illed with a tender pity. Never before saw I true
lover so moved by a profession of true love. "Are you sure you ever
really saw her?" he questioned, somewhat sadly. "Are you sure that you
did not dream this wonder?"

Dante showed no anger at this doubt, though indeed at other times he was
quick enough to take offence if he found just cause. But I guessed then
what I know since, that he found this matter at once so simple and so
sacred that nothing any man could say concerning it could in any way vex
him. So he answered very mildly, "Sometimes I almost doubt, but the
scent of a red rose on a May morning always brings her back to me."

Now I grieve to record it, but the silly spirit of mockery within me had
so far infected my wits that I cried out in pretended astonishment, "O
marvellous fancy that can so ennoble a neighbor's brat!" The which was
very false and foolish of me, for I know well enough now, and knew very
well then, that love, while it lasts, can ennoble any child, maid, or
matron. Lord, the numbers of girls I have likened to Diana that were no
such matter, and the plump maids I have appraised as Venus, though,
indeed, they would have shown something clumsy if one had caught them
rising from the sea! But, as I say, Dante never heeded my jeers, and sat
there very quiet and silent, very much as if he had forgotten our
existence, and was thinking only of that gracious child he spoke of. And
I, my laughter being somewhat abashed by his gravity, and the edge of my
jest being blunted by his indifference, as well as by the reproof on
Guido's face, stood there awkwardly, not knowing whether to abide with
him or leave him, when there came, to break my embarrassment, the
presence of a mighty fair lady.

III

VITTORIA

The lady that now came toward us over the little bridge was one whose
acquaintance I could claim, and whose beauty I admired very greatly.
Madonna Vittoria Crescimbeni was a very fair lady that was generous of
her favors to those that were wealthy, and even to those that were not,
if they happened to take her fancy, as indeed I am pleased to recall.
She lived on the other side of Arno, in a gracious dwelling that had
been built for her by a great lord that had given her everything, except
his name, while he lived, and had died and left her a fortune. For all
that, she was a light child; she carried herself with much show of
discretion, and was only to be come at warily, as it were, and with