When, "Our Sordello's rather!"--all exclaimed; "Is not Sordello famousest for rhyme?" He had been happy to deny, this time,-- Profess as heretofore the aching head And failing heart,--suspect that in his stead Some true Apollo had the charge of them, Was champion to reward or to condemn, So his intolerable risk might shift Or share itself; but Naddo's precious gift Of gifts, he owned, be certain! At the close-- "I made that," said he to a youth who rose As if to hear: 't was Palma through the band Conducted him in silence by her hand. Back now for Salinguerra. Tito of Trent Gave place to Palma and her friend; who went In turn at Montelungo's visit--one After the other were they come and gone,-- These spokesmen for the Kaiser and the Pope, This incarnation of the People's hope, Sordello,--all the say of each was said; And Salinguerra sat, himself instead Of these to talk with, lingered musing yet. 'T was a drear vast presence-chamber roughly set In order for the morning's use; full face, The Kaiser's ominous sign-mark had first place, The crowned grim twy-necked eagle, coarsely-blacked With ochre on the naked wall; nor lacked Romano's green and yellow either side; But the new token Tito brought had tried The Legate's patience--nay, if Palma knew What Salinguerra almost meant to do Until the sight of her restored his lip A certain half-smile, three months' chieftainship Had banished! Afterward, the Legate found No change in him, nor asked what badge he wound And unwound carelessly. Now sat the Chief [Sidenote: But Salinguerra is also preoccupied;] Silent as when our couple left, whose brief Encounter wrought so opportune effect In thoughts he summoned not, nor would reject, Though time 't was now if ever, to pause--fix On any sort of ending; wiles and tricks Exhausted, judge! his charge, the crazy town, Just managed to be hindered crashing down-- His last sound troops ranged--care observed to post His best of the maimed soldiers innermost-- So much was plain enough, but somehow struck Him not before. And now with this strange luck Of Tito's news, rewarding his address So well, what thought he of?--how the success With Friedrich's rescript there would either hush Old Ecelin's scruples, bring the manly flush To his young son's white cheek, or, last, exempt Himself from telling what there was to tempt? [Sidenote: Resembling Sordello in nothing else.] No: that this minstrel was Romano's last Servant--himself the first! Could he contrast The whole!--that minstrel's thirty years just spent In doing naught, their notablest event This morning's journey hither, as I told-- Who yet was lean, outworn and really old, A stammering awkward man that scarce dared raise