I have since wondered whether she was as beautiful as I deemed her in that moment. For it must be remembered that mine was the case of the son of Filippo Balducci--related by Messer Boccaccio in the merry tales of his Decamerone 1--who had come to years of adolescence without ever having beheld womanhood, so that the first sight of it in the streets of Florence affected him so oddly that he vexed his sire with foolish questions and still more foolish prayers. 1 In the Introduction to the Fourth Day. So was it now with me. In all my eighteen years I had by my mother's careful contriving never set eyes upon a woman of an age inferior to her own. And--consider me foolish if you will but so it is--I do not think that it had occurred to me that they existed, or else, if they did, that in youth they differed materially from what in age I found them. Thus I had come to look upon women as just feeble, timid creatures, over-prone to gossip, tears, and lamentations, and good for very little that I could perceive. I had been unable to understand for what reason it was that San Luigi of Gonzaga had from years of discretion never allowed his eyes to rest upon a woman; nor could I see wherein lay the special merit attributed to this. And certain passages in the Confessions of St. Augustine and in the early life of St. Francis of Assisi bewildered me and left me puzzled. But now, quite suddenly, it was as if revelation had come to me. It was as if the Book of Life had at last been opened for me, and at a glance I had read one of its dazzling pages. So that whether this brown peasant girl was beautiful or not, beautiful she seemed to me with the radiant beauty that is attributed to the angels of Paradise. Nor did I doubt that she would be as holy, for to see in beauty a mark of divine favour is not peculiar only to the ancient Greeks. And because of the appeal of this beauty--real or supposed--I was very ready with my protection, since I felt that protection must carry with it certain rights of ownership which must be very sweet and were certainly desired. Holding her, therefore, within the shelter of my arms, where in her heedless innocence she had flung herself, and by very instinct stroking with one hand her little brown head to soothe her fears, I became truculent for the first time in my new-found manhood, and boldly challenged her pursuer. “What is this, Rinolfo?” I demanded. “Why do you plague her?” “She broke up my snares,” he answered sullenly, “and let the birds go free.” “What snares? What birds?” quoth I. “He is a cruel beast,” she shrilled. “And he will lie to you, Madonnino.” “If he does I'll break the bones of his body,” I promised in a tone entirely new to me. And then to him--“The truth now, poltroon!” I admonished him.