He sat down with them, crossed himself, and ate sparingly of some dry crust, whilst Walter and Sainton tackled a prime joint.
Roger, pausing to take a drink, eyed askance the meager provender which sufficed for Fra Pietro; he made bold to ask him why he fared so poorly.
“It is fast day, and, unfortunately, I forgot to tell the cook to boil me some salted fish.”
“Are there many such days in your calendar?” quoth Roger.
“Yes, at certain periods of the year.”
“Gad, if that be so, you ought to follow the practice of a jolly old priest I have heard of, who, having pork but no fish on a Friday, baptized it in a water-butt saying, ‘Down pig; up pike!’ Then he feasted right royally and without injury to his conscience.”
The monk smiled. He was wise enough to see that the hearty giant intended no offense.
“I do not need such sustenance as your bulk demands,” he said. “I heard the men speaking of your proportions, but, until I saw you with my own eyes I could scarce credit that such a man lived.”
“I take it you are not in league with our captors?” put in Walter, anxious to gain some notion as to the extraordinary circumstances which led up to his present position.
“I am but a poor Franciscan, availing myself of a passage to Lisbon.”