Two shades come running wild through the ditch like rabid animals — Gianni Schicchi (who impersonated a dead man in his will to claim a prize mule) and Myrrha (who disguised herself to commit incest with her father). They bite and tear at other shades as they run. Near them, a bloated figure like a lute lies motionless — Master Adam of Brescia, counterfeiter of Florentine florins (he alloyed the gold with tin), burned alive for it, now condemned to lie unable to move, racked with thirst, his legs heavy with the dropsy of his bloated body. He cannot even move to drink from the streams he can hear nearby. He identifies the two Greek shadows lying feverish beside him: Sinon, who lied the Trojans into accepting the wooden horse; and the unnamed wife of Potiphar, who falsely accused Joseph.
Sinon and Master Adam trade insults — one burned, one feverish, both accusing each other of their respective crimes, getting louder and uglier. Dante watches, fascinated. Virgil turns on him with unprecedented sharpness: if you want to listen to quarrels like this much longer, I will quarrel with you. Dante is immediately ashamed; he tells Virgil his shame should be its own pardon. Virgil relents: do not grieve at that — but remember this moment. Even in Hell, the pull of corrupt spectacle is strong, and the witness who lingers in it too long begins to be corrupted by it.