"And as a frog squats croaking from a stream, With nose put forth, what time the village maid Oft in her slumber doth of gleaning dream, Stood in the ice there every doleful shade. Livid as far as where shame paints the cheek, And doomed their faces downward still to hold. Chattering like storks, their weeping eyes bespeak Their aching hearts, their mouths the biting cold." "A thousand visages I saw, by cold Turned to dog-faces; horror chills me through Whenever of those frozen fords I think. And as we nearer to the centre drew, Towards which all bodies by their weight must sink, There, as I shivered in the eternal chill, Trampling among the heads, it happed, by luck, Or destiny--or, it may be, my will-- Hard in the face of one my foot I struck. Weeping he cried, 'What brings thee bruising us? Unless on me fresh vengeance thou wouldst pile For Mont' Aperti, why torment me thus?' And I: 'My Master, wait for me awhile, That I through him may set one doubt at rest; Then, if thou bid me hasten on, I will.' My leader stopped; and I the shade addressed Who kept full bitterly blaspheming still, 'Say, who art thou whose tongue so foully speaks?' 'Nay, who art thou that walk'st the withering air Of Antemora, smiting others' cheeks That, wert thou living, 't were too much to bear?' 'Living I am; and thou, if craving fame, Mayst count it precious,'--this was my reply,-- 'That I with other notes record thy name.' He answered thus: 'Far other wish have I. Trouble me now no longer,--get thee gone: Thine is cold flattery in this waste of Hell.' At this his hindmost hairs I fastened on, And cried, 'Thy name! I'll force thee now to tell. Or not one hair upon thy head shall grow.' He answered thus: 'Although thou pluck me bare, I'll neithertell my name, nor visage show; Nay, though a thousand times thou rend my hair,' "I held his tresses in my fingers wound, And more than one tuft had I twitched away As he, with eyes bent down, howled like a hound; When one cried out, 'What ails thee, Bocca? say,-- Canst thou not make enough clack with thy jaws, But thou must bark too! What fiend pricks thee now?' 'Aha!' said I, 'henceforth I have no cause To bid thee speak, thou cursed traitor thou! I'll shame thee, bearing truth of thee to men.' 'Away!' he answered: 'what thou wilt, relate: But, shouldst thou get from hence with breath again, Mention him too so ready with his prate." The encounter of Dante with Farinata and Cavalcante in their fiery tombs is also painted with such animated and fortunate strokes that we must reproduce some of them here:--