Prologue
Prefatory Poems
I. Which treats of the station in life and the pursuits of the famous
gentleman, Don Quixote de la Mancha.
II. Which treats of the first sally that the ingenious Don Quixote made
from his native heath.
III. Of the amusing manner in which Don Quixote had himself dubbed a
knight.
IV. Of what happened to our knight when he sallied forth from the inn.
V. In which is continued the narrative of the misfortune that befell
our knight.
VI. Of the great and diverting scrutiny which the curate and the barber
made in the library of our ingenious gentleman.
VII. Of the second sally of our good knight, Don Quixote de la Mancha.
VIII. Of the good fortune which the valorous Don Quixote had in the
terrifying and never-before-imagined adventure of the windmills, along
with other events that deserve to be suitably recorded.
IX. In which is concluded and brought to an end the stupendous battle
between the gallant Biscayan and the valiant Knight of La Mancha.
X. Of the pleasing conversation that took place between Don Quixote
and Sancho Panza, his squire.
XI. Of what happened to Don Quixote in the company of certain goatherds.
XII. Of the story that one of the goatherds told to Don Quixote and the
others.
XIII. In which is brought to a close the story of the shepherdess Marcela,
along with other events.
XIV. In which are set down the despairing verses of the deceased shepherd,
with other unlooked-for happenings.
XV. In which is related the unfortunate adventure that befell Don Quixote
when he encountered certain wicked Yangucsans.
XVI. Of what happened to the ingenious gentleman in the inn which he im-
agined was a castle.
XVII. Wherein is continued the account of the innumerable troubles that
the brave Don Quixote and his good squire Sancho Panza endured in the
inn, which, to his sorrow, the knight took to be a castle.
XVIII. In which is set forth the conversation that Sancho Panza had with
his master, Don Quixote, along with other adventures deserving of record.
XIX. Of the shrewd things that Sancho Panza said to his master and the
adventure that happened to him in connection with a dead body, along
with other famous events.
XX. Of an adventure such as never was seen nor heard of, which was
completed by the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha with less peril than
any famous knight in all the world ever incurred in a similar undertaking.
XXI. Which treats of the high and richly rewarded adventure of Mambrino's
helmet, together with other things that happened to our invincible knight.
XXII. Of how Don Quixote freed many unfortunate ones who, much against
their will, were being taken where they did not wish to go.
XXIII. Of what happened to the famous Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena,
which is one of the rarest adventures related in this true history.
XXIV. In which is continued the adventure of the Sierra Morena.
XXV. Which treats of the strange things that happened to the valiant
Knight of La Mancha in the Sierra Morena and of his imitation of Belt-
enebros's penance.
XXVI. In which is continued the account of those refinements that Don
Quixote practiced in playing the part of a lover on the Sierra Morena.
XXVII. How the curate and the barber carried out their plan, along with
other things worthy of being related in this great history.
XVIII. Which treats of the new and pleasing adventure of the curate and
the barber on the same mountain.
XXIX. Which treats of the amusing artifice and means employed in extrica-
ting our enamored knight from the extremely harsh penance he had inflicted
upon himself.
XXX. Which treats of the fair Dorotea's ready wit and other matters very
pleasant and amusing.
XXXI. Of the delectable conversation that took place between Don Quixote
and Sancho Panza, his squire, together with other events.
XXXII. Which treats of what befell Don Quixote and all his company at the inn.
XXXIII. In which is related the "Story of the One Who Was Too Curious for
His Own Good."
XXXIV. In which is continued the "Story of the One Who Was Too Curious
for His Own Good."

XXXV. In which the "Story of the One Who Was Too Curi-
ous for His Own Good" is brought to a close, and in which is

related the fierce and monstrous battle that Don Quixote
waged with certain skins of red wine. 314

XXXVI. Which treats of other extraordinary events that oc-
curred at the inn. 322

XXXVII. Wherein is continued the story of the famous Prin-
cess Micomicona, along with other droll adventures. 331

XXXVIII. Which treats of the curious discourse that Don
Quixote delivered on the subject of arms and letters. 340

XXXIX. In which the captive narrates the events of his life.

XL. In which the captive's story is continued.

Prologue

IDLING READER, you may believe me when I tell you that I should have
liked this book, which is the child of my brain, to be the fairest, the
sprightliest, and the cleverest that could be imagined; but I have not
been able to contravene the law of nature which would have it that like
begets like. And so, what was to be expected of a sterile and uncultivated
wit such as that which I possess if not an offspring that was dried up,
shriveled, and eccentric: a story filled with thoughts that never occurred
to anyone else, of a sort that might be engendered in a prison where e-
very annoyance has its home and every mournful sound its habitation?1
Peace and tranquillity, the pleasures of the countryside, the serenity of
the heavens, the murmur of fountains, and ease of mind can do much to-
ward causing the most unproductive of muses to become fecund and bring
forth progeny that will be the marvel and delight of mankind.

It sometimes happens that a father has an ugly son with no redeeming
grace whatever, yet love will draw a veil over the parental eyes which
then behold only cleverness and beauty in place of defects, and in speak-
ing to his friends he will make those defects out to be the signs of comeli-
ness and intellect. I, however, who am but Don Quixote's stepfather,
have no desire to go with the current of custom, nor would I, dearest
reader, beseech you with tears in my eyes as others do to pardon or
overlook the faults you discover in this book; you are neither relative
nor friend but may call your soul your own and exercise your free
judgment. You are in your own house where you are master as the king
is of his taxes, for you are familiar with the saying, "Under my cloak I
kill the king."2 All of which exempts and frees you from any kind of
respect or obligation; you may say of this story whatever you choose
without fear of being slandered for an ill opinion any more than you
will be rewarded for a good one.

I should like to bring you the tale unadulterated and unadorned,' strip-
ped of the usual prologue and the endless string of sonnets, epigrams,
and eulogies such as are commonly found at the beginning of books. For
I may tell you that, although I expended no little labor upon the work
irself, I have found no task more difficult than the composition of this
preface which you are now reading. Many times I took up my pen
and many times I laid it down again, not knowing what to write. On one
occasion when I was thus in suspense, paper before me, pen over my
ear, elbow on the table, and chin in hand, a very clever friend of mine
came in. Seeing me lost in thought, he inquired as to the reason, and I
made no effort to conceal from him the fact that my mind was on the
preface which I had to write for the story of Don Quixote, and that it
was giving me so much trouble that I had about decided not to write
any at all and to abandon entirely the idea of publishing the exploits of
so noble a knight.

"How," I said to him, "can you expect me not to be concerned over
what that venerable legislator, the Public, will say when it sees me, at
my age, after all these years of silent slumber, coming out with a tale
that is as dried as a rush, a stranger to invention, paltry in style, im-
poverished in content, and wholly lacking in learning and wisdom,
without marginal citations or notes at the end of the book when other
works of this sort, even though they be fabulous and profane, are so
packed with maxims from Aristotle and Plato and the whole crowd of
philosophers as to fill the reader with admiration and lead him to regard
the author as a well-read, learned, and eloquent individual? Not to speak
of the citations from Holy Writ! You would think they were at the very
least so many St. Thomases and other doctors of the Church; for they
are so adroit at maintaining a solemn face that, having portrayed in one
line a distracted lover, in the next they will give you a nice little Chris-
tian sermon that is a joy and a privilege to hear and read.

"All this my book will lack, for I have no citations for the margins, no
notes for the end. To tell the truth, I do not even know who the authors
are to whom I am indebted, and so am unable to follow the example of
all the others by listing them alphabetically at the beginning, starting
with Aristotle and closing with Xenophon, or, perhaps, with Zoilus or
Zeuxis, notwithstanding the fact that the former was a snarling critic,
the latter a painter. This work will also be found lacking in prefatory
sonnets by dukes, marquises, counts, bishops, ladies, and poets of great
renown; although if I were to ask two or three colleagues of mine, they
would supply the deficiency by furnishing me with productions that
could not be equaled by the authors of most repute in all Spain.

"In short, my friend," I went on, "I am resolved that Senior Don
Quixote shall remain buried in the archives of La Mancha until Heaven
shall provide him with someone to deck him out with all the ornaments
that he lacks; for I find myself incapable of remedying the situation,
being possessed of little learning or aptitude, and I am, moreover, ex-
tremely lazy when it comes to hunting up authors who will say for me
what I am unable to sav for myself. And if I am in a state of suspense
and my thoughts are woolgathering, you will find a sufficient explana-
tion in what I have just told you."

Hearing this, my friend struck his forehead with the palm of his hand
and burst into a loud laugh.

"In the name of God, brother," he said, "you have just deprived me of
an illusion. I have known you for a long time, and I have always taken
you to be clever and prudent in all your actions; but I now perceive that
you are as far from all that as Heaven from the earth. How is it that
things of so little moment and so easily remedied can worry and perplex
a mind as mature as yours and ordinarily so well adapted to break down
and trample underfoot far greater obstacles? I give you my word, this
does not come from any lack of cleverness on your part, but rather from
excessive indolence and a lack of experience. Do you ask for proof of
what I say? Then pay attention closely and in the blink of an eye you
shall see how I am going to solve all your difficulties and supply all those
things the want of which, so you tell me, is keeping you in suspense, as
a result of which you hesitate to publish the history of that famous Don
Quixote of yours, the light and mirror of all knight-errantry."

"Tell me, then," I replied, "how you propose to go about curing my
diffidence and bringing clarity out of the chaos and confusion of my
mind?"

"Take that first matter," he continued, "of the sonnets, epigrams, or
eulogies, which should bear the names of grave and titled personages:
you can remedy that by taking a little trouble and composing the pieces
yourself, and afterward you can baptize them with any name you see
fit, fathering them on Prester John of the Indies or the Emperor of
Trebizond, for I have heard tell that they were famous poets; and sup-
posing they were not and that a few pedants and bachelors of arts
should go around muttering behind your back that it is not so, you should
not give so much as a pair of maravedis for all their carping, since even
though they make you out to be a liar, they are not going to cut off the
hand that put these things on paper.

"As for marginal citations and authors in whom you may find maxims
and sayings that you may put in your story, you have but to make use
of those scraps of Latin that you know by heart or can look up without
too much bother. Thus, when you come to treat of liberty and slavery,
jot down:

　　　　　　Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro.3

And then in the margin you will cite Horace or whoever it was that
said it. If the subject is death, come up with:

Pallida mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas Regumque tunes.4

If it is friendship or the love that God commands us to show our enemies,
then is the time to fall back on the Scriptures, which you can do by
putting yourself out very little; you have but to quote the words of God
himself:

　　　　　　Ego autem dico vobis: diligite inimicos vestros.5

If it is evil thoughts, lose no time in turning to the Gospels:

　　　　　　　　De corde exeunt cogitationes malae,

If it is the instability of friends, here is Cato for you with a distich:

Donee eris felix multos numerabis amicos; Tempora si fuerint nubila,
solus eris.6

With these odds and ends of Latin and others of the same sort, you can
cause yourself to be taken for a grammarian, although I must say that is
no great honor or advantage these days.

"So far as notes at the end of the book are concerned, you may safely
go about it in this manner: let us suppose that you mention some giant,
Goliath let us say; with this one allusion which costs you little or noth-
ing, you have a fine note which you may set down as follows: The giant
Golias or Goliath. This was a Philistine whom the shepherd David slew
with a mighty cast from his slingshot in the valley of T erebinth, accord-
ing to what we read in the Book of Kings, chapter so-and-so where you
find it written.7

"In addition to this, by way of showing that you are a learned human-
ist and a cosmographcr, contrive to bring into your story the name of
the River Tagus, and there you are with another great little note: The
River Tagus was so called after a king of Spam; it rises in such and such
a place and empties into the ocean, washing the walls of the famous city
of Lisbon; it is supposed to have golden sands, etc. If it is robbers, I will
let you have the story of Cacus,8 which I know by heart. If it is loose
women, there is the Bishop of Mondoncdo,9 who will lend you Lamia,
Lais, and Flora, an allusion that will do you great credit. If the sub-
ject is cruelty, Ovid will supply you with Medea; or if it is enchantresses
and witches, Homer has Calypso and Vergil Circe. If it is valorous cap-
tains, Julius Caesar will lend you himself, in his Commentaries, and Plu-
tarch will furnish a thousand Alexanders. If it is loves, with the ounce
or two of Tuscan that you know you may make the acquaintance of
Leon the Hebrew,10 who will satisfy you to your heart's content. And
in case you do not care to go abroad, here in your own house you have
Fonseca's Of the Love of God 11 where you will encounter in condensed
form all that the most imaginative person could wish upon this subject.
The short of the matter is, you have but to allude to these names or
touch upon those stories that I have mentioned and leave to me the busi-
ness of the notes and citations; I will guarantee you enough to fill the
margins and four whole sheets at the back.

"And now we come to the list of authors cited, such as other works
contain but in which your own is lacking. Here again the remedy is an
easy one; you have but to look up some book that has them all, from
A to Z as you were saying, and transfer the entire list as it stands. What
if the imposition is plain for all to see? You have little need to refer to
them, and so it docs not matter; and some may be so simple-minded as
to believe that you have drawn upon them all in your simple unpre-
tentious little story. If it serves no other purpose, this imposing list of
authors will at least give your book an unlooked-for air of authority.
What is more, no one is going to put himself to the trouble of verifying
your references to see whether or not you have followed all these authors,
since it will not be w orth his pains to do so.

"This is especially true in view of the fact that your book stands in
no need of all these things whose absence you lament; for the entire work
is an attack upon the books of chivalry of which Aristotle never dreamed,
of which St. Basil has nothing to say, and of which Cicero had no knowl-
edge; nor do the fine points of truth or the observations of astrology
have anything to do with its fanciful absurdities; geometrical measure-
ments, likewise, and rhetorical argumentations serve for nothing here;
you have no sermon to preach to anyone by mingling the human with
the divine, a kind of motley in which no Christian intellect should be
willing to clothe itself.

"All that you have to do is to make proper use of imitation in what
you write, and the more perfect the imitation the better will your writ-
ing be. Inasmuch as you have no other object in view than that of over-
throwing the authority and prestige which books of chivalry enjoy in
the world at large and among the vulgar, there is no reason why you
should go begging maxims of the philosophers, counsels of Holy Writ,
fables of the poets, orations of the rhetoricians, or miracles of the saints;
see to it, rather, that your style flows along smoothly, pleasingly, and
sonorously, and that your words are the proper ones, meaningful and
well placed, expressive of your intention in setting them down and of
what you wish to say, without any intricacy or obscurity.

"Let it be your aim that, by reading your story, the melancholy may
be moved to laughter and the cheerful man made merrier still; let the
simple not be bored, but may the clever admire your originality; let the
grave ones not despise you, but let the prudent praise you. And keep in
mind, above all, your purpose, which is that of undermining the ill-
founded edifice that is constituted by those books of chivalry, so ab-
horred by many but admired by many more; if you succeed in attaining
it, you will have accomplished no little."

Listening in profound silence to what my friend had to say, I was so
impressed by his reasoning that, with no thought of questioning them,
I decided to make use of his arguments in composing this prologue.
Here, gentle reader, you will perceive my friend's cleverness, my own
good fortune in coming upon such a counselor at a time when I needed
him so badly, and the profit which you yourselves are to have in find-
ing so sincere and straightforward an account of the famous Don
Quixote de la Mancha, who is held by the inhabitants of the Campo de
Montiel region12 to have been the most chaste lover and the most valiant
knight that had been seen in those parts for many a year. I have no de-
sire to enlarge upon the service I am rendering you in bringing you the
story of so notable and honored a gentleman; I merely would have you
thank me for having made you acquainted with the famous Sancho
Panza, his squire, in whom, to my mind, is to be found an epitome of all
the squires and their drolleries scattered here and there throughout the
pages of those vain and empty books of chivalry. And with this, may
God give you health, and may He be not unmindful of me as well.
VALE.

　　　　PREFATORY POEMS

　　　　　Urganda the Unknown

FOR THE BOOK OF DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA13

If to win the worthy be thine ambition,
O book, then let the foolish chatter
As much as they please, it will not matter,
For thy desire has had fruition.
To bake bread for fools is not thy mission:
Hand raised to mouth, they're hungry still,
But taste thee the dunces surely will,
And each his fingers will greedily lick
To prove he appreciates the trick
Of such fine fare and would eat his fill.

Experience shows that he who reaches
A tree that's goodly, fair, and thriving,
Is bound to find there, upon arriving,
A pleasing shade; let none impeach
This lesson life itself would teach.
Draw near; thy star benign is showing
A regal tree in Bejar14 that's growing.
In way of fruit this tree doth bear
One who a princely crown doth wear;
Tis an Alexander his shade bestowing.

Thou shalt relate the high emprises
Of a Manchegan15 gentleman whose reading
Had turned his head with tales of bleeding
Knights-errant, damsels, love's surprises,
And all of chivalry's disguises.
By deeds of valor he sought to gain
His lady's love, and ease his pain;
His model Orlando Furioso,
And Dulcinea del Toboso
Was the one whose favor he would obtain.

No hieroglyphs upon thy shield,16
No pictures to display thy pride;
Better by far a humbler stride,
Then envy's weapon none can wield
By saying all that thou dost yield
Is an old story quite banal
Of Alvaro de Luna17 or Hannibal
Or of King Francis his fate bemoaning
As at Madrid he lies a-groaning.18
So, close the door on their cabal.

Seeing it was not Heaven's pleasure
To make thee learned as black John,19
Do not the cloak of learning don
By quoting Latin in over-measure,
Displaying thy philosophic treasure
In long and windy argument,
Until some fellow irreverent,
Twisting his mouth at thine ear shall say:
"Why give me flowers, anyway?
On me such bounty is misspent."

Seek not to know or to portray
The lives of others; mind thine own
And leave thy neighbor's life alone.
Be wise in this and in the play
Thou givest thy wit--there may come a day
When the word spoken in lightsome jest
Will come winging home with thee to rest;
And ever seek an honest fame,
For he is doomed to perpetual blame
Who nonsense prints and calls it best.

Remember, 'tis a foolish thing,
Dwelling beneath a roof of glass,
To stone thy neighbors as they pass,
For they likewise may pebbles fling.
Seek rather to please in everything
The man of taste and judgment fine,
That he may ponder every line;
If damsels be thy audience,
Thou shalt be spumed by those with sense,
To fools thou dost thyself consign.

　　　　　Amadis of Gaul

TO DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA20

　　　　　　　Sonnet

Thou who didst imitate my own sad life,
So full of loneliness and love's disdain
As on the Poor Rock21 I endured my pain--
My days once joyful now with sorrow rife,
To pay love's penance was my constant strife--
Thou knowest the taste of tears; for thee most vain
Were silver, tin, or copper plate; thou wert fain
To make of the earth thy table and chatelaine.
But rest assured, thou livest eternally,
Or as long as blond Apollo in that fourth sphere
Doth guide on their heavenly course his fiery steeds.
Thy fame and valor shall unsullied be,
Thy fatherland remain without a peer,
And peerless the chronicler of thy brave deeds.

　　　Don Belianis of Greece22

TO DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA

　　　　　　　Sonnet

In slashing, smashing, bruising, in word and deed,
I was the foremost knight of errantry,
In pride, in valor, in dexterity.
A myriad wrongs I righted, did ever heed
The call of those who were in direst need;
My famed exploits shall endure eternally.
Deep-versed was I in love and ecstasy,
And on the field of honor I did bleed.
A giant for me was but a dwarf. No boon
Luck did deny me; I was ever wise
And brought her by the forelock to my feet.
But though my fortune rides the horn o' the moon,
I envy still thy deeds of high emprise,
O great Quixote, who dost with me compete!

　　　The Lady Oriana23

TO DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO

O lovely Dulcinea, could I with thee
But exchange my Miraflores24 of such renown,
London for El Toboso, thy little town,
How great a comfort and relief 'twould be!
Could I but once my soul and body see
Dressed in thy love as in a daily gown,
And behold that famous knight (thy love his crown)
Performing some brave feat of chivalry!
Ah, then, I might remain fully as chaste
With Amadis25 as thou with thy lover bold,
The gallant Don Quixote without blame!
Then I'd not envy, but envied be, nor waste
My life in sorrow for the time that's told;
Joy would be mine, no cost to my good name!

　　Gandalin, Squire to Amadis of Gaul,

TO SANCHO PANZA, DON QUIXOTE'S SQUIRE

Hail, celebrated one, Fortune was kind
When she did set thee to the squire's trade.
And wise as well--ah, she no blunder made;
No great calamity e'er came to find
Thee out, but men still fondly call to mind
That thou didst erstwhile leave sickle and spade
For the pursuit of arms, all unafraid;
Thy squire's simplicity puts far behind
The haughty pride that would defy the moon.
I envy thee thine ass, thy name, thy sense,
And those saddlebags that thou didst wisely stuff.
Sancho, hail once again! And very soon
May our Spanish Ovid26 do thee reverence
By giving thee a famous kick-and-cuff.27

　　　Donoso, Interlarded Poet28

TO SANCHO PANZA AND ROCINANTE

　　　　To Sancho Panza

I am Sanchp Panza, squi--(squire)
Of the Manchegan Don Quixo--(Quixote)
Who did withdraw to a place remo--(remote)
That I might from his service reti--. (retire)
Villadiego29 known as the Si--(Silent)
Is said to have found that the real se--(secret)
Of a good life was a pleasant re--; (retreat)
His words you'll find if in that divine boo--, (book)
The Celestina,30 you choose to loo--, (look)
Or 'twould be divine if more discree--. (discreet)

　　　　　To Rosinante

I am Rocinante, the famous stee--,(steed)
Great Babieca's31 great grandso--.(grandson)
'Twas the sin of leanness that for me wo--(won)
My master (I met his every nee--), (need)
Don Quixote of far-famed dee--. (deed)
I ran my race in my own good ti--, (time)
And can say no stable mate of mi--(mine)
Ever stole my barley by dint of hoo--; (hoof)
From Lazarillo32 I learned, in soo--(sooth)
With a straw to take the blind man's wi--. (wine)

　　　　Orlando Furioso

TO DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA

　　　　　　Sonnet 33

If thou art not a Peer,34 no peer hast thou,
But amongst a thousand Peers, a peer thou art,
When thou art present, thou dost stand apart.
Victor invincible, unvanquished up to now.
Quixote, I am Orlando. Hast heard how
I sailed far seas for her who held my heart?
Love for Angelica35 my course did chart;
My valor on Fame's altar laid its vow,
Held back oblivion. It is not meet
To rival thee in prowess or in fame,
E'en though our loss of sense be a common bond;
But thou mayest very well with me compete,
Though neither Moor nor Scythian didst tame:
In our ill-fated loves we correspond.

　　　The Knight of the Sun36

TO DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA

My sword, though valiant, did never equal thine,
Phoebus of Spain, O thou most courteous knight,
Nor was my arm as powerful in the fight,
Though it lightning-flashed all while the sun did shine.
Empires I wanted not. I did decline
The rosy Orient's crown for the countenance bright
Of Claridiana, filled with dawn's own light,
For she was my Aurora blest, divine.
Miraculous my love for her and rare;
And banished by her decree, my mighty arm
Caused hell in all its fury to fear my rage.
But thou, Gothic Quixote, shinest everywhere
Immortal, thanks to Dulcinea's charm,
While she is ever famous, honored, sage.

　　　　Solisdan37

TO DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA

Senor Quixote, your fancies turned your head,
But none shall reprehend your lack of guile
Or take you for a man that's base and vile;
Your deeds speak for themselves when all is said.
You went about the world in knightly style,
Undoing wrongs and suffering the while
A myriad drubbings; but be comforted
If the beauteous Dulcinea did prolong
Love's agony and pitied not your pain,
In such a case there's one thing you may do:
Reflect that Sancho Panza was not strong
As a go-between a lady's love to gain;
He was a dunce, she cruel, no lover you.

