paused to dine, but here, again, they told me that no horses might be
had. And so, leading by the bridle the animal I dared no longer ride,
lest I should kill it outright, I entered the territory of Urbino on
foot, and trudged wearily amain through the snow that was some inches
deep by now. In this miserable fashion I covered the seven leagues, or
so, to Spoleto, where I arrived exhausted as night was falling.

There, at the Osteria del Sole, I supped and lay. I found a company of
gentlemen in the common-room, who upon espying my motley--when I had
thrown off my sodden cloak and hat--pressed me, willy-nilly, into amusing
them. And so I spent the night at my Fool's trade, giving them
drolleries from the works of Boccacci and Sacchetti--the horn-books of
all jesters.

I obtained a fresh horse next morning, and I set out betimes, intending
to travel with a better speed. The snow was thick and soft at first, but
as I approached the hills it grew more crisp. Overhead the sky was of an
unbroken blue, and for all that the air was sharp there was warmth in the
sunshine. All day I rode hard, and never rested until towards nightfall
I found myself on the spurs of the Apennines in the neighborhood of
Gualdo, the better half of my journey well-accomplished. The weather had
changed again at sunset. It was snowing anew, and the north wind was
howling like a choir of the damned.

Before me gleamed the lights of a little wayside tavern, and since it
might suit me better to lie there than to journey on to Gualdo, I drew
rein before that humble door, and got down from my wearied horse.
Despite the early hour the door was already barred, for the bedding of
travellers formed no part of the traffic of so lowly a house as this
nameless, wayside wine-shop. Theirs was a trade that ended with the