“What is that you say?” asked the old man.
“The Bianchi are triumphant.”
“Are you not mistaken?” asked the poet.
“No, dear Dante!” replied the soldier, whose warlike tones rang with the thrill of battle and the exultation of victory.
“To Florence! To Florence! Ah, my Florence!” cried Dante Alighieri, drawing himself up, and gazing into the distance. In fancy he saw Italy; he was gigantic.
“But I—when shall I be in Heaven?” said Godefroid, kneeling on one knee before the immortal poet, like an angel before the sanctuary.
“Come to Florence,” said Dante in compassionate tones. “Come! when you see its lovely landscape from the heights of Fiesole you will fancy yourself in Paradise.”
The soldier smiled. For the first time, perhaps for the only time in his life, Dante’s gloomy and solemn features wore a look of joy; his eyes and brows expressed the happiness he has depicted so lavishly in his vision of Paradise. He thought perhaps that he heard the voice of Beatrice.
A light step, and the rustle of a woman’s gown, were audible in the silence. Dawn was now showing its first streaks of light. The fair Comtesse de Mahaut came in and flew to Godefroid.
“Come, my child, my son! I may at last acknowledge you. Your birth is recognized, your rights are under the protection of the King of France, and you will find Paradise in your mother’s heart.”