I sighed in my turn to see him so perverse who had been so triumphant.
"He is as humorous as a chameleon," I protested. Then Guido and I took
Dante by the arms to lead him away, I applauding him for his cunning,
and Guido gently reproving him for his foolhardiness in getting into a
quarrel with such a man of might as Messer Simone--had got him and us
some few yards from the scene of the scuffle when Dante suddenly came to
a halt and would budge no farther. When we asked him what ailed him, he
told us that he had left his book behind him, the book that he had been
so deep in a little while ago; and for all we could say to him, he would
not be prevailed upon, but must needs return for his precious love-tale.
So he quitted us and returned on his steps, and Guido and I looked at
each other in some amusement, thinking what a strange fellow our Dante
was, that could play scholar and lover and soldier in so many breaths,
and could show so much care for some pages of written parchment. Then
Guido would have me go with him, but I was of a mind to see what Dante
would do next, and was fain to watch him. Guido disapproved of this, and
he would not share in it, saying that it was not for us to dog the heels
of a friend.
Guido went his way without me, for it seemed to me less scrupulous and
seeking only to be amused that one who had done so much in a short time
might well be counted upon to do more. I hid in the arcade, and I saw
how Dante went straight to the seat where he had left his book, and
found it still lying there, and took it up and thrust it into his bosom.
And when he had done this he turned and went like one that walked in a
dream--and I spying on him from my hiding-place--till he came to the
front of the Palace of the Portinari, and there he paused and gazed
wistfully at the gray walls. And I, concealing myself behind a
convenient pillar of the colonnade, observed him unseen, and presently
saw how the small door in the great door of the gray palace opened, and
how Madonna Beatrice came out of it, followed by two girls, her
companions. They both were pretty girls, I remember, that would have
suited my taste very pleasantly. All three maidens stood on top of the
steps looking at Dante where he stood, and Dante remained in his place
and looked up at them silently and eagerly.
Madonna Beatrice seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then, quitting
her companions, descended the steps and advanced toward Dante, who,
seeing her purpose, advanced in his turn toward her, and they met in the
middle of the now deserted square. I was very honestly--or dishonestly,
which you may please--anxious to hear what these two might say to each
other, so I lingered in my lurking-place, and there I lay at watch and
strove to listen. And because the time was very peaceful, and I very
quiet and the air very still and their young voices very clear, I could
hear much and guess more, and piecing out the certain with the probable,
record in my memory this delicate dialogue.
Madonna Beatrice spoke first, for Dante said nothing, and only gazed at
her as the devout gaze at the picture of a saint, and there was some
note of reproof in her voice as she spoke. "Messer," she said, "they
tell me that you have fought for a rose."
Then Dante shook his head, and he smiled as he answered, blithely,
"Madonna, I fought for my flag, for my honor, for the glory of the
sempiternal rose."
Beatrice looked at him with a little wonder on her sweet face. "Was it
very wise to risk a man's life for a trifle?" she asked.
Dante was silent for a short time, then he said: "There are trifles that
outweigh the world in a true balance. I would die a death for every
petal of that rose."
Beatrice began to laugh very daintily, and spread out her pretty palms.
"This Florence is a very nest of nightingales," she said, softly; and
then she added, quaintly, "You talk like a poet."
I heard Dante sigh heavily as he answered her fancy. "I would I were a
poet, for then my worship would have words which now shines dumbly in my
eyes."
Beatrice gave him a little mocking salutation. "You are very gallant,"
she said. "Farewell." There was a hint of reproof in her voice, and she
made as if to go.
But Dante stopped her. "Stay, lady, stay," he protested. "I speak with a
simple heart. I have been your servant ever since you took a rose from
my hands. I am your servant forever, now that you have given me a rose.
We are old friends, sweet lady, though we wear young faces, and friends
may speak their minds to friends."