o uplift my hands as I then uplifted
them in wonder, and am inclined to say again, as I said then, "Gods,
what a wager!"

Guido seemed amused at my astonishment, for he laughed a little while
softly to himself, and then went on with his tale-telling. "Simone's red
gills winced, like a dying fish, but he was too drunk to qualify. He
swore a foul oath, 'I will marry this lily,' says he, 'within a year,
and if I do not, why I will wed you, you--' And he called Vittoria by
such lewd names as your wit can picture. But she, turning no hair,
called for pen and parchment, and had it fairly engrossed and Simone's
sprawling signature duly witnessed before even the company departed. So
it stands--Simone must win the maid or wed the light o' love."

Then I said, "I take it he will win the maid."

Guido nodded his head gravely. He did not like Simone any better than I
did, but he had a way of accepting facts more readily. "Simone mostly
wins his wish. See how far he has gone already. He has so worked it that
her father has brought his lovely daughter from the hills to the city.
Old Folco favors him, and small wonder, Messer Simone being the power he
is in Florence. As for this triumph of Folco's daughter through our
streets, I take it to be rather Simone's displaying of his prize, that
all men may envy him his marvel."

For my part, I protested very honestly and from the core of my heart.
"If I were old Portinari, I would rather rot in exile than have Simone
dei Bardi for my son-in-law."

Guido tapped me on the shoulder. "That is," he said, "because you have
the heart of an amorist that would let none be lover save himself."

I laughed in his face, and gave him the lie courteously. "No, because I
have the heart of a poet, and the full-favored brute vexes my gorge."

Guido still seemed to mock me. "As you will," he said. "Shall we go to
the Signory and stare at the pageant?"

I shook my head. I was sorry to deny Messer Guido in anything or to
deprive myself of the comfort of his company. But I had come to that
place to keep a tryst. "I cannot," I said. "I wait here for young Dante
of the Alighieri."

Now Messer Dante and I had been friends for some years past, friends not
indeed because we were both Florentines, but perhaps I should say in
spite of the fact that we were both Florentines. For in those days, as
in the days before them, and in the days that since have come to pass,
while every Florentine loved Florence with al