupil,--darkening in the shade,
and brightening into azure in the light:

"Benedetta," said Irene, "where art thou? Oh, Benedetta! I have had such
a dream."

"And I, too, such a vision!" thought Adrian.

"Where am I?" cried Irene, rising from the couch. "This room--these
hangings--Holy Virgin! do I dream still!--and you! Heavens!--it is the
Lord Adrian di Castello!"

"Is that a name thou