Chap­ter III fol­lows Lazaril­lo as he enters one of the most iron­ic and reveal­ing stages of his ear­ly life, marked by both illu­sion and depri­va­tion. Arriv­ing in Tole­do alone and hun­gry, he meets a gen­tle­man­ly fig­ure dressed in fine clothes, whose appear­ance promis­es sta­bil­i­ty and decen­cy. This man, a squire, wel­comes him kind­ly and brings him into his home. At first, Lazaril­lo believes he has final­ly found a mas­ter who can pro­vide shel­ter and reg­u­lar meals. Yet as the days unfold, the truth begins to show: beneath the noble attire lies an emp­ty kitchen and a mas­ter whose pride is far rich­er than his purse. The squire’s home is bare, and food is scarce. Lazaril­lo, ever adap­tive, soon learns that sur­vival again depends on his wits and the char­i­ty of strangers.

The squire clings to his dig­ni­ty, refus­ing to work or beg, insist­ing that hon­or must not be stained by humil­i­ty. He walks the streets with his head high, hid­ing hunger behind polite ges­tures and hol­low words. Lazaril­lo, mean­while, learns to maneu­ver the alley­ways of Tole­do in search of food, often sneak­ing bites from sym­pa­thet­ic neigh­bors or scav­eng­ing left­overs. He sees first­hand how social sta­tus can be noth­ing more than a costume—one that the squire wears dai­ly with deter­mi­na­tion, even as his stom­ach growls. The con­trast between their appear­ances and real­i­ty builds a trag­ic humor through­out their days. While the squire main­tains the illu­sion of con­trol, Lazaril­lo becomes the real provider, sus­tain­ing both of them with scraps. It is through this rever­sal that the young boy begins to under­stand the empti­ness of sta­tus with­out sub­stance.

One day, the squire brings home a sil­ver coin, and for the first time in days, they plan a prop­er meal. Lazarillo’s excite­ment over food clouds every­thing else, until a funer­al pro­ces­sion pass­es by. The mourn­ers describe the dead man’s des­ti­na­tion as a “dark, mis­er­able house where no one eats or drinks,” prompt­ing Lazaril­lo to pan­ic. He believes they are refer­ring to the very home he lives in. The moment, though laugh­able in hind­sight, reveals how deeply star­va­tion has shaped his imag­i­na­tion. It’s not death that scares him—it’s the idea of more days with­out bread. His inno­cence is tinged with absur­di­ty, yet it mir­rors a real­i­ty too many know: that con­stant hunger makes humor out of hor­ror.

The squire, for all his charm, begins to speak of his past—a tale that high­lights how shal­low pride can destroy sta­bil­i­ty. He once left his vil­lage over a pet­ty quar­rel with some­one of high­er rank who refused to greet him with prop­er def­er­ence. This small insult bruised his hon­or so deeply that he chose exile over rec­on­cil­i­a­tion. Lazaril­lo lis­tens with increas­ing dis­be­lief, real­iz­ing that his mas­ter val­ues pride more than sur­vival. Rather than adapt to hard­ship, the squire retreats into fan­tasies of grandeur, defend­ing emp­ty titles while oth­ers starve. His obses­sion with appear­ances turns even the sim­plest real­i­ties into threats. He sees man­u­al labor as dis­grace­ful, and hunger as tolerable—so long as no one notices.

Even­tu­al­ly, cred­i­tors come knock­ing, and the illu­sion falls apart. Faced with unpaid debts and no more excus­es, the squire slips away in the night. He leaves behind no note, no food, and no plan. Lazaril­lo wakes to find him­self aban­doned once again, alone in a house that nev­er tru­ly shel­tered him. His master’s pride, built up like a fortress, van­ished with­out a trace. For Lazaril­lo, this deser­tion is less a betray­al than a famil­iar reminder: in a world built on appear­ances, truth always finds a way to sur­face. What stays with him is not the hunger, but the absur­di­ty of hav­ing to pro­tect a man who could not face the truth of his own pover­ty.

This chap­ter cap­tures the satire at the heart of Lazarillo’s journey—a boy grow­ing up in a world where roles are often reversed and where dig­ni­ty is often mis­placed. Through the squire, he learns that hon­or, when divorced from real­i­ty, becomes dan­ger­ous. What begins as hope quick­ly folds into dis­ap­point­ment, yet Lazaril­lo moves for­ward, more aware and less trust­ing. He car­ries no bit­ter­ness, only knowl­edge. In the strug­gle between hunger and pride, he learns that pride feeds no one. And once again, he sets off in search of some­thing real—if not com­fort, then at least hon­esty.