From bridge to bridge they pass, with talk the drama does not rehearse, and stand at another gap of Malebolge. Marvellous darkness shadows the place. Pitch boils here as in the Venetians' arsenal through winter months, when seafaring men stay ashore and smear unsound vessels: one builds a bark, another stops ribs, one hammers at the prow, one at the poop, this shapes oars, that twirls cables. Not by fire but by art divine a glutinous thick mass limes all the shore. Dante sees nothing but the surge, heaving and falling. Virgil cries Mark, and draws him back. A devil black runs up the rock, wings out, feet nimble, a sinner gripped by either haunch. Ye of our bridge, keen-taloned fiends: one of Santa Zita's elders. Whelm him; I return for more. That land has store of such. All men are there, except Bonturo, barterers: of no for lucre an aye is quickly made. He dashes the elder down and speeds like a mastiff after a thief. The sinner sinks, then writes to the surface. Demons under the bridge cry that the hallowed visage saves not here, nor is this Serchio's wave. They grapple him with more than a hundred hooks: covered thou must sport, so if thou canst, in secret filch. A cook and his grooms thrust flesh into the caldron that it float not.
Virgil tells Dante to bend low behind a crag. Insult will come; fear not: he has been in the like fray. He passes to the sixth pier. The fiends rush as dogs on a poor man's back. Be none of you outrageous: let one hear, then decide if he shall tear these limbs. They shout Go, Malacoda. One advances: what may this turn avail him? Virgil: believest thou I had come thus far without will divine and destiny propitious? Heaven's pleasure is that I lead another through this savage wilderness. Pride falls. The instrument of torture drops. We have no power to strike him. Dante rises toward him; terror seizes him lest they break the compact, as at Caprona the infantry dreaded the foe's covenant. The fiends protrude hooks: wilt thou I touch him on the hip? Even so, nor miss thy aim. Malacoda: stay, Scarmiglione. Further footing this rock affords not, shivered to the base of the sixth arch. Up by this cavern: another rock will yield passage. Yesterday, later by five hours than now, twelve hundred threescore years and six had filled their course since the way was broken. He dispatches ten: Alichino, Calcabrina, Cagnazzo, Barbariccia to lead, Libicocco, Draghinazzo, Ciriatto, Grafflacane, Farfarello, mad Rubicant. Search the bubbling tar; lead these in safety where the other crag traverses the dens.
Dante: what a sight; without escort I covet not this journey. Dost not mark how they gnarl, and their scowl threatens present tortures? Virgil: I charge thee fear not. Let them gnarl; it is but spite against the souls in torment. To leftward they turn. Each first presses the tongue between his teeth, looking toward their leader, who with sound obscene triumphant gave the signal.
