Accordingly, the next morning they left the friendly trader’s house, where they had found so safe an asylum, and proceeding to the outskirts of the city, met Markham with his old white pony, on which they mounted Hubert, and so went slowly on their way. They rested at an inn that night, and it was not till the next afternoon that they approached their new home. The setting sun was lighting up the snowy meadows and the clustered cottages with their low roofs laden with snow. At the entrance of the village they were met by several of the peasants eager to welcome back their friend; and, seeing that he had with him two pale stranger lads, they each contributed from their humble store refreshment to cheer them after their journey. They pressed the travellers to enter their cottages and rest awhile; but the old man wanted to be back at his own fireside; so, passing on through the single straggling street to a house that stood a little apart from the rest, the last in the row, the pony stopped of his own accord, and Markham, opening the latch, which, in those simple times, alone fastened the door, bade the wearied lads enter, for this was their home. It was a low-roofed cottage of only one room, and furnished with the most perfect simplicity. Above, the oaken rafters, blackened by time and smoke, were plainly to be seen, and were festooned with strings of dried vegetables and herbs. The floor was of well-trodden clay; and a rough table, a few stools, a chest, some straw beds, and an oaken armchair, curiously carved by the old curate himself, completed the furniture. A sort of rack, or shelf, on one side, served as a dresser to hold the wooden platters and horn drinking-cups; while on pegs inserted in the wall, hung a sword, a cross-bow, and various garden-tools. The old man seemed to forget his own fatigue in ministering to the comfort of his guests. Geoffrey aided him, by bringing in fagots, and soon a bountiful repast, consisting of bacon, cheese, cakes, milk, and eggs, was ready to satisfy their hunger.