him a grave salutation and began to
address him gravely.

"Messer Dante," he said, "you are very welcome to my house, and I greet
you cheerfully. Beyond this it is fit that I should explain to you why,
in this instant of your coming, your name is in so many mouths. We were
speaking here but now of the unknown poet whose verses have of late at
once enraptured and bewildered our city, and many of us were entreating
Messer Guido, who holds in his hand the latest verses of the nameless
singer, to read them aloud to us. And he declining from, as we think, an
over-delicate sense of modesty, it was suggested by him or by another, I
know not, on seeing you enter, that you should read to us the rhymes in
question."

Here Messer Folco bowed very courteously to Dante, but before Dante, who
seemed, as indeed he well might, somewhat at a loss what to say, could
utter a syllable in reply, Messer Guido had forestalled him.

"There could not be a better choice," he protested, "though it was none
of my proposing. Messer Dante has a sweet and clear voice, and if it
will but please him to meet our entreaties we shall be indeed his
debtors."

And as he spoke he thrust into Dante's hand the roll of parchment on
which the poem was written, and all that heard him applauded, and waited
for Dante to begin. Indeed, it was a common thing then, in places where
friend met friend, for one that had a voice to read somewhat aloud for
the delectation of the others, whether a pleasant tale in prose or a
poetic canzonet. But Dante, while he took the parchment from Guido's
fingers, looked about him quietly and spoke, and his voice and words
were very decided in denial.

"I do not know," he said, "why this privilege should be given to me, and
with your good leaves I will ask Messer Guido to find him a worthier
interpreter." With that he made as if he would put the parchment back
again into the hand of Messer Guido, and I could understand very well,
if no one else could, why he should be so unwilling to do this thing.
But you know how it is with a crowd: once any mob of men or women, or
men and women, gets an idea into its head, it is an adventure that would
trouble the devil to get it out again. Ever since the masked youth had
voiced his call for Messer Dante to read the poem, it had become the
assembly's hunger and thirst, will, desire, and determination that the
poem should be read by no other than Messer Dante, though I will dare
make wager that a