Urging their horses through the fringe of the crowd, the two youthful champions of oppressed right came upon a scene they had not bargained for.
Standing in the doorway was a woman, middle-aged and comely, whose face was a study of mingled perplexity, indignation, and fright.
In the middle of a semicircle formed by the crowd towered a powerfully made man of commanding and noble aspect, dressed in plain yet rich garments of sober russet cloth tipped with fur. Save for a short dagger he was unarmed, a vellum-bound book hanging by a steel chain occupying the place of a sword.
Held at arm's length by the stranger's muscular arm was the friar whom the lads had seen at Bedhampton that same morning. The man's hang-dog face was convulsed with fury, though it was evident that he was in terror of the stranger, whose anger was as apparent as that of his captive.
Ignoring the hurried undertone remonstrances of a merchant, the stranger addressed the throng in a loud voice.
"My good people," he exclaimed, "how much longer will ye suffer yourselves to be deluded by such cloaked and cowled rascals as this? By what authority doth the friar claim the right to sell pardons and absolutions for every sin that besets us? Not by that of One above, I'll warrant. And how can a parcel of so-called relics possess the power of imparting nameless virtues to the dupe who hath purchased them? Hold up the trickster's wares," he continued, addressing a sheepish-looking countryman. "Nay, do not hesitate; if so be a murrain falls upon the unbeliever, on my head be it."
Thus encouraged the peasant stooped and picked up something from the ground.
"Hold them up," commanded the stranger authoritatively. "Raise them high above thy head that all may see."
The man obeyed, and, to Geoffrey's astonishment, displayed a piece of a horseshoe and a bent and rusted nail.
"Now, dame," continued the stranger, speaking in a kindlier tone. "Tell me how named your friar this fragment of horseshoe?"