Canto XXVI

pushed. And the Leader, who beheld me so attent, Exclaimed: “Within the fires the spirits are; Each swathes himself with that wherewith he burns.” “My Master,” I replied, “by hearing thee I am more sure; but I surmised already It might be so, and already wished to ask thee Who is within that fire, which comes so cleft At top, it seems uprising from the pyre Where was Eteocles with his brother placed.” He answered me: “Within there are tormented Ulysses and Diomed, and thus together They unto vengeance run as unto wrath. And there within their flame do they lament The ambush of the horse, which made the door Whence issued forth the Romans’ gentle seed; Therein is wept the craft, for which being dead Deidamia still deplores Achilles, And pain for the Palladium there is borne.” “If they within those sparks possess the power To speak,” I said, “thee, Master, much I pray, And re-pray, that the prayer be worth a thousand, That thou make no denial of awaiting Until the horned flame shall hither come; Thou seest that with desire I lean towards it.” And he to me: “Worthy is thy entreaty Of much applause, and therefore I accept it; But take heed that thy tongue restrain itself. Leave me to speak, because I have conceived That which thou wishest; for they might disdain Perchance, since they were Greeks, discourse of thine.” When now the flame had come unto that point, Where to my Leader it seemed time and place, After this fashion did I hear him speak: “O ye, who are twofold within one fire, If I deserved of you, while I was living, If I deserved of you or much or little When in the world I wrote the lofty verses, Do not move on, but one of you declare Whither, being lost, he went away to die.” Then of the antique flame the greater horn, Murmuring, began to wave itself about Even as a flame doth which the wind fatigues. Thereafterward, the summit to and fro Moving as if it were the tongue that spake, It uttered forth a voice, and said: “When I From Circe had departed, who concealed me More than a year there near unto Gaëta, Or ever yet Aeneas named it so, Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence For my old father, nor the due affection Which joyous should have made Penelope, Could overcome