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 dumb