constrains and stings, than that of him who is before him.

And we moved our feet toward the city, confident after his holy
words. Within we entered without any strife, and I, who had
desire to observe the condition which such a stronghold locks in,
when I was within, sent my eyes round about; and I see on every
hand a great plain full of woe and of cruel torment.

As at Arles, where the Rhone stagnates, as at Pola, near the
Quarnaro that shuts in Italy and bathes its borders, sepulchres
make all the place uneven; so did they here on every side, saving
that the manner was more bitter here; for among the tombs flames
were scattered, by which they were so intensely kindled that no
art requires iron more so. All their lids were lifted; and such
dire laments were issuing forth from them as truly seemed of
wretches and of sufferers.

And I, "Master, who are these folk that, buried within those
coffers, make themselves heard with their woeful sighs?" And he
to me, "Here are the heresiarchs with their followers of every
sect, and the tombs are much more laden than thou thinkest. Like
with like is buried here, and the monuments are more and less
hot."

And when he to the right hand had turned, we passed between the
torments and the high battlements.



CANTO X. The Sixth Circle: Heresiarchs.--Farinata degli
Uberti.-Cavalcante Cavalcanti.--Frederick II.

Now along a narrow path between the wall of the city and the
torments my Master goeth on, and I behind his shoulders.

"O Virtue supreme," I began, "that through the impious circles
turnest me, according to thy pleasure, speak to me and satisfy my
desires. The folk that are lying in the sepulchres, can they be
seen? All the lids are now lifted, and no one keepeth guard." And
he to me, "All shall be locked in when from Jehoshaphat they
shall here return with the bodies which they have left on earth.
Upon this side Epicurus with all his followers, who make the soul
mortal with the body, have their burial place. Therefore as to
the demand that thou makest of me, thou shalt soon be satisfied
here within; and also as to the desire concerning which thou art
silent to me." And I, "Good Leader, I hold not my heart hidden
from thee except in order to speak little; and not only now to
that hast thou disposed me."

"O Tuscan, who through the city of fire alive art going, speaking
thus modestly, may it please thee to stop in this place. Thy
speech makes manifest that thou art native of that noble
fatherland to which perchance I was too molestful." Suddenly this
sound issued from one of the coffers, wherefore I drew, in fear,
a little nearer to my Leader. And he said to me, "Turn, what dost
thou? Behold Farinata who hath uprisen; thou shalt see him all
from the girdle up."

I had already fixed my face on his, and he straightened himself
up with breast and front as though he had Hell in great scorn.
And the bold and ready hands of my Leader pushed me among the
sepulchres to him, saying, "Let thy words be choice."

When I was at the foot of his tomb, he looked at me a little, and
then, as though disdainful, asked me, "Who were thy ancestors?"
I, who was desirous to obey, concealed them not, but disclosed
them all to him; whereon he raised his brows a little up, then
said, "Fiercely were they adverse to me, and to my fathers, and
to my party, so that twice I scattered them." [1] "If they were
driven out, they returned from every side," replied I to him,
"both one and the other time, but yours have not learned well
that art."

[1] Dante's ancestors were Guelphs.


Then there arose, to view uncovered down to the chin, a shade at
the side of this one; I think that it had risen on its knees.
Round about me it looked, as if it had desire to see if another
were with me, but when its expectancy was quite extinct, weeping
it said, "If through this blind dungeon thou goest through
loftiness of genius, my son, where is he? and why is he not with
thee?" And I to him, "Of myself I come not; he who waits yonder
leads me through here, whom perchance your Guido held in
scorn."[1]

[1] Guido Cavalcanti was charged with the same sin of unbelief as
his father. Dante regards this as a sin specially contrary to
right reason, typified by Virgil.


His words and the mode of the punishment had already read to me
the name of this one, wherefore my answer was so full.

Suddenly straightening up, he cried, "How didst thou say, 'he
held'? lives he not still? doth not the sweet light strike his
eyes?" When he took note of some delay that I made before
answering, he fell again supine, and forth appeared no more.

But that other magnanimous one, at whose instance I had stayed,


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