rder with the like letter in the
name of the daughter of Folco Portinari.

In the face of such an amazing revelation a kind of heavy silence
brooded awhile over the company, and lasted, indeed, as long as the
time, which was indeed but brief, that Dante lay in my arms in his
stupor. While some believed that in Dante they beheld--as in very truth
they did--the author of the poem, and in consequence the body of the
unknown poet that had haunted their imaginations, others merely
appreciated that the unknown poet, whoever he might be, had declared
himself very patently the adorer of Monna Beatrice, wherefore it was to
be inferred that all those other love-songs, which the golden youth of
Florence loved to murmur to the ears of their ladies, were so many roses
and lilies and violets laid on the same shrine.

Whoever misunderstood the true meaning of what had happened, I think
that Messer Folco understood well enough, and was mightily little
pleased in the understanding. Though Dante had, indeed, the right to
claim nobility of birth, neither his station in the city nor his worldly
means were such as to commend him to Messer Folco's eyes as a declared
lover of his daughter. Whatever annoyance Messer Folco may have felt at
the untoward occurrence, he was too accomplished a gentleman to allow
any sign of chagrin to appear in his voice or countenance or demeanor.
He did no more than thank Dante, who had by this time quite overmastered
his passing weakness, for his courtesy in reading such very pleasing
verses. Then, turning to the guests that stood about, somewhat
disconcerted and puzzled by what had taken place, he addressed them in
loud tones, telling them that a slight banquet was set forth in the
adjacent room, and begged them to enjoy it before the dancing should
begin.

At these pleasant tidings the most of Messer Folco's company were
greatly elated, and hastened to pair themselves off very merrily, and to
make their ways toward the banqueting-room, where, indeed, a very
delectable feast was spread, such an one as might have tickled the
palate and flattered the appetite of any of the high-livers and dainty
drinkers of old Rome. As our jolly Florentine lads and winsome
Florentine lasses ate and drank, they chattered of what they had just
heard, of what they had just seen, and were all agreed to a man Jack and
a woman Jill that Madonna Beatrice was a very flower of women, and that
if Messer Dante laid his heart at her feet