The second circle is smaller and holds more grief. Minos stands grinning, examines each soul, and coils his tail around himself as many times as the degrees the sinner must descend. The soul confesses; the tail is the sentence; the throng is always there. When he sees Dante he leaves his work to warn him: look how thou enter, beware in whom thou place thy trust, let not the broad entrance deceive thee. Virgil tells him not to hinder a way appointed, where will and power are one.
Light is silent. A storm like a sea torn by warring winds drives the carnal sinners, in whom reason is swayed by lust. They have no hope of rest, nor even of a milder pang. Starlings in winter, then cranes in a long line of dolorous notes. Virgil names Semiramis, who made liking lawful by decree, then Dido, Cleopatra, Helen, Achilles, Paris, Tristan, and a thousand more love bereaved of life. Dante, overpowered by pity, asks for the two who seem so light before the wind. They come like doves returning to the nest. Francesca, from the coast where the Po descends, speaks of love that is quickly learnt in a gentle heart, love that takes denial from none beloved, love that brought them to one death. Caina waits for the one who spilt their life. Dante bends his head so long that Virgil asks what he is pondering.
He wants the primal root. They were alone, reading of Lancelot, with no suspicion near. At one point they fell: when they read of the wished smile kissed by one so deep in love, Paolo kissed her trembling mouth. The book and writer were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day they read no more. While she speaks, the other spirit wails so sorely that Dante, heartstruck, seems not far from death, and like a corpse falls to the ground.
