SCENE I. _Ravenna. A Room in_ GUIDO'S _Palace. Enter_ GUIDO _and a_ CARDINAL.
GUIDO. I'll take the warning, father, On one condition: show me but a way For safe escape.
GUIDO. There's the point. We Ghibelins are fettered hand and foot. There's not a florin in my treasury; Not a lame soldier, I can lead to war; Not one to man the walls. A present siege, Pushed with the wonted heat of Lanciotto, Would deal Ravenna such a mortal blow As ages could not mend. Give me but time To fill the drained arteries of the land. The Guelfs are masters, we their slaves; and we Were wiser to confess it, ere the lash Teach it too sternly. It is well for you To say you love Francesca. So do I; But neither you nor I have any voice For or against this marriage.
GUIDO. Say we refuse: Why, then, before a week, We'll hear Lanciotto rapping at our door, With twenty hundred ruffians at his back. What's to say then? My lord, we waste our breath. Let us look fortune in the face, and draw Such comfort from the wanton as we may.
GUIDO. You fear! and so do I. I fear Lanciotto as a soldier, though, More than a son-in-law.
GUIDO. Ay, ay, and felt him, too. I've seen him ride The best battalions of my horse and foot Down like mere stubble: I have seen his sword Hollow a square of pikemen, with the ease You'd scoop a melon out.
CARDINAL. Report declares him A prodigy of strength and ugliness.
GUIDO. Were he the devil--But why talk of this?-- Here comes Francesca.
GUIDO. Look you, my lord! you'll make the best of it; You will not whimper. Add your voice to mine, Or woe to poor Ravenna!
FRANCESCA. Ha! my lord-- And you, my father!--But do I intrude Upon your counsels? How severe you look! Shall I retire?
FRANCESCA. You moody men Seem leagued against me. As I passed the hall, I met your solemn Dante, with huge strides Pacing in measure to his stately verse. The sweeping sleeves of his broad scarlet robe Blew out behind, like wide-expanded wings, And seemed to buoy him in his level flight. Thinking to pass, without disturbing him, I stole on tip-toe; but the poet paused, Subsiding into man, and steadily Bent on my face the lustre of his eyes. Then, taking both my trembling hands in his-- You know how his God-troubled forehead awes-- He looked into my eyes, and shook his head, As if he dared not speak of what he saw; Then muttered, sighed, and slowly turned away The weight of his intolerable brow. When I glanced back, I saw him, as before, Sailing adown the hall on out-spread wings. Indeed, my lord, he should not do these things; They strain the weakness of mortality A jot too far. As for poor Ritta, she Fled like a doe, the truant.
