The commissary knew too much about Portuguese cookery to trust to
it. He had provided himself before leaving Elvas with the commissary's
cut, which is always the best steak from the best bullock. He now
produced from among his baggage that implement so truly indicative of
the march of English civilization--the gridiron; and not until the
large table, at the other side of the room, had been spread, and
supper was ready, did his man proceed to dress it skillfully and
quickly, under the vigilant superintendance of the commissary himself.
They were sitting down to supper when L'Isle, seeing that the young
friar remained by the fire, pointed out a vacant seat, and asked him
to join them. But he shook his head.
"You are eating flesh. I must fast to-day."
"Because the Scriptures bid you?" L'Isle inquired.
"Because the Church commands me."
"You are aware, then, that there is no absolute injunction in
Scripture to fast on particular days."
"Yet the Church may have authority--it doubtless has authority to
appoint such days," the young friar answered, seeming at once to
stifle a doubt and his appetite.
Cookery must be judged of by the palate, and not by the eye.
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