I then put myself in one corner of the doorway, and took some pieces of bread out of my bosom, which remained from what had been given me. When he saw it he said to me, “Come here, my boy, what is it you are eating?” I came to him and showed him. He took for himself the largest of the three pieces I had, and said to me, “By my life! this bread seems good.” “And sir,” said I, “it is good.” “Yes, by my faith!” said he, “where did you get it from--are you sure it was kneaded with clean hands?” “I do not know that,” said I, “but the smell of it does not turn my stomach.” “Please God!” said my poor master, and, putting it to his mouth, he began to take as voracious mouthfuls as I did with mine. “It is most delicious,” he said. I feared he would finish first, and that he would want to help me with what was left of mine, so we both came to an end at the same time. [Sidenote: A meagre supper and a wretched bed.] My master then began to collect with his hand a few crumbs which had remained on our breasts. Then he went into a small room and brought out a jug without a spout, and not very new. After he had had a drink he offered it to me. I said, “Sir! I do not drink wine.” “It is water,” he replied, “and you can well drink it.” Then I took the jug and drank, but not very much, as thirst was not my complaint. So we remained until the night, talking about things he had asked me, while I gave the best answers I could. He took me into the chamber out of which he had brought the jug of water, and said, “Boy, stay here, and see how we make this bed, that you may know how to make it henceforward.” He put me at one end and himself at the other, and he made the miserable bed. There was not much to make. He had a sort of hurdle on trestles. Over this he spread clothes. They did not look very like a mattress, but served as one, with much less blanket than was necessary. What there was we spread out, but it was impossible to soften the bed. It was too hard. When the bed was made, and the night being come, he said to me: “Lazaro, it is now too late, it is a long way to the market-place, and in this city there are many thieves who prowl about at night. We must do the best we can, and to-morrow, when it is light, God will have mercy. Being alone I am not provided, for I have been in the habit of having my meals outside, but now we will arrange things in another way.” [Sidenote: The esquire’s apology for no supper. His philosophical view of starvation.] “Sir,” I replied, “do not trouble about me, for I can pass a night like this.” “You will become more and more healthy,” he then told me, “for there is nothing in the world that lives long but it eats little.” “If that is so,” I said to myself, “I shall never die, for I have always been obliged to observe that rule by force, and even, if my ill-luck continues, it may be so all my life.”