The Exiles by Honoré de Balzac
page 41 of 43 (95%)
page 41 of 43 (95%)
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At this moment the swift approach of many horses rang through the
stillness, the dog barked, the constable's deep growl replied; the horsemen dismounted, knocked at the door; the noise was so unexpected that it seemed like some sudden explosion. The two exiles, the two poets, fell to earth through all the space that divides us from the skies. The painful shock of this fall rushed through their veins like strange blood, hissing as it seemed, and full of scorching sparks. Their pain was like an electric discharge. The loud, heavy step of a man-at-arms sounded on the stairs with the iron clank of his sword, his cuirass, and spurs; a soldier presently stood before the astonished stranger. "We can return to Florence," said the man, whose bass voice sounded soft as he spoke in Italian. "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 |
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