“God save your paternity,” was his greeting.
“God save you, my son,” replied Frey Miguel, still pondering him. “I seem to know you. Do I?”
The stranger laughed. “Though all the world forget, your paternity should remember me.”
And then Frey Miguel sucked in his breath sharply. “My God!” he cried, and set a hand upon the fellow’s shoulder, looking deeply into those bold, grey eyes. “What make you here?”
“I am a pastry-cook.”
“A pastry-cook? You?”
“One must live, and it is a more honest trade than most. I was in Valladolid, when I heard that your paternity was the Vicar of the Convent here, and so for the sake of old times—of happier times—I bethought me that I might claim your paternity’s support.” He spoke with a careless arrogance, half-tinged with mockery.
“Assuredly...” began the priest, and then he checked. “Where is your shop?”
“Just down the street. Will your paternity honour me?”
Frey Miguel bowed, and together they departed.