‘How, Madonna Flora!’ quoth I; (Flora, may it please your reverence, is the name of the waiting maid)⁠—‘How, Madonna Flora!’ quoth I; ‘Does your mistress eat flesh upon Fridays? Well! Well! See the event, and then remember that dame Jacintha warned you of it!’ These were my very words, but alas! I might as well have held my tongue! Nobody minded me; and Flora, who is somewhat pert and snappish (more is the pity, say I) told me that there was no more harm in eating a chicken than the egg from which it came. Nay, she even declared that if her lady added a slice of bacon, she would not be an inch nearer damnation, God protect us! A poor ignorant sinful soul! I protest to your holiness, I trembled to hear her utter such blasphemies, and expected every moment to see the ground open and swallow her up, chicken and all! For you must know, worshipful father, that while she talked thus, she held the plate in her hand, on which lay the identical roast fowl. And a fine bird it was, that I must say for it! Done to a turn, for I superintended the cooking of it myself: it was a little Gallician of my own raising, may it please your holiness, and the flesh was as white as an eggshell, as indeed Donna Elvira told me herself.