XXVII.

So the two brothers and their murder'd man Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno's stream 210 Gurgles through straiten'd banks, and still doth fan Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan The brothers' faces in the ford did seem, Lorenzo's flush with love.--They pass'd the water Into a forest quiet for the slaughter.