They reach the summit of the scale and stand on the second buttress of the mount that heals him who climbs. A cornice girdles the hill as before, but with a less ample sweep. Shadow nor image is seen. Rampart and path are smooth, reflecting nought but the rock's sullen hue. If we wait for someone to question, Virgil fears too long a delay. He fastens his eyes on the sun, makes his right the central point, and cries to that pleasant light to conduct them on this new way. If no other cause forbid, thy beams should ever be our guide. In a brief space they journey a measured mile, so prompt is the will. Spirits invisible fly toward them and courteously bid the welcome guest to love's table. The first voice, not lost in the faint distance, calls They have no wine. Another cries I am Orestes. A third: Love ye those have wronged you. This circuit, Virgil says, knots the scourge for envy; the cords are drawn by charity's correcting hand. The curb will be harsher before the pass where pardon sets them free. Fix thine eyes through the air: a multitude is seated along the shelving grot.
Shadows in garments dark as the rock cry Blessed Mary, pray for us, Michael and Peter, all ye saintly host. Dante does not think a remorseless man walks the earth who would not yearn with pity at the next sight. Of sackcloth vile their covering; one stays another on the shoulder; all lean against the cliff. So the blind and poor near the confessionals crave an alms, each head upon his fellow's, to stir compassion by the sight of misery as much as by sound. As noonday never visits the eyeless man, heaven is a niggard of fair light to these: through the orbs of all, a thread of wire, impiercing, knits them up, as for the taming of a haggard hawk. Dante thinks it wrong to pass and look on others yet himself unseen. He turns to his sage counsel. Virgil knows the mute appeal: speak, and be brief, be subtle. On the cornice's steep fall with no rim, Virgil comes; on the other side the spirits bathe their cheeks with tears that force a way through the dread impalement.
O shades, Dante says, assured that the lofty light shall shine unveiled to your eyes: if any soul of Latium dwell among you, that soul may profit. A voice answers: my brother, we are each one citizens of one true city. Any thou wouldst say who lived a stranger in Italia's land. A spirit with the chin raised, as one reft of sight, waits. I was of Sienna, it says. Though Sapia named, in sapience I excelled not, gladder far of others' hurt than of the good that befell me. Near Colle her fellow citizens met their enemies; she prayed God to grant what He had willed, then marked the hunt and, like a merlin cheated by a gleam, cried it is over, Heaven, I fear thee not. On the verge of life she wished for peace, and repentance would not have supplied what she lacked, were it not the hermit Piero, touched with charity, thought on her in his orisons. Who art thou that goest with lids unclosed, and breathest in thy talk? Dante's eyes have not offended grievously with envious glances, but the nether load already weighs him down. Who then hath brought thee, if thou weenest to return? He who standeth mute beside me. I live. This is so strange a thing it is great sign that God doth love thee, Sapia says. Assist me with thy prayer, and if thy feet tread Tuscan soil, save my fame among my kindred, that vain multitude who set their hope on Telamone's haven, there to fail.
