They all go into another room -- a recreational room with a pool table, a number of stuffed leather chairs, a humidor, a bar with a stock of fine spirits on display, and tables for dining and card playing. The buzzard priest waves his hand across the room and says, simply, that they are for hunter's leisure.
Thank you, he says. He pauses. I hope I'm not being rude... This is all wonderful... but... could I have something to eat?
Oh! says the buzzard with an obvious red flush of embarrassment. Of course you may! Of course you may! Come -- let us all sit! He directs him to a table, and they all sit. Immediately, a servant appears from behind a curtain at the edge of the room. We will eat now, says the elder priest. And... he continues with a bubbling chuckle and a wink, Bring us in some ice water and some wine such that we may sup -- such that we may [chuckle, wink] commune, if you will -- with our guest!
The servant disappears behind the curtain. A moment or two passes, the food and drink arrives, the buzzard priest blesses the meal, and they begin to eat. He tries his best not to bolt down his food, but it is difficult. He is famished. Yet the priests insist, as he supposes is their right, to draw him into conversation. And he supposes it is his obligation, as guest of sanctuary, to respond.
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