Upon the margin of a lofty bank Which great rocks broken in a circle made, We came upon a still more cruel throng; And there, by reason of the horrible Excess of stench the deep abyss throws out, We drew ourselves aside behind the cover Of a great tomb, whereon I saw a writing, Which said: “Pope Anastasius I hold, 147 Whom out of the right way Photinus drew.” 148 “Slow it behoveth our descent to be, So that the sense be first a little used To the sad blast, and then we shall not heed it.” The Master thus; and unto him I said, “Some compensation find, that the time pass not Idly”; and he: “Thou seest I think of that. My son, upon the inside of these rocks,” Began he then to say, “are three small circles, From grade to grade, like those which thou art leaving. They all are full of spirits maledict; But that hereafter sight alone suffice thee, Hear how and wherefore they are in constraint. Of every malice that wins hate in Heaven,