The grinding force of Guiscard’s Norman steel,
And those the rest, whose bones are gather’d yet
At Ceperano, there where treachery
Branded th’ Apulian name, or where beyond
Thy walls, O Tagliacozzo, without arms
The old Alardo conquer’d; and his limbs
One were to show transpierc’d, another his
Clean lopt away; a spectacle like this
Were but a thing of nought, to the’ hideous sight
Of the ninth chasm.  A rundlet, that hath lost
Its middle or side stave, gapes not so wide,
As one I mark’d, torn from the chin throughout
Down to the hinder passage:  ’twixt the legs
Dangling his entrails hung, the midriff lay
Open to view, and wretched ventricle,
That turns th’ englutted aliment to dross.

Whilst eagerly I fix on him my gaze,
He ey’d me, with his hands laid his breast bare,
And cried; “Now mark how I do rip me! lo!

“How is Mohammed mangled! before me
Walks Ali weeping, from the chin his face
Cleft to the forelock; and the others all
Whom here thou seest, while they liv’d, did sow
Scandal and schism, and therefore thus are rent. 
A fiend is here behind, who with his sword
Hacks us thus cruelly, slivering again
Each of this ream, when we have compast round
The dismal way, for first our gashes close
Ere we repass before him.  But say who
Art thou, that standest musing on the rock,
Haply so lingering to delay the pain
Sentenc’d upon thy crimes?”—­“Him death not yet,”
My guide rejoin’d, “hath overta’en, nor sin
Conducts to torment; but, that he may make
Full trial of your state, I who am dead
Must through the depths of hell, from orb to orb,
Conduct him.  Trust my words, for they are true.”

More than a hundred spirits, when that they heard,
Stood in the foss to mark me, through amazed,
Forgetful of their pangs.  “Thou, who perchance
Shalt shortly view the sun, this warning thou
Bear to Dolcino:  bid him, if he wish not
Here soon to follow me, that with good store
Of food he arm him, lest impris’ning snows
Yield him a victim to Novara’s power,
No easy conquest else.”  With foot uprais’d
For stepping, spake Mohammed, on the ground
Then fix’d it to depart.  Another shade,
Pierc’d in the throat, his nostrils mutilate
E’en from beneath the eyebrows, and one ear
Lopt off, who with the rest through wonder stood
Gazing, before the rest advanc’d, and bar’d
His wind-pipe, that without was all o’ersmear’d
With crimson stain.  “O thou!” said he, “whom sin
Condemns not, and whom erst (unless too near
Resemblance do deceive me) I aloft
Have seen on Latian ground, call thou to mind
Piero of Medicina, if again
Returning, thou behold’st the pleasant land
That from Vercelli slopes to Mercabo;