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“No, Señor,” responded the page, “because he seems a simple soul, and either I don’t know much or he’s as good as a piece of bread.”

“There’s nothing to fear,” said the steward. “We’re all here.”

“Butler, would it be possible,” said Sancho, “now that Dr. Pedro Recio isn’t here, for me to eat something with a little more weight and substance, even if it’s a piece of bread and an onion?”

“Tonight the supper will make up for the defects in your dinner, and your lordship will be well-satisfied and content,” said the butler.

“May God grant us that,” responded Sancho.

And at this point the farmer came in, a man of very decent appearance, and from a thousand leagues away one could see that he was honest and a good soul. The first thing he said was:

“Which one of you is the governor?”

“Who else would it be,” responded the secretary, “except the one who’s sitting on the chair?”

“Then I humble myself in his presence,” said the farmer.

And going down on his knees, he asked for Sancho’s hand to kiss. Sancho refused and ordered him to stand and tell him what he wanted. The farmer complied and said:

“Señor, I’m a farmer, a native of Miguel Turra, a village two leagues from Ciudad Real.”

“We have another Tirteafuera!” said Sancho. “Go on, brother, for I can tell you that I know Miguel Turra very well, and it’s not very far from my village.”

“Well, Señor, the fact is,” the farmer continued, “that I, by the grace of God, am married with the blessing and consent of the Holy Roman Catholic Church; I have two sons who are students: the younger is studying for his bachelor’s degree and the older one for his licentiate; I’m a widower because my wife died, or I should say, a bad doctor killed her, purging her when she was pregnant, and if it had been God’s will for the child to be born, and if it had been a boy, I would have had him study medicine so he wouldn’t be envious of his brothers, the bachelor and the licentiate.”

“Which means,” said Sancho, “that if your wife hadn’t died, or hadn’t been killed, you wouldn’t be a widower now.”

“No, Señor, not at all,” responded the farmer.

“Well, that’s a fine thing!” replied Sancho. “Go on, brother, because now’s the time for sleep, not petitions.”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said the farmer, “that my son who’s studying to be a bachelor fell in love with a maiden from our village named Clara Perlerina, the daughter of Andrés Perlerino, a very rich farmer; and this name of Perlerín doesn’t come to them from their ancestry or family, but because everyone in this lineage is palsied, and to improve the name they’re called Perlerín,8 though if truth be told, the maiden is like an Oriental pearl, and looked at from the right side she seems a flower of the field; from the left side it’s a different story, because she lost that eye when she had smallpox; and though she has many large pockmarks on her face, those who love her dearly say that those aren’t pockmarks but the graves where the souls of her suitors are buried. She’s so clean that in order not to dirty her face her nose, as they say, is so turned up that it looks like it’s running away from her mouth; and still she looks extremely attractive because her mouth is large, and if it weren’t missing ten or twelve teeth, it would be counted and considered as one of the best formed. I have nothing to say about her lips, because they’re so thin and delicate that if it were usual to wind lips, they could be made into a nice skein, but since their color’s different from the one commonly found in lips, they seem miraculous, because they’re a mottled blue, green, and purple; and, Señor Governor, please forgive me for painting in so much detail the traits of the woman who, in the long run, is going to be my daughter, because I love her dearly and think she’s fine.”

“Paint as much as you like,” said Sancho, “because I’m enjoying the picture, and if I had eaten, there couldn’t be a better dessert for me than your portrait.”

“I still have that to serve to you,” responded the farmer, “but a time will come when we’re ready for it, if we aren