closed book lay by his side, and he was staring straight
before him, as a man that is newly awakened from a trance. But I, taking
little notice of his state at the moment, ran toward him and clapped him
on the shoulder, calling to him: "They are moving this way!" I cried.
"Come and see!"

But Dante did not seem to hear me, and sat gazing at that painted image
that was such an old friend of mine and his, as if he had never seen it
before. But presently, partly by persuasion, and partly by pushing and
urging, we got him to turn from the statue and accompany us a little
ways till we came to a stand in the neighborhood of the Palace of the
Portinari, toward which the procession of the May-day was making its
way.

The open space of the Piazza of the Santa Felicita was now pretty well
filled with the curious and the seekers for amusement, and all the air
was full of sweet noises, and all the smiling faces shone in the warm
sunlight. And Guido and I, piloting our Dante, pushed our way to the
inner circle of the loiterers, and paused there, waiting for the coming
of the merrymakers. And even as we paused the folk that we expected came
upon us. They were a gallant company of youths and maidens, dressed all
in their best and brightest, and there were excellent musicians with
them that made the most noble of cheerful music, and the comely girls
scattered flowers on the cobbles, and the comely youths laughed and
shouted, and in the midst of the throng a dozen of the strongest lads
were tugging at a chariot that carried a gilded throne, and on that
throne was seated Madonna Beatrice of the Portinari. She was dressed in
a robe of crimson silk, and she carried red roses in her hand, and I
think that all who looked upon her held her as the loveliest maid in all
Florence. I know that, for my part, I frankly admitted to myself that
none of the girls that I was in love with at that time could hold a
candle to her. Yet I knew for my sins that I could never be in love
with Madonna Beatrice of the Portinari. Standing by her side was a big,
thick-set, fierce-looking man, with a shag of black hair and a black
beard like a spade, whom I knew well enough and whom all there knew well
enough to be Messer Simone dei Bardi, the man of whom Guido and I had
talked that morning. There was a great crowd behind the chariot, Reds
and many Yellows, seemingly at peace that day, friends of Guido, and
followers of Simone, and revellers of many kinds and town