In the year's early nonage the rime puts on her dazzling sister's image, but not long. The village hind sees the plain all whitened, smites his thighs, and wails back in the hut. Then he comes forth again, feels new hope, finding the world has changed its countenance, and drives his little flock. So Dante's guide disheartened him at the troubled forehead, and so speedily that ill was cured. At the fallen bridge Virgil turns with a look as sweet as Dante first beheld at the steep mountain's foot. He takes Dante up, computes the next peak while he lifts, and says grapple that, but first make proof if it will sustain thee. For one capped with lead this were no journey. They mount from crag to crag. At the last flag the breath is exhausted from Dante's lungs. He can no further, but seats him there.
Now needs thy best of man, says the guide. For not on downy plumes, nor under shade of canopy reposing, fame is won. Whoever consumes his days without it leaves such vestige as smoke in air or foam upon the wave. Rise: vanish thy weariness by the mind's effort. A longer ladder yet remains to scale. From these to have escaped sufficeth not. Dante rises, and shows himself less spent than he feels. On, he cries, for I am stout and fearless. Up the narrower, steeper rock he talks so as to seem least faint. A voice from the other foss issues, moved in anger, but the words are lost in darkness. Virgil answers not but by the deed. To fair request silent performance maketh best return. They descend to the eighth mound. A crowd of serpents so strange that remembrance shrinks the vital current. Naked spirits run winged with horrid fear, nor hope of crevice, or heliotrope to hide. Hands bound behind with serpents, tail and head twisted in folds before.
An adder transpierces one where the neck is tied to the shoulders. Faster than pen wrote O or I, he kindles, burns, and changes to ashes. The dust uprolls, and the self-same form instant resumes, as sages tell of the Phoenix. He stands aghast, wildly staring, as one risen from a trance. Vanni Fucci am I called, rained down from Tuscany to this dire gullet. The bestial life pleased me, mule that I was, who in Pistoia found my worthy den. Dante knew him choleric and bloody, and would have him asked the crime. Shame is pictured in the face: it grieves me more to have been caught by thee than when I was taken from the other life. The sacristy was rifled of its ornaments, and another falsely charged. But that thou mayst not joy to see me thus, hear what I forebode. Reft of the Neri first Pistoia pines, then Florence changeth citizens and laws. A vapour from Valdimagra shall burst over Piceno's field and strike each helpless Bianco to the ground. This have I told, that grief may rend thy heart.
Coming Up in Chapter 25
Fucci will raise both fists at God, and the serpents will answer as friends. A dragon-backed centaur will hunt the caitiff through the ditch, then three spirits will ask where Cianfa lurks, and a six-footed serpent will spring.
