• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 753 0

adversary said was true: he had not wanted to give him more than four reales because he had given him that amount many times, and those who expect a tip have to be well-mannered and take what is given to them with a smile, and not demand explanations from the winners unless they know for certain that they are cheats and their winnings are ill-gotten gains; and as a sign that he was an honest man and not a thief, as the other man said, there was no better proof than his not wanting to give him anything, because cheats always have to pay tribute to the onlookers who know them.

“That’s true,” said the steward. “Señor Governor, your grace will have to decide what ought to be done with these men.”

“What ought to be done is this,” responded Sancho. “You, the win-ner, good, bad, or indifferent, must give your opponent a hundred reales, and another thirty to the poor men in prison; and you who have no money and no work and are not needed on this ínsula, take the hundred reales and leave this ínsula by tomorrow; you’re banished for ten years, and if you come back before then, you’ll finish your sentence in the next life, because I’ll hang you from the gallows, or at least the hangman will, on my orders; and let no one reply or he’ll feel my hand.”

One man paid, the other received, the latter left the ínsula, the former went home, and the governor remained, saying:

“Now, either I’m mistaken or I’m going to close down these gambling houses, because it seems clear to me that they’re very harmful.”

“Your grace won’t be able to close down this one, at least,” said a scribe, “because it’s owned by a very important person, and what he loses every year at cards is incomparably more than what he wins. Your grace can show your power against other gambling dens of less distinction, which are the ones that do more harm and harbor more outrages; in the houses of highborn gentlemen and nobles, the notorious cheats don’t dare to use their tricks, and since the vice of gambling has become so widespread, it’s better to gamble in distinguished houses than in those of workmen, where they keep a poor wretch for half the night and skin him alive.”

“Now, Scribe,” said Sancho, “I know there’s a lot to say about this.”

At that moment a constable came up to them, holding a young man, and he said:

“Señor Governor, this lad was coming toward us, and as soon as he saw that we were the law, he turned his back and began to run like a deer, a sign that he must be a criminal. I went after him, and if he hadn’t tripped and fallen, I never would have caught him.”

“Why were you running away?” asked Sancho.

To which the young man responded:

“Señor, to avoid answering all the questions that constables ask.”

“What’s your trade?”

“A weaver.”

“And what do you weave?”

“The iron tips of lances, with your grace’s kind permission.”

“Are you being funny with me? Are you proud of being a joker? Fine! Where were you going now?”

“Señor, to take the air.”

“And where do you take the air on this ínsula?”

“Wherever it blows.”

“Good: your answers are right to the point! You’re clever, boy, but you should know that I’m the air, and I’m blowing at your back and sending you to prison. You there, seize him and take him away, and I’ll make him sleep without any air tonight!”

“By God!” said the young man. “Your grace will make me sleep in prison when you make me king!”

“And why can’t I make you sleep in prison?” responded Sancho. “Don’t I have the power to arrest you and let you go whenever I want to?”

“No matter how much power your grace has,” said the young man, “it won’t be enough to make me sleep in prison.”

“You think so?” replied Sancho. “Take him right now to the place where he’ll see the truth with his own eyes, no matter how much the warden tries to use self-interested generosity with him; I’ll fine the warden two thousand ducados if he lets you take one step out of prison.”

“All this is laughable,” responded the young man. “The fact is that every man alive today won’t make me sleep in prison.”

“Tell me, you demon,” said Sancho, “do you have an angel