"Yes, my lord, this dry bread, seasoned with that juicy odour, seemed to me the most delicious of morsels."
At this moment the clock struck noon.
"Noon!" cried the majordomo. "This marvellous cook instructed me to serve you, my lord, at noon precisely. The cover is already laid on the little table. I am going to bring it."
"Go, Pablo," said the canon, with a meditative air. "My destiny is about to be accomplished. The miracle, if it is a miracle, is going to be performed,—if it is to be performed; for I swear, in spite of all you have just told me, I have not the least appetite. I have a heavy stomach and a clammy mouth. Go, Pablo, I am waiting."
There was a resignation full of doubt, of curiosity, of anguish, and of vague hope, in the accent with which Dom Diégo uttered the words, "I am waiting."
Soon the majordomo reappeared.
He walked with a solemn air, bearing on a tray a little chafing-dish of silver, the size of a plate, surmounted with its stew-pan. On the side of the tray was a small crystal flagon, filled with a limpid liquid, the colour of burnt topaz.
Pablo, as he approached, several times held his nose to the edge of the stew-pan to inhale the appetising exhalations which escaped from it; finally, he placed on the table the little chafing-dish, the flagon, and a small card.
"Pablo," asked the canon, pointing to the chafing-dish, surmounted with its pan, "what is that silver plate?"
"It belongs to M. Appetite, sir; under this pan is a dish with a double bottom, filled with boiling water, because this great man says the food must be eaten burning hot."