Chap­ter V unfolds as Lazaro recounts his time under the employ­ment of a pardoner—a man skilled in the art of spir­i­tu­al per­sua­sion and even more adept at deceit. This par­don­er makes his liv­ing sell­ing papal indul­gences, doc­u­ments claim­ing to absolve sins in exchange for a fee, and he crafts every word and ges­ture to sell them con­vinc­ing­ly. He begins his efforts with small bribes to the local cler­gy, giv­ing wine, fruit, or small coins to secure their sup­port in urg­ing parish­ioners to buy. The par­don­er adapts his speech depend­ing on the audience—sophisticated Latin when preach­ing to edu­cat­ed priests, sim­pler words when address­ing vil­lage mass­es. Lazaro, watch­ing from the side, begins to under­stand how eas­i­ly faith can be manip­u­lat­ed when cloaked in per­for­mance. What aston­ish­es him most is not the clev­er­ness of the scheme, but the eager­ness with which peo­ple believe it.

Trou­ble aris­es when they reach the town of Sagra, where the usu­al tac­tics fail to move the con­gre­ga­tion. Sales stall, and the par­don­er grows des­per­ate. That’s when he arranges a spec­ta­cle with the con­sta­ble, stag­ing a loud, dra­mat­ic quar­rel over a card game in the pub­lic square. The argu­ment esca­lates into phys­i­cal con­fronta­tion, catch­ing the atten­tion of the curi­ous towns­peo­ple. This spec­ta­cle is not aimless—it’s a cal­cu­lat­ed set­up. The fol­low­ing day, the par­don­er deliv­ers a fiery ser­mon, extolling the pow­er of indul­gences. At the peak of his mes­sage, the con­sta­ble inter­rupts, denounc­ing the doc­u­ments as fraud­u­lent and accus­ing the par­don­er of lying to the peo­ple. The crowd gasps, torn between trust and sus­pi­cion.

In response, the par­don­er drops to his knees and offers a tear­ful prayer, call­ing upon heav­en to strike down whichev­er of them speaks false­ly. Then, as if on cue, the con­sta­ble begins con­vuls­ing vio­lent­ly, col­laps­ing in front of the stunned crowd. Shout­ing, trem­bling, and rolling on the floor, he appears over­tak­en by divine wrath. The towns­peo­ple rush for­ward, restrain­ing him, con­vinced they are wit­ness­ing a heav­en­ly sign. Some cry, oth­ers pray, and all look to the par­don­er as a ves­sel of right­eous­ness. The par­don­er, his hands still clasped in prayer, ris­es slow­ly and bless­es the water brought to him by trem­bling hands. He touch­es it to the constable’s lips. Moments lat­er, the man appears cured, dazed and pen­i­tent. It is a per­fect miracle—except for those like Lazaro who saw the rehearsal.

Lazaro, while impressed by the crowd’s reac­tion, can­not help but reflect on the dis­turb­ing effi­cien­cy of such deceit. The per­for­mance, flaw­less in its exe­cu­tion, reveals how easy it is to bend faith into fear and fear into prof­it. No one ques­tions the authen­tic­i­ty of the con­vul­sions, nor do they doubt the spir­i­tu­al pow­er of the par­don­er. Peo­ple rush to buy indul­gences now, lin­ing up with coins and con­tri­tion. The town believes a sin­ner has been pun­ished, a holy man has tri­umphed, and that sal­va­tion is a slip of parch­ment away. Mean­while, the par­don­er counts his earn­ings with silent sat­is­fac­tion, and Lazaro watch­es with a mix of admi­ra­tion and unease. He knows he’s wit­ness­ing manip­u­la­tion per­fect­ed into rit­u­al.

This chap­ter expos­es not only reli­gious hypocrisy but also the mech­a­nisms of spec­ta­cle and belief. The par­don­er is not sim­ply a swindler; he is a per­former who under­stands the emo­tion­al pulse of the peo­ple he exploits. He offers not truth, but com­fort wrapped in the­atrics. And the peo­ple, hun­gry for mean­ing and mir­a­cles, buy what he sells with eager hearts. Lazaro’s role is minor, yet his obser­va­tions add depth to the cri­tique. He does not con­demn the towns­peo­ple. Instead, he high­lights how belief, when tan­gled with des­per­a­tion, can be steered like a cart through mud­dy roads. The expe­ri­ence becomes anoth­er les­son in his edu­ca­tion through hardship—a tes­ta­ment to how sur­vival often depends not on truth, but on the clever use of illu­sion.

In the end, Lazaro sees the par­don­er for what he is: a man who has mas­tered the art of decep­tion by bor­row­ing the lan­guage of faith. There is no pun­ish­ment for this act because the peo­ple leave sat­is­fied, their guilt trad­ed for paper and spec­ta­cle. For Lazaro, this moment lingers—not because he envies the pardoner’s gains, but because it proves how eas­i­ly pow­er dress­es itself in piety. And in a world where appear­ance shapes truth, some­times the clever­est thief is the one who nev­er touch­es a purse, only hearts.