The head was, in fact, a lantern to the paths of the trunk; and thus there were two separated things in one, and one in two; and how that could be, he only can tell who ordained it.  As the figure came nearer, it lifted the head aloft, that the pilgrims might hear better what it said.  “Behold,” it said, “behold, thou that walkest living among the dead, and say if there be any punishment like this.  I am Bertrand de Born, he that incited John of England to rebel against his father.  Father and son I set at variance—­closest affections I set at variance—­and hence do I bear my brain severed from the body on which it grew.  In me behold the work of retribution.” [37]

The eyes of Dante were so inebriate with all that diversity of bleeding wounds, that they longed to stay and weep ere his guide proceeded further.  Something also struck them on the sudden which added to his desire to stop.  But Virgil asked what ailed him, and why he stood gazing still on the wretched multitude.  “Thou hast not done so,” continued he, “in any other portion of this circle; and the valley is twenty-two miles further about, and the moon already below us.  Thou hast more yet to see than thou wottest of, and the time is short.”

Dante, excusing himself for the delay, and proceeding to follow his leader, said he thought he had seen, in the cavern at which he was gazing so hard, a spirit that was one of his own family—­and it was so.  It was the soul of Geri del Bello, a cousin of the poet’s.  Virgil said that he had observed him, while Dante was occupied with Bertrand de Born, pointing at his kinsman in a threatening manner.  “Waste not a thought on him,” concluded the Roman, “but leave him as he is.”  “O honoured guide!” said Dante, “he died a violent death, which his kinsmen have not yet avenged; and hence it is that he disdained to speak to me; and I must needs feel for him the more on that account.” [38]

They came now to the last partition of the circle of Evil-budget, and their ears were assailed with such a burst of sharp wailings, that Dante was fain to close his with his hands.  The misery there, accompanied by a horrible odour, was as if all the hospitals in the sultry marshes of Valdichiana had brought their maladies together into one infernal ditch.  It was the place of punishment for pretended Alchemists, Coiners, Personators of other people, False Accusers, and Impostors of all such descriptions.  They lay on one another in heaps, or attempted to crawl about—­some itching madly with leprosies—­some swollen and gasping with dropsies—­some wetly reeking, like hands washed in winter-time.  One was an alchemist of Sienna, a nation vainer than the French; another a Florentine, who tricked a man into making a wrong will; another, Sinon of Troy; another, Myrrha; another, the wife of Potiphar.  Their miseries did not hinder them from giving one another malignant blows; and Dante was listening eagerly to an abusive conversation between Sinon and a Brescian coiner, when Virgil rebuked him for the disgraceful condescension, and said it was a pleasure fit only for vulgar minds.[39]