master is a merry fellow too, and can tell us a tale or so," he said.
"Who? My master? I can warrant he will do that," replied the yeoman,
"and let me tell you he is a wonderful man." "What!" said the Host,
"is he a scholar?" "Far greater than a scholar," replied the servant;
"he has a wondrous power. Why, he could turn the whole ground from
here to Canterbury to solid gold!" "Good heavens!" returned the Host,
"you don't say that? Then why on earth does he hide his light under a
bushel like this and go about practically in rags? I should have
expected such a man to have at least a decent coat on his back."
"Ah," said the yeoman, "if you ask that question I will tell you a
secret. My master is wise: of that there is no doubt; but anything
carried to excess, as philosophers say, is a vice, and in him wisdom
has led to folly." "Where do you live?" asked the Host. "In the
suburbs of a town--among the haunts of thieves and malefactors
generally." "What gives your face that strange sallow colour?" asked
the Host. "It is bending over the fire and blowing it. All day long
we are at our work, puffing and blowing, stoking and raking, and as
reward of it all--nothing! We cozen men of their gold in pretence
that we can make one pound into two, and we always fail." All this
while the canon had been edging up to his servant to hear what he was
saying, for like all men with guilty consciences he was always afraid
of being talked about. He now told him to be silent. The Host was too
interested to have the talk cut short. "Go on," said he, "take no
notice of him." "No more I will," said the yeoman. When the canon saw
that his servant was going to disclose his secrets, in very shame he
turned and rode away.

"Now," said the yeoman, "I can speak plainly. The fiend take him, and
him who first introduced me to him! Such a life have I led with him.
For seven years I have dwelt with this canon and I am no whit the