"So they say. You are lettered! And early afoot."
"Yes, sir. I am called to be early. I still go South."
"Seeking work, no doubt. You are honest, I hope?"
"Yes, sir, a very honest Christian. But I seek no work. I find it."
"You are lucky," said the priest, and took snuff. "And where is your work? In Valladolid, perhaps?"
Estéban blinked hard at that last question. "No, sir," he said. "Not there." Do what he might he could not repress the bitter gleam in his eyes.
The old priest paused, his fingers once more in the snuff-box. "There again you have a great city. Ah, and there was a time when Valladolid was one of the greatest in Castile. The capital of a kingdom! Chosen seat of a king! Pattern of the true Faith!" His eyelids narrowed quickly. "You do not know it?"
"No, sir," said Estéban gently. "I have never been there."
The priest shrugged. "Vaya! it is no affair of mine," he said. Then he waved his hand, wagging it about like a fan. "Go your ways," he added, "with God."
"Always at the feet of your reverence," said Estéban, and watched him depart. He stared after him, and looked sick.