DIALOGUE BETWEEN BABIECA38 AND ROCINANTE

　　　　　　Sonnet

b. How comes it, Rocinante, you are so lean?
r. From working overmuch and eating never.
b. But straw and barley they must give you ever?
r. Not one mouthful, my master is so mean.
b. Come, come, sir, you are quite ill bred, I ween.
　 You talk like an ass; our acquaintance we must sever.
r. A lifelong ass is he--at least not clever--
　 And in love the biggest ass was ever seen.
b. To love is foolish, then? R. It is not wise.
b. You grow metaphysical. R. From lack of food.
b. Why not complain of the squire? R. Ah, what's the use?
　 How in my sorrow can I sermonize
　 When master and man are of the selfsame brood
　 And both are hacks like me,39 fit for abuse?

　　THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN

　　　　　DON QUIXOTE

　　　　　DE LA MANCHA

　　　　　　　　　 Part One

CHAPTER 1.

Which treats of the station in life and the pursuits of
the famous gentleman, Don Quixote de la Mancha.

IN A village of La Mancha the name of which I have no desire to recall,40
there lived not so long ago one of those gentlemen who always have
a lance in the rack, an ancient buckler, a skinny nag, and a greyhound
for the chase. A stew with more . beef than mutton in it, chopped meat
for his evening meal, scraps41 for a Saturday, le ntils on Friday, and a
young pigeon as a special delicacy for Sunday, went t o account for three-
quarters of his income. The rest of it he laid out on a broadcloth greatcoat
and velvet stockings for feast days, with slippers to match, while the other
days of the week he cut a figure in a suit of the finest homespun. Living
with him were a housekeeper in her forties, a niece who was not yet twen-
ty, and a lad of the field and market place who saddled his horse for him
and wielded the pruning knife.

This gentleman of ours was close on to fifty, of a robust constitution
but with little flesh on his bones and a face that was lean and gaunt. He
was noted for his early rising, being very fond of the hunt They will
try to tell you that his surname was Quijada or Quesada--there is some
among those who have written--but according to the most likely con-
jectures we are to understand that it was really Quejana. But all this means
very little so far as our story is concerned, providing that in the telling
of it we do not depart one iota from the truth.

You may know, then, that the aforesaid gentleman, on those occasions
when he was at leisure, which was most of the year around, was in the
habit of reading books of chivalry with such pleasure and devotion as to
lead him almost wholly to forget the life of a hunter and even the ad-
ministration of his estate. So great was his curiosity and infatuation in
this regard that he even sold many acres of tillable land in order to be
able to buy and read the books that he loved, and he would carry home
with him as many of them as he could obtain. ,

Of all those that he thus devoured none pleased him so well as the ones
that had been composed by the famous Feliciano de Silva,42 whose lucid
prose style and involved conceits were as precious to him as pearls; es-
pecially when he came to read those tales of love and amorous challenges
that are to be met with in many places, such a passage as the following,
for example: "The reason of the unreason that afflicts my reason, in such
a manner weakens my reason that I with reason lament me of your come-
liness. And he was similarly affected when his eyes fell upon such lines
as these; "...the high Heaven of your divinity divinely fortifies you with
the stars and renders you deserving of that desert your greatness doth
deserve."

The poor fellow used to lie awake nights in an effort to disentangle
the meaning and make sense out of passages such as these, although
Aristotle hlmself would not have been able to understand them, even if
hn had been Resurrected for that sole purpose. He was not at ease in his
mind over those wounds that Don Belianis43 gave and received; for no
matter how great the surgeons who treated him, the poor fellow must'
have been left with his face and his entire body covered with marks
and scars. Nevertheless, he was grateful to the author for closing the
hook with the promise of an interminable adventure to come; many a
time he was tempted to take up his pen and literally finish the tale as
had been promised, and he undoubtedly would have done so, and would
have succeeded at it very well, if his thoughts had not been constantly
occupied with other things of greater moment.

He often talked it over with the village curate, who was a learned man,
a graduate of Sigilenza,44 and they would hold long discussions as to who
had been the better knight, Palmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul; but
Master Nicholas, the barber of the same village, was in the habit of
saying that no one could come up to the Knight of Phoebus, and that if
anyone could compare with him it was Don Galaor, brother of Amadis
of Gaul, for Galaor was ready for anything--he was none of your
finical knights, who went around whimpering as his brother did, and
in point of valor he did not lag behind him.

In short, our gentleman became so immersed in his reading that he
spent whole nights from sundown to sunup and his days from dawn to
dusk in poring over his books, until, finally, from so little sleeping and so
much reading, his brain dried up and he went completely out of his mind.
He had filled his imagination with everything that he had read, with
enchantments, knightly encounters, battles, challenges, wounds, with
tales of love and its torments, and all sorts of impossible things, and as
a. result had come to believe that all these fictitious happenings were
true; they were more real to him than anything else in the world. He
would remark that the Cid Ruy Diaz had been a very good knight, but
there was no comparison between him and the Knight of the Flaming
Sword,45 who with a single backward stroke had cut in half two fierce
and monstrous giants. He preferred Bernardo del Carpio, who at Ronces-
valles had slain Roland despite the charm the latter bore, availing himself
of the stratagem which Hercules employed when he strangled Agjtaeus,
the son of Earth, in his arms.

He had much good to say for Morgante who, though he belonged
to the haughty, overbearing race of giants, was of an affable disposition
and well brought up. But, above all, he cherished an admiration for
Rinaldo of Montalban,46 especially as he beheld him sallying forth from
his castle to rob all those that crossed his path, or when he thought of
him overseas stealing the image of which, so the story has it, was all of
gold. And he would have liked very well to have had his fill of kicking
that traitor Galalon,47 a privilege--or which he would haw given his house-
keeper with his niece thr ow^ in the bargain.

At last, when his wits were gone beyond repair, he came to conceive
the strangest idea that ever occurred to any madman in this world. It now
appeared to him fitting and necessary, in order to win a greater amount of
honor for himself and serve his country at the same time, to become a
knight-errant and roam the world on horseback, in a suit of armor; he
would go in quest of adventures, by way of putting into practice all
that he had read in his books; he would right every manner of wron gs
placing himself in situations of the greatest peril such as would rewound
to the eternal glory of his name. As a reward for his valor and the
might of his arm, the poor fellow could already see himself crowned
Emperor of Trebizond at the very least; and so, carried away by the
strange pleasure that he found in such thoughts as these, he at once set
about putting his plan into effect.

The first thing he did was to burnish up some old pieces of armor, left
him by his great-grandfather, which for ages had lain in a corner, molder-
ing and forgotten. He polished and adjusted them as best he could, and
then he noticed that one very important thing was lacking: there was
no closed helmet, but only a morion, or visorless headpiece, with turned
up brim of the kind foot soldiers wore. His ingenuity, however, enabled
him to remedy this, and he proceeded to fashion out of cardboard a
kind of half-helmet, which, when attached to the morion, gave the ap-
pearance of a whole one. True, when he went to see if it was strong
enough to withstand a good slashing blow, he was somewhat disap-
pointed; for when he drew his sword and gave it a couple of thrusts, he
succeeded only in undoing a whole week's labor. The ease with which
he had hewed it to bits disturbed him no little, and he decided to make
it over. This time he placed a few strips of iron on the inside, and then,
convinced that it was strong enough, refrained from putting it to any
further test; instead, he adopted it then and there as the finest helmet
ever made.

After this, he went out to have a look at his nag; and although the.
animal had more cuartos, or cracks, in its hoof than there are quarters
ift a real,48 and more blemishes than Gonela's steed which tantum pellis
et ossa fuit,49 it nonetheless looked to its master like a far better horse
than Alexander's Bucephalus or the Babieca of the Cid. He spent all of
four days in trying to think up a name for his mount; for--so he told
himself? seeing that it belonged to so famous and worthy a knight, there
was no reason why it should not have a name of equal renown. The kind
of name he wanted was one that would at once indicate what the nag
had been before it came to belong to a knight-errant and what its present
status was; for it stood to reason that, when the master's worldly condi-
tion changed, his horse also ought to have a famous, high-sounding ap-
pellation, one suited to the new order of things and the new profession
that it was to follow.

After he in his memory and imagination had made up, struck out, and
discarded many names, now adding to and now subtracting from the
list, he finally hit upon "Rocinante," a name that impressed hipi as being
sonorous and at the same time indicative of what the steed had been when
it was but a hack,50 whereas now it was nothing other than the first and
foremost of all the hacks in the world.

Having found a name for his horse that pleased his fancy, he then
desired to do as much for himself, and this required another week, and
by the end of that period he had made up his mind that he was henceforth
to be known as Don Quixote,51 which, as has been stated, has led the
authors of this veracious history to assume that his real name must un-
doubtedly have been Quijada, and not Quesada as others would have
it. But remembering that the valiant Amadis was not content to call him-
self that and nothing more, but added the name of his kingdom and
fatherland that he might make it famous also, and thus came to take the
name Amadis of Gaul, so our good knight chose to add his place of
origin and become "Don Quixote de la Mancha"; for by this means, as
he saw it, he was making very plain his lineage and was conferring honor
upon his country by taking its name as his own.

And so, having polished up his armor and made the morion over into
a closed helmet, and having given himself and his horse a name, he
naturally found but one thing lacking still: he must seek out a lady of
whom he could become enamored; for a knight-errant without a lady-
love was like a tree without leaves or fruit, a body without a soul.

"If," he said to himself, "as a punishment for my sins or by a stroke of
fortune I should come upon some giant hereabouts, a thing that very
commonly happens to knights-errant, and if I should slay him in a hand-
to-hand encounter or perhaps cut him in two, or, finally, if I should
vanquish and subdue him, would it not be well to have someone to
whom I may send him as a present, in order that he, if he is living, may
come in, fall upon his knees in front of my sweet lady, and say in a
humble and submissive tone of voice, 'I, lady, am the giant Caraculiam-
bro, lord of the island Malindrania, who has been' overcome in single
combat by that knight who never can be praised enough, Don Quixote
de la Mancha, the same who sent me to present myself before your Grace
that your Highness may dispose of me as you see fit'?"

Oh, how our good knight reveled in this speech, and more than ever
when he came to think of the name that he should give his lady! As the
story goes, there was a very good-looking farm girl who lived near by,
with whom he had once been smitten, although it is generally believed
that she never knew or suspected it. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo,
and it seemed to him that she was the one upon whom he should bestow
the title of mistress of his thoughts. For her he wished a name that should
not bo incongruous with his own andthat would convey the suggestion
of a princess or a great lady; and, accordingly, he resolved to call her
"Dulcinea del Toboso," she being a native of that place. A musical
name to his ears, out of the ordinary and significant, like the others he
had chosen for himself and his appurtenances.

CHAPTER II.

Which treats of the first sally that the ingenious
Don Quixote made from his native heath.

Having, then, made all these preparations, he did not wish to lose
any time in putting his plan into effect, for he could not but blame him-
self for what the world was losing by his delay, so many were the wrongs
that were to be righted, the grievances to be redressed, the abuses to
be done away with, and the duties to be performed. Accordingly, with-
out informing anyone of his intention and without letting anyone see
him, he set out one morning before daybreak on one of those very hot
days in July. Donning all his armor, mounting Rocinante, adjusting his
ill-contrived helmet, bracing his shield on his arm, and taking up his
lance, he sallied forth by the back gate of his stable yard into the open
countryside. It was with great contentment and joy that he saw how
easily he had made a beginning toward the fulfillment of his desire.

No sooner was he out on the plain, however, than a terrible thought
assailed him, one that all but caused him to abandon the enterprise he had
undertaken. This occurred when he suddenly remembered that he had
never formally been dubbed a knight, and so, in accordance with the
law of knighthood, was not permitted to bear arms against one who
had a right to that title. And even if he had been, as a novice knight he
would have had to wear white armor,52 without any device on his shield,
until he should have earned one by his exploits. These thoughts led him
to waver in his purpose, but, madness prevailing over reason, he resolved
to have himself knighted by the first person he met, as many others had
done if what he had read in those books that he had at home was true.
And so far as white armor was concerned, he would scour his own the
first chance that offered until it shone whiter than any ermine. With
this he became more tranquil and continued on his way, letting his horse
take whatever path it chose, for he believed that therein lay the very
essence of adventures.

And so we find our newly fledged adventurer jogging along and talk-
ing to himself. "Undoubtedly," he is saying, "in the days to come, when
the true history of my famous deeds is published, the learned chronicler
who records them, when he comes to describe my first sally so early in
the morning, will put down something like this: 'No sooner had the
rubicund Apollo spread over the face of the broad and spacious earth the
gilded filaments of his beauteous locks, and no sooner had the little sing-
ing birds of painted plumage greeted with their sweet and mellifluous
harmony the coming of the Dawn, who, leaving the soft couch of her
jealous spouse, now showed herself to mortals at all the doors and bal-
conies of the horizon that bounds La Mancha--no sooner had this hap-
pened than the famous knight, Don Quixote de la Mancha, forsaking his
own downy bed and mounting his famous steed, Rocinante, fared forth
and began riding over the ancient and famous Campo de Montiel"53

And this was the truth, for he was indeed riding over that stretch of
plain.

"O happy age and happy century," he went on, "in which my famous
exploits shall be published, exploits worthy of being engraved in bronze,
sculptured in marble, and depicted in paintings for the benefit of poster-
ity. O wise magician, whoever you be, to whom shall fall the task of
chronicling this extraordinary history of mine! I beg of you not to for-
get my good Rocinante, eternal companion of my wayfarings and my
wanderings."

Then, as though he really had been in love: "O Princess Dulcinea, lady
of this captive heart! Much wrong have you done me in thus sending me
torch with your reproaches and sternly commanding me not to appear
jn your beauteous presence. O lady, deign to be mindful of this your
subject who endures so many woes for the love of you."

And so he went on, stringing together absurdities, ail of a kind that
his books had taught him, imitating insofar as he was able the language
of their authors. He rode slowly, and the sun came up so swiftly and
with so much heat that it would have been sufficient to melt his brains
if he had had any. He had been on the road almost the entire day without
anything happening that is worthy of being set down here; and he was
on the verge of despair, for he wished to meet someone at once with
whom he might try the valor of his good right arm. Certain authors say
that his first adventure was that of Puerto Lipice, while others state that
it was that of the windmills;54 but in this particular instance I am in a
position to affirm what I have read in the annals of La Mancha; and that
is to the effect that he went all that day until nightfall, when he and his
hack found themselves tired to death and famished. Gazing all around
him to see if he could discover some castle or shepherd's hut where he
might take shelter and attend to his pressing needs, he caught sight of an
inn55 not far off the road along which they were traveling, and this to
him was like a star guiding him not merely to the gates, but rather, let
us say, to the palace of redemption. Quickening his pace, he came up
to it just as night was falling.

By chance there stood in the doorway two lasses of the sort known as
"of the district"; they were on their way to Seville in the company of
some mule drivers who were spending the night in the inn. Now, every-
thing that this adventurer of ours thought, saw, or imagined seemed
to him to be directly out of one of the storybooks he had read, and so,
when he caught sight of the inn, it at once became a castle with its four
turrets and its pinnacles of gleaming silver, not to speak of the draw-
bridge and moat and all the other things that are commonly supposed
tfo go with a castle. As he rode up to it, he accordingly reined in Rocinante
and sat there waiting for a dwarf to appear upon the battlements and
blow his trumpet by way of announcing the arrival of a knight. The
dwarf, however, was slow in coming, and as Rocinante was anxious to
reach the stable, Don Quixote drew up to the door of the hostelry and .
surveyed the two merry maidens, who to him were a pair of beauteous
damsels or gracious ladies taking their ease at the castle gate.

And then a swineherd came along, engaged in rounding up his drove
of hogs--for, without any apology, that is what they were. He gave
a blast on his horn to bring them together, and this at once became for
Don Quixote just what he wished it to be: some dwarf who was herald-
ing his coming; and so it was with a vast deal of satisfaction that he
presented himself before the ladies in question, who, upon beholding a
man in full armor like this, with lance and buckler, were filled with
fright and made as if to flee indoors. Realizing that they were afraid,
Don Quixote raised his pasteboard visor and revealed his withered, dust-
Covered face.

"Do not flee, your Ladyships, ' ne said to tfiem in a courteous manner
and gentle voice. "You need not fear that any wrong will be done you^
foe it is not in accordance with the order of knighthood which I profess.
to wrong anyone, much less such highborn damsels as your appearance
shows you to be."

The girls looked at him, endeavoring to scan his face, which was half
hidden by his ill-made visor. Never having heard women of their profes-
sion called damsels before, they were unable to restrain their laughter,
at which Don Quixote took offense.

"Modesty," He observed, "well becomes those with the dower of
beauty, and, moreover, laughter that has not good cause is a very foolish
thing. But I do not say this to be discourteous or to hurt your feelings;
my only desire is to serve you."

The ladies did not understand what he was talking about, but felt more
than ever like laughing at our knight's unprepossessing figure. This in-
creased his annoyance, and there is no telling what would have hap-
pened if at that moment the innkeeper had not come out. He was very
fat and very peaceably inclined; but upon sighting this grotesque per-
sonage clad in bits of armor that were quite as oddly matched as were
his bridle, lance, buckler, and corselet, mine host was not at all indis-
posed to join the lasses in their merriment. He was suspicious, however,
of all this paraphernalia and decided that it would be better to keep a
civil tongue in his head.

"If, Sir Knight," he said, "your Grace desires a lodging, aside from a
bed? for there is none to be had in this inn? you will find all else that
you may want in great abundance."

When Don Quixote saw how humble the governor of the castle was--
for he took the innkeeper and his inn to be no less than that? he replied,
"For me, Sir Castellan, anything will do, since

　　　　　　　　Arms are my only ornament,
　　　　　　　　My only rest the fight, etc."

The landlord thought that the knight had called him a castellan because
he took him for one of those worthies of Castile,56 whereas the truth was,
he was an Andalusian from the beach of Sanlucar, no less a thief than
Cacus himself, and as full of tricks as a student or a page boy.

"In that case," he said,

　　　　　　　　"Your bed will be the solid rock,
　　　　　　　　Your sleep: to watch all night.57

This being so, you may be assured of finding beneath this roof enough to
keep you awake for a whole year, to say nothing of a single night."

With this, he went up to hold the stirrup for Don Quixote, who en-
countered much difficulty in dismounting, not having broken his fast all
day long. The knight then directed his host to take good care of the steed,
as it was the best piece of horseflesh in all the world. The innkeeper
looked it over, and it did not impress him as being half as good asDon
Quixote had said it was. Having stabled the animal, he came bac k to &e
what his guest would have and found the latter being relieved of his armor (
by the damsels, who by now had made their peace with the new arrival
They had already removed his breastplate and backpiece but had no"
idea how they were going to open his gorget or get his improvised hel-
met off. That piece of armor had been tied on with green ribbons which-
it would be necessary to cut, since the knots could not be undone, but he
would not hear of this, and so spent all the rest of that night with his head-
piece in place, which gave him the weirdest, most laughable appearance
that could be imagined.

Don Quixote fancied that these wenches who were assisting him must
surely be the chatelaine and other ladies of the castle, and so proceeded
to address them very gracefully and with much wit:

"Never was knight so served
By any noble dame
As was Don Quixote
When from his village he came,
With damsels to wait on his every need
While princesses cared for his hack...58

"By hack," he explained, "is meant my steed Rocinante, for that is
his name, and mine is Don Quixote de la Mancha. I had no intention of
revealing my identity until my exploits done in your service should
have made me known to you; but the necessity of adapting to present
circumstances that old ballad of Lancelot has led to your becoming ac-
quainted with it prematurely. However, the time will come when your
Ladyships shall command and I will obey and with the valor of my good
right arm show you how eager I am to serve you."

The young women were not used to listening to speeches like this and
had not a word to say, but merely asked him if he desired to eat anything.

"I could eat a bite of something, yes," replied Don Quixote. "Indeed,
I feel that a little food would go very nicely just now."

He thereupon learned that, since it was Friday, there was nothing to
be had In all the inn except a few portions of codfish, which in Castile is
called abadejo, in Andalusia bacalao, in some places curadillo, and else-
where truchuella or small trout Would his Grace, then, have some small
trout, seeing that was all there was that they could offer him?

"If there are enough of them," said Don Quixote, "they will take the
place of a trout, for it is all one to me whether I am given in change eight
reales or one piece of eight, What is more, those small trout may be like
veal, which is better than beef, or like kid, which is better than goat
But however that may be, bring them on at once, for the weight and
burden of arms is not to be borne without inner sustenance."

Placing the table at the door of the hostelry, In the open air, they
brought the guest a portion of badly soaked and worse cooked codfish
and a piece of bread as black and moldy as the suit of armor that he wore.
It was a mirth-provoking sight to see him eat, for he still had his helmet
on with his visor fastened,59 which made it impossible for him to put any-
thing into his mouth with his hands, and so it was necessary for one of
the girls to feed him. As for giving him anything to drink, that would
have been out of the question if the innkeeper had not hollowed out a
reed, placing one end in Don Quixote's mouth while through the other
end he poured the wine. All this the knight bore very patiently rather
than have them cut the ribbons of his helmet.

At this point a gelder of pigs approached the inn, announcing his ar-
rival with four or five blasts on his horn, all of which confirmed Don
Quixote in the belief that this was indeed a famous castle, for what was
this if not music that they were playing for him? The fish was trout, the
bread was of the finest, the wenches were ladies, and the innkeeper was
the castellan. He was convinced that he had been right in his resolve to
sally forth and roam the world at large, but there was one thing that still
distressed him greatly, and that was the fact that he had not as yet been
dubbed a knight; as he saw it, he could not legitimately engage in any ad-
venture until he had received the order of knighthood.

CHAPTER III.

Of the musing manner in which Don Quixote
had himself dubbed a knight.

WEARIED of his thoughts, Don Quixote lost no time over the scanty
repast which the inn afforded him. When he had finished, he sum-
moned the landlord and, taking him out to the stable, closed the doors
and fell on his knees in front of him.

"Never, valiant knight," he said, "shall I arise from here until you have
courteously granted me the boon I seek, one which will redound to your
praise and to the good of the human race."

Seeing his guest at his feet and hearing him utter such words as these,
the innkeeper could only stare at him in bewilderment, not knowing
what to say or do. It was in vain that he entreated him to rise, for Don
Quixote refused to do so until his request had been granted.

"I expected nothing less of your great magnificence, my lord," the
latter then continued, "and so I may tell you that the boon I asked
and which you have so generously conceded me is that tomorrow morn-
ing you dub me a knight. Until that time, in the chapel of this your castle,
I will watch over my armor, and when morning comes, as I have said,
that which I so desire shall then be done, in order that I may lawfully go
to the four corners of the earth in quest of adventures and to succor the
needy, which is the chivalrous duty of all knights-errant such as I who
long to engage in deeds of high emprise."

The innkeeper, as we have said, was a sharp fellow. He already had a
suspicion that his guest was not quite right in the head, and he was now
convinced of it as he listened to such remarks as these. However, just for
the sport of it, he determined to humor him; and so he went on to assure
Don Quixote that he was fully justified in his request and that such a
desire and purpose was only natural on the part of so distinguished a
knight as his gallant bearing plainly showed him to be.

