So when the pair came to the Portinari
palace, the Piazza of the Santa Felicita was well-nigh as desolate as
the desert. Dante glanced, you may be very sure, at that painted image
of the God of Love that ruled above the fountain by the bridge, and it
seemed to him as if the statue gave him a melancholy glance. Yet Dante
was going to see his beloved, and he could not be downcast.

When the two were under the shadow of the Portinari palace, Messer
Tommaso Severo ceased talking, and going to the little door, knocked
thrice upon it, whereupon the warder within, after peeping for a moment
through a grill, opened it and admitted the doctor and his companion. In
silence Severo conducted Dante through the silent corridors of the great
house, which seemed strangely quiet in its contrast to the gayety on the
night when Dante last beheld it. The pair met no one in their progress
through the palace. Severo informed Dante that Folco was within, but
keeping his rooms in much gloom because of all that had occurred, and
the physician made no offer to bring Dante to his presence. After a time
Severo came to a halt before a certain door, on which he knocked again
three times, as before. One of Beatrice's women answered his summons,
and after a moment's whispered colloquy the girl withdrew. An instant
later Severo pushed Dante into the room, and Dante found himself in the
presence of Beatrice.

As Dante entered the room, Beatrice rose from the couch and advanced
toward him with extended hands. "You are welcome, friend," she said.

Dante looked upon her paleness, and trembled and hardly knew what to
say. "My lady, my dear lady--" he began, and paused and looked at her
wistfully.

Beatrice smiled sadly at him. "Our loves have fallen upon evil days,
Messer Dante," she said. "It is but a few poor hours ago since we
changed vows, and here am I wedded to your enemy, wedded to my enemy.
Dear God, it is hard to bear!" For a moment she hid her face in her
hands, as if her sorrow was too great for her.

Dante's heart seemed to burn with a fierce flame. "It shall not be
borne, Madonna!" he cried. "I have hands and a heart and a brain as good
as Simone's. I would rather play the knave and stab him in the back than
have him live to be your lord. But there is no need of stabbing or idle
talk of stabbing. This false wedlock shall be broken like a false ring."

Beatrice chilled the hope of his mind with a look of despair. "I do not
know," she sighe