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