He himself, the landlord added, when he was a young man, had fol-
lowed the same honorable calling. He had gone through various parts of
the world seeking adventures, among the places he had visited being the
Percheles of Milaga, the Isles of Riaran, the District of Seville, the Little
Market Place of Segovia, the Olivera of Valencia, the Rondilla of Gra-
nada, the beach of Sanlucar, the Horse Fountain of Cordova, the Small
Taverns of Toledo, and numerous other localities60 where his nimble
feet and light fingers had found much exercise. He had done many
wrongs, cheated many widows, ruined many maidens, and swindled not
a few minors until he had finally come to be known in almost all the
courts and tribunals that are to be found in the whole of Spain.

At last he had retired to his castle here, where he lived upon his own
income and the property of others; and here it was that he received all
knights-errant of whatever quality and condition, simply out of the
great affection that he bore them and that they might share with him their
possessions in payment of his good will. Unfortunately, in this castle
there was no chapel where Don Quixote might keep watch over his arms,
for the old chapel had been torn down to make way for a new one;
but in case of necessity, he felt quite sure that such a vigil could be main-
tained anywhere, and for the present occasion the courtyard of the
castle would do; and then in the morning, please God, the requisite cere-
mony could be performed and his guest be duly dubbed a knight, as
much a knight as anyone ever was.

He then inquired if Don Quixote had any money on his person, and
the latter replied that he had not a cent, for in all the storybooks he had
never read of knights-errant carrying any. But the innkeeper told him
he was mistaken on this point: supposing the authors of those stories
had not set down the fact in black and white, that was because they did
not deem it necessary to speak of things as indispensable as money and
a clean shirt, and one was not to assume for that reason that those knights-
errant of whom the books were so full did not have any. He looked upon
it as an absolute certainty that they all had well-stuffed purses, that they
might be prepared for any emergency; and they also carried shirts and
a little box of ointment for healing the wounds that they received.

For when they had been wounded in combat on the plains and in desert
places, there was not always someone at hand to treat them, unless they
had some skilled enchanter for a friend who then would succor them,
bringing to them through the air, upon a cloud, some damsel or dwarf
bearing a vial of water of such virtue that one had but to taste a drop
of it and at once his wounds were healed and he was as sound as if he had
never received any.

But even if this was not the case, knights in times past saw to it that
their squires were well provided with money and other necessities, such
as lint and ointment for healing purposes; and if they had no squires--
which happened very rarely--they themselves carried these objects in
a pair of saddlebags very cleverly attached to their horses' croups in
such a manner as to be scarcely noticeable, as if they held something of
greater importance than that,61 for among the knights-errant saddlebags
as a rule were not favored. Accordingly, he would advise the novice be-
fore him, and inasmuch as the latter was soon to be his godson, he might
even command him, that henceforth he should not go without money
and a supply of those things that have been mentioned, as he would find
that they came in useful at a time when he least expected it.

Don Quixote promised to follow his host's advice punctiliously; and
so it was arranged that he should watch his armor in a large barnyard at
one side of the inn. He gathered up all the pieces, placed them in a horse
trough that stood near the well, and, bracing his shield on his arm, took up
his lance and with stately demeanor began pacing up and down in front
of the trough even as night was closing in.

The innkeeper informed his other guests of what was going on, of
Don Quixote's vigil and his expectation of being dubbed a knight; and,
marveling greatly at so extraordinary a variety of madness, they all
went out to see for themselves and stood there watching from a distance.
For a while the knight-to-be, with tranquil mien, would merely walk
up and down; then, leaning on his lance, he would pause to survey his
armor, gazing fixedly at it for a considerable length of time. As has been
said, it was night now, but the brightness of the moon, which well might
rival that of Him who lent it, was such that everything the novice knight
did was plainly visible to all.

At this point one of the mule drivers who were stopping at the inn
came out to water his drove, and in order to do this it was necessary to
remove the armor from the trough.

As he saw the man approaching, Don Quixote cried out to him, "O bold
knight, whoever you may be, who thus would dare to lay hands upon the
accouterments of the most valiant man of arms that ever girded on a
sword, look well what you do and desist if you do not wish to pay with
your life for your insolence!"

The muleteer gave no heed to these words? it would have been better
for his own sake had he done so--but, taking it up by the straps, tossed the
armor some distance from him. When he beheld this, Don Quixote rolled
his eyes heavenward and with his thoughts apparently upon his Dulcinea
exclaimed, "Succor, O lady mine, this vassal heart in this my first en-
counter; let not your favor and protection fail me in the peril in which
for the first time I now find myself."

With these other similar words, he loosed his buckler, grasped his
lance in both his hands, and let the mule driver have such a blow on the
head that the man fell to the ground stunned; and had it been followed
by another one, he would have had no need of a surgeon to treat him.
Having done this, Don Quixote gathered up his armor and resumed his
pacing up and down with the same calm manner as before. Not long
afterward without knowing what had happened--for the first muleteer
was still lying there unconscious--another came out with the same in-
tention of watering his mules, and he too was about to remove the armor
from the trough when the knight, without saying a word or asking favor
of anyone, once more adjusted his buckler and raised his lance, and if
he did not break the second mule driver's head to bits, he made more than
three pieces of it by dividing it into quarters. At the sound of the fracas
everybody in the inn came running out, among them the innkeeper;
whereupon Don Quixote again lifted his buckler and laid his hand on his
sword.

"O lady of beauty," he said, "strength and vigor of this fainting heart
of mine! Now is the time to turn the eyes of your greatness upon this
captive knight of yours who must face so formidable an adventure,"

By this time he had worked himself up to such a pitch of anger that
if all the mule drivers in the world had attacked him he would not have
taken one step backward. The comrades of the wounded men, seeing the
plight those two were in, now began showering stones on Don Quixote,
who shielded himself as best he could with his buckler, although he did
not dare stir from the trough for fear of leaving his armor unprotected.
The landlord, meanwhile, kept calling to them to stop, for he had told
them that this was a madman who would be sure to go free even though
he killed them all. The knight was shouting louder than ever, calling them
knaves and traitors. As for the lord of the castle, who allowed knights-
errant to be treated in this fashion, he was a lowborn villain, and if he,
Don Quixote, had but received the order of knighthood, he would make
him pay for his treachery.

"As for you others, vile and filthy rabble, I take no account of you;
you may stone me or come forward and attack me all you like; you shall
see what the reward of your folly and insolence will be."

He spoke so vigorously and was so undaunted in bearing as to strike
terror in those who would assail him; and for this reason, and owing
also to the persuasions of the innkeeper, they ceased stoning him. He
then permitted them to carry away the wounded, and went back to
watching his armor with the same tranquil, unconcerned air that he had
previously displayed.

The landlord was none too well pleased with these mad pranks on the
part of his guest and determined to confer upon him that accursed order
of knighthood before something else happened. Going up to him, he
begged Don Quixote's pardon for the insolence which, without his
knowledge, had been shown the knight by those of low degree. They,
however, had been well punished for their impudence. As he had said,
there was no chapel in this castle, but for that which remained to be
done there was no need of any. According to what he had read of the
ceremonial of the order, there was nothing to this business of being
dubbed a knight except a slap on the neck and one across the shoulder,
and that could be performed in the middle of a field as well as anywhere
else. All that was required was for the knight-to-be to keep watch over
his armor for a couple of hours, and Don Quixote had been at it more than
four. The latter believed all this and announced that he was ready to
obey and get the matter over with as speedily as possible. Once dubbed
a knight, if he were attacked one more time, he did not think that he
would leave a single person in the castle alive, save such as he might
command be spared, at the bidding of his host and out of respect to him.

Thus warned, and fearful that it might occur, the castellan brought
out the book in which he had jotted down the hay and barley for which
the mule drivers owed him, and, accompanied by a lad bearing the butt
of a candle and the two aforesaid damsels, he came up to where Don
Quixote stood and commanded him to kneel. Reading from the account
book--as if he had been saying a prayer--he raised his hand and, with
the knight's own sword, gave him a good thwack upon the neck and
another lusty one upon the shoulder, muttering all the while between
his teeth. He then directed one of the ladies to gird on Don Quixote's
sword, which she did with much gravity and composure; for it was all
they could do to keep from laughing at, every point of the ceremony, but
the thought of the knight's prowess which they had already witnessed
was sufficient to restrain their mirth.

"May God give your Grace much good fortune,'' said the worthy lady as
she attached the blade, "and prosper you in battle."

Don Quixote thereupon inquired her name, for he desired to know
to whom it was he was indebted for the favor he had just received, that
he might share with her some of the honor which his strong right arm
was sure to bring him. She replied very humbly that her name was Tolosa
and that she was the daughter of a shoemaker, a native of Toledo who
lived in the stalls of Sancho Bienaya.62 To this the knight replied that
she would do him a very great favor if from then on she would call her-
self Dona Tolosa, and she promised to do so. The other girl then helped
him on with his spurs, and practically the same conversation was repeated
When asked her name, she stated that it was La Molinera and added that
she was the daughter of a respectable miller of Antequera. Don Quixote
likewise requested her to assume the "don" and become Dona Molinera
and offered to render her further services and favors.

These unheard-of ceremonies having been dispatched in great haste,
Don Quixote could scarcely wait to be astride his horse and sally forth
on his quest for adventures. Saddling and mounting Rocinante, he em-
braced his host, thanking him for the favor of having dubbed him a
knight and saying such strange things that it would be quite impossible
to record them here. The innkeeper, who was only too glad to be rid of
him, answered with a speech that was no less flowery, though somewhat
shorter, and he did not so much as ask him for the price of a lodging, so
glad was he to see him go.

CHAPTER IV.

Of what happened to our knight when
he sallied forth from the inn.

Day was dawning when Don Quixote left the inn, so well satisfied with
himself, so gay, so exhilarated, that the very girths of his steed all but
burst with joy. But remembering the advice which his host had given him
concerning the stock of necessary provisions that he should carry with
him, especially money and shirts, he decided to turn back home and
supply himself with whatever he needed, and with a squire as well; he
had in mind a farmer who was a neighbor of his, a poor man and the
father of a family but very well suited to fulfill the duties of squire to
a man of arms. With this thought in mind he guided Rocinante toward
the village once more, and that animal, realizing that he was homeward
bound, began stepping out at so lively a gait that it seemed as if his feet
barely touched the ground.

The knight had not gone far when from a hedge on his right hand he
heard the sound of faint moans as of someone in distress.

"Thanks be to Heaven," he at once exclaimed, "for the favor it
shown me by providing me so soon with an opportunity to fulfill
obligations that I owe to my profession, a chance to pluck the fruit of
my worthy desires. Those, undoubtedly, are the cries of someone
dirtfess, who stands in need of my favor and assistance."

Turning Rocinante's head, he rode back to the place from which the
cries appeared to be coming. Entering the wood, he had gone but a few
paces when he saw a mare attached to an oak, while bound to another
tree was a lad of fifteen or thereabouts, naked from the waist up. It
was he who was uttering the cries, and not without reason, for there
in front of him was a lusty farmer with a girdle who was giving him
many lashes, each one accompanied by a reproof and a command, "Hold
your tongue and keep your eyes open"; and the lad was saying, "I won't
do it again, sir; by God's Passion, I won't do it again. I promise you that
after this I'll take better care of the flock."

When he saw what was going on, Don Quixote was very angry. "Dis-
courteous knight," he said, "it ill becomes you to strike one who is
powerless to defend himself. Mount your steed and take your lance in
hand"--for there was a lance leaning against the oak to which the mare
was tied? "and I will show you what a coward you are."

The farmer, seeing before him this figure all clad in armor and bran-
dishing a lance, decided that he was as good as done for. "Sir Knight,"
he said, speaking very mildly, "this lad that I am punishing here is my
Servant; he tends a flock of sheep which I have in these parts and he is
so careless that every day one of them shows up missing. And when I
punish him for his carelessness or his roguery, he says it is just because
I am a miser and do not want to pay him the wages that I owe him, but I
swear to God and upon my soul that he lies."

"It is you who lie, base lout," said Don Quixote, "and in my presence;
and by the sun that gives us light, I am minded to run you through with
this lance. Pay him and say no more about it, or else, by the God who
rules us, I will make an end of you and annihilate you here and now.
Release him at once."

The farmer hung his head and without a word untied his servant. Don
Quixote then asked the boy how much his master owed him. For nine
months' work, the lad told him, at seven reales the month. The knight
did a little reckoning and found that this came to sixty-three reales;
whereupon he ordered the farmer to pay over the money immediately,
as he valued his life. The cowardly bumpkin replied that, facing death
as he was and by the oath that he had sworn--he had not sworn any
oath as yet--it did not amount to as much, as that; for there were three
pairs of shoes which he had given the lad that were to be deducted and
taken into account; and a real for two blood-lettings when his servant
was ill.

"That," said Don Quixote, "is all very well; but let the shoes and the
blood-lettings go for the undeserved lashes which you have given him;
if he has worn out the leather of the shoes that you paid for, you have
taken the hide off his body, and if the barber63 let a little blood for him
when he was sick, you have done the same when he was well; and so
far as that goes, he owes you nothing."

"But the trouble is, Sir Knight, that I have no money with me. Come
along home with me, Andres, and I will pay you real for real."

"I go home with him!" cried the lad. "Never in the world! No, sir, I
would not even think of it; for once he has me alone he'll flay me like a
St. Bartholomew."

"He will do nothing of the sort," said Don Quixote. "It is sufficient
for me to command, and he out of respect will obey. Since he has sworn
to me by the order of knighthood which he has received, I shall let him
go free and I will guarantee that you will be paid."

"But look, your Grace," the lad remonstrated, "my master is no knight;
he has never received any order of knighthood whatsoever. He is Juan
Haldudo, a rich man and a resident of Quintanar."

"That makes little difference," declared Don Quixote, "for there may
well be knights among the Haldudos,64 all the more so in view of the fact
that every man is the son of his works."65

"That is true enough," said Andres, "but this master of mine--of what
works is he the son, seeing that he refuses me the pay for my sweat and
labor?"

"I do not refuse you, brother Andres," said the farmer. "Do me the
favor of coming with me, and I swear to you by all the orders of knight-
hood that there are in this world to pay you, as I have said, real for real,
and perfumed at that."66

"You can dispense with the perfume," said Don Quixote; "just give
him the reales and I shall be satisfied. And see to it that you keep your
oath, or by the one that I myself have sworn I shall return to seek you
out and chastise you, and I shall find you though you be as well hidden as
a lizard. In case you would like to know who it is that is giving you this
command in order that you may feel the more obliged to comply with
it, I may tell you that I am the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha,
righter of wrongs and injustices; and so, God be with you, and do not
fail to do as you have promised, under that penalty that I have pro-
nounced."

As he said this, he put spurs to Rocinante and was off. The farmer
watched him go, and when he saw that Don Quixote was out of the wood
and out of sight, he turned to his servant, Andres.

"Come here, my son," he said. "I want to pay you what I owe you as
that righter of wrongs has commanded me."

"Take my word for it," replied Andres, "your Grace would do well
to observe the command of that good knight--may he live a thousand
years; for as he is valorous and a righteous judge, if you don't pay me
then, by Roque,67 he will come back and do just what he said!"

"And I will give you my word as well," said the farmer; "but seeing
that I am so fond of you, I wish to increase the debt, that I may owe you
all the more." And with this he seized the lad's arm and bound him to the
tree again and flogged him within an inch of his life. "There, Master
Andr6s, you may call on that righter of wrongs if you like and you will
see whether or not he rights this one. I do not think I have quite finished
with you yet, for I have a good mind to flay you alive as you feared."

Finally, however, he unbound him and told him he might go look for
that judge of his to carry out the sentence that had been pronounced.
Andres left, rather down in the mouth, swearing that he would indeed
go look for the brave Don Quixote de la Mancha; he would relate to
him everything that had happened, point by point, and the farmer would
have to pay for it seven times over. But for all that, he went away weep-
ing, and his master stood laughing at him.

Such was the manner in which the valorous knight righted this particu-
lar wrong. Don Quixote was quite content with the way everything had
turned out; it seemed to him that he had made a very fortunate and
noble beginning with his deeds of chivalry, and he was very well satis-
fied with himself as he jogged along in the direction of his native village,
talking to himself in a low voice all the while.

"Well may'st thou call thyself fortunate today, above all other women
on earth, O fairest of the fair, Dulcinea del Toboso! Seeing that it has
fallen to thy lot to hold subject and submissive to thine every wish and
pleasure so valiant and renowned a knight as Don Quixote de la Mancha
is and shall be, who, as everyone knows, yesterday received the order
of knighthood and this day has righted the greatest wrong and grievance
that injustice ever conceived or cruelty ever perpetrated, by snatching
the lash from the hand of the merciless foeman who was so unreasonably
dogging that tender child."

At this point he came to a road that forked off in four directions, and
at once he thought of those crossroads where knights-errant would pause
to consider which path they should take. By way of imitating them, he
halted there for a while; and when he had given the subject much
thought, he slackened Rocinante's rein and let the hack follow its inclina-
tion. The animal's first impulse was to make straight for its own stable.
After they had gone a couple of miles or so Don Quixote caught sight of
what appeared to be a great throng of people, who, as was afterward
learned, were certain merchants of Toledo on their way to purchase silk
at Murcia. There were six of them altogether with their sunshades, ac-
companied by four attendants on horseback and three mule drivers on
foot.

No sooner had he sighted them than Don Quixote imagined that he
was on the brink of some fresh adventure. He was eager to imitate those
passages at arms of which he had read in his books, and here, so it seemed
to him, was one made to order. And so, with bold and knightly bearing,
he settled himself firmly in the stirrups, couched his lance, covered him-
self with his shield, and took up a position in the middle of the road,
where he paused to wait for those other knights-errant (for such he
took them to be) to come up to him. When they were near enough to
see and hear plainly, Don Quixote raised his voice and made a haughty
gesture.

"Let everyone," he cried, "stand where he is, unless everyone will con-
fess that there is not in all the world a more beauteous damsel than the
Empress of La Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso."

Upon hearing these words and beholding the weird figure who uttered
them, the merchants stopped short. From the knight's appearance and
his speech they knew at once that they had to deal with a madman; but
they were curious to know what was meant by that confession that was
demanded of them, and one of their number who was somewhat of a
jester and a Very clever fellow raised his voice.

"Sir Knight," he said, "we do not know who this beauteous lady is
of whom you speak. Show her to us, and if she is as beautiful as you say,
then we will right willingly and without any compulsion confess the
truth as you have asked of us."

"If I were to show her to you," replied Don Quixote, "what merit
would there be in your confessing a truth so self-evident? The important
thing is for you, without seeing her, to believe, confess, affirm, swear,
and defend that truth. Otherwise, monstrous and arrogant creatures that
you are, you shall do battle with me. Come on, then, one by one, as the
order of knighthood prescribes; or ail of you together, if you will have
itao, as is the sorry custom with those of your breed. Come on, and I
will await you here, for I am confident that my cause is just."

"Sir Knight," responded the merchant, "I beg your Grace, in the name
of all the princes here present, in order that we may not have upon our
consciences the burden of confessing a thing which we have never seen
nor heard, and one, moreover, so prejudicial to the empresses and queens
of Alcarria and Estremadura,"68 that your Grace will show us some
portrait of this lady, even though it be no larger than a grain of wheat,
for by the thread one comes to the ball of yarn;69 and with this we shall
remain satisfied and assured, and your Grace will likewise be content
and satisfied. The truth is, I believe that we are already so much of your
way of thinking that though it should show her to be blind of one eye
and distilling vermilion and brimstone from the other, nevertheless, to
please your Grace, we would say in her behalf all that you desire."

"She distills nothing of the sort, infamous rabble!" shouted Don
Quixote, for his wrath was kindling now. "I tell you, she does not distill
what you say at all, but amber and civet wrapped in cotton;70 and she
is neither one-eyed nor hunchbacked but straighter than a spindle that
comes from Guadarrama.71 You shall pay for the great blasphemy which
you have uttered against such a beauty as is my lady!"

Saying this, he came on with lowered lance against the one who had
spoken, charging with such wrath and fury that if fortune had not caused
Rocinante to stumble and fall in mid-career, things would have gone
badly with the merchant and he would have paid for his insolent gibe.
As it was, Don Quixote went rolling over the plain for some little distance,
and when he tried to get to his feet, found that he was unable to do so,
being too encumbered with his lance, shield, spurs, helmet, and the weight
of that ancient suit of armor.

"Do not flee, cowardly ones," he cried even as he struggled to rise.
"Stay, cravens, for it is not my fault but that of my steed that I am
stretched out here."

One of the muleteers, who must have been an ill-natured lad, upon
hearing the poor fallen knight speak so arrogantly, could not refrain
from giving him an answer in the ribs. Going up to him, he took the
knight's lance and broke it into bits, and then with a companion pro-
ceeded to belabor him so mercilessly that in spite of his armor they milled
him like a hopper of wheat. The merchants called to them not to lay on
so hard, saying that was enough and they should desist, but the mule
driver by this time had warmed up to the sport and would not stop until
he had vented his wrath, and, snatching up the broken pieces of the
lance, he began hurling them at the wretched victim as he lay there on
the ground. And through all this tempest of sticks that rained upon him
Don Quixote never once closed his mouth nor ceased threatening Heaven
and earth and these ruffians, for such he took them to be, who were thus
mishandling him.

Finally the lad grew tired, and the merchants went their way with
a good story to tell about the poor fellow who had had such a cudgeling.
Finding himself alone, the knight endeavored to see if he could rise; but
if this was a feat that he could not accomplish when he was sound and
whole, how was he to achieve it when he had been thrashed and pounded
to a pulp? Yet nonetheless he considered himself fortunate; for as he
saw it, misfortunes such as this were common to knights-errant, and he
put all the blame upon his horse; and if he was unable to rise, that was
because his body was so bruised and battered all over.

CHAPTER V.

In which is continued the narrative of the
misfortune that befell our knight.

SEEING, then, that he was indeed unable to stir, he decided to fall
back upon a favorite remedy of his, which was to think of some passage
or other in his books^ and as it happened, the one that he in his madness
now recalled was the story of Baldwin and the Marquis of Mantua, when
Carloto left the former wounded upon the mountainside,72 a tale that is
known to children, not unknown to young men, celebrated and believed
in by the old, and, for all of that, not any truer than the miracles of
Mohammed. Moreover, it impressed him as being especially suited to
the straits in which he found himself; and, accordingly, with a great
show of feeling, he began rolling and tossing on the ground as he feebly
gasped out the lines which the wounded knight of the wood is supposed
to have uttered:

Where art thou, lady mine,
That thou dost not grieve for my woe--
Either thou art disloyal,
Or my grief thou dost not know"

He went on reciting the old ballad until he came to the following
verses:

"O noble Marquis of Mantua,
My uncle and liege lord true!"

He had reached this point when down the road came a farmer of the
same village, a neighbor of his, who had been to the mill with a load of
wheat. Seeing a man lying there stretched out like that, he went up
to him and inquired who he was and what was the trouble that caused
him to utter such mournful complaints. Thinking that this must undoubt-
edly be his uncle, the Marquis of Mantua, Don Quixote did not answer
but went on with his recitation of the ballad, giving an account of the
Marquis' misfortunes and the amours of his wife and the emperor's son,
exactly as the ballad has it.

The farmer was astounded at hearing all these absurdities, and after
removing the knight's visor which had been battered to pieces by the
blows it had received, the good man bathed the victim's face, only to
discover, once the dust was off, that he knew him very well.

"Senor Quijana," he said (for such must have been Don Quixote's
real name when he was in his right senses and before he had given up the
life of a quiet country gentleman to become a knight-errant), "who is
responsible for your Grace's being in such a plight as this?"

