“There is nothing to be afraid of,” said the majordomo, “for we are all here.”
“Would it be possible, carver,” said Sancho, “now that Doctor Pedro Recio is not here, to let me eat something solid and substantial, if it were even a piece of bread and an onion?”
“To-night at supper,” said the carver, “the shortcomings of the dinner shall be made good, and your lordship shall be fully contented.”
“God grant it,” said Sancho.
The farmer now came in, a well-favoured man that one might see a thousand leagues off was an honest fellow and a good soul. The first thing he said was, “Which is the lord governor here?”
“Which should it be,” said the secretary, “but he who is seated in the chair?”
“Then I humble myself before him,” said the farmer; and going on his knees he asked for his hand, to kiss it. Sancho refused it, and bade him stand up and say what he wanted. The farmer obeyed, and then said, “I am a farmer, señor, a native of Miguelturra, a village two leagues from Ciudad Real.”
“Another Tirteafuera!” said Sancho; “say on, brother; I know Miguelturra very well I can tell you, for it’s not very far from my own town.”
“The case is this, señor,” continued the farmer, “that by God’s mercy I am married with the leave and licence of the holy Roman Catholic Church; I have two sons, students, and the younger is studying to become bachelor, and the elder to be licentiate; I am a widower, for my wife died, or more properly speaking, a bad doctor killed her on my hands, giving her a purge when she was with child; and if it had pleased God that the child had been born, and was a boy, I would have put him to study for doctor, that he might not envy his brothers the bachelor and the licentiate.”
“So that if your wife had not died, or had not been killed, you would not now be a widower,” said Sancho.