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 knee before the immortal poet, like an angel before the sanctuary. “Come to Florence,” said Dante in compassionate tones. “Come! when you see its lovely landscape from the heights of Fiesole you will fancy yourself in Paradise.” The soldier smiled. For the first time, perhaps for the only time in his life, Dante’s gloomy and solemn features wore a look of joy; his eyes and brows expressed the happiness he has depicted so lavishly in his vision of Paradise. He thought perhaps that he heard the voice of Beatrice. A light step, and the rustle of a woman’s gown, were audible in the silence. Dawn was now showing its first streaks of light. The fair Comtesse de Mahaut came in and flew to Godefroid. “Come, my child, my son! I may at last acknowledge you. Your birth is recognized, your rights are under the protection of the King of France, and you will find Paradise in your mother’s heart.” “I hear, I know, the voice of Heaven!” cried the youth in rapture. The exclamation roused Dante, who saw the young man folded in the Countess’ arms. He took leave of them with a look, and left his young companion on his mother’s bosom. “Come away!” he cried in a voice of thunder. “Death to the Guelphs!” PARIS, October 1831. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Exiles, by Honore de Balzac