But the knight merely went on with his ballad in response to all the
questions asked of him. Perceiving that it was impossible to obtain any
information from him, the farmer as best he could relieved him of his
breastplate and backpiece to see if he had any wounds, but there was no
blood and no mark of any sort. He then tried to lift him from the ground,
and with a great deal of effort finally managed to get him astride the
ass, which appeared to be the easier mount for him. Gathering up the
armor, including even the splinters from the lance, he made a bundle and
tied it on.Rocinante's back, and, taking the horse by the reins and the
ass by the halter, he started out for the village. He was worried in his
mind at hearing all the foolish things that Don Quixote said, and that
individual himself was far from being at ease. Unable by reason of his
bruises and his soreness to sit upright on the donkey, our knight-errant
kept sighing to Heaven, which led the farmer to ask him once more what
it was that ailed him.

It must have been the devil himself who caused him to remember those
tales that seemed to fit his own case; for at this point he forgot all about
Baldwin and recalled Abindarraez, and how the governor of Antequera,
Rodrigo de Narvaez, had taken him prisoner and carried him off captive
to his castle.73 Accordingly, when the countryman turned to inquire how
he was and what was troubling him, Don Quixote replied with the very
same words and phrases that the captive Abindarraez used in answering
Rodrigo, just as he had read in the story Diana of Jorge de Monte-
mayor,74 where it is all written down, applying them very aptly to the
present circumstances as the farmer went along cursing his luck for hav-
ing to listen to such a lot of nonsense. Realizing that his neighbor was
quite mad, he made haste to reach the village that he might not have to
be annoyed any longer by Don Quixote's tiresome harangue.

"Senor Don Rodrigo de Narvaez," the knight was saying, "I may in-
form your Grace that this beautiful Jarifa of whom I speak is not the
lovely Dulcinea del Toboso, in whose behalf I have done, am doing, and
shall do the most famous deeds of chivalry that ever have been or will
be seen in all the world."

"But, sir," replied the farmer, "sinner that I am, cannot your Grace
see that I am not Don Rodrigo de Narvdez nor the Marquis of Mantua,
but Pedro Alonso, your neighbor? And your Grace is neither Baldwin
nor Abindarraez but a respectable gentleman by the name of Senor
Quijana."

"I know who I am," said Don Quixote, "and who I may be, if I choose:
not only those I have mentioned but all the Twelve Peers of France and
the Nine Worthies as well; for the exploits of all of them together, or
separately, cannot compare with mine."

With such talk as this they reached their destination just as night was
falling; but the farmer decided to wait until it was a little darker in order
that the badly battered gentleman might not be seen arriving in such a
condition and mounted on an ass. When he thought the proper time had
come, they entered the village and proceeded to Don Quixote's house,
where they found everything in confusion. The curate and the barber
were there, for they were great friends of the knight, and the house-
keeper was speaking to them.

"Senor Licentiate Pero Perez," she was saying, for that was the manner
in which she addressed the curate, "what does your Grace think could
have happened to my master? Three days now, and not a word of him,
nor the hack, nor the buckler, nor the lance, nor the suit of armor. Ah,
poor me! I am as certain as I am that I was born to die that it is those
cursed books of chivalry he is always reading that have turned his head;
for now that I recall, I have often heard him muttering to himself that
ho must become a knight-errant and go through the world in search of
adventures. May such books as those be consigned to Satan and Barabbas,
for they have sent to perdition the finest mind in all La Mancha."

The niece was of the same opinion. "I may tell you, Senor Master
Nicholas," she said, for that was the barber's name, "that many times
my uncle would sit reading those impious tales of misadventure for two
whole days and nights at a stretch; and when he was through, he would
toss the book aside, lay his hand on his sword, and begin slashing at the
walls, When he was completely exhausted, he would tell us that he had
just killed four giants as big as castle towers, while the sweat that poured
off him was blood from the wounds that he had received in battle. He
would then drink a big jug of cold water, after which he would be very
calm and peaceful, saying that the water was the most precious liquid
which the wise Esquife, a great magician and his friend, had brought to
him. But I blame myself for everything. I should have advised your
Worships of my uncle's nonsensical actions so that you could have done
something about it by burning those damnable books of his before things
came to such a pass; for he has many that ought to be burned as if they
were heretics,"

"I agree with you," said the curate, "and before tomorrow's sun has
set there shall be a public auto de fe, and those works shall be condemned
to the flames that they may not lead some other who reads them to follow
the example of my good friend."

Don Quixote and the farmer overheard all this, and it was then that
the latter came to understand the nature of his neighbor's affliction.

"Qpen the door, your Worships," the good man cried. "Open for Sir
Baldwin and the Marquis of Mantua, who comes badly wounded, and
for Senor Abindarraez the Moor whom the valiant Rodrigo de Narvaez,
governor of Antequera, brings captive."

At the sound of his voice they all ran out, recognizing at once friend, .
master, and uncle, who as yet was unable to get down off the donkey's
Back. They all ran up to embrace him.

"Wait, all of you," said Don Quixote, "for I am sorely wounded
through fault of my steed, Bear me to my couch and summon, if it be
possible,; the wise Urganda to treat and care for my wounds."

"There!" exclaimed the housekeeper. "Plague take it! Did not my
heart cell me right as to which foot my master limped on? To bed with
your Grace at once, and we will take care of you without sending for
that Urganda of yours. A curse, I say, and a hundred other curses, on
those books of chivalry that have brought your Grace to this."

And so they carried him off to bed, but when they went to look for
his wounds, they found none at all. He told them it was all the result of
a great fall he had taken with Rocinante, his horse, while engaged in com,
bating ten giants, the hugest and most insolent that were ever heard of
in all the world.

"Tut, tut," said the curate. "So there are giants in the dance now, are
there? Then, by the sign of the cross, I'll have them burned before night-
fall tomorrow."

They had a thousand questions to put to Don Quixote, but his only
answer was that they should give him something to eat and let him sleep,
for that was the most important thing of all; so they humored him in
this. The curate then interrogated the farmer at great length concerning
the conversation he had had with his neighbor. The peasant told him
everything, all the absurd things their friend had said when he found him
lying there and afterward on the way home, all of which made the
licentiate more anxious than ever to do what he did the following day,
when he summoned Master Nicholas and went with him to Don
Quixote's house.

CHAPTER VI.

Of the great and diverting scrutiny which the curate and
the barber made in the library of our ingenious gentleman.

As Don Quixote was still sleeping, the curate asked the niece for the
keys to the room where those books responsible for all the trouble were,
and she gave them to him very willingly. They all went in, the house-
keeper too, and found more than a hundred large-sized volumes very
well bound and a number of smaller ones. No sooner had the housekeeper
laid eyes on them than she left the room, returning shortly with a basin
ofholy water and a sprinkling-pot.

"Here, Senor Licentiate," she said, "take this and sprinkle well, that
no enchanter of the many these books contain may remain here to cast
aspell on us for wishing to banish them from the world."

The curate could not but laugh at her simplicity as he directed the
barber to hand him the volumes one by one so that he might see what
their subject matter was, since it was possible that there were some there
that did not deserve a punishment by fire.

"No," said the niece, "you must not pardon any of them, for they are
all to blame. It would be better to toss them out the window into the
courtyard, make a heap of them, and then set fire to it; or else you can
take them out to the stable yard and make a bonfire there where the
smoke will not annoy anyone."

The housekeeper said the same thing, both of them being very anxious
to witness the death of these innocents, but the curate would not hear
of this until he had read the titles. The first that Master Nicholas handed
him was The Four Books of Amadis of Gaul.

"There seems to be some doubt about this one," he said, "for according
to what I have heard, it was the first romance of chivalry to be printed
in Spain and is the beginning and origin of all the others; but for that
very reason I think that we should condemn it to the flames without any
mercy whatsoever as the work that supplied the dogmas for so vile a
sect."

"No, my dear sir," said the barber, "for I have heard that it is better
than all the other books of this sort that have been composed, and inas-
much as it is unique of its kind, it ought to be pardoned."

"True enough," said the curate, "and for that reason we will spare its
life for the present. Let us see the one next to it."

"It is the Exploits of Esplandian,75 legitimate son of Amadis of Gaul."

"Well, I must say," the curate replied, "that the father's merits are
not to be set down to the credit of his offspring, l ake it, Mistress House-
keeper; open that window and throw it out into the stable yard; it will
make a beginning for that bonfire of ours."

The housekeeper complied with a great deal of satisfaction, and the
worthy Esplandidn went flying out into the yard to wait as patiently
as anyone could wish for the threatened conflagration.

"Let,s have some more," said the curate.

This one coming next," said the barber, "is Amadis of Greece;76 in
fact, all those on this side, so far as I can see, are of the same lineage-
descendants of Amadis."

"Then out with them all," was the curate's verdict; "for in order to be
able to burn Queen Pintiquinestra and the shepherd Darinel and his
elegies and the author's diabolic and involved conceits, I would set fire,
along with them, to the father that bore me if he were going around in
the guise of a knight-errant."

"I agree with you on that," said the barber.

"And I also," put in the niece.

"Well, since that is the way it is," said the housekeeper, "to the stable
yard with them."

They handed her a whole stack of them, and, to avoid the stair, she
dumped them out the window into the yard below.

"What is that tub there?" inquired the curate.

"That," replied the barber, "is Don Olivante de Laura.77

"The author of this book," observed the curate, "was the same one
who composed the Garden of Flowers, and, in truth, there is no telling
which of the two is the truer, or, to put it better, less filled with lies; I
can only say that this one is going out into the yard as an arrogant brag-
gart."

"The next," announced the barber, "is Florismarte of Hircania.78

"So, Senor Florismarte is with us, is he? Then, upon my word, he is
due in the yard this minute, in spite of his strange birth and imaginary
adventures, for the stiffness and dryness of his style deserve nothing
better. Out with him, and with the other as well, Mistress Housekeeper."

"With great pleasure," she said, and she gleefully carried out the order
that had been given her.

"This," said the barber, "is Platir the Knight.79

"A very old book," said the curate, "and I find nothing in it deserving
of clemency. Let it accompany the others without appeal."

Once again sentence was carried out. They opened another volume
and saw that its title was The Knight of the Cross.80

"Out of respect for a name so holy as the one this book bears, one
might think that its ignorance should be pardoned; but you know the
old saying, 'The devil takes refuge behind the cross,' so to the fire with
it."

"And this," said the barber, taking up yet another, "is The Mirror of
Chivalry.81

"Ah, your Grace, I know you," said the curate. "Here we have Sir
Rinaldo of Montalban with his friends and companions, bigger thieves
than Cacus, all of them, and the Twelve Peers along with the veracious
historian Turpin.82 To tell you the truth, I am inclined to sentence them
to no more than perpetual banishment, seeing that they have about them
something of the inventiveness of Matteo Boiardo,83 and it was out of
these, also, that the Christian poet Ludovico Ariosto wove his tapestry
--and by the way, if I find him here speaking any language other than
his own, I will show him no respect, but if I meet with him in his own
tongue, I will place him upon my head."84

"Yes," said the barber, "I have him at home in Italian, but I can't under-
stand him."

"It is just as well that you cannot," said the curate. "And for this reason
we might pardon the Captain85 if he had not brought him to Spain and
made him over into a Castilian, depriving him thereby of much of his
native strength, as happens with all those who would render books of
verse into another language; for however much care they may take, and
however much cleverness they may display, they can never equal the
original. I say, in short, that this work and all those on French themes
ought to be thrown into, or deposited in, some dry well until we make
up our minds just what should be done with them, with the exception
of one Bernardo del Carpio, which is going the rounds, and another
called Roncesvalles;86 for these books, if they fall into my hands, shall
be transferred to those of the housekeeper at once, and from there they
go into the fire without any reprieve whatever."

The barber thoroughly approved of everything, being convinced that
the curate was so good a Christian and so honest a man that he would not
for anything in the world utter an untruth. Opening another book, he
saw that it was Palmerin de Oliva, and next to it was one entitled Palmerin
of England.87

The curate took one look at them. "Let this olive," he said, "be sliced
to bits and burned until not even the ashes are left; but let this palm of
England be guarded and preserved as something unique, and let there
be made for it another case such as Alexander found among the spoils of
Darius and set aside for the safekeeping of the works of the poet Homer.
This book, my good friend, is deserving of respect for two reasons:
first, because it is very good; and second, because it is reputed to have
been composed by a wise and witty king of Portugal. All the adventures
at Miraguarda's castle are excellently contrived, and the dialogue is dear
attth polished, the character and condition of the one who is speaking
being observed with much propriety and understanding. And so, saving
your good pleasure, Master Nicholas, I say that this book and Amadis
of Gaul should be spared the flames, but all the others without more ado
about it should perish."

"No, my friend," replied the barber, "for this one that I hold here in
my hand is the famous Don Belianis."88

"Well," said the curate, "the second, third, and fourth parts need a
little rhubarb to purge them of an excess of bile, and we shall have to
relieve them of that Castle of Fame and other worse follies; but let them
have the benefit of the overseas clause,89 and, providing they mend their
ways, they shall be shown justice and mercy. Meanwhile, friend, take
them home with you and see to it that no one reads them."

"I shall be glad to do so," the barber assented. And not wishing to tire
himself any further by reading these romances of knighthood, he told
the housekeeper to take all the big ones and throw them into the yard.
This was not said to one who was deaf or dull-witted, but to one who
took more pleasure in such a bonfire than in the largest and finest tapestry
that she could have woven. Snatching them up seven or eight at a time,
she started flinging them out the window; but taking too big an armful,
she let one of them fall at the barber's feet. Curious to see what it was,
he bent over and picked it up. It was The History of the Famous Knight,
Tirant lo Blanch.90

"Well, bless my soul!" cried the curate, "if that isn't Tirant lo Blanch!
Let me have it, my friend, for I cannot but remember that I have found
in it a treasure of contentment and a mine of recreation. Here we have
Don Quirieleison de Montalban, that valiant knight, and his brother,
Tomas de Montalban, and the knight Fonseca, along with the combat
which brave Tirant waged with the mastiff, as well as the witty sayings
of the damsel Placerdemivida and the amours and deceits of the Empress,
who was enamored of Hipolito, her squire. Tell the truth, friend, and
admit that in the matter of style this is the best book in the world. Here
knights eat and sleep and die in their beds and make their wills before
they die and do other things that are never heard of in books of this kind.
But for all that, I am telling you that the one who needlessly composed
so nonsensical a work deserves to be sent to the galleys for the rest of
his life. Take it along home with you and read it and see if what I say is
not so."

"That I will," said the barber, "but what are we going to do with these
little ones that are left? "

"Those, I take it," replied the curate, "are not romances but poetry."
Opening one of them, he saw that it was Jorge de Montemayor's Diana,
and being under the impression that all the rest were of the same sort,
he added, "These do not deserve to be burned like the others, for they
are not harmful like the books of chivalry; they are works of imagina-
tion such as may be read without detriment."

"Ah, but Senor!" exclaimed the niece, "your Grace should send them
to be burned along with the rest; for I shouldn't wonder at all if my uncle,
after he has been cured of this chivalry sickness, reading one of these
books, should take it into his head to become a shepherd and go wander-
ing through the woods and meadows singing and piping, or, what is worse,
become a poet, which they say is an incurable disease and one that is
very catching."

"The young lady is right," said the curate. "It would be just as well
to remove this stumbling block and temptation out of our friend's way.
And so, to begin with Montemayor's Diana, I am of the opinion that it
should not be burned, but rather that we should take out of it everything
that has to do with that enchantress Felicia and her charmed potion,
together with nearly all the longer verse pieces, while we willingly
leave it the prose and the honor of being first and best among books of
its kind."

"This one coming up now," said the barber, "is The Second Part of
La Diana, 'by the Salamancan'; and here is yet another bearing the same
title, whose author is Gil Polo."91

"As for the Salamancan's work," said the curate, "let it go to swell
the number of the condemned out in the stable yard, but keep the Gil
Polo as if it were from Apollo's own hand. Come, my friend, let us
hurry, for it is growing late."

"This," said the barber as he opened another volume, "is The Ten
Books of the Fortunes of Love, composed by Antonio de Lofraso, the
Sardinian poet."92

"By the holy orders that I have received," the curate declared, "since
Apollo was Apollo, since the Muses were Muses and poets were poets, so
droll and absurd a book as this has not been written; in its own way it
is unique among all those of its kind that have seen the light of day, and
he who has not read it does not know what he has missed. Give it to
me, my friend, for I am more pleased at having found it than if they had
presented me with a cassock of Florentine cloth."

Saying this, he laid the book aside with great glee as the barber went
on, "Those that we have here are The Shepherd of Iberia, The Nymphs
of Hemtres, and The Disenchantments of Jealousy."93

"Well," said the curate, "there is nothing to do with those but to turn
them over to the housekeeper's secular arm; and do not ask me why, or
we shall never be finished."

"And this is Filida's Shepherd."94

"He is no shepherd but a polished courtier. Guard him as you would
a precious jewel."

"And this big one that I am handing you now is called Treasury of
Various Poem."95

"If there were not so many of them," remarked the curate, "they
would be held in greater esteem. This is a book that must be weeded out
and cleansed of certain trivialities among the many fine things that it
contains. Keep it, for the reason that its author is my friend and out
of respect for other more heroic and lofty works that he has pro-
duced."

"This," said the barber, "is the Song Book of Lopez de Maldonado."

"Another great friend of mine; and when he himself recites or, better,
sings his verses, all who hear them are filled with admiration for the
charm and sweetness of his voice. His eclogues are a bit too long; for
that which is good never did exist in great abundance.96 Put it with the
others that we have laid aside. But what is that one next to it?"

"La Galatea of Miguel de Cervantes," said the barber.

"Ah, that fellow Cervantes and I have been friends these many years,
but, to my knowledge, he is better versed in misfortune than he is in
verses. His book has a fairly good plot; it starts out well and ends up
nowhere. We shall have to wait for the second part which he has prom-
ised us, and perhaps when it has been corrected somewhat it will find the
favor that is now denied it.97 Meanwhile, keep it locked up in your
house."

"That I will gladly do," replied the barber. "And here we have three
more--I will hand them to you all together: the Araucana of Don Alonso
de Ercilla; the Austriada of Juan Rufo, magistrate of Cordova; and the
Monserrate of Cristobal de Virues, the poet of Valencia."98

"These three books," said the curate, "are the best that have been writ-
ten in heroic verse in the Castilian tongue and may well compete with
the most famous of Italy; keep them as the richest jewels of poetry that
Spain has to show."

By this time his Reverence was too tired to look at any more books
and accordingly decided that the rest should be burned without further
inspection. The barber, however, had already opened one called The
Tears of Angelica.99

"I should have wept myself," said the curate when he heard the title,
"if I had sent that one to the flames; for its author was one of the most
famous poets in the world, and not in Spain alone, and he was most
happy in the translation that he made of certain of the fables of Ovid."100

CHAPTER VII.

Of the second sally of our good knight,
Don Quixote de la Mancha.

At THAT instant Don Quixote began shouting, "Here! here! good
knights, now is the time to show the strength of your mighty arms, for
they of the court are gaining the better of the tourney!"

Called away by this noise and uproar, they went no further with the
scrutinizing of those books that remained; and as a consequence it is
believed that La Carolea and the Leon of Spain 101 went to the fire unseen
and unheard, along with The Deeds of the Emperor as set down by Don
Luis de Avila,102 for these undoubtedly must have been among the works
that were left, and possibly if the curate had seen them he would not
have passed so severe a sentence upon them.

When they reached Don Quixote's side, he had already risen from his
bed and was shouting and raving, laying about him on all sides with
slashes and back-strokes, as wide awake as if he had never been asleep.
Seizing him with their arms, they forced him into bed.

When he had quieted down a little he turned to the curate and said,
"Most certainly, Senor Archbishop Turpin, it is a great disgrace for us
who call ourselves the Twelve Peers so carelessly to allow the knights
of the court to gain the victory in this tournament, seeing that previously
we adventurers had carried off the prize for three days running."

"Be quiet, my friend," said the curate, "for, God willing, luck may
change, and that which is lost today shall be won tomorrow. For the
present, .your Grace should look after your health, for you must be very
tired, if not, perhaps, badly wounded."

"Wounded, no," said Don Quixote, "but bruised to a pulp, there is no
doubt of that; for that bastard of a Don Orlando flayed me with the
trunk of an oak, and all out of envy, because he knows that I am his only
rival in feats of valor. But my name is not Rinaldo of Montalban if on
arising from this couch I do not make him pay for it in spite of all his
enchantments. In the meantime, you may bring me something to eat,
for I think that would do me more good than anything else. I will see
to avenging myself in due course."

They did as he asked, brought him a bite of supper, and he once more
fell asleep, while the others wondered at the strange madness that had
laid hold of him. That night the housekeeper burned all the books there
were in the stable yard and in all the house; and there must have been
some that went up in smoke which should have been preserved in ever-
lasting archives, if the one who did the scrutinizing had not been so in-
dolent. Thus we see the truth of the old saying, to the effect that the
innocent must sometimes pay for the sins of the guilty.

One of the things that the curate and the barber advised as a remedy
for their friend's sickness was to wall up the room where the books
had been, so that, when he arose, he would not find them missing
--it might be that the cause being removed, the effect would cease--
and they could tell him that a magician had made away with them, room
and all. This they proceeded to do as quickly as possible. Two days
later, when Don Quixote rose from his bed, the first thing he did was
to go have a look at his library, and, not finding it where he had left it,
he went from one part of the house to another searching for it. Going up
to where the door had been, he ran his hands over the wall and rolled
his eyes in every direction without saying a word; but after some little
while he asked the housekeeper where his study was with all his books.

She had been well instructed in what to answer him. "Whatever study
is your Grace talking about?" she said. "There is no study, and no books,
in this house; the devil took them all away."

"No," said the niece, "it was not the devil but an enchanter who
came upon a cloud one night, the day after your Grace left here; dis-
mounting from a serpent that he rode, he entered your study, and I
don't know what all he did there, but after a bit he went flying off
through the roof, leaving the house full of smoke; and when we went to
see what he had done, there was no study and not a book in sight. There
is one thing, though, that the housekeeper and I remember very well:
at the time that wicked old fellow left, he cried out in a loud voice that
it was all on account of a secret enmity that he bore the owner of those
books and that study, and that was why he had done the mischief in
this house which we would discover. He also said that he was called
Munatdn the Magician.''

"Freston, he should have said," remarked Don Quixote.

"I can't say as to that," replied the housekeeper, "whether he was
called Freston or Friton;103 all I know is that his name ended in a t6n ."

"So it does," said Don Quixote. "He is a wise enchanter, a great
enemy of mine, who has a grudge against me because he knows by his
arts and learning that in the course of time I am to fight in single combat
with a knight whom he favors, and that I am to be the victor and he
can do nothing to prevent it. For this reason he seeks to cause me all
the trouble that he can, but I am warning him that it will be hard to
gainsay or shun that which Heaven has ordained."

"Who could doubt that it is so?" said the niece. "But tell me, uncle,
who is responsible for your being involved in these quarrels? Would it
not be better to remain peacefully here at home and not go roaming
through the world in search of better bread than is made from wheat,
without taking into consideration that many who go for wool come
back shorn?"104

"My dear niece," replied Don Quixote, "how little you understand of
these matters! Before they shear me, I will have plucked and stripped
the beards of any who dare to touch the tip of a single hair of mine."

The niece and the housekeeper did not care to answer him any fur-
ther, for they saw that his wrath was rising.

After that he remained at home very tranquilly for a couple of weeks,
without giving sign of any desire to repeat his former madness. During
that time he had the most pleasant conversations with his two old friends,
the curate and the barber, on the point he had raised to the effect that
what the world needed most was knights-errant and a revival of chivalry.
The curate would occasionally contradict him and again would give in,
for it was only by means of this artifice that he could carry on a con-
venation with him at all.

