ask for her, and God Himself leaves her on earth only for the sake of "one who dreads to lose her," yet it is evident that this sudden realisation of the inevitable drove Dante into a panic of despairing passion. His confused imagination began to work "like that of a frantic person." He seemed to see visions, faces of women who said to him, "thou shalt die;" faces more horrible, which said, "thou art dead." The sun seemed to him darkened, the stars as if they wept—great earthquakes heaved and rumbled round, and the birds fell dead about him; and in the midst of all this tumult and terror appeared a friend who said, "Knowest thou that thy excellent lady has departed out of this world?" Then, in the relieving of the brain which came by tears, the dreamer looked up and saw heaven opened, and a multitude of angels returning there preceded by a white cloud of wonderful brightness; upon which, his imagination once more dropping earthward, he seemed to be transported into the room where Beatrice lay dead. The confusion and bewilderment of his fever are strangely mingled in this vision with the master-thought of his life, which thus forcibly makes itself the centre of every new condition of mind and being. The mournful fancy goes on so long as this feverish sleep or swooning lasts. He sees her laid out for her grave, her face covered with a white veil. He sees in the dead countenance such an aspect of unspeakable sweetness, that it seemed as though she said, "I have attained to look on the beginning of peace." Then he calls upon Death with such beseeching, that "the young and gentle lady" (whom he explains to be very nearly related to him) who sat by his bedside watching him, was overcome by the sight, and began to weep, and the attention of the other attendants
