Of that my country, I forewarn thee now,
That falsehood none beguile thee of the truth.” 
     I answer’d:  “Teacher, I conclude thy words
So certain, that all else shall be to me
As embers lacking life.  But now of these,
Who here proceed, instruct me, if thou see
Any that merit more especial note. 
For thereon is my mind alone intent.” 
     He straight replied:  “That spirit, from whose cheek
The beard sweeps o’er his shoulders brown, what time
Graecia was emptied of her males, that scarce
The cradles were supplied, the seer was he
In Aulis, who with Calchas gave the sign
When first to cut the cable.  Him they nam’d
Eurypilus:  so sings my tragic strain,
In which majestic measure well thou know’st,
Who know’st it all.  That other, round the loins
So slender of his shape, was Michael Scot,
Practis’d in ev’ry slight of magic wile. 
     “Guido Bonatti see:  Asdente mark,
Who now were willing, he had tended still
The thread and cordwain; and too late repents. 
     “See next the wretches, who the needle left,
The shuttle and the spindle, and became
Diviners:  baneful witcheries they wrought
With images and herbs.  But onward now: 
For now doth Cain with fork of thorns confine
On either hemisphere, touching the wave
Beneath the towers of Seville.  Yesternight
The moon was round.  Thou mayst remember well: 
For she good service did thee in the gloom
Of the deep wood.”  This said, both onward mov’d.

CANTO XXI

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.