In the meanwhile Don Quixote was bringing his powers of persuasion
to bear upon a farmer who lived near by, a good man,? if this title may
be applied to one who is poor? but with very few wits in his head. The
short of it is, by pleas and promises, he got the hapless rustic to agree
to ride forth with him and serve him as his squire. Among other things,
Don Quixote told him that he ought to be more than willing to go, be-
cause no telling what adventure might occur which would win them
an island, and then he (the farmer) would be left to be the governor of
it As a result of these and other similar assurances, Sancho Panza for-
sook his wife and children and consented to take upon himself the duties
of squire to his neighbor.

Next, Don Quixote set out to raise some money, and by selling this
thing and pawning that and getting the worst of the bargain always, he
finally scraped together a reasonable amount. He also asked a friend
of his for the loan of a buckler and patched up his broken helmet as well
as he could. He advised his squire, Sancho, of the day and hour when
they were to take the road and told him to see to laying in a supply of
those things that were most necessary, and, above all, not to forget the
saddlebags. Sancho replied that he would see to all this and added that
he was also thinking of taking along with him a very good ass that he
had, as he was not much used to going on foot.

With regard to the ass, Don Quixote had to do a little thinking, try-
ing to recall if any knight-errant had ever had a squire thus asininely
mounted. He could not think of any, but nevertheless he decided to
take Sancho with the intention of providing him with a nobler steed
as soon as occasion offered; he had but to appropriate the horse of the
first discourteous knight he met. Having furnished himself with shirts
and all the other things that the innkeeper had recommended, he and
Panza rode forth one night unseen by anyone and without taking leave
of wife and children, housekeeper or niece. They went so far that
by the time morning came they were safe from discovery had a hunt
been started for them.

Mounted on his ass, Sancho Panza rode along like a patriarch, with
saddlebags and flask, his mind set upon becoming governor of that is-
land that his master had promised him. Don Quixote determined to take
the same route and road over the Campo de Montiel that he had followed
on his first journey; but he was not so uncomfortable this time, for it
was early morning and the sun's rays fell upon them slantingly and ac-
cordingly did not tire them too much.

"Look, Sir Knight-errant," said Sancho, "your Grace should not for-
get that island you promised me; for no matter how big it is, I'll be
able to govern it right enough."

"I would have you know, friend Sancho Panza," replied Don Quixote,
"that among the knights-errant of old it was a very common custom to
make their squires governors of the Islands or the kingdoms that they
won, and I am resolved that in my case so pleasing a usage shall not fall
into desuetude. I even mean to go them one better; for they very often,
perhaps most of the time, waited until their squires were old men who
had had their fill of serving their masters during bad days and worse
nights, whereupon they would give them the title of count, or marquis
at most, of some valley or province more or less. But if you live and I
live, it well may be that within a week I shall win some kingdom with
others dependent upon it, and it will be the easiest thing in the world to
crown you king of one of them. You need not marvel at this, for all
sorts of unforeseen things happen to knights like me, and I may readily
be able to give you even more than I have promised."

"In that case," said Sancho Panza, "if by one of those miracles of
which your Grace was speaking I should become king, I would certainly
send for Juana Gutierrez, my old lady, to come and be my queen, and
the young ones could be infantes."

"There is no doubt about it," Don Quixote assured him.

"Well, I doubt it," said Sancho, "for I think that even if God were to
rain kingdoms upon the earth, no crown would sit well on the head of
Mari Gutierrez,105 for I am telling you, sir, as a queen she is not worth
two maravedis. She would do better as a countess, God help her."

"Leave everything to God, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and he will
give you whatever is most fitting; but I trust you will not be so pusil-
lanimous as to be content with anything less than the title of viceroy."

"That I will not," said Sancho Panza, "especially seeing that I have
in your Grace so illustrious a master who can give me all that is suitable
to me and all that I can manage."

CHAPTER VIII.

Of the good fortune which the valorous Don Quixote
had in the terrifying and never-before-imagined adven-
ture of the windmills, along with other events that
deserve to be suitably recorded.

At this point they caught sight of thirty or forty windmills which
were standing on the plain there, and no sooner had Don Quixote laid
eyes upon them than he turned to his squire and said, "Fortune is guid-
ing our affairs better than we could have wished; for you see there
before you, friend Sancho Panza, some thirty or more lawless giants
with whom I mean to do battle. I shall deprive them of their lives, and
with the spoils from this encounter we shall begin to enrich ourselves;
for this is righteous warfare, and it is a great service to God to remove
so accursed a breed from the face of the earth."

"What giants?" said Sancho Panza.

"Those that you see there," replied his master, "those with the long
arms some of which are as much as two leagues in length."

"But look, your Grace, those are not giants but windmills, and what
appear to be arms are their wings which, when whirled in the breeze,
cause the millstone to go."

"It is plain to be seen," said Don Quixote, "that you have had little
experience in this matter of adventures. If you are afraid, go off to one
side and say your prayers while I am engaging them in fierce, unequal
combat."

Saying this, he gave spurs to his steed Rocinante, without paying any
heed to Sancho's warning that these were truly windmills and not giants
that he was riding forth to attack. Nor even when he was close upon
them did he perceive what they really were, but shouted at the top of
his lungs, "Do not seek to flee, cowards and vile creatures that you are,
for it is but a single knight with whom you have to deal!"

At that moment a little wind came up and the big wings began turn-
ing.

"Though you flourish as many arms as did the giant Briareus," said
Don Quixote when he perceived this, "you still shall have to answer to
me."

He thereupon commended himself with all his heart to his lady Dul-
cinea, beseeching her to succor him in this peril; and, being well covered
with his shield and with his lance at rest, he bore down upon them at a
full gallop and fell upon the first mill that stood in his way, giving a
thrust at the wing, which was whirling at such a speed that his lance
was broken into bits and both horse and horseman went rolling over
the plain, very much battered indeed. Sancho upon his donkey came
hurrying to his master's assistance as fast as he could, but when he reached
the spot, the knight was unable to move, so great was the shock with
which he and Rocinante had hit the ground.

"God help us!" exclaimed Sancho, "did I not tell your Grace to look
well, that those were nothing but windmills, a fact which no one could
fail to see unless he had other mills of the same sort in his head?"

"Be quiet, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote. "Such are the fortunes
of war, which more than any other are subject to constant change. What
is more, when I come to think of it, I am sure that this must be the work
of that magician Freston, the one who robbed me of my study and my
books, and who has thus changed the giants into windmills in order to
deprive me of the glory of overcoming them, so great is the enmity that
he bears me; but in the end his evil arts shall not prevail against this trusty
sword of mine."

"May God's will be done," was Sancho Panza's response. And with
the aid of his squire the knight was once more mounted on Rocinante,
who stood there with one shoulder half out of joint. And so, speaking
of the adventure that had just befallen them, they continued along the
Puerto Lipice highway; for there, Don Quixote said, they could not
fail to find many and varied adventures, this being a much traveled
thoroughfare. The only thing was, the knight was exceedingly down-
cast over the loss of his lance.

"I remember," he said to his squire, "having read of a Spanish knight
by the name of Diego Perez de Vargas, who, having broken his sword
in battle, tore from an oak a heavy bough or branch and with it did such
feats of valor that day, and pounded so many Moors, that he came to
be known as Machuca,106 and he and his descendants from that day forth
have been called Vargas y Machuca. I tell you this because I too intend
to provide myself with just such a bough as the one he wielded, and with
it I propose to do such exploits that you shall deem yourself fortunate
to have been found worthy to come with me and behold and witness
things that are almost beyond belief."

"God's will be done," said Sancho. "I believe everything that your
Grace says; but straighten yourself up in the saddle a little, for you
seem to be slipping down on one side, owing, no doubt, to the shaking-up
that you received in your fall."

"Ah, that is the truth," replied Don Quixote, "and if I do not speak
of my sufferings, it is for the reason that it is not permitted knights-
errant to complain of any wound whatsoever, even though their bowels
may be dropping out."

"If that is the way it is," said Sancho, "I have nothing more to say;
but, God knows, it would suit me better if your Grace did complain
when something hurts him. I can assure you that I mean to do so, over
the least little thing that ails me--that is, unless the same rule applies to
squires as well."

Don Quixote laughed long and heartily over Sancho's simplicity, tell-
ing him that he might complain as much as he liked and where and when
hf liked, whether he had good cause or not; for he had read nothing to
the contrary in the ordinances of chivalry, Sancho then called his mas-
ter's attention to the fact that it was time to eat The knight replied that
he himself had no need of food at the moment, but his squire might eat
whenever he chose. Having been granted this permission, Sancho seated
himself as best he could upon his beast, and, taking out from his saddle-
bags the provisions that he had stored there, he rode along leisurely be-
hind his master, munching his victuals and taking a good, hearty swig
now and then at the leather flask in a manner that might well have caused
the biggest-bellied tavernkeeper of Aialaga to envy him. Between
draughts he gave not so much as a thought to any promise that his master
might have made him, nor did he look upon it as any hardship, but rather
as good sport, to go in quest of adventures however hazardous they
might be.

The short of the matter is, they spent the night under some trees,
from one of which Don Quixote tore off a withered bough to serve him
as a lance, placing it in the lance head from which he had removed the
broken one. He did not sleep all night long for thinking of his lady
Dulcinea; for this was in accordance with what he had read in his books,
of men of arms in the forest or desert places who kept a wakeful vigil,
sustained by the memory of their ladies fair. Not so with Sancho, whose
stomach was full, and not with chicory water. He fell into a dreamless
slumber, and had not his master called him, he would not have been
awakened either by the rays of the sun in his face or by the many birds
who greeted the coming of the new day with their merry song.

Upon arising, he had another go at the flask, finding it somewhat more
flaccid than it had been the night before, a circumstance which grieved
his heart, for he could not see that they were on the way to remedying
the deficiency within any very short space of time. Don Quixote did
not wish any breakfast; for, as has been said, he was in the habit of
nourishing himself on savorous memories. They then set out once more
along the r.oad to Puerto Lapice, and around three in the afternoon they
came in sight of the pass that bears that name.

"There," said Don Quixote as his eyes fell upon it, "we may plunge
our arms up to the elbow in what are known as adventures. But I must
warn you that even though you see me in the greatest peril in the world,
you are not to lay hand upon your sword to defend me, unless it be
that those who attack me are rabble and men of low degree, in which
case you may very well come to my aid; but if they be gentlemen, it is
in no wise permitted by the laws of chivalry that you should assist me
until you yourself shall have been dubbed a knight."

"Most certainly, sir," replied Sancho, "your Grace shall be very well
obeyed in this; all the more so for the reason that I myself am of a
peaceful disposition and not fond of meddling in the quarrels and feuds
others. However, when it comes to protecting my own person, I shall
not take account of those laws of which you speak, seeing that all laws,
human and divine, permit each one to defend himself whenever he is
attacked."

"I am willing to grant you that," assented Don Quixote, "but in this
matter of defending me against gentlemen you must restrain your nat-
ural impulses."

"I promise you I shall do so," said Sancho. "I will observe this precept
as I would the Sabbath day."

As they were conversing in this manner, there appeared in the road
in front of them two friars of the Order of St. Benedict, mounted upon
dromedaries? for the she-mules they rode were certainly no smaller
than that. The friars wore travelers' spectacles and carried sunshades,
and behind them came a coach accompanied by four or five men on
horseback and a couple of muleteers on foot. In the coach, as was after-
wards learned, was a lady of Biscay, on her way to Seville to bid fare-
well to her husband, who had been appointed to some high post in the
Indies. The religious were not of her company although they were going
by the same road.

The instant Don Quixote laid eyes upon them he turned to his squire.
"Either I am mistaken or this is going to be the most famous adventure
that ever was seen; for those black-clad figures that you behold must
be, and without any doubt are, certain enchanters who are bearing
with them a captive princess in that coach, and I must do all I can to
right this wrong."

"It will be worse than the windmills," declared Sancho. "Look you,
sir, those are Benedictine friars and the coach must be that of some
travelers. Mark well what I say and what you do, lest the devil lead you
astray"

"I have already told you, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that you
know little where the subject of adventures is concerned. What I am
saying to you is the truth, as you shall now see."

With this, he rode forward and took up a position in the middle of
the road along which the friars were coming, and as soon as they ap-
peared to be within earshot he cried out to them in a loud voice, "O
devilish and monstrous beings, set free at once the highborn princesses
whom you bear captive in that coach, or else prepare at once to meet
your death as the just punishment of your evil deeds."

The friars drew rein and sat there in astonishment, marveling as much
at Don Quixote's appearance as at the words he spoke. "Sir Knight,"
they answered him, "we are neither devilish nor monstrous but religious
of the Order of St. Benedict who are merely going our way. We know
nothing of those who are in that coach, nor of any captive princesses
either."

"Soft words," said Don Quixote, "have no effect on me. I know you
for what you are, lying rabble!" And without waiting for any further
parley he gave spur to Rocinante and, with lowered lance, bore down
upon the first friar with such fury and intrepidity that, had not the
fellow tumbled from his mule of his own accord, he would have been
hurled to the ground and either killed or badly wounded. The second
religious, seeing how his companion had been treated, dug his legs into
his she-mule's flanks and scurried away over the countryside faster than
the wind.

Seeing the friar upon the ground, Sancho Panza slipped lightly from
his mount and, falling upon him, began stripping him of his habit. The
two mule drivers accompanying the religious thereupon came running
up and asked Sancho why he was doing this. The latter replied that the
friar's garments belonged to him as legitimate spoils of the battle that
his master Don Quixote had just won. The muleteers, however, were
lads with no sense of humor, nor did they know what all this talk of
spoils and battles was about; but, perceiving that Don Quixote had rid-
den off to one side to converse with those inside the coach, they pounced
upon Sancho, threw him to the ground, and proceeded to pull out the
hair of his beard and kick him to a pulp, after which they went off and
left him stretched out there, bereft at once of breath and sense.

Without losing any time, they then assisted the friar to remount. The
good brother was trembling all over from fright, and there was not a
speck of color in his face, but when he found himself in the saddle once
more, he quickly spurred his beast to where his companion, at some
little distance, sat watching and waiting to see what the result of the
encounter would be. Having no curiosity as to the final outcome of
the fray, the two of them now resumed their journey, making more
signs of the cross than the devil would be able to carry upon his back.

Meanwhile Don Quixote, as we have said, was speaking to the lady in
the coach.

"Your beauty, my lady, may now dispose of your person as best may
please you, for the arrogance of your abductors lies upon the ground,
overthrown by this good arm of mine; and in order that you may not
pine to know the name of your liberator, I may inform you that I am
Don Quixote de la Mancha, knight-errant and adventurer and captive
of the peerless and beauteous Dona Dulcinea del Toboso. In payment
of the favor which you have received from me, I ask nothing other than
that you return to El Toboso and on my behalf pay your respects to
this lady, telling her that it was I who set you free."

One of the squires accompanying those in the coach, a Biscayan, was
listening to Don Quixote's words, and when he saw that the knight did
not propose to let the coach proceed upon its way but was bent upon
having it turn back to El Toboso, he promptly went up to him, seized
his lance, and said to him in bad Castilian and worse Biscayan,107 "Go,
Caballero, and bad luck go with you; for by the God that created me, if
you do not let this coach pass, me kill you or me no Biscayan."

Don Quixote heard him attentively enough and answered him very
mildly, "If you were a caballero, which you are not, I should already
have chastised you, wretched creature, for your foolhardiness and your
impudence."

"Me no caballero?" cried the Biscayan.108 "Me swear to God, you lie
like a Christian. If you will but lay aside your lance and unsheath your
sword, you will soon see that you are carrying water to the cat!109 Bis-
cayan on land, gentleman at sea, but a gentleman in spite of the devil,
and you lie if you say otherwise "

" ' "You shall see as to that presently," said Agrajes,' " Don Quixote
quoted.110 He cast his lance to the earth, drew his sword, and, taking his
buckler on his arm, attacked the Biscayan with intent to slay him. The
latter, when he saw his adversary approaching, would have liked to dis-
mount from his mule, for she was one of the worthless sort that are let
for hire and he had no confidence in her; but there was no time for this,
and so he had no choice but to draw his own sword in turn and make
the best of it. However, he was near enough to the coach to be able to
snatch a cushion from it to serve him as a shield; and then they fell upon
each other as though they were mortal enemies. The rest of those present
sought to make peace between them but did not succeed, for the Biscayan
with his disjointed phrases kept muttering that if they did not let him
finish the battle then he himself would have to kill his mistress and any-
one else who tried to stop him.

The lady inside the carriage, amazed by it all and trembling at what
she saw, directed her coachman to drive on a little way; and there from
a distance she watched the deadly combat, in the course of which the
Biscayan came down with a great blow on Don Quixote's shoulder,
over the top of the latter's shield, and had not the knight been clad in
armor, it would have split him to the waist.

Feeling the weight of this blow, Don Quixote cried out, "O lady of
my soul, Dulcinea, flower of beauty, succor this your champion who
out of gratitude for your many favors finds himself in so perilous a
plight!" To, utter these words, lay hold of his sword, cover himself with
his buckler, and attack the Biscayan was but the work of a moment;
for he was now resolved to risk everything upon a single stroke.

As he saw Don Quixote approaching with so dauntless a bearing, the
Biscayan was well aware of his adversary's courage and forthwith de-
termined to imitate the example thus set him. He kept himself protected
with his cushion, but he was unable to get his she-mule to budge to one
side or the other, for the beast, out of sheer exhaustion and being, more-
over, unused to such childish play, was incapable of taking a single step.
And so, then, as has been stated, Don Quixote was approaching the wary
Biscayan, his sword raised on high and with the firm resolve of cleav-
ing his enemy in two; and the Biscayan was awaiting the knight in the
same posture, cushion in front of him and with uplifted sword. All the
bystanders were trembling with suspense at what would happen as a
result of the terrible blows that were threatened, and the lady in the coach
and her maids were making a thousand vows and offerings to all the
images and shrines in Spain, praying that God would save them all and
the lady's squire from this great peril that confronted them.

But the unfortunate part of the matter is that at this very point the
author of the history breaks off and leaves the battle pending, excusing
himself upon the ground that he has been unable to find anything else
in writing concerning the exploits of Don Quixote beyond those already
set forth.111 It is true, on the other hand, that the second author of this
work could not bring himself to believe that so unusual a chronicle
would have been consigned to oblivion, nor that the learned ones of
La Mancha were possessed of so little curiosity as not to be able to dis-
cover in their archives or registry offices certain papers that have to do
with this famous knight. Being convinced of this, he did not despair of
coming upon the end of this pleasing story, and Heaven favoring him,
he did find it, as shall be related in the second part.112

CHAPTER IX.

In which is concluded and brought to an end the stupendous battle
between the gallant Biscayan and the valiant Knight of La Mancha.

In the first part of this history we left the valorous Biscayan and
the famous Don Quixote with swords unsheathed and raised aloft, about
to let fall furious slashing blows which, had they been delivered fairly
and squarely, would at the very least have split them in two and laid
them wide open from top to bottom like a pomegranate; and it was at
this doubtful point that the pleasing chronicle came to a halt and broke
off, without the author's informing us as to where the rest of it might
be found.

I was deeply grieved by such a circumstance, and the pleasure I had
had in reading so slight a portion was turned into annoyance as I thought
of how difficult it would be to come upon the greater part which it
seemed to me must still be missing. It appeared impossible and contrary
to all good precedent that so worthy a knight should not have had some
scribe to take upon himself the task of writing an account of these
unheard-of exploits; for that was something that had happened to none
of the knights-errant who, as the saying has it, had gone forth in quest
of adventures, seeing that each of them had one or two chroniclers, as
if ready at hand, who not only had set down their deeds, but had de-
picted their most trivial thoughts and amiable weaknesses, however well
concealed they might be. The good knight of La Mancha surely could
not hpe been so unfortunate as to have lacked what Platir and others
like him had in abundance. And so I could not bring myself to believe
that this gallant history could have remained thus lopped off and muti-
lated, and I could not but lay the blame upon the malignity of time,
that devourer and consumer of all things, which must either have con-
sumed it or kept it hidden.

On the other hand, I reflected that inasmuch as among the knight's
books had been found such modern works as The Disenchantments of
Jealousy and The Nymphs and Shepherds of Henares, his story likewise
must be modem, and that even though it might not have been written
down, it must remain in the memory of the good folk of his village
and the surrounding ones. This thought left me somewhat confused and
more than ever desirous of knowing the real and true story, the whole
story, of the life and wondrous deeds of our famous Spaniard, Don
Quixote, light and mirror of the chivalry of La Mancha, the first in
our age and in these calamitous times to devote himself to the hardships
and exercises of knight-errantry and to go about righting wrongs, suc-
coring widows, and protecting damsels--damsels such as those who,
mounted upon their palfreys and with riding-whip in hand, in full
possession of their virginity, were in the habit of going from mountain
to mountain and from valley to valley; for unless there were some villain,
some rustic with an ax and hood, or some monstrous giant to force them,
there were in times past maiden ladies who at the end of eighty years,
during all which time they had not slept for a single day beneath a roof,
would go to their graves as virginal as when their mothers had borne
them.

If I speak of these things, it is for the reason that in this and in all
other respects our gallant Quixote is deserving of constant memory and
praise, and even I am not to be denied my share of it for my diligence
and the labor to which I put myself in searching out the conclusion of
this agreeable narrative; although if heaven, luck, and circumstance had
not aided me, the world would have had to do without the pleasure and
the pastime which anyone may enjoy who will read this work atten-
tively for an hour or two. The manner in which it came about was as
follows:

I was standing one day in the Alcana, or market place, of Toledo when
a lad came up to sell some old notebooks and other papers to a silk
weaver who was there. As I am extremely fond of reading anything,
even though it be but the scraps of paper in the streets, I followed my
natural inclination and took one of the books, whereupon I at once per-
ceived that it was written in characters which I recognized as Arabic. I
recognized them, but reading them was another thing; and so I began
looking around to see if there was any Spanish-speaking Moor near by
who would be able to read them for me. It was not very hard to find such
an interpreter, nor would it have been even if the tongue in question
had been an older and a better one.113 To make a long story short, chance
brought a fellow my way; and when I told him what it was I wished
and placed the book in his hands, he opened it in the middle and began
reading and at once fell to laughing. When I asked him what the cause
of his laughter was, he replied that it was a note which had been written
in the margin.

I besought him to tell me the content of the note, and he, laughing
still, went on, "As I told you, it is something in the margin here: 'This
Dulcinea del Toboso, so often referred to, is said to have been the best
hand at salting pigs of any woman in all La Mancha.' "

No sooner had I heard the name Dulcinea del Toboso than I was
astonished and held in suspense, for at once the thought occurred to
me that those notebooks must contain the history of Don Quixote. With
this in mind I urged him to read me the title, and he proceeded to do so,
turning the Arabic into Castilian upon the spot: History of Don Quixote
de la Mancha, Written by Cid Hamete Benengeli, Arabic Historian. It
was all I could do to conceal my satisfaction and, snatching them from
the silk weaver, I bought from the lad all the papers and notebooks that
he had for half a real; but if he had known or suspected how very much
I wanted them, he might well have had more than six reales for them.

The Moor and I then betook ourselves to the cathedral cloister, where
I requested him to translate for me into the Castilian tongue all the
books that had to do with Don Quixote, adding nothing and subtract-
ing nothing; and I offered him whatever payment he desired. He was
content with two arrobas of raisins and two fanegas114 of wheat and
promised to translate them well and faithfully and with all dispatch.
However, in order to facilitate matters, and also because I did not wish
to let such a find as this out of my hands, I took the fellow home with
me, where in a little more than a month and a half he translated the
whole of the work just as you will find it set down here.

