Chap­ter II fol­lows Lazaril­lo as he escapes one hard­ship only to enter anoth­er, leav­ing behind a blind mas­ter and soon find­ing him­self under the care of a miser­ly priest in Maque­da. What begins with cau­tious hope quick­ly descends into anoth­er form of tor­ment, cloaked in the false piety of his new employ­er. The priest, out­ward­ly devout and respect­ed by his com­mu­ni­ty, treats Lazaril­lo not as a ser­vant to be cared for, but as a bur­den to be rationed. Meals are rare and por­tions absurd­ly small—little more than crumbs of bread, often stale, and nev­er enough to sat­is­fy even a child. Lazaril­lo begins to under­stand that suf­fer­ing can wear many faces, and not all of them shout. Hunger becomes a con­stant com­pan­ion, gnaw­ing at his strength, his patience, and his sense of self-worth. In this silent war against star­va­tion, he begins to imag­ine cre­ative ways to stay alive, know­ing well that open defi­ance would get him noth­ing but the door.

The priest keeps his food secured in a locked wood­en chest, guard­ing it as though it held holy relics. Lazaril­lo, ema­ci­at­ed and des­per­ate, watch­es the box like a wolf watch­es a hen­house. At first, he sur­vives off scraps from neigh­bors and bread meant for mourn­ers at funerals—events he starts to antic­i­pate with a dis­turb­ing sense of hope. His prayers turn from divine deliv­er­ance to pleas for death—not his own, but anyone’s—if it meant anoth­er meal. When the chest becomes the only reli­able source of food in the house, he plots a way in. He blames imag­i­nary mice for small holes near the base, carv­ing out a nar­row entrance through which he can sneak bits of bread. The priest, alarmed, sets traps, but finds noth­ing. Lazaril­lo con­tin­ues, night after night, nib­bling sur­vival from the lies he has to invent. His bel­ly is nev­er full, but the taste of stolen crust feels bet­ter than hon­est star­va­tion.

In time, the priest notices that his loaves are shrink­ing faster than expect­ed. Sus­pect­ing a cun­ning rat, he seals the chest with more deter­mi­na­tion, while Lazaril­lo answers with a new tac­tic: craft­ing a small, hand­made key. He hides it in his mouth dur­ing the day, tak­ing great care not to be dis­cov­ered. The hunger forces him to take big­ger risks. When he final­ly opens the chest with­out being caught, the relief is imme­di­ate, even joy­ful. Each stolen bite tastes like rebel­lion against the cru­el­ty of a man who sees mer­cy as waste. But as Lazaril­lo grows bold­er, so does the risk of being found. The key, shaped from a dis­card­ed nail and smoothed against stone, whis­tles soft­ly as he sleeps, pro­duc­ing a sound mis­tak­en for a snake’s hiss. The priest wakes in ter­ror, con­vinced that the dev­il or a ser­pent has come to pun­ish him for his lax­i­ty.

That night, the priest lash­es out in pan­ic. Grab­bing a heavy stick, he strikes Lazaril­lo with­out warn­ing, aim­ing at what he believes is a coiled snake near his bed. The blow lands on the boy’s face, knock­ing him uncon­scious. When Lazaril­lo wakes, he is bruised, dizzy, and dis­ori­ent­ed, but alive. His mouth bleeds, and the key is discovered—proof not only of his deceit, but of the priest’s error. Ashamed and shak­en, the priest tells him to leave, fear­ing expo­sure more than guilt. No apol­o­gy is offered, no kind­ness extend­ed. Just a qui­et dis­missal, and anoth­er door clos­ing behind him. Lazaril­lo walks away, not with hatred, but with a numb aware­ness that jus­tice does not dwell in holy hous­es.

What this chap­ter shows is more than hunger; it’s a win­dow into the con­tra­dic­tions of a soci­ety obsessed with appear­ances. The priest, who should offer char­i­ty, with­holds it; Lazaril­lo, a boy expect­ed to serve silent­ly, becomes a thief out of neces­si­ty. His actions, though dis­hon­est, are born of sur­vival, not mal­ice. Each deceit is a response to depri­va­tion. He doesn’t steal for pleasure—he steals to stay alive. That dis­tinc­tion is what gives this chap­ter its depth and weight. Through clev­er­ness and silence, Lazaril­lo con­tin­ues to endure a world that pun­ish­es the poor for need­ing help. The irony lies in the fact that those meant to pro­tect the weak often become their worst tor­men­tors. As he limps away from the priest’s house, bat­tered but breath­ing, Lazaril­lo takes with him not just phys­i­cal scars, but a clear­er under­stand­ing of how cru­el­ty often wears a mask of virtue.

He may be small, poor, and alone, but with each chap­ter of his life, Lazaril­lo becomes sharp­er, more aware of the games oth­ers play, and more deter­mined not to be destroyed by them. In this bit­ter episode, he learns that even when pow­er is cloaked in holi­ness, it can still strike with vio­lence. But he also learns that he can sur­vive it. His jour­ney is far from over, and though this chap­ter ends with pain, it also car­ries the begin­nings of resilience—the kind not grant­ed by grace, but forged in qui­et resis­tance.