I am the poorest servant of the poor. But I have one master alone; he
is the King of Heaven. I should be false to Him were I not to say,
Messer Farinata, that the only warrior worthy of the highest praise is
he who marches beneath the cross, singing:
_Vexïlla régis prodeunt._
The blessed Dominic, whose soul, like a sun, rose on the darkened
Church in a night of falsehood, taught us, concerning war against
heretics, that the more fiercely and bitterly it is fought the more
does it display charity and mercy. And he must have known, he who,
bearing the name of the Prince of the Apostles, like the stone from
David's sling, struck the Goliath of heresy on the forehead. Between
Como and Milan he suffered martyrdom. From him my order derives great
honour. Whosoever draws sword against such a soldier is another
Antiochus, fighting for our Lord Jesus Christ. But, having instituted
empires, kingdoms and republics, God suffers them to be defended by
arms, and He looks down upon the captains who, having called upon Him,
draw sword for the deliverance of their country. But He turns away His
countenance from the citizen who strikes His city and sheds its blood,
as you were so ready to do, Messer Farinata, undeterred by the fear
that Florence, exhausted and rent by you, might have no strength to
withstand her enemies. In the ancient chronicles it is written that
cities weakened by internecine warfare offer an easy prey to the
foreigner who lies in wait to destroy them.