“I? No. Why?”
“Because a few days ago I came here with a gentleman who was really as dead hungry as ourselves. While we were waiting for the meal he asked the name of the rector and wrote some verses to him that were as pretty as you’d wish. Then the rector sent for him and gave him plenty to eat and drink.”
“It’s a shame that we can’t write a rhyme. What’s the rector’s name?”
“Domingo.”
Manuel tried hard to find a word ending in ingo, but could not. And when the lay brother entered with a large pot that he deposited upon the table, Manuel forgot his task completely.
The brother then brought wooden spoons and distributed them among the beggars. Of these, all but one brought forth large cups; the solitary exception was a repulsive type with a swollen lower lip that protruded and was covered with ulcers.
“Wait a second, brother,” said the soldier, before the other fellow could thrust his spoon into the pot. “We’re going to put the food into the cover of the pot and we’ll eat from there.”
“I don’t know what you’ve got against me!” mumbled the beggar.
“You? You’ve got a lip that looks like a beefsteak.”
Manuel and the soldier then ate and after thanking the lay brother they left the monastery and stretched themselves out on the field in the sun.