Canto XXI

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      ARGUMENT.—Still in the eighth circle, which bears the name of Malebolge, they look down from the bridge that passes over its fifth gulf, upon the barterers or public peculators. These are plunged in a lake of boiling pitch, and guarded by Demons, to whom Virgil, leaving Dante apart, presents himself; and license being obtained to pass onward, both pursue their way.

      THUS we from bridge to bridge, with other talk,

      The which my drama cares not to rehearse,

      Pass’d on; and to the summit reaching, stood

      To view another gap, within the round

      Of Malebolge, other bootless pangs.

      Marvelous darkness shadow’d o’er the place.

      In the Venetians’ arsenal as boils

      Through wintry months tenacious pitch, to smear

      Their unsound vessels; for th’ inclement time

      Sea-faring men restrains, and in that while

      His bark one builds anew, another stops

      The ribs of his, that hath made many a voyage;

      One hammers at the prow, one at the poop;

      This shapeth oars, that other cables twirls,

      The mizen one repairs and main-sail rent

      So not by force of fire but art divine

      Boil’d here a glutinous thick mass, that round

      Lim’d all the shore beneath. I that beheld,

      But therein nought distinguish’d, save the surge,

      Rais’d by the boiling, in one mighty swell

      Heave, and by turns subsiding and fall. While there

      I fix’d my ken below, “Mark! mark!” my guide

      Exclaiming, drew me towards him from the place,

      Wherein I stood. I turn’d myself as one,

      Impatient to behold that which beheld

      He needs must shun, whom sudden fear unmans,

      That he his flight delays not for the view.

      Behind me I discern’d a devil black,

      That running, up advanc’d along the rock.

      Ah! what fierce cruelty his look bespake!

      In act how bitter did he seem, with wings

      Buoyant outstretch’d and feet of nimblest tread!

      His shoulder proudly eminent and sharp

      Was with a sinner charg’d; by either haunch

      He held him, the foot’s sinew griping fast.

      “Ye of our bridge!” he cried, “keen-talon’d fiends!

      Lo! one of Santa Zita’s elders! Him

      Whelm ye beneath, while I return for more.

      That land hath store of such. All men are there,

      Except Bonturo, barterers: of ’no’

      For lucre there an ’aye’ is quickly made.”

      Him dashing down, o’er the rough rock he turn’d,

      Nor ever after thief a mastiff loos’d

      Sped with like eager haste. That other sank

      And forthwith writing to the surface rose.

      But those dark demons, shrouded by the bridge,

      Cried “Here the hallow’d visage saves not: here

      Is other swimming than in Serchio’s wave.

      Wherefore if thou desire we rend thee not,

      Take heed thou mount not o’er the pitch.” This said,

      They grappled him with more than hundred hooks,

      And shouted: “Cover’d thou must sport thee here;

      So, if thou canst, in secret mayst thou filch.”