In the first of the books there was a very lifelike picture of the battle
between Don Quixote and the Biscayan, the two being in precisely the
same posture as described in the history, their swords upraised, the one
covered by his buckler, the other with his cushion. As for the Biscayan's
mule, you could see at the distance of a crossbow shot that it was one
for hire. Beneath the Biscayan there was a rubric which read: "Don
Sancho de Azpeitia," which must undoubtedly have been his name;
while beneath the feet of Rocinante was another inscription: "Don
Quixote." Rocinante was marvelously portrayed: so long and lank, so
lean and flabby, so extremely consumptive-looking that one could well
understand the justness and propriety with which the name of "hack"
had been bestowed upon him.

Alongside Rocinante stood Sancho Panza, holding the halter of his
ass, and below was the legend: "Sancho Zancas." The picture showed
him with a big belly, a short body, and long shanks, and that must have
been where he got the names of Panza y Zancas115 by which he is a num-
ber of times called in the course of the history. There are other small
details that might be mentioned, but they are of little importance and
have nothing to do with the truth of the story--and no story is bad so
long as it is true.

If there is any objection to be raised against the veracity of the present
one, it can be only that the author was an Arab, and that nation is known
for its lying propensities; but even though they be our enemies, it may
readily be understood that they would more likely have detracted from,
rather than added to, the chronicle. So it seems to me, at any rate; for
whenever he might and should deploy the resources of his pen in praise
of so worthy a knight, the author appears to take pains to pass over the
matter in silence; all of which in my opinion is ill done and ill conceived,
for it should be the duty of historians to be exact, truthful, and dis-
passionate, and neither interest nor fear nor rancor nor affection should
swerve them from the path of truth, whose mother is history, rival of
time, depository of deeds, witness of the past, exemplar and adviser to
the present, and the future's counselor. In this work, I am sure, will be
found all that could be desired in the way of pleasant reading; and if
it is lacking in any way, I maintain that this is the fault of that hound of
an author rather than of the subject.

But to come to the point, the second part, according to the transla-
tion, began as follows:

As the two valorous and enraged combatants stood there, swords up-
raised and poised on high, it seemed from their bold mien as if they
must surely be threatening heaven, earth, and hell itself. The first to let
fall a blow was the choleric Biscayan, and he came down with such force
and fury that, had not his sword been deflected in mid-air, that single
stroke would have sufficed to put an end to this fearful combat and to
all our knight's adventures at the same time; but fortune, which was re-
serving him for greater things, turned aside his adversary's blade in such
a manner that, even though it fell upon his left shoulder, it did him no
other damage than to strip him completely of his armor on that side,
carrying with it a good part of his helmet along with half an ear, the
headpiece clattering to the ground with a dreadful din, leaving its wearer
in a sorry state.

Heaven help me! Who could properly describe the rage that now enter-
ed the heart of our hero of La Mancha as he saw himself treated in this
fashion? It may merely be said that he once more reared himself in the
stirrups, laid hold of his sword with both hands, and dealt the Biscayan
such a blow, over the cushion and upon the head, that, even so good a
defense proving useless, it was as if a mountain had fallen upon his en-
emy. The latter now began bleeding through the mouth, nose, and ears;
he seemed about to fall from his mule, and would have fallen, no doubt,
if he had not grasped the beast about the neck, but at that moment his
feet slipped from the stirrups and his arms let go, and the mule, fright-
ened by the terrible blow, began running across the plain, hurling its
rider to the earth with a few quick plunges.

Don Quixote stood watching all this very calmly. When he saw his
enemy fall, he leaped from his horse, ran over very nimbly, and thrust
the point of his sword into the Biscayan's eyes, calling upon him at the
same time to surrender or otherwise he would cut off his head. The
Biscayan was so bewildered that he was unable to utter a single word in
reply, and things would have gone badly with him, so blind was Don
Quixote in his rage, if the ladies of the coach, who up to then had
watched the struggle in dismay, had not come up to him at this point
and begged him with many blandishments to do them the very great
favor of sparing their squire's life.

To which Don Quixote replied with much haughtiness and dignity,
Most certainly, lovely ladies, I shall be very happy to do that which
you ask of me, but upon one condition and understanding, and that is
that this knight promise me that he will go to El Toboso and present
himself in my behalf before Dona Dulcinea, in order that she may do
with him as she may see fit."

Trembling and disconsolate, the ladies did not pause to discuss Don
Quixotes request, but without so much as inquiring who Dulcinea
might be they promised him that the squire would fulfill that which
was commanded of him.

Very well, then, trusting in your word, I will do him no further
harm, even though he has well deserved it."

CHAPTER X.

Of the pleasing conversation that took place
between Don Quixote and Sancho farm, his squire.

By this time Sancho Panza had got to his feet, somewhat the worse
for wear as the result of the treatment he had received from the friars'
lads. He had been watching the battle attentively and praying God in
his heart to give the victory to his master, Don Quixote, in order that
he, Sancho, might gain some island where he could go to be governor
as had been promised him. Seeing now that the combat was over and
the knight was returning to mount Rocinante once more, he went up
to hold the stirrup for him; but first he fell on his knees in front of him
and, taking his hand, kissed it and said, "May your Grace be pleased,
Senor Don Quixote, to grant me the governorship of that island which
you have won in this deadly affray; for however large it may be, I feel
that I am indeed capable of governing it as well as any man in this world
has ever done."

To which Don Quixote replied, "Be advised, brother Sancho, that
this adventure and other similar ones have nothing to do with islands;
they are affairs of the crossroads in which one gains nothing more than
a broken head or an ear the less. Be patient, for there will be others which
will not only make you a governor, but more than that."

Sancho thanked him very much and, kissing his hand again and the
skirt of his cuirass, he assisted him up on Rocinante's back, after which
the squire' bestraddled his own mount and started jogging along behind
his master, who was now going at a good clip. Without pausing for any
further converse with those in the coach, the knight made for a near-by
wood, with Sancho following as fast as his beast could trot; but Rocinante
was making such speed that the ass and its rider were left behind, and
it was necessary to call out to Don Quixote to pull up and wait for them.
He did so, reining in Rocinante until the weary Sancho had drawn
abreast of him.

"It strikes me, sir," said the squire as he reached his master's side,
"that it would be better for us to take refuge in some church; for in
view of the way you have treated that one with whom you were fight-
ing, it would be small wonder if they did not lay the matter before the
Holy Brotherhood116 and have us arrested; and faith, if they do that, we
shall have to sweat a-plenty before we come out of jail."

"Be quiet," said Don Quixote. "And where have you ever seen, or
read of, a knight being brought to justice no matter how many homicides
he might have committed?"

"I know nothing about omecils,"117 replied Sancho, "nor ever in my
life did I bear one to anybody; all I know is that the Holy Brotherhood
has something to say about those who go around fighting on the high-
way, and I want nothing of it."

"Do not let it worry you," said Don Quixote, "for I will rescue you
from the hands of the Chaldeans, not to speak of the Brotherhood. But
answer me upon your life: have you ever seen a more valorous knight
than I on all the known face of the earth? Have you ever read in the
histories of any other who had more mettle in the attack, more per-
severance in sustaining it, more dexterity in wounding his enemy, or
more skill in overthrowing him?"

"The truth is," said Sancho, "I have never read any history whatso-
ever, for I do not know how to read or write; but what I would wager
is that in all the days of my life I have never served a more courageous
master than your Grace; I only hope your courage is not paid for in
the place that I have mentioned. What I would suggest is that your
Grace allow me to do something for that ear, for there is much blood
coming from it, and I have here in my saddlebags some lint and a little
white ointment."

"We could well dispense with all that," said Don Quixote, "if only I
had remembered to bring along a vial of Fierabras's balm, a single drop
of which saves time and medicines."

"What vial and what balm is that?" inquired Sancho Panza.

"It is a balm the receipt for which I know by heart; with it one need
have no fear of death nor think of dying from any wound. I shall make
some of it and give it to you; and thereafter, whenever in any battle you
see my body cut in two--as very often happens--all that is necessary
is for you to take the part that lies on the ground, before the blood has
congealed, and fit it very neatly and with great nicety upon the other
part that remains in the saddle, taking care to adjust it evenly and exactly.
Then you will give me but a couple of swallows of the balm of which I
have told you, and you will see me sounder than an apple in no time
at all "

"If that is so," said Panza, "I herewith renounce the governorship of
the island you promised me and ask nothing other in payment of my
many and faithful services than that your Grace give me the receipt for
this wonderful potion, for I am sure that it would be worth more than
two reales the ounce anywhere, and that is all I need for a life of ease
and honor. But may I be so bold as to ask how much it costs to make
it?"

"For less than three reales you can make something like six quarts,"
Don Quixote told him.

"Sinner that I am!" exclaimed Sancho. "Then why does your Grace
not make some at once and teach me also?"

"Hush, my friend," said the knight, "I mean to teach you greater
secrets than that and do you greater favors; but, for the present, let us
look after this ear of mine, for it is hurting me more than I like."

Rancho thereupon took the lint and the ointment from his saddlebags;
but when Don Quixote caught a glimpse of his helmet, he almost went
out of his mind and, laying his hand upon his sword and lifting his eyes
heavenward, he cried, "I make a vow to the Creator of all things and
to the four holy Gospels in all their fullness of meaning that I will lead
from now on the life that the great Marquis of Mantua did after he had
sworn to avenge the death of his nephew Baldwin: not to eat bread off
a tablecloth, not to embrace his wife, and other things which, although
I am unable to recall them, we will look upon as understood? all this
until I shall have wreaked an utter vengeance upon the one who has
perpetrated such an outrage upon me."

"But let me remind your Grace," said Sancho when he heard these
words, "that if the knight fulfills that which was commanded of him,
by going to present himself before my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, then
he will have paid his debt to you and merits no further punishment at
your hands, unless it be for some fresh offense."

"You have spoken very well and to the point," said Don Quixote,
"and so I annul the vow I have just made insofar as it has to do with
any further vengeance, but I make it and confirm it anew so far as lead-
ing the life of which I have spoken is concerned, until such time as I
shall have obtained by force of arms from some other knight another
headpiece as good as this. And do not think, Sancho, that I am
making smoke out of straw; there is one whpm I well may imitate in
this matter, for the same thing happened in all literalness in the case of
Mambrino's helmet which cost Sacripante so dear."118

"I wish," said Sancho, "that your Grace would send all such oaths
to the devil, for they are very bad for the health and harmful for the
conscience as well. Tell me, please: supposing that for many days to
come we meet no man wearing a helmet, then what are we to do? Must
you still keep your vow in spite of all the inconveniences and discom-
forts, such as sleeping with your clothes on, not sleeping in any town,
and a thousand other penances contained in the oath of that old madman
of a Marquis of Mantua, an oath which you would now revive? Mark
you, sir, along all these roads you meet no men of arms but only mule-
teers and carters, who not only do not wear helmets but quite likely have
never heard tell of them in all their livelong days."

"In that you are wrong," said Don Quixote, "for we shall not be at
these crossroads for the space of two hours before we shall see more
men of arms than came to Albraca to win the fair Angelica."

"Very well, then," said Sancho, "so be it, and pray God that all turns
out for the best so that I may at last win that island that is costing me
so dearly, and then let me die."

"I have already told you, Sancho, that you are to give no thought to
that; should the island fail, there is the kingdom of Denmark or that of
Sobradisa,119 which would fit you like a ring on your finger, and you
ought, moreover, to be happy to be on terra firma.120 But let us leave all
this for some other time, while you look and see if you have something
in those saddlebags for us to eat, after which we will go in search of some
castle where we may lodge for the night and prepare that balm of which
I was telling you, for I swear to God that my ear is paining me greatly."

"I have here an onion, a little cheese, and a few crusts of bread," said
Sancho, "but they are not victuals fit for a valiant knight like your
Grace."

"How little you know about it!" replied Don Quixote. "I would in-
form you, Sancho, that it is a point of honor with knights-errant to go
for a month at a time without eating, and when they do eat, it is what-
ever may be at hand. You would certainly know that if you had read
the histories as I have. There are many of them, and in none have I found
any mention of knights eating unless it was by chance or at some sumptu-
ous banquet that was tendered them; on other days they fasted. And even
though it is well understood that, being men like us, they could not go
without food entirely, any more .than they could fail to satisfy the other
necessities of nature, nevertheless, since they spent the greater part of
their lives in forest and desert places without any cook to prepare their
meals, their diet ordinarily .consisted of rustic viands such as those that
you now offer me, so, .Sancho my friend, not be grieved at that which
pleases me, nor seek to make the world over, nor to unhinge the insti-
tution of knight-errantry."

"Pardon me, your Grace," said Sancho, "but seeing that, as I have
told you, I do not know how to read or write, I am consequently not
familiar with the rules of the knightly calling. Hereafter, I will stuff my
saddlebags with all manner of dried fruit for your Grace, but inasmuch
as I am not a knight, I shall lay in for myself a stock of fowls and other
more substantial fare."

"I am not saying, Sancho, that it is incumbent upon knights-errant
to eat only those fruits of which you speak; what I am saying is that
their ordinary sustenance should consist of fruit and a few herbs such
as are to be found in the fields and with which they are well acquainted,
as am I myself."

"It is a good thing," said Sancho, "to know those herbs, for, so far
as I can see, we are going to have need of that knowledge one of these
days."

With this, he brought out the articles he had mentioned, and the two
of them ate in peace, and most companionably. Being desirous, how-
ever, of seeking a lodging for the night, they did not tarry long over
their humble and unsavory repast. They then mounted and made what
haste they could that they might arrive at a shelter before nightfall; but
the sun failed them, and with it went the hope of attaining their wish.
As the day ended they found themselves beside some goatherds' huts,
and they accordingly decided to spend the night there. Sancho was as
much disappointed at their not having reached a town as his master
was content with sleeping under the open sky; for it seemed to Don
Quixote that every time this happened it merely provided him with yet
another opportunity to establish his claim to the title of knight-errant.

CHAPTER XI.

Of what happened to Don Quixote in
the company of certain goatherds.

He was received by the herders with good grace, and Sancho hav-
ing looked after Rocinante and the ass to the best of his ability, the
knight, drawn by the aroma, went up to where some pieces of goat's
meat were simmering in a pot over the fire. He would have liked then
and there to see if they were done well enough to be transferred from
pot to stomach, but he refrained in view of the fact that his hosts were
already taking them off the fire. Spreading a few sheepskins on the
ground, they hastily laid their rustic board and invited the strangers to
share what there was of it. There were six of them altogether who be-
longed to that fold, and after they had urged Don Quixote, with rude
politeness, to seat himself upon a small trough which they had turned
upside down for the purpose, they took their own places upon the sheep
hides round about. While his master sat there, Sancho remained standing
to serve him the cup, which was made of horn. When the knight per-
ceived this, he addressed his squire as follows:

"In order, Sancho, that you may see the good that there is in knight-
errantry and how speedily those who follow the profession, no matter
what the nature of their service may be, come to be honored and
esteemed in the eyes of the world, I would have you here in the com-
pany of these good folk seat yourself at my side, that you may be even
as I who am your master and natural lord, and eat from my plate and
drink from where I drink; for of knight-errantry one may say the same
as of love: that it makes all things equal."

"Many thanks!" said Sancho, "but if it is all the same to your Grace,
providing there is enough to go around, I can eat just as well, or better,
standing up and alone as I can seated beside an emperor. And if the truth
must be told, I enjoy much more that which I eat in my own comer
without any bowings and scrapings, even though it be only bread and
onions, than I do a meal of roast turkey where I have to chew slowly,
drink little, be always wiping my mouth, and can neither sneeze nor
cough if I feel like it, nor do any of those other things that you can
when you are free and alone.

"And so, my master," he went on, "these honors that your Grace
would confer upon me as your servant and a follower of knight-errantry
--which I am, being your Grace's squire--I would have you convert,
if you will, into other things that will be of more profit and advantage
to me; for though I hereby acknowledge them as duly received, I re-
nounce them from this time forth to the end of the world."

"But for all that," said Don Quixote, "you must sit down; for who-
soever humbleth himself, him God will exalt." And, laying hold of his
squire's arm, he compelled him to take a seat beside him.

The goatherds did not understand all this jargon about squires and
knights-errant; they did nothing but eat, keep silent, and study their
guests, who very dexterously and with much appetite were stowing
away chunks of meat as big as your fist. When the meat course was
finished, they laid out upon the sheepskins a great quantity of dried
acorns and half a cheese, which was harder than if it had been made
of mortar. The drinking horn all this while was not idle but went the
rounds so often--now full, now empty, like the bucket of a water
wheel121--that they soon drained one of the two wine bags that were on
hand. After Don Quixote had well satisfied his stomach, he took up
a handful of acorns and, gazing at them attentively, fell into a soliloquy.

"Happy the age and happy those centuries to which the ancients gave
the name of golden, and not because gold, which is so esteemed in this
iron age of ours, was then to be had without toil, but because those who
lived in that time did not know the meaning of the words 'thine' and
'mine.' In that blessed era all things were held in common, and to gain
his daily sustenance no labor was required of any man save to reach
forth his hand and take it from the sturdy oaks that stood liberally in-
viting him with their sweet and seasoned fruit. The clear-running foun-
tains and rivers in magnificent abundance offered him palatable and
transparent water for his thirst; while in the clefts of the rocks and the
hollows of the trees the wise and busy honey-makers set up their re-
public so that any hand whatever might avail itself, fully and freely, of
the fertile harvest which their fragrant toil had produced. The vigorous
cork trees of their own free will and grace, without the asking, shed
their broad, light bark with which men began to cover their dwellings,
erected upon rude stakes merely as a protection against the inclemency
of the heavens.

"All then was peace, all was concord and friendship; the crooked
plowshare had not as yet grievously laid open and pried into the merci-
ful bowels of our first mother, who without any forcing on man's part
pfti&I her spacious fertile bosom on every hand for the satisfaction,
sustenance, and delight of her first sons. Then it was that lovely and
unspoiled young shepherdesses, with locks that were sometimes braided,
sometimes flowing, went roaming from valley to valley and hillock to
hillock with no more garments than were needed to cover decently
that which modesty requires and always has required should remain
covered. Nor were their adornments such as those in use today--of
Tyrian purple and silk worked up in tortured patterns; a few green
leaves of burdock or of ivy, and they were as splendidly and as be-
comingly clad as our ladies of the court with all the rare and exotic
tricks of fashion that idle curiosity has taught them.

"Thoughts of love, also, in those days were set forth as simply as the
simple hearts that conceived them, without any roundabout and arti-
ficial play of words by way of ornament. Fraud, deceit, and malice had
not yet come to mingle with truth and plain-speaking. Justice kept its
own domain, where favor and self-interest dared not trespass, dared not
impair her rights, becloud, and persecute her as they now do. There
was no such thing then as arbitrary judgments, for the reason that there
was no one to judge or be judged. Maidens in all their modesty, as I have
said, went where they would and unattended; whereas in this hateful
age of ours none is safe, even though she go to hide and shut herself up
in some new labyrinth like that of Crete; for in spite of all her seclusion,
through chinks and crevices or borne upon the air, the amorous plague
with all its cursed importunities will find her out and lead her to her
ruin.

"It was for the safety of such as these, as time went on and depravity
increased, that the order of knights-errant was instituted, for the pro-
tection of damsels, the aid of widows and orphans, and the succoring of
the needy. It is to this order that I belong, my brothers, and I thank you
for the welcome and the kindly treatment that you have accorded to
me and my squire. By natural law, all living men are obliged to show
. favor to knights-errant, yet without being aware of this you have re-
ceived and entertained me; and so it is with all possible good will that
I acknowledge your own good will to me."

This long harangue on the part of our knight--it might very well have
been dispensed with--was all due to the acorns they had given him,
which had brought back to memory the age of gold; whereupon the
whim had seized him to indulge in this futile harangue with the goat-
herds as his auditors. They listened in open-mouthed wonderment, say-
ing not a word, and Sancho himself kept quiet and went on munching
acorns, taking occasion very frequently to pay a visit to the second
wine bag, which they had suspended from a cork tree to keep it cool.

It took Don Quixote much longer to finish his speech than it did to put
away his supper; and when he was through, one of the goatherds ad-
dressed him.

"In order that your Grace may say with more truth that we have re-
ceived you with readiness and good will, we desire to give you solace
and contentment by having one of our comrades, who will be here soon,
sing for you. He is a very bright young fellow and deeply in love, and
what is more, you could not ask for anything better than to hear him
play the three-stringed lute."

Scarcely had he done saying this when the sound of a rebec was heard,
and shortly afterward the one who played it appeared. He was a good-
looking youth, around twenty-two years of age. His companions asked
him if he had had his supper, and when he replied that he had, the one
who had spoken to Don Quixote said to him, "Well, then, Antonio, you
can give us the pleasure of hearing you sing, in order that this gentleman
whom we have as our guest may see that we of the woods and mountains
also know something about music. We have been telling him how clever
you are, and now we want you to show him that we were speaking the
truth. And so I beg you by all means to sit down and sing us that love-
song of yours that your uncle the prebendary composed for you and
which the villagers liked so well.

"With great pleasure," the lad replied, and without any urging he
seated himself on the stump of an oak that had been felled and, tuning
up his rebec, soon began singing, very prettily, the following ballad:

THE BALLAD THAT ANTONIO SANG122

I know well that thou dost love me,
My Olalla, even though
Eyes of thine have never spoken--
Love's mute tongues--to tell me so.

Since l know thou knowest my passion,
Of thy love I am more sure:
No love ever was unhappy
When it was both frank and pure.

True it is, Olalla, sometimes
Thou a heart of bronze hast shown,
And it seemed to me that bosom,
White and fair, was made of stone.

Yet tn spite of all repulses
And a chastity so cold,
It appeared that I Hope's garment
By the hem did clutch and hold.

For my faith l ever cherished ;
It would rise to meet the bait;
Spurned, it never did diminish;
Favored, it preferred to wait.

Love, they say, hath gentle manners :
Thus it is it shows its face;
Then may I take hope, Olalla,
Trust to win a longed for grace.

If devotion hath the power
Hearts to move and make them kind,
Let the loyalty I've shown thee
Plead my cause, be kept in mind.

For if thou didst note my costume,
More than once thou must have seen,
Worn upon a simple Monday
Sunday's garb so bright and clean.

Love and brightness go together.
Dost thou ask the reason why
I thus deck myself on Monday?
It is but to catch thine eye.

I say nothing of the dances
l have danced for thy sweet sake;
Nor the serenades I've sung thee
Till the first cock did awake.

Nor will l repeat my praises
Of that beauty all can see;
True my words but oft unwelcome--
Certain lasses hated me.

One girl there is, I well remember--
She's Teresa on the hill?
Said, "You think you love an angel,
But she is a monkey still.

"Thanks to all her many trinkets
And her artificial hair
And her many aids to beauty,
Love's own self she would ensnare."

She was lying, I was angry,
And her cousin, very bold,
Challenged me upon my honor;
What ensued need not be told.

High flown words do not become me;
I'm a plain and simple man.
Pure the love that l would offer,
Serving thee as best I can.

Silken are the bonds of marriage,
When two hearts do intertwine;
Mother Church the yoke will fasten;
Bow your neck and I'll bow mine.

Or if not, my word I'll give thee,
From these mountains I'll come down--
Saint most holy be my witness?
Wearing a Capuchin gown.

With this the goatherd brought his song to a close, and although Don
Quixote begged him to sing some more, Sancho Panza would not hear
to this as he was too sleepy for any more ballads.

"Your Grace," he said to his master, "would do well to find out at
once where his bed is to be, for the labor that these good men have to
perform all day long does not permit them to stay up all night singing."

