“Which should it be,” said the secretary, “but he who is seated in the chair?”
“Then I humble myself before him,” said the farmer; and going on his knees he asked for his hand, to kiss it. Sancho refused it, and bade him stand up and say what he wanted. The farmer obeyed, and then said, “I am a farmer, señor, a native of Miguelturra, a village two leagues from Ciudad Real.”
“Another Tirteafuera!” said Sancho; “say on, brother; I know Miguelturra very well I can tell you, for it’s not very far from my own town.”
“The case is this, señor,” continued the farmer, “that by God’s mercy I am married with the leave and licence of the holy Roman Catholic Church; I have two sons, students, and the younger is studying to become bachelor, and the elder to be licentiate; I am a widower, for my wife died, or more properly speaking, a bad doctor killed her on my hands, giving her a purge when she was with child; and if it had pleased God that the child had been born, and was a boy, I would have put him to study for doctor, that he might not envy his brothers the bachelor and the licentiate.”
“So that if your wife had not died, or had not been killed, you would not now be a widower,” said Sancho.
“No, señor, certainly not,” said the farmer.
“We’ve got that much settled,” said Sancho; “get on, brother, for it’s more bedtime than business-time.”
“Well then,” said the farmer, “this son of mine who is going to be a bachelor, fell in love in the said town with a damsel called Clara Perlerina, daughter of Andrés Perlerino, a very rich farmer; and this name of