Pesaro could not be more than a couple of leagues farther, and, presently, when we had gained the summit of the slight hill we were ascending, we beheld in the distance a blurred mass looming on the edge of the glittering sea.

A silver ribbon that uncoiled itself from the western hills disappeared behind it.

That silvery streak was the River Foglia; that heap of buildings against the landscape's virgin white, the town of Pesaro.
Madonna pointed to it with a sudden cry of gladness.

"See Messer Biancomonte, how near we are.

Courage, my friend; a little farther, and yonder we have rest and comfort for you." She had need, in truth, to cry me "Courage!" for I was weakening fast once more.