"I understand, Sancho," replied Don Quixote. "I perceive that those
visits to the wine bag call for sleep rather than music as a recompense."

"It tastes well enough to all of us, God be praised," said Sancho.

"I am not denying that," said his master; "but go ahead and settle
yourself down wherever you like. As for men of my profession, they
prefer to keep vigil. But all the same, Sancho, perhaps you had better
look after this ear, for it is paining me more than I like."

Sancho started to do as he was commanded, but one of the goatherds,
when he saw the wound, told him not to bother, that he would place a
remedy upon it that would heal it in no time. Taking a few leaves of
rosemary, of which there was a great deal growing thereabouts, he
mashed them in his mouth and, mixing them with a little salt, laid them
on the ear, with the assurance that no other medicine was needed; and
this proved to be the truth.

CHAPTER XII.

Of the story that one of the goatherds told
to Don Quixote and the others.

JustT then, another lad came up, one of those who brought the goat-
herds their provisions from the village.

"Do you know what's happening down there, my friends?" he said.

"How should we know?" one of the men answered him.

"In that case," the lad went on, "I must tell you that the famous student
and shepherd known as Grisostomo died this morning, muttering that
the cause of his death was the love he had for that bewitched lass of a
Marcela, daughter of the wealthy Guillermo? you know, the one who's
been going around in these parts dressed like a shepherdess."

"For love of Marcela, you say?" one of the herders spoke up.

"That is what I'm telling you," replied the other lad. "And the best
part of it is that he left directions in his will that he was to be buried in
the field, as if he were a Moor, and that his grave was to be at the foot of
the cliff where the Cork Tree Spring is; for, according to report, and he
is supposed to have said so himself, that is the place where he saw her
for the first time. There were other provisions, which the clergy of the
village say cannot be carried out, nor would it be proper to fulfill them,
seeing that they savor of heathen practices. But Grisostomo's good
friend, the student Ambrosio, who also dresses like a shepherd, insists
that everything must be done to the letter, and as a result there is great
excitement in the village.

"Nevertheless, from all I can hear, they will end by doing as Ambrosio
and Grisdstomo's other friends desire, and tomorrow they will bury
him with great ceremony in the place that I have mentioned. I believe it
is going to be something worth seeing; at any rate, I mean to see it, even
though it is too far for me to be able to return to the village before night-
fall"

"We will all do the same," said the other goatherds. "We will cast lots
to see who stays to watch the goats."

"That is right, Pedro," said one of their number, "but it will not be
necessary to go to the trouble of casting lots. I will take care of the flocks
for all of us; and do not think that I am being generous or that I am not
as curious as the rest of you; it is simply that I cannot walk on account of
the splinter I picked up in this foot the other day."

"Well, we thank you just the same," said Pedro.

Don Quixote then asked Pedro to tell him more about the dead man
and the shepherd lass; to which the latter replied that all he knew was
that Grisostomo was a rich gentleman who had lived in a near-by village.
He had been a student for many years at Salamanca and then had returned
to his birthplace with the reputation of being very learned and well read;
he was especially noted for his knowledge of the science of the stars and
what the sun and moon were doing up there in the heavens, "for he would
promptly tell us when their clips was to come."

"Eclipse, my friend, not clips" said Don Quixote, "is the name applied
to the darkening-over of those major luminaries."

But Pedro, not pausing for any trifles, went on with his story. "He
could also tell when the year was going to be plentiful or estil?"

"Sterile, you mean to say, friend?"

"Sterile or estil" said Pedro, "it all comes out the same in the end. But
I can tell you one thing, that his father and his friends, who believed in
him, did just as he advised them and they became rich; for he would say
to them, 'This year, sow barley and not wheat'; and again, 'Sow chickpeas
and not barley'; or, 'This season there will be a good crop of oil, but
the three following ones you will not get a drop.' "

"That science," Don Quixote explained, "is known as astrology."

"I don't know what it's called," said Pedro, "but he knew all this and
more yet. Finally, not many months after he returned from Salamanca,
he appeared one day dressed like a shepherd with crook and sheepskin
jacket; for he had resolved to lay aside the long gown that he wore as
a scholar, and in this he was joined by Ambrosio, a dear friend of his
and the companion of his studies. I forgot to tell you that Grisdstomo
was a great one for composing verses; he even wrote the carols for
Christmas Eve and the plays that were performed at Corpus Christi by
the lads of our village,123 I and everyone said that they were the best ever.

"When the villagers saw the two scholars coming out dressed like shep-
herds, they were amazed and could not imagine what was the reason
for such strange conduct on their part. It was about that time that
Grisostomo's father died and left him the heir to a large fortune, con-
sisting of land and chattels, no small quantity of cattle, and a considerable
sum of money, of all of which the young man was absolute master; and,
to tell the truth, he deserved it, for he was very sociable and charitably
inclined, a friend to all worthy folk, and he had a face that was like a
benediction. Afterward it was learned that if he had changed his garments
like this, it was only that he might be able to wander over the wastelands
on the trail of that shepherdess Marcela of whom our friend was speak -
ing, for the poor fellow had fallen in love with her. And now I should
like to tell you, for it is well that you should know, just who this lass is ;
for it may be--indeed, there is no maybe about it--you will never hear
the like in all the days of your life, though you Jive to be older than
Sarna."124

"You should say Sarah,' Don Quixote corrected him; for he could
not bear hearing the goatherd using the wrong words all the time.125

"The itch," said Pedro, "lives long enough; and if, sir, you go on inter-
rupting me at every word, we'll never be through in a year."

"Pardon me, friend,'' said Don Quixote, "it was only because there is
so great a difference between Sarna and Sarah that I pointed it out to you;
but you have given me a very good answer, for the itch does live longer
than Sarah; and so go on with your story, and I will not contradict you
any more."

"I was about to say, then, my dear sir," the goatherd went on, "that in
our village there was a farmer who was richer still than Grisostomo's
father. His name was Guillermo, and, over and above his great wealth,
God gave him a daughter whose mother, the most highly respected
woman in these parts, died in bearing her. It seems to me I can see the
good lady now, with that face that rivaled the sun and moon;126 and I
remember, above all, what a friend she was to the poor, for which reason
I believe that her soul at this very moment must be enjoying God's
presence in the other world.

Grieving for the loss of so excellent a wife, Guillermo himself died,
leaving his daughter Marcela, now a rich young woman, in the custody
of one of her uncles, a priest who holds a benefice in our village. The
girl grew up with such beauty as to remind us of her mother, beautiful
as that lady had been. By the time she was fourteen or fifteen no one
looked at her without giving thanks to God who had created such come-
liness, and almost all were hopelessly in love with her. Her uncle kept her
very closely shut up, but, for all of that, word of her great beauty spread
to such an extent that by reason of it, as much as on account of the girl's
wealth, her uncle found himself besought and importuned not only by
the young men of our village, but by those for leagues around who de-
sired to have her for a wife.

"But he, an upright Christian, although he wished to marry her off
as Soon as she was of age, had no desire to do so without her consent,
not that he had any eye to the gain and profit which the 'custody of his
niece's property brought him while her marriage was deferred. Indeed,
this much was said in praise of the good priest in more than one circle
of the village; for I would have you know, Sir Knight, that in these little
places everything is discussed and becomes a subject of gossip; and you
may rest assured, as I am for my part, that a priest must be more than
ordinarily good if his parishioners feel bound to speak well of him, es-
pecially in the small towns."

"That is true," said Don Quixote, "but go on. I like your story very
much, and you, good Pedro, tell it with very good grace."

"May the Lord's grace never fail me, for that is what counts. But to
go on: Although the uncle set forth to his niece the qualities of each
one in particular of the many who sought her hand, begging her to
choose and marry whichever one she pleased, she never gave him any
answer other than this: that she did not wish to marry at all, since being
but a young girl she did not feel that she was equal to bearing the
burdens of matrimony. As her reasons appeared to be proper and just,
the uncle did not insist but thought he would wait until she was a little
older, when she would be capable of selecting someone to her taste. For,
he said, and quite right he was, parents ought not to impose a way of
life upon their children against the latters' will. And then, one fine day,
lo and behold, there was the finical Marcela turned shepherdess; and
without paying any attention to her uncle or all those of the village
who advised against it, she set out to wander through the fields with the
other lasses, guarding flocks as they did.

"Well, the moment she appeared in public and her beauty was un-
covered for all to see, I really cannot tell you how many rich young
bachelors, gentlemen, and farmers proceeded to don a shepherd's garb
and go to make love to her in the meadows. One of her suitors, as I have
told you, was our deceased friend, and it is said that he did not love but
adored her. But you must not think that because Marcela chose so free
and easy a life, and one that offers little or no privacy, that she was
thereby giving the faintest semblance of encouragement to those who
would disparage her modesty and prudence; rather, so great was the
vigilance with which she looked after her honor that of all those who
waited upon her and solicited her favors, none could truly say that she
had given him the slightest hope of attaining his desire.

"For although she does not flee nor shun the company and conversa-
tion of the shepherds, treating them in courteous and friendly fashion,
the moment she discovers any intentions on their part, even though it
be the just and holy one of matrimony, she hurls them from her like a
catapult. As a result, she is doing more damage in this land than if a plague
had fallen upon it; for her beauty and graciousness win the hearts of all
who would serve her, but her disdain and the disillusionment it brings
lead them in the end to despair, and then they can only call her cruel
and ungrateful, along with other similar epithets that reveal all too plainly
the state of mind that prompts them. If you were to stay here some time,
sir, you would hear these uplands and valleys echo with the laments of
those who have followed her only to be deceived.

"Not far from here is a place where there are a couple of dozen tall
beeches, and there is not a one of them on whose smooth bark Marcela's
name has not been engraved; and above some of these inscriptions you
will find a crown, as if by this her lover meant to indicate that she de-
served to wear the garland of beauty above all the women on the earth.
Here a shepherd sighs and there another voices his lament. Now are to
be heard amorous ballads, and again despairing ditties. One will spend
all the hours of the night seated at the foot of some oak or rock without
once closing his tearful eyes, and the morning sun will find him there,
stupefied and lost in thought. Another, without giving truce or respite
to his sighs, will lie stretched upon the burning sands in the full heat of
the most exhausting summer noontide, sending up his complaint to
merciful Heaven.

"And, meanwhile, over this one and that one, over one and all, the
beauteous Marcela triumphs and goes her own way, free and uncon-
cerned. All those of us who know her are waiting to see how far her
pride will carry her, and who will be the fortunate man who will succeed
in taming this terrible creature and thus come into possession of a beauty
so matchless as hers. Knowing all this that I have told you to be un-
doubtedly true, I can readily believe this lad's story about the cause
of Grisdstomo's death. And so I advise you, sir, not to fail to be present
tomorrow at his burial; it will be well worth seeing, for he has many
friends, and the place is not half a league from here."

"I will make a point of it," said Don Quixote, "and I thank you for
the pleasure you have given me by telling me so delightful a tale."

"Oh," said the goatherd, "I do not know the half of the things that
have happened to Marcela's lovers; but it is possible that tomorrow we
may meet along the way some shepherd who will tell us more. And now
it would be well for you to go and sleep under cover, for the night air
may not be good for your wound, though with the remedy that has been
put on it there is not much to fear."

Sancho Panza, who had been sending the goatherd to the devil for
talking so much, now put in a word with his master, urging him to come
and sleep in Pedro's hut. Don Quixote did so; and all the rest of the night
was spent by him in thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in imitation of Mar-
cela's lovers. As for Sancho, he made himself comfortable between
Rocinante and the ass and at once dropped off to sleep, not like a love-
lorn swain but, rather, like a man who has had a sound kicking that day.

CHAPTER XIII.

In which is brought to a close the story of the shepherdess
Marcela, along with other events.

DAY had barely begun to appear upon the balconies of the east when
five or six goatherds arose and went to awaken Don Quixote and tell
him that if he was still of a mind to go see Grisostomo's famous burial
they would keep him company. The knight, desiring nothing better,
ordered Sancho to saddle at once, which was done with much dispatch,
and then they all set out forthwith.

They had not gone more than a quarter of a league when, upon cross-
ing a footpath, they saw coming toward them six shepherds clad in black
sheepskins and with garlands of cypress and bitter rosebay on their heads.
Each of them carried a thick staff made of the wood of the holly, and
with them came two gentlemen on horseback in handsome traveling
attire, accompanied by three lads on foot. As the two parties met they
greeted each other courteously, each inquiring as to the other's destina-
tion, whereupon they learned that they were all going to the burial, and
so continued to ride along together.

Speaking to his companion, one of them said, "I think, Senor Vivaldo,
that we are going to be well repaid for the delay it will cost us to see
this famous funeral; for famous it must surely be, judging by the strange
things that these shepherds have told us of the dead man and the homi-
cidal shepherdess."

^I think so too," agreed Vivaldo. "I should be willing to delay our
journey not one day, but four, for the sake of seeing it."

Don Quixote then asked them what it was they had heard of Marcela
and Grisdstomo. The traveler replied that on that very morning they
had fallen in with those shepherds and, seeing them so mournfully
trigged out, had asked them what the occasion for it was. One of the
fellows had then told them of the beauty and strange demeanor of a
shepherdess by the name of Marcela, her many suitors, and the death of
this Grisdstomo, to whose funeral they were bound. He related, in short,
the entire story as Don Quixote had heard it from Pedro.

Changing the subject, the gentleman called Vivaldo inquired of Don
Quixote what it was that led him to go armed in that manner in a land
that was so peaceful.

"The calling that I profess," replied Don Quixote, "does not permit
me to do otherwise. An easy pace, pleasure, and repose--those things
were invented for delicate courtiers; but toil, anxiety, and arms--they
are for those whom the world knows as knights-errant, of whom I,
though unworthy, am the very least "

No sooner had they heard this than all of them immediately took him
for a madman. By way of assuring himself further and seeing what kind
of madness it was of which Don Quixote was possessed, Vivaldo now
asked him what was meant by the term knights-errant.

"Have not your Worships read the annals and the histories of England
that treat of the famous exploits of King Arthur, who in our Castilian
balladry is always called King Artus? According to a very old tradition
that is common throughout the entire realm of Great Britain, this king
did not die, but by an act of enchantment was changed into a raven; and
in due course of time he is to return and reign once more, recovering his
kingdom and his scepter; for which reason, from that day to this, no
Englishman is known to have killed one of those birds. It was, moreover,
in the time of that good king that the famous order of the Knights of the
Hound Table was instituted; and as for the love of Sir Lancelot of the
Lake and Queen Guinevere, everything took place exactly as the story
has it, their confidante and go-between being the honored matron
Quintafiona;127 I whence comes that charming ballad that is such a favorite
with us Spaniards:

Never was there a knight
So served by maid and dame
As the one they call Sir Lancelot
When from Britain he came--128

to carry on the gentle, pleasing course of his loves and noble deeds.

"From that time forth, the order of chivalry was passed on and
propagated from one individual to another until it had spread through
many and various parts of the world. Among those famed for their ex-
ploits was the valiant Amadis of Gaul, with all his sons and grandsons to
the fifth generation; and there was also the brave Felixmarte of Hircania,129
and the never sufficiently praised Tirant lo Blanch; and in view of the
fact that he lived in our own day, almost, we came near to seeing, hear-
ing, and conversing with that other courageous knight, Don Belianfs of
Greece.

"And that, gentlemen, is what it means to be a knight-errant, and what
I have been telling you of is the order of chivalry which such a knight
professes, an order to which, as I have already informed you, I, although
a sinner, have the honor of belonging; for I have made the same pro-
fession as have those other knights. That is why it is you find me in these
wild and lonely places, riding in quest of adventure, being resolved to
offer my arm and my person in the most dangerous undertaking fate
may have in store for me, that I may be of aid to the weak and needy."

Listening to this speech, the travelers had some while since come to the
conclusion that Don Quixote was out of his mind, and were likewise
able to perceive the peculiar nature of his madness, and they wondered
at it quite as much as did all those who encountered it for the first time.
Being endowed with a ready wit and a merry disposition and thinking
to pass the time until they reached the end of the short journey which,
so he was told, awaited them before they should arrive at the mountain
where the burial was to take place, Vivaldo decided to give him a further
opportunity of displaying his absurdities.

"It strikes me, Sir Knight-errant," he said, "that your Grace has
espoused one of the most austere professions to be found anywhere on
earth--even more austere, if I am not mistaken, than that of the Carthu-
sian monks."

"Theirs may be as austere as ours," Don Quixote replied, "but that
it is as necessary I am very much inclined to doubt. For if the truth be
told, the soldier who carries out his captain's order does no less than the
captain who gives the order. By that I mean to say that the religious, in
all peace and tranquility, pray to Heaven for earth's good, but we soldiers
and knights put their prayers into execution by defending with the might
of our good right arms and at the edge of the sword those things for
which they pray; and we do this not under cover of a roof but under
the open sky, beneath the insufferable rays of the summer sun and the
biting cold of winter, Thus we become the ministers of God on earth,
and our arms the means by which He executes His decrees. And just as
war and all the things that have to do with it are impossible without toil,
sweat, and anxiety, it follows that those who have taken upon them-
selves such a profession must unquestionably labor harder than do those
who in peace and tranquility and at their ease pray God to favor the
ones who can do little in their own behalf.

"I do not mean to say--I should not think of saying? that the state of
knight-errant is as holy as that of the cloistered monk; I merely would
imply, from what I myself endure, that ours is beyond a doubt the more
laborious and arduous calling, more beset by hunger and thirst, more
wretched, ragged, and ridden with lice. It is an absolute certainty that the
knights-errant of old experienced much misfortune in the course of
their lives; and if some by their might and valor came to be emperors,
you may take my word for it, it cost them dearly in blood and sweat,
and if those who rose to such a rank had lacked enchanters and magicians
to aid them, they surely would have been cheated of their desires, de-
ceived in their hopes and expectations."

"I agree with you on that," said the traveler, "but there is one thing
among others that gives me a very bad impression of the knights-errant,
and that is the fact that when they are about to enter upon some great
and perilous adventure in which they are in danger of losing their lives,
they never at that moment think of commending themselves to God as
every good Christian is obliged to do under similar circumstances, but,
rather, commend themselves to their ladies with as much fervor and
devotion as if their mistresses were God himself; all of which to me
smacks somewhat of paganism."

"Sir," Don Quixote answered him, "it could not by any means be
otherwise; the knight-errant who did not do so would fall into disgrace,
for it is the usage and custom of chivalry that the knight, before engag-
ing in some great feat of arms, shall behold his lady in front of him and
shall turn his eyes toward her, gently and lovingly, as if beseeching her
favor and protection in the hazardous encounter that awaits him, and
even though no one hears him, he is obliged to utter certain words be-
tween his teeth, commending himself to her with all his heart; and of
this we have numerous examples in the histories. Nor is it to be assumed
that he does not commend himself to God also, but the time and place
for that is in the course of the undertaking."

"All the same," said the traveler, "I am not wholly clear in this matter;
for I have often read of two knights-errant exchanging words until, one
word leading to another, their wrath is kindled; whereupon, turning
their steeds and taking a good run up the field, they whirl about and
bear down upon each other at full speed, commending themselves to
their ladies in the midst of it all. What commonly happens then is that
one of the two topples from his horse's flanks and is run through and
through with the other's lance; and his adversary would also fall to the
ground if he did not cling to his horse's mane. What I do not understand
is how the dead man would have had time to commend himself to God
in the course of this accelerated combat. It would be better if the words
he wasted in calling upon his lady as he ran toward the other knight had
been spent in paying the debt that he owed as a Christian. Moreover, it
is my personal opinion that not all knights-errant have ladies to whom
to commend themselves, for not all of them are in love."

"That," said Don Quixote, "is impossible. I assert there can be no
knight-errant without a lady; for it is as natural and proper for them
to be in love as it is for the heavens to have stars, and I am quite sure that
no one ever read a story in which a loveless man of arms was to be met
with, for the simple reason that such a one would not be looked upon
as a legitimate knight but as a bastard one who had entered the fortress
of chivalry not by the main gate, but over the walls, like a robber and
a thief."

"Nevertheless," said the traveler, "if my memory serves me right, I
have read that Don Galaor, brother of the valorous Amadis of Gaul,
never had a special lady to whom he prayed, yet he was not held in any
the less esteem for that but was a very brave and famous knight."

Once again, our Don Quixote had an answer. "Sir, one swallow does
not make a summer. And in any event, I happen to know that this knight
was secretly very much in love. As for his habit of paying court to all
the ladies that caught his fancy, that was a natural propensity on his part
and one that he was unable to resist. There was, however, one particular
lady whom he had made the mistress of his will and to whom he did
commend himself very frequently and privately; for he prided himself
upon being a reticent knight."

"Well, then," said the traveler, "if it is essential that every knight-
errant be in love, it is to be presumed that your Grace is also, since you
are of the profession. And unless it be that you pride yourself upon
your reticence as much as did Don Galaor, then I truly, on my own
behalf and in the name of all this company, beseech your Grace to tell
us your lady's name, the name of the country where she resides, what
her rank is, and something of the beauty of her person, that she may
esteem herself fortunate in having ail the world know that she is loved
and served by such a knight as your Grace appears to me to be."

At this, Don Quixote heaved a deep sigh. "I cannot say," he began,
"as to whether or not my sweet enemy would be pleased that all the
world should know I serve her. I can only tell you, in response to the
question which you have so politely put to me, that her name is Dulcinea,
her place of residence El Toboso, a village of La Mancha. As to her rank,
she should be at the very least a princess, seeing that she is my lady and
my queen. Her beauty is superhuman, for in it are realized all the im-
possible and chimerical attributes that poets are accustomed to give their
fair ones. Her locks are golden, her brow the Elysian Fields, her eye-
brows rainbows, her eyes suns, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth
pearls, her neck alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her com-
plexion snow-white. As for those parts which modesty keeps covered
from the human sight, it is my opinion that, discreetly considered, they
are only to be extolled and not compared to any other."

"We should like," said Vivaldo, "to know something as well of her
lineage, her race and ancestry."

"She is not," said Don Quixote, "of the ancient Roman Curtii, Caii,
or Scipios, nor of the modern Colonnas and Orsini, nor of the Moncadas
and Requesenses of Catalonia, nor is she of the Rebellas and Villanovas
of Valencia, or the Palafoxes, Nuzas, Rocabertis, Corellas, Lunas, Ala-
gones, Urreas, or Gurreas of Aragon, the Cerdas, Manriques, Mendozas,
or Guzmanes of Castile, the Alencastros, Pallas, or Menezes of Portugal;
but she is of the Tobosos of La Mancha, and although the line is a modern
one, it well may give rise to the most illustrious families of the centuries
to come. And let none dispute this with me, unless it be under the condi-
tions which Zerbino has set forth in the inscription beneath Orlando's
arms:

These let none move
Who dares not with Orlando his valor prove"130

"Although my own line," replied the traveler, "is that of the Gachupins131
of Laredo, I should not venture to compare it with the Tobosos of La
Mancha, in view of the fact that, to tell you the truth, I have never
heard the name before."

"How docs it come that you have never heard it!" exclaimed Don
Quixote.

The others were listening most attentively to the conversation of these
two, and even the goatherds and shepherds were by now aware that our
knight of La Mancha was more than a little insane. Sancho Panza alone
thought that all his master said was the truth, for he was well acquainted
with him, having known him since birth. The only doubt in his mind
had to do with the beauteous Dulcinea del Toboso, for he knew of no
such princess and the name was strange to his ears, although he lived
not far from that place.

They were continuing on their way, conversing in this manner, when
they caught sight of some twenty shepherds coming through the gap
between two high mountains, all of them clad in black woolen garments
and with wreaths on their heads, some of the garlands, as was afterward
learned, being of cypress, others of yew. Six of them were carrying a
bier covered with a great variety of flowers and boughs.

