The Second Day

The Departure from Southwark

T HE next morning the Tabard was astir early. The Host rose by daybreak, and collected the whole flock of pilgrims together, like a cock calling his hens round him. As soon as they were all ready they set out, riding at little more than a foot-pace. Some of their horses were but sorry beasts, and many of the pilgrims were bad riders. The Shipman had much trouble in sticking on the great carthorse which he had hired—a strange beast for a sailor to be on. The Reeve, too, was all behindhand, mounted upon a dapple-gray cob called Scot, on whose flanks his rusty sword dangled awkwardly.

Indeed, they must have appeared an oddly mixed band, as they started along the road towards Greenwich: the lean Clerk; Dame Alison, the red-faced Wife of Bath, wearing a big round hat as broad as a shield, and sitting easily on her gentle, ambling nag; the Monk on a fat palfrey as brown as a berry, his harness jingling as loudly as his own chapel-bell; the Merchant very upright on his tall horse, the Summoner carrying a large cake as a shield, with a garland on his head as big as those hung out as the sign of an inn; and all the rest in their different costumes, riding anyhow together. The Pardoner was singing lustily a song beginning "Come hither, love, to me," and the Summoner joined in with a deep bass voice like a trumpet. The Miller, though he was still a little sleepy, rode bravely at the head of the procession, to lead them out of town, gaily blowing a tune on his bagpipes.

The Miller rode bravely at the head, gaily blowing a tune.

This Miller was a large, brawny fellow, with huge shoulders, like those of a good wrestler and fighting-man. He could heave any door off its hinges, however big, or butt it open with his head. His beard was as red as a fox's coat, and as broad as a spade. He had a great wart on the tip of his nose, wide-open nostrils, and a mouth like a furnace. He was a boastful talker and ribald jester, but clever enough at stealing corn or getting three times as much as was due to him. In fact, he was a coarse and cunning rascal; but he could play the bagpipes right well, and his merry tunes and rough jokes made the company start in good spirits.

The pilgrims rode on until they came to the Watering of St. Thomas, a place beside a brook about two miles from their starting-point. Here the Host stopped his horse, and turned to the others.

"Listen to me, sirs, if you please," he cried, "and remember your promise to obey me. If you are still of the same mind, let us see who is to tell the first tale. If anyone refuses to do as I bid him, he must pay for all that is bought to-day, as we agreed. Here are straws of different lengths; you shall each draw one, and whoever draws the shortest must begin with the first tale. Come near, my lady Prioress, and you, Sir Clerk, lay aside your modesty. Draw, every one of you."

They drew as the Host bade them. The shortest straw fell to the Knight, and everyone felt glad at the result. He was a very brave and good man, an honourable Crusader, who ever since he first rode abroad had loved honour and chivalry and truth. He had done his duty well in his overlord the King's service, and had fought thrice in the lists for the Christian faith in far-off lands, and in fifteen mortal battles, winning fame throughout all Christendom. Many a time had he been put at the head of the high table at feasts, to show in what esteem he was held. Yet, with all his valour and high renown, he was as courteous and meek as a maid, and a very perfect, gentle knight. It was fitting therefore that he should have the place of honour, and tell the first tale.