ins of the rack, the
crawling anguish of the fire, was not poetry his own? Yes, indeed; what
Dante had gained through exile and the death of Monna Beatrice was his
for another price, the price of his own blood. He forgot the physical
agony of his scorched mouth, forgot the insult, forgot everything but
this ineffable achievement, this desperate essay, this triumph, this
anointing. Cino, Cino, martyr for Love! Hail, Cino, crowned with thy
pain! He could have held up his bleeding heart and worshipped it. Surely
this was the greatest hour of his life.

Before he left Pitecchio, and that was before the dawn came upon it, he
wrote this letter to his mistress.

"To his unending Lady, the image of all lovely delight, the Lady
Selvaggia, Cino the poet, martyr for love, wisheth health and
honour with kissing of feet. Madonna, if sin it be to lift over
high the eyes, I have sinned very grievously; and if to have great
joy be assurance of forgiveness, then am I twice absolved. Such
bliss as I have had in the contemplation of your excellence cometh
not to many men, yet that which hath befallen me this night
(concerning which your honourable brothers shall inform you if you
ask them)--this indeed is to be blessed of love so high, so rarely,
that it were hard to believe myself the recipient, but for certain
bodily testimony which, I doubt not, I shall carry about me to my
last hour. I leave this house within a little while and go to the
hermitage of Santa Marcella Pistoiese, there to pray Almighty God
to make me worthy of my dignities and to contemplate the divine
image of you wherewith my heart is sealed. So fare you well!--The
most abject of your slaves,
"CINO."

His reason for giving the name of his new refuge was an honourable one,
and would appeal to a duellist. His flight, though necessary, should be
robbed of all appearance of flight; if they wanted him they could find
him. Other results it had--results which he could never have
anticipated, and which to have foreseen would have made him choose any
other form of disgrace. But this was out of the question; nothing known
to Cino or his philosophy could have told him the future of his conduct.
He placed his letter in an infallible place and left Pitecchio just as
the western sky was throbbing with warm light.

For the present I leave h