ly 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."

Then Beatrice asked him, "Who are you who risked your life for my rose?"

Dante answered her: "I am named Dante Alighieri. Yesterday I was nobody.
To-day I would not change places with the Emperor, since I declare
myself your servant."

Beatrice smiled a smile of sweet content, and I could see that she was
both amused and pleased. "I am glad we are old friends," she said, "for
so it was not unmaidenly of me to speak to you, but indeed I was
grieved to think I had put you in peril. I did not think what I did when
I threw you that flower. I only felt that we were children again, you
and I. Forgive me."

"It was a happy peril," Dante declared, gladly.

Again Beatrice said him farewell and turned to go, and again Dante
stayed her, and when she had paused he looked as if he knew not what to
say; but at last he questioned, "When may we meet again?"

Beatrice answered him gravely. "Florence is not so wide a world that you
should fear to lose sight of a friend."

Once more she made as if she would join her companion maidens, but as
she did so Dante looked all about him with an air of great surprise, and
I heard him say: "How dark the air grows. I fear an eclipse."

Beatrice, pausing in her path, cried to him, marvelling, "Why, the sun
is at its brightest."

Dante shook his head. "I do not find it so when you are leaving me."

Then I think that Beatrice looked half alarmed and half diverted at the
way of Dante's speech, and I heard her say, "Is not the spring of our
friendship something too raw for such ripeness of compliment?"

Dante persisted. "I would speak simpler and straighter if I dared."

Then Beatrice shook her head and tried to wear an air of severity, but
failed because she could not help smiling. "The arrows of your wit must
not take me for their target," she said, and made a pretence to frown.

Then Dante, at a loss what to say, made the best plea he could when he
pleaded, "Pity me."

At that cry the gr