The gate closes behind them and they thread a narrow, winding passage through the living rock — so serpentine that Dante cannot tell if he is going left or right. They emerge onto the first terrace: a white marble ledge of striking width and beauty, its inner wall carved with scenes of humility so vivid they seem alive — indeed, more alive than life. Dante is stopped in his tracks.
Three carvings are described in exquisite detail. First, the Annunciation: the Angel Gabriel before the Virgin Mary, who speaks the words Ecce ancilla Dei — "Behold the handmaid of the Lord." Mary's response to God's call is the supreme act of human humility, the complete surrender of self to divine will. Second, David dancing before the Ark of the Covenant with all his might — the great king shedding royal dignity to worship in abandon, while his wife Michal watches from a window with contempt. Third, the Emperor Trajan pausing his military march to hear the plea of a weeping widow whose son has been killed. The most powerful man in the world stops his army for one insignificant woman. All three images form a triptych of humility across divine, human, and imperial registers.
Then Dante sees the penitents coming: a procession of souls bent almost double under enormous slabs of rock on their backs. They move like corbels — like the carved, hunched stone figures that support a ceiling — their faces pressed to the earth. Some are bent further than others, proportionate to the weight of their pride. Dante is moved to wonder: these were once great people. Now they can barely lift their eyes to see the marble carvings of humility. The irony is architectural: the proud, who inflated themselves, are now literally compressed.