"My dear," said I, "I have injured a spotless lady." Her reply was to
throw her arms about my neck and give me some three or four resounding
kisses. "Bless your innocence," she cried warmly, "I wish I had been
your lady. Injuries indeed!"

I was moved. "You are a kind and charitable soul," I said, "and put the
religious of Bologna to shame. Except from you and a Venetian Jew I
promise you that I have met with no humanity upon my travels." At this
moment she heard herself called from below, and bade me kindly adieu. "I
suppose you are after your lady?" she asked as she turned to leave me.
"Yes," says I, "that is my pilgrimage--to make her amends." "Well," says
the maid, "be bolder with her than you were with me, or you'll never do
it. Adieu, sir!" I saw her no more.

I felt myself touched in a lively part--so quickly is our nature
responsive to kindness. "The embrace of that warm-hearted girl," I
thought as I went on my way, "has put heart into me. A generous
forgiving soul! And, by a figure, she may stand for that compassionate
Aurelia for whom I shall seek until I fall. Is there no offence which
women will not forgive? Yes, there is one--the great offence of all:
Pride. Ah, Beppo, Beppo!" I cried, "my venal Paduan, I was happily
inspired when I left thee my purple and linen!" I laughed aloud, and
footed the long hill bravely. It may seem trifling to establish one's
uplifting by the kiss of a poor wench--but who can explain the ways of
the soul? The wind bloweth where it listeth! And if that of hers were
the kiss of peace? At any rate, it was kindly meant, and so I kindly
received it. Unknown, lowly benefactress, I salute thee again from afar,
after many years.

Breasting the last green steep of the hill, picking my way amid black