fair Church of San Giovanni. Worn out with fatigue and grief, he lay
down on the tomb of Julia Læta, who in the old days had revealed to him
the mysteries the profane know nothing of. It was the hour when the
Church bells ring out through the quivering air of evening a long-drawn
farewell to the setting sun. Messer Betto Brunelleschi, who was crossing
the Piazza on his way home from his country house, saw amid the tombs
two haggard falcon's eyes burning in a fleshless face, and recognizing
the friend of his youth, was seized with wonder and pity.

He approached him, and kissing him as he used in former days, said with
a sigh:

"Ah! Guido mine! what fire is it hath consumed you away thus? You burned
up your life in science first, and then in public affairs. I beseech
you, quench somewhat the ardour of your spirit; comrade, let us husband
our strength, and, as Riccardo the blacksmith says, make up a fire to
last."

But Guido Cavalcanti put his hand on his lips.

"Hush!" he whispered, "hush! not a word more, friend Betto. I wait my
lady, her who shall console me for so many vain loves that in this world
have betrayed me and that I have betrayed. It is equally cruel and
useless to think and to act. This I know. The curse is not so much to
live, for I see you are well and hearty, friend Betto, and many another
man is the same. The curse is not to live, but to know we live. The
curse is to be conscious and to will. Happily there is a remedy for
these evils. Let us say no more; I await the lady whom I have never
wronged, for never have I doubted but she was gentle and true-hearted,
and I have learned by much pondering how peaceful and secure it is to