The mountain is ferociously steep — Dante compares it to San Leo, the fortified cliff town in the Marches, and to Noli, clinging to its rock above the Ligurian sea. The path up is a narrow chimney in the rock, and both men must use hands and feet to scale it. Dante is panting and exhausted; Virgil urges him on. When they finally reach a ledge and pause, Dante is astonished to find that the sun has moved significantly — more time has passed than it felt. Virgil explains Purgatory's cosmography: they are in the southern hemisphere, and the sun moves on the opposite side from what a northern-dweller expects. The sun is always to the north here. The mountain grows easier to climb as one ascends — a counterpart to Inferno's worsening descent.
On the ledge, they find a group of souls — another class of the negligent, those who delayed repentance until the end of their lives through what might be called spiritual laziness rather than excommunication. Among them, seated in the shade of a rock, arms around his knees, head down, completely relaxed, is a figure Dante recognizes: Belacqua, a Florentine maker of lutes and musical instruments, famously slothful in life. Their exchange is one of Purgatorio's most gently comic moments. Dante is surprised to see him here and not in Hell; Belacqua explains with ironic calm that an angel kept him from the gate — he must sit here until he has waited as long as his earthly life lasted (unless shortened by prayer), because he delayed repentance until the final hour. He is entirely philosophical about it, in his lazy way. The scene is charming but pointed: even outside Hell, habits of procrastination exact their cost.