This was the fruit of many books and of many teachers. He turned from the window to survey his room. He saw his books piled up in the gloom of their shelves, his nostrils caught the smell of warm leather and parchment, and a great loathing of them and the life to which they belonged rose up in his heart. Oh for Life, Life, real Life--away from books, away from disputations, away from endless reflectings and researchings. Oh for Life, the Life of the free spirit, moving of itself, uncontrolled, self-expressive. He glanced once more out of the open window; the moon poured down her silvery floods. The lamp was dying on the table; the room grew darker and closer. He took his wallet and staff and went out. II It was broad noonday on the highway which led like a ragged ribbon over the wide Berkshire downs. The smell of gorse and brambleberry drowsed in the warm air. Twenty miles behind lay the towers and cloisters of Oxford. The sun was hot upon the road; a squat, diminutive shadow clung fantastically beneath the Friar’s sandals. The Friar was tired, the Friar was hungry, the Friar was thirsty, but he tramped doggedly on, aiding himself with his staff. At a turn of the road a man in a blue kirtle came in sight, leading an emaciated horse with a large bale upon its back. An iron bell hung down from the horse’s shoulder and clanked dully against the beast’s projecting ribs. The Friar knew the man for a travelling merchant. ‘Save thee, Father,’ cried the Pedlar. ‘Bless thee, my son,’ answered the Friar. Then he added, ‘I think thou sellest garments.’ ‘That I do,’ said the Pedlar. ‘Vair and grey for lordings; jerkins and hosen for fellows; gowns, brocades, and ribbons for the belles amies of every vill.’ ‘Show me thy ware, honest man.’ The Pedlar took the bale from the horse’s back, unfastened the rope wherewith it was tied, and spread out its contents upon a cloth upon the ground. The Friar chose hosen and jerkin and hood and shoes, all of a sober, comely colour, and a purse of rich, red velvet, tied with a golden cord. ‘How much, honest man?’ ‘Thirty pence.’ Friar Gregory remembered that Our Lord was sold for thirty pieces of silver. ‘By Our Blessed Lady, I will give thee twenty-five,’ he cried. ‘Doubtless the holy Father desires these garments for the purposes of religion. Nicholas Brainford was never the man to refuse to God the things that are God’s. I will take twenty-five pennies, but of thy charity, holy Father, say ten masses for the soul of my mother, who departed this life five months ago this very day, and now lies in the churchyard of Saint Ethelreda, Eastcheap, God rest her soul.’ ‘I will say twenty masses for her soul,’ said the Friar, and counted out twenty-five pennies. ‘Gramercy, holy Father, and may God in Heaven, and Christ His Son and the Blessed Virgin and all Saints keep thee on thy way.’