Stretched out his knotted fingers on the oar.

Mournful, with drooping breasts and robes unsewn

The shapes of women swayed in ebon skies,

Trailing behind him with a restless moan

Like cattle herded for a sacrifice.

Here, grinning for his wage, stood Sganarelle,

And here Don Luis pointed, bent and dim,

To show the dead who lined the holes of Hell,