The good instructor spake; "Now seest thou, son! The souls of those, whom anger overcame. This too for certain know, that underneath The water dwells a multitude, whose sighs Into these bubbles make the surface heave, As thine eye tells thee wheresoe'er it turn." Fix'd in the slime they say: "Sad once were we In the sweet air made gladsome by the sun, Carrying a foul and lazy mist within: Now in these murky settlings are we sad." Such dolorous strain they gurgle in their throats. But word distinct can utter none." Our route Thus compass'd we, a segment widely stretch'd Between the dry embankment, and the core Of the loath'd pool, turning meanwhile our eyes Downward on those who gulp'd its muddy lees; Nor stopp'd, till to a tower's low base we came. CANTO VIII MY theme pursuing, I relate that ere We reach'd the lofty turret's base, our eyes Its height ascended, where two cressets hung We mark'd, and from afar another light Return the signal, so remote, that scarce The eye could catch its beam. I turning round To the deep source of knowledge, thus inquir'd: "Say what this means? and what that other light In answer set? what agency doth this?" "There on the filthy waters," he replied, "E'en now what next awaits us mayst thou see, If the marsh-gender'd fog conceal it not." Never was arrow from the cord dismiss'd, That ran its way so nimbly through the air, As a small bark, that through the waves I spied Toward us coming, under the sole sway Of one that ferried it, who cried aloud: "Art thou arriv'd, fell spirit?"--"Phlegyas, Phlegyas, This time thou criest in vain," my lord replied; "No longer shalt thou have us, but while o'er The slimy pool we pass." As one who hears Of some great wrong he hath sustain'd, whereat Inly he pines; so Phlegyas inly pin'd In his fierce ire. My guide descending stepp'd Into the skiff, and bade me enter next Close at his side; nor till my entrance seem'd The vessel freighted. Soon as both embark'd, Cutting the waves, goes on the ancient prow, More deeply than with others it is wont. While we our course o'er the dead channel held. One drench'd in mire before me came, and said; "Who art thou, that thou comest ere thine hour?" I answer'd: "Though I come, I tarry not; But who art thou, that art become so foul?" "One, as thou seest, who mourn:" he straight replied. To which I thus: "In mourning and in woe, Curs'd spirit! tarry thou.g I know thee well, E'en thus in filth disguis'd." Then stretch'd he forth Hands to the bark; whereof my teacher sage Aware, thrusting him back: "Away! down there;