“Messer Biancomonte,” said she, and the sound of the old name, falling from her lips, thrilled me with a joy unspeakable, and seemed already to reinvest me in my old estate, “Messer Biancomonte, you have done me in these four-and-twenty hours such service as never did knight of old for any lady—and you did it, too, out of the most disinterested and noble of motives, proving thereby how truly knightly is that heart of yours, which, for my sake, has all but beat its last to-night. You must journey on to Pesaro with me despite this banishment of which you have told me. I will be surety that no harm shall come to you. I could not do less, and I shall hope to do far more. Such influence as I may prove to have with my cousin of Pesaro shall be exerted all on your behalf, my friend; and if in the nature of Giovanni Sforza there be a tithe of the gratitude with which you have inspired me, you shall, at least, have justice, and Biancomonte shall be yours again.” I was silent for a spell, so touched was I by the kindness she manifested me—so touched, indeed, and so unused to it that I forgot how amply I had earned it, and how rudely she had used me ere that was done. “Alas!” I sighed. “God knows I am no longer fit to sit in the house of the Biancomonte. I am come too low, Madonna.” “That Lazzaro, after whom you are named,” she answered, “had come yet lower. But he lived again, and resumed his former station. Take your courage from that.” “He lived not at the mercy of Giovanni of Pesaro,” said I. There was a fresh pause at that. Then—“At least,” she urged me, “you’ll come to Pesaro with me?” “Why yes,” said I. “I could not let you go alone.” And in my heart I felt a pang of shame, and called myself a cur for making use of her as I was doing to reach the Court of Giovanni Sforza. “You need fear no consequences,” she promised me. “I can be surety for that at least.” In the east a brighter, yellower light than the moon’s began to show. It was the dawn, from which I gathered that it must be approaching the thirteenth hour. 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.”