away to his house.
Madonna Vittoria, snatched just in time from the clutch of those cruel
fingers, drew her breath in and out again; the blood that had suffused
her swollen face flowed back into its proper channels; she quickened to
existence clinging to her Griffo's breast. Messer Guido, taking to
himself authority as the chief man of his party there present, called
upon the party of the dead Bardi to disperse, and disperse they did,
cowed by the presence of the lances of the Dragon-flag, even before the
belated arrival of authority, backed by all the forces it could command,
had made dispersal a necessity.

Authority, now that Simone dei Bardi was indubitably dead, held a united
mind against Simone dei Bardi, and entertained no thoughts of punishing
his slayer, who, indeed, would scarcely have been minded to tolerate
their jurisdiction. Messer Griffo was left to ride unchecked to Monna
Vittoria's villa with his lances at his back. In that villa Monna
Vittoria recovered briskly, thanks to her youth and her health, and in
that villa a little later the adventurer wedded the adventuress, and
proved to the end of their days patterns of wedded content and pleasure.
Messer Simone's body was buried stealthily at night, and authority
vindicated its dignity by confiscating his houses and his goods, though
it restored to Madonna Vittoria her emerald ring, which was picked up on
the field of fight, as some salve for her rough handling. So ended, as
far as the feud of Reds and Yellows was concerned, that wild day which
is remembered, whimsically enough, in the annals of Florence as the Day
of the Felicity, from the name of the place where the contest began and
ceased. From that day the words Red and Yellow as party terms ceased to
be used, because the parties had ceased to exist. The Yellows fell to
pieces with the death of Simone, and the Reds, having no appreciable
antagonists, ceased in their turn to be.

As for my Dante, his joy in that day's work lived a short life. Let the
story of his woe be told quickly. When the door of the house of Folco
was opened to him, he faced its master on the threshold, clad in his
ancient armor for the defence of his dwelling, and his face was strained
with sadness, and he seemed gray with the double of his years.

"My child lies in a swoon," he said. "The physician cannot awaken her as
yet. Go to your lodging. I will send for you when she comes to herself."

With that Dante had to be content,