"There they come with Grisostomo's body," said one of the goatherds,
"and the foot of the mountain yonder is where he wished to be buried."

They accordingly quickened their pace and arrived just as those carry-
ing the bier had set it down on the ground. Four of the shepherds with
sharpened picks were engaged in digging a grave alongside the barren
rock. After a courteous exchange of greetings, Don Quixote and his com-
panions turned to look at the bier. Upon it lay a corpse covered with
flowers, the body of a man dressed like a shepherd and around thirty
years of age. Even in death it could be seen that he had had a handsome
face and had been of a jovial disposition. Round about him upon the bier
were a number of books and many papers, open and folded.

Meanwhile, those who stood gazing at the dead man and those who
were digging the grave--everyone present, in fact--preserved an awed
silence, until one of the pallbearers said to another, "Look well, Am-
brosio, and make sure that this is the place that Grisostomo had in mind,
since you are bent upon carrying out to the letter the provisions of his
will."

"This is it," replied Ambrosio; "for many times my unfortunate friend
told me the story of his misadventure. He told me that it was here that
he first laid eyes upon that mortal enemy of the human race, and it was
here, also, that he tirst revealed to her his passion, for he was as honorable
as he was lovelorn; and it was here, finally, at their last meeting, that
she shattered his illusions and showed him her disdain, thus bringing to
an end the tragedy of his wretched life. And here, in memory of his great
misfortune, he wished to be laid in the bowels of eternal oblivion."

Then, turning to Don Quixote and the travelers, he went on, "This
body, gentlemen, on which you now look with pitying eyes was the
depository of a soul which heaven had endowed with a vast share of its
ri ches . This is the body of Grisdstomo, who was unrivaled in wit, un-
equaled in courtesy, supreme in gentleness of bearing, a model of friend-
ship, generous without stint, grave without conceit, merry without
being vulgar? in short, first in all that is good and second to none in
the matter of misfortunes. He loved well and was hated, he adored and
was disdained; he wooed a wild beast, importuned a piece of marble,
ran after the wind, cried out to loneliness, waited upon ingratitude, and
his reward was to be the spoils of death midway in his life's course? a
life that was brought to an end by a shepherdess whom he sought to
immortalize that she might live on in the memory of mankind, as those
papers that you see there would very plainly show if he had not com-
manded me to consign them to the flames even as his body is given to
the earth."

"You," said Vivaldo, "would treat them with greater harshness and
cruelty than their owner himself, for it is neither just nor fitting to carry
out the will of one who commands what is contrary to all reason. It
would not have been a good thing for Augustus Caesar to consent to
have them execute the behests of the divine Mantuan in his last testa-
ment. And so, Senor Ambrosio, while you may give the body of your
friend to the earth, you ought not to give his writings to oblivion. If out
of bitterness he left such an order, that does not mean that you are to
obey it without using your own discretion. Rather, by granting life to
these papers, you permit Marcela's cruelheartedness to live forever and
serve as an example to the others in the days that are to come in order
that they may flee and avoid such pitfalls as these.

"I and those that have come with me know the story of this lovesick
and despairing friend of yours; we know the affection that was between
you, and what the occasion of his death was, and the things that he
commanded be done as his life drew to a close. And from this lamentable
tale anyone may see how great was Marcela's cruelty; they may behold
Grisdstomo's love, the loyalty that lay in your friendship, and the end
.that awaits those who run headlong, with unbridled passion, down the
path that doting love opens before their gaze. Last night we heard of
your friend's death and learned that he was to be buried here, and out
of pity and curiosity we turned aside from our journey and resolved to
come see with our own eyes that which had aroused so much compassion
when it was told to us. And in requital of that compassion, and the desire
that has been born in us to prevent if we can a recurrence of such tragic
circumstances, we beg you, O prudent Ambrosio!? or, at least, I for
my part implore you? to give up your intention of burning these papers
and let me carry some of them away with me."

Without waiting for the shepherd to reply he put out his hand and
took a few of those that were nearest him.

"Out of courtesy, sir," said Ambrosio when he saw this, "I will consent
for you to keep those that you have taken; but it is vain to think that
I will refrain from burning the others."

Vivaldo, who was anxious to find out what was in the papers, opened
one of them and perceived that it bore the title "Song of Despair."

Hearing this, Ambrosio said, "That is the last thing the poor fellow
wrote; and in order, sir, that you may see the end to which his misfor-
tunes brought him, read it aloud if you will, for we shall have time for
it while they are digging the grave."

"That I will very willingly do," said Vivaldo.

And since all the bystanders had the same desire, they gathered around
as he in a loud clear voice read the following poem.

CHAPTER XIV.

In which are set down the despairing verses of the deceased
shepherd, with other unlooked-for happenings.

　　　　GRISOSTOMO'S SONG132

Since thou desirest that thy cruelty
Be spread from tongue to tongue and land to land,
The unrelenting sternness of thy heart
Shall turn my bosom's hell to minstrelsy
That all men everywhere may understand
The nature of my grief and what thou art.
And as I seek my sorrows to impart, .
Telling of all the things that thou hast done t
My very entrails shall speak out to brand
Thy heartlessness, thy soul to reprimand,
Where no compassion ever have l won.
Then listen well, lend an attentive ear;
This ballad that thou art about to hear
Is not contrived by art; 'tis a simple song
Such as shepherds sing each day throughout the year--
Surcease of pain for me, for thee a prong.

Then let the roar of lion, fierce wolfs cry,
The horrid hissing of the scaly snake,
The terrifying sound of monsters strange,
Ill-omened call of crow against the sky,
The howling of the wind as it doth shake
The tossing sea where all is constant change,
Bellow of vanquished bull that cannot range
As it was wont to do, the piteous sob
Of the widowed dove as if its heart would break,
Hoot of the envied owl, 133 ever awake,
From hell's own choir the deep and mournful throb--
Let all these sounds come forth and mingle now.
For if I'm to tell my woes, why then, l vow,
I must new measures find, new modes invent,
With sound confusing sense, I may somehow
Portray the inferno where my days are spent.

The mournful echoes of my murmurous plamt ,
Father Tagus 134 shall not hear as he rolls his sand,
Nor olive-bordered Betis; 135 my lament shall be
To the tall and barren rock as l acquaint
The caves with my sorrow; the far and lonely strand
No human foot has trod shall hear from me
The story of thine inhumanity
As told with lifeless tongue but living word.
I'll tell it to the valleys near at hand
Where never shines the sun upon the land;
By venomous serpents shall my tale be heard
On the low-lying, marshy river plain.
And yet, the telling will not be in vain;
For the reverberations of my plight,
Thy matchless austerity and this my pain,
Through the wide world shall go, thee to indict.

Disdain may kill; suspicion false or true
May slay all patience; deadliest of all
Is jealousy; while absence renders life
Worse than a void; Hope lends no roseate hue
Against forgetfulness or the dread call
Of death inevitable, the end of strife.
Yet--unheard miracle!--with sorrows rife.
My own existence somehow still goes on;
The flame of life with me doth rise and fall .
Jealous I am, disdained ; I know the gall
Of those suspicions that will not be gone,
Which leave me not the shadow of a hope,
And, desperate, I will not even grope
But rather will endure until the end,
And with despair eternally I'll cope,
Knowing that things for me will never mend.

Can one both hope and fear at the same season?
Would it be well to do so in any case,
Seeing that fear, by far, hath the better excuse?
Confronting jealousy, is there any reason
For me to close my eyes to its stern face,
Pretend to see it not? What is the use,
When its dread presence I can still deduce
From countless gaping wounds deep in my heart?
When suspicion? bitter change!--to truth gives place,
And truth itself, losing its virgin grace,
Becomes a lie, is it not wisdom's part
To open wide the door to frank mistrust?
When disdain's unveiled, to doubt is only just.
O ye fierce tyrants of Love's empery!
Shackle these hands with stout cord, if ye must.
My pain shall drown your triumph--woe is me!

I die, in short, and since nor life nor death
Yields any hope, to my fancy will l cling.
That man is freest who is Love's bond slave:
I'll say this with my living-dying breath,
And the ancient tyrant's praises I will sing.
Love is the greatest blessing Heaven e'er gave.
What greater beauty could a lover crave
Than that which my fair enemy doth show
In soul and body and in everything?
E'en her forgetfulness of me doth spring
From my own lack of grace, that I well know.
In spite of all the wrongs that he has wrought,
Love rules his empire justly as he ought.
Throw all to the winds and speed life's wretched span
By feeding on his self-deluding thought.
No blessing holds the future that l scan.

Thou whose unreasonableness reason doth give
For putting an end to this tired life of mine,
From the deep heart wounds which thou mayest plainly see,
Judge if the better course be to die or live.
Gladly did l surrender my will to thine,
Gladly I suffered all thou didst to me;
And now that I'm dying, should it seem to thee
My death is worth a tear from thy bright eyes,
Pray hold it back, fair one, do not repine,
For l would have from thee no faintest sign
Of penitence, e'en though my soul thy prize.
Rather, Yd have thee laugh, be very gay,
And let my funeral be a festive day?
But l am very simple! knowing full well
That thou art bound to go thy blithesome way,
And my untimely end thy fame shall swell.
Come, thirsting Tantalus from out Hell's pit ;

Come, Sisyphus with the terrifying weight
Of that stone thou rollest; Tityus, bring
Thy vulture and thine anguish infinite;
Ixion with thy wheel, be thou not late;
Come, too, ye sisters ever labormg;
Come all, your griefs into my bosom fling,
And then, with lowered voices, intone a dirge,
If dirge be fitting for one so desperate,
A body without a shroud, unhappy fate!
And Hell's three-headed gateman, do thou emerge
With a myriad other phantoms, monstrous swarm,
Beings infernal of fantastic form,
Raising their voices for the uncomforted
In a counterpoint of grief, harmonious storm.
What better burial for a lover dead

Despairing song of mine, do not complain,
Nor let our parting cause thee any pain.
For my misfortune is not wholly bad
Seeing her fortune's bettered by my demise .
Then, even in the grave, be thou not sad.

Those who had listened to Grisdstomo's poem liked it well enough,
but the one who read it remarked that it did not appear to him to con-
form to what had been told him of Marcela's modesty and virtue, seeing
that in it the author complains of jealousy, suspicion, and absence, all
to the prejudice of her good name. To this Ambrosio, as one who had
known his friend's most deeply hidden thoughts, replied as follows:

"By way of satisfying, sir, the doubt that you entertain, it is well for
you to know that when the unfortunate man wrote that poem, he was
by his own volition absent from Marcela, to see if this would work a
cure^but when the enamored one is away from his love, there is nothing
that does not inspire in him fear and torment, and such was the case with
Grisostomo, for whom jealous imaginings, fears, and suspicions became
a seeming reality. And so, in this respect, Marcela's reputation for vir-
tue remains unimpaired; beyond being cruel and somewhat arrogant,
and exceedingly disdainful, she could not be accused by the most en-
vious of any other fault."

"Yes, that is so," said Vivaldo.

He was about to read another of the papers he had saved from the
fire when he was stopped by a marvelous vision--for such it appeared--
that suddenly met his sight; for there atop the rock beside which the
grave was being hollowed out stood the shepherdess Marcela herself,
more beautiful even than she was reputed to be. Those who up to then,
had never seen her looked on in silent admiration, while those who were
accustomed to beholding her were held in as great a suspense as the ones
who were gazing upon her for the first time.

No sooner had Ambrosio glimpsed her than, with a show of indigna-
tion, he called out to her, "So, fierce basilisk of these mountains, have
you perchance come to see if in your presence blood will flow from
the wounds of this poor wretch whom you by your cruelty have de-
prived of life? Have you come to gloat over your inhuman exploits, or
would you from that height look down like another pitiless Nero upon
your Rome in flames and ashes? Or perhaps you would arrogantly tread
under foot this poor corpse, as an ungrateful daughter did that of her
father Tarquinius? Tell us quickly why you have come and what it is
that you want most; for I know that Grisdstomo's thoughts never failed
to obey you in life, and though he is dead now, I will see that all those
who call themselves his friends obey you likewise."

"I do not come, O Ambrosio, for any of the reasons that you have
mentioned," replied Marcela. "I come to defend myself and to demon-
strate how unreasonable all those persons are who blame me for their
sufferings and for Grisdstomo's death. I therefore ask all present to hear
me attentively. It will not take long and I shall not have to spend many
words in persuading those of you who are sensible that I speak the truth.

"Heaven made me beautiful, you say, so beautiful that you are com-
pelled to love me whether you will or no; and in return for the love
that you show me, you would have it that I am obliged to love you in
return. I know, with that natural understanding that God has given me,
that everything beautiful is lovable; but I cannot see that it follows that
the object that is loved for its beauty must love the one who loves it.
Let us suppose that the lover of the beautiful were ugly and, being ugly,
deserved to be shunned; it would then be highly absurd for him to say,
'I love you because you are beautiful; you must love me because I am
ugly-'

"But assuming that two individuals are equally beautiful, it does not
mean that their desires are the same; for not all beauty inspires love, but
may sometimes merely delight the eye and leave the will intact. If it were
otherwise, no one would know what he wanted, but all would wander
vaguely and aimlessly with nothing upon which to settle their affec-
tions; for the number of beautiful objects being infinite, desires similarly
would be boundless. I have heard it said that true love knows no division
and must be voluntary and not forced. This being so, as I believe it is,
then why would you compel me to surrender my will for no other rea-
son than that you say you love me? But tell me: supposing that Heaven
which made me beautiful had made me ugly instead, should I have any
right to complain because you did not love me? You must remember,
moreover, that I did not choose this beauty that is mine; such as it is,
Heaven gave it to me of its grace, without any choice or asking on my
part. As the viper is not to be blamed for the deadly poison that it bears,
since that is a gift of nature, so I do not deserve to be reprehended for
my comeliness of form.

"Beauty in a modest woman is like a distant fire or a sharp-edged
sword: the one does not burn, the other does not cut, those who do not
come near it Honor and virtue are the adornments of the soul, with-
out which the body is not beautiful though it may appear to be. If
modesty is one of die virtues that most adorn and beautify body and
soul, why should she who is loved for her beauty part with that virtue
merely to satisfy the whim of one who solely for his own pleasure strives
with all his force and energy to cause her to lose it? I was born a free
being, and in order to live freely I chose the solitude of the fields; these
mountain trees are my company, the clear-running waters in these
brooks are my mirror, and to the trees and waters I communicate my
thoughts and lend them of my beauty.

"In short, I am that distant fire, that sharp-edged sword, that does
not burn or cut. Those who have been enamored by the sight of me I
have disillusioned with my words; and if desire is sustained by hope, I
gave none to Grisostomo or any other, and of none of them can it be
said that I killed them with my cruelty, for it was rather their own ob-
stinacy that was to blame. And if you reproach me with the fact that his
, intentions were honorable and that I ought for that reason to have com-
plied with them, I will tell you that when, on this very spot where his
grave is now being dug, he revealed them to me, I replied that it was
my own intention to live in perpetual solitude and that only the earth
should enjoy the fruit of my retirement and the spoils of my beauty;
and if he with all this plain-speaking was still stubbornly bent upon hop-
ing against hope and sailing against the wind, is it to be wondered at if
he drowned in the gulf of his own folly?

"Had I led him on, it would have been falsely; had I gratified his pas-
sion, it would have been against my own best judgment and intentions;
but, though I had disillusioned him, he persisted, and though I did not
hate him, he was driven to despair. Ask yourselves, then, if it is reason-
able to blame me for his woes! Let him who has been truly deceived
complain; let him despair who has been cheated of his promised hopes;,
if I have enticed any, let him speak up; if I have accepted the attentions
of any, let him boast of it; but let not him to whom I have promised
nothing, whom I have neither enticed nor accepted, apply to me such
terms as cruel and homicidal. It has not as yet been Heaven's will to
destine me to love any man, and there is no use expecting me to love
of my own free choice.

"Let what I am saying now apply to each and every one of those who
would have me for their own, and let it be understood from now on
that if any die on account of me, he is not to be regarded as an unfor-
tunate victim of jealousy, since she that cares for none can give to none
the occasion for being jealous; nor is my plain-speaking to be taken as
disdain. He who calls me a wild beast and a basilisk, let him leave me
alone as something that is evil and harmful; let him who calls me un-
grateful cease to wait upon me; let him who finds me strange shun my
acquaintance; if I am cruel, do not run after me; in which case this
wild beast, this basilisk, this strange, cruel, ungrateful creature will not
ran after diem, seek them out, wait upon them, nor endeavor to know
them in any way.

"The thing that killed Grisostomo was his impatience and the im-
petuosity of his desire; so why blame my modest conduct and retiring
life? If I choose to preserve my purity here in the company of the trees,
how can he complain of my unwillingness to lose it who would have
me keep it with other men? I, as you know, have a worldly fortune of
my own and do not covet that of others. My life is a free one, and I do
not wish to be subject to another in any way. I neither love nor hate
anyone; I do not repel this one and allure that one; I do not play fast
and loose with any. The modest conversation of these village lasses and
the care of my goats is sufficient to occupy me. Those mountains there
represent the bounds of my desire, and should my wishes go beyond
them, it is but to contemplate the beauty of the heavens, that pathway
by which the soul travels to its first dwelling place."

Saying this and without waiting for any reply, she turned her back
and entered the thickest part of a near-by wood, leaving all present lost
in admiration of her wit as well as her beauty. A few--those who had
felt the powerful dart of her glances and bore the wounds inflicted by
her lovely eyes--were of a mind to follow her, taking no heed of the
plainly worded warning they had just had from her lips; whereupon
Don Quixote, seeing this and thinking to himself that here was an op-
portunity to display his chivalry by succoring a damsel in distress, laid
his hand upon the hilt of his sword and cried out, loudly and distinctly,
"Let no person of whatever state or condition he may be dare to follow
the beauteous Marcela under pain of incurring my furious wrath. She
has shown with clear and sufficient reasons that little or no blame for
Grisdstomo's death is to be attached to her; she has likewise shown how
far. she is from acceding to the desires of any of her suitors, and it is
accordingly only just that in place of being hounded and persecuted she
should be honored and esteemed by all good people in this world as the
only woman in it who lives with such modesty and good intentions."

Whether it was due to Don Quixote's threats or because Ambrosio
now told them that they should finish doing the things which his good
friend had desired should be done, no one stirred from the spot until the
burial was over and Grisdstomo's papers had been burned. As the body
was laid in the grave, many tears were shed by the bystanders. Then
they placed a heavy stone upon it until the slab which Ambrosio was
thinking of having made should be ready, with an epitaph that was to
read:

Here lies a shepherd by love betray ed y
His body cold in death,
Who with his last and faltering breath
Spoke of a faithless maid.
He died by the cruel, heartless hand
Of a coy and lovely lass,
Who by bringing men to so sorry a pass
Love's tyranny doth expand.

They then scattered many flowers and boughs over the top of the
grave, and, expressing their condolences to the dead man's friend, Am-
brosio, they all took their leave, including Vivaldo and his companions.
Don Quixote now said good-by to the travelers as well, although they
urged him to come with them to Seville, assuring him that he would find
in every street and at every corner of that city more adventures than
are to be met with anywhere else. He thanked them for the invitation
and the courtesy they had shown him in offering it, but added that for
the present he had no desire to visit Seville, not until he should have
rid these mountains of the robbers and bandits of which they were said
to be full.

Seeing that his mind was made up, the travelers did not urge him fur-
ther but, bidding him another farewell, left him and continued on their
way; and the reader may be sure that in the course of their journey they
did not fail to discuss the story of Marcela and Grisostomo as well as Don
Quixote's madness. As for the good knight himself, he was resolved to
go seek the shepherdess and offer her any service that lay in his power;
but things did not turn out the way he expected, as is related in the
course of this veracious history, the second part of which ends here.

CHAPTER XV.

In which is related the unfortunate adventure that befell Don
Quixote when he encountered certain wicked Yanguesans.

THE learned Cid Benengeli tells us that, upon taking leave of their
hosts and all those who had attended the shepherd Grisostomo's funeral,
Don Quixote and his squire entered the same wood into which they had
seen the shepherdess Marcela disappear, and that, having journeyed in
the forest for more than two hours, looking for her everywhere with-
out being able to discover her, they finally came to a meadow covered
with fresh young grass, alongside the cool and placid waters of a moun-
tain stream which irresistibly invited them to pause there during the
noontide heat, for the sun was now beating down upon them. The two
of them accordingly dismounted and, turning Rocinante and the ass
out to feed upon the plentiful pasturage, proceeded to investigate the
contents of the saddlebags, after which, without further ceremony,
master and man sat down together very peaceably and sociably to eat
what they had found there.

Now, Sancho had not taken the trouble to put fetters on Rocinante,
knowing the hack to be so tame and so little inclined to lust that, he
felt certain, all the mares in the Cordovan meadowlands would not be
able to tempt him to an indiscretion. But fate and the devil--who is not
always sleeping--had ordained that a herd of Galician ponies belonging
to some carters of Yanguas136 I should be feeding in this same valley; for
it was the custom of these men to stop for their siesta in some place
where grass and water were to be had for their teams, and as it happened,
the spot the Yanguesans had chosen on this occasion was not far from
where Don Quixote was.

Then it was that Rocinante suddenly felt the desire to have a little
sport with the ladies. The moment he scented them, he abandoned his
customary gait and staid behavior and, without asking his master's leave,
trotted briskly over to them to acquaint them with his needs. They,
however, preferred to go on eating, or so it seemed, for they received
him with their hoofs and teeth, to such good effect that they broke his
girth and left him naked and without a saddle. But the worst of it was
when the carters, seeing the violence that he was offering their mares,
came running up with poles and so belabored him that they left him lying
there badly battered on the ground.

At this point Don Quixote and Sancho, who had witnessed the drub-
bing that Rocinante received, also ran up, panting. It was the master who
spoke first

"So far as I can see, friend Sancho," he said, "those are not knights but
low fellows of ignoble birth; and so you may very well aid me in wreak-
ing a deserved vengeance upon them for the wrong they have done to
Rocinante in front of our very eyes."

"What the devil kind of vengeance are we going to take," asked
Sancho, "seeing there are more than twenty of them and not more than
two of us, or maybe only one and a half?"

"I," replied Don Quixote, "am worth a hundred." Without saying
anything more, he drew his sword and fell upon the Yanguesans, and,
moved and incited by his master's example, Sancho Panza did the same.

At the first slashing blow he dealt, the knight laid open the leather
jacket that the man wore along with a good part of one shoulder. Seeing
themselves assaulted like this by two lone individuals while they were
so many in number, the Yanguesans again ran up with their poles and,
surrounding their assailants, began flaying them with great ardor and
vehemence. The truth is that the second blow sufficed to lay Sancho
low, and the same thing happened with Don Quixote, all his dexterity
and high courage availing him not at all. As luck would have it, he fell
at Rocinante's feet, for the animal had not yet been able to rise; all of
which goes to show what damage poles can do when furiously wielded
by angry rustics. When the Yanguesans saw what mischief they had
wrought, they lost no time in loading their teams and were soon off
down the road, leaving the two adventurers in a sorry plight and a
worse mood.

The first to recover his senses was Sancho Panza. Finding himself be-
side his master, he called out to him in a weak and piteous voice, "Seiior
Don Quixote! Ah, Senor Don Quixote!"

"What do you want, brother Sancho?" said the knight in the same
feeble, suffering tone that the squire had used.

"I'd like, if possible," said Sancho, "for your Grace to give me a
couple of draughts of that ugly Bras,137 if you happen to have any of it
at hand. Perhaps it would be