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.