n, seemed to clarify his senses and quicken his wits.
He was, as I guess, no longer the truculent, wine-soaked ruffian, but
all of a sudden the man of action, as alert and responsive as if some
one had come to tell him that the enemy were thundering at the city's
gates. He asked Maleotti, as I understand, if he were very sure of what
he said and of what he saw, and when Maleotti persisted in his
statement, Messer Simone fell for a while into a musing mood that was no
stupor of intoxication. Once or twice he made as if to speak to his
fellow, and then paused to think again, and it was not until after some
minutes that he finally decided upon his course of action.

I think it would have pleased Messer Simone best if this spying creature
of his had waited for Dante when he came from his meeting, and stabbed
him as he passed. But he thought, as I believe, that what had not been
done by the man might very well be done by the master, and with that, as
I conceive, for his most immediate intention, he had Maleotti wait for
him in the garden. There in a little while he joined him, and the two
went together toward the part of the palace where Beatrice had her
dwelling. But when they came to the gateway beneath the loggia where
Beatrice had talked with Dante, the lovers had parted, and Dante had
gone his ways and Beatrice had returned to her rooms. Then Messer Simone
turned to his follower and bade him hasten to Messer Folco, where he sat
at his wine, and get his private ear, and tell him that a man was having
speech with his daughter on the threshold of her apartments. Messer
Simone knew well enough how great an effect such a piece of news would
have upon the austere nature of his host, and I make no doubt that his
red face grinned in the moonlight as he dispatched his fellow upon his
errand. When Maleotti had gone, Messer Simone slowly ascended the
staircase that conducted to the loggia, and concealed himself very
effectually behind a pillar in a dark corner hard by the door of
Beatrice's rooms.

I have stood upon that loggia in later years, and looked out upon
Florence when all the colors of summer were gay about the city. I know
that the prospect is as fair as man could desire to behold, and I know
that there was one exiled heart which ached to be denied that prospect
and who died in exile denied it forever. I dare swear that his latest
thoughts carried him back to that moon-lit night of July when he made
bold to climb the pr