hand on the cheek-bone
Of one, his fellow-spirit, and his jaws
Expanding, cried:  “Lo! this is he I wot of;
He speaks not for himself:  the outcast this
Who overwhelm’d the doubt in Caesar’s mind,
Affirming that delay to men prepar’d
Was ever harmful.  “Oh how terrified
Methought was Curio, from whose throat was cut
The tongue, which spake that hardy word.  Then one
Maim’d of each hand, uplifted in the gloom
The bleeding stumps, that they with gory spots
Sullied his face, and cried:  “’Remember thee
Of Mosca, too, I who, alas! exclaim’d,
‘The deed once done there is an end,’ that prov’d
A seed of sorrow to the Tuscan race.” 
     I added:  “Ay, and death to thine own tribe.” 
     Whence heaping woe on woe he hurried off,
As one grief stung to madness.  But I there
Still linger’d to behold the troop, and saw
Things, such as I may fear without more proof
To tell of, but that conscience makes me firm,
The boon companion, who her strong breast-plate
Buckles on him, that feels no guilt within
And bids him on and fear not.  Without doubt
I saw, and yet it seems to pass before me,
A headless trunk, that even as the rest
Of the sad flock pac’d onward.  By the hair
It bore the sever’d member, lantern-wise
Pendent in hand, which look’d at us and said,
“Woe’s me!” The spirit lighted thus himself,
And two there were in one, and one in two. 
How that may be he knows who ordereth so. 
     When at the bridge’s foot direct he stood,
His arm aloft he rear’d, thrusting the head
Full in our view, that nearer we might hear
The words, which thus it utter’d:  “Now behold
This grievous torment, thou, who breathing go’st
To spy the dead; behold if any else
Be terrible as this.  And that on earth
Thou mayst bear tidings of me, know that I
Am Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King John
The counsel mischievous.  Father and son
I set at mutual war.  For Absalom
And David more did not Ahitophel,
Spurring them on maliciously to strife. 
For parting those so closely knit, my brain
Parted, alas!  I carry from its source,
That in this trunk inhabits.  Thus the law
Of retribution fiercely works in me.”

CANTO XXIX

So were mine eyes inebriate with view
Of the vast multitude, whom various wounds
Disfigur’d, that they long’d to stay and weep. 
     But Virgil rous’d me:  “What yet gazest on? 
Wherefore doth fasten yet thy sight below
Among the maim’d and miserable shades? 
Thou hast not shewn in any chasm beside
This weakness.  Know, if thou wouldst number them
That two and twenty miles the valley winds
Its circuit, and already is the moon
Beneath our feet:  the time permitted now
Is short, and more not seen remains to see.” 
     “If thou,” I straight replied, “hadst weigh’d the