“No, no!” answered Martos, with a grim smile. “No, but the dinner!”
“Have the dogs eaten it, then, instead of you?” asked the king.
The major-domo shook his head sorrowfully. “Dinner, my lord and master, there is none.”
“No dinner!” broke in Garcia. “Do you mean to say nothing is provided for the king?”
“Nothing! nothing!” cried Martos in despair, clasping his hands.
“I assure your Grace I told them you were coming,” broke in Garcia. “I gave the Marqués de Villena due notice. I am not to blame.”
“I am sure you are not, dear Garcia. Good Martos, do not vex yourself. Call such people together as you can find, and have the game we shot on the way fashioned into a salmis. It will make a delicious dish.”
Then Martos and a page appeared, carrying a single dish, and placed it on the table.
“How is this?” cried the king, with more anger than he had yet shown. “Where are the servants I pay to serve this palace? Where is the jefe whose duty it is to receive his sovereign?”
“Gone, my lord and master, gone no one knows whither. Nothing left but a crippled scullion and those cursed dogs, who fly upon us every time we move.”