CARDINAL.  Report declares him
A prodigy of strength and ugliness.

GUIDO.  Were he the devil—­But why talk of this?—­
Here comes Francesca.

  CARDINAL.  Ah! unhappy child!

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!

    Enter FRANCESCA and RITTA.

FRANCESCA.  Ha! my lord—­
And you, my father!—­But do I intrude
Upon your counsels?  How severe you look! 
Shall I retire?

  GUIDO.  No, no.

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.

RITTA.  Yes, forsooth: 
There’s something terrible about the man. 
Ugh! if he touched me, I should turn to ice. 
I wonder if Count Lanciotto looks—­

  GUIDO.  Ritta, come here. [Takes her apart.

  RITTA.  My lord.

GUIDO.  ’Twas my command,
You should say nothing of Count Lanciotto.

  RITTA.  Nothing, my lord.

  GUIDO.  You have said nothing, then?

  RITTA.  Indeed, my lord.

GUIDO.  ’Tis well.  Some years ago,
My daughter had a very silly maid,
Who told her sillier stories.  So, one day,
This maiden whispered something I forbade—­
In strictest confidence, for she was sly: 
What happened, think you?

RITTA.  I know not, my lord.

GUIDO.  I boiled her in a pot.

RITTA.  Good heaven! my lord.

GUIDO.  She did not like it.  I shall keep that pot
Ready for the next boiling.

[Walks back to the others.

RITTA.  Saints above! 
I wonder if he ate her!  Boil me—­me! 
I’ll roast or stew with pleasure; but to boil
Implies a want of tenderness,—­or rather
A downright toughness—­in the matter boiled,
That’s slanderous to a maiden.  What, boil me—­
Boil me!  O! mercy, how ridiculous!