noon
The street was all full of people running and shouting as they ran , and man caught at man as they ran and asked questions and was answered , and I heard the name of Simone dei Bardi and of the Portinari palace , and that was enough for me . If I had borne wings on my heels , like Hermes of old , or carried a pair on each shoulder , like Zetes and Calais of pagan memory , I could scarcely have sped swifter than I did along the streets of Florence , threading my way with amazing dexterity through the throng that hurried , like me , in the same direction . In a few wild minutes I found myself in the Place of the Holy Felicity , which was now no other than a camping-ground for two opposing forces under arms . As I began to realize what these opposing forces were , I also realized that the time of the day was long past noon , and that I must have slept my heavy , dream-disturbed sleep for some hours that were eventful hours to many that were familiar to me . Let me try and present a picture of what I saw that afternoon in the Place of the Holy Felicity . In front of the house of Messer Folco Portinari , that seemed to me more grim and solemn than ever that day , were ranged a number of the soldiers of the authorities of the city , that had evidently been set there to protect Messer Folco 's house from attack , and that were far too few for the purpose , considering who was the assailant and what his powers of aggression . For the assailant was Messer Simone dei Bardi , that strode a big horse and was girt with a big sword , and looked for all the world like the painted giant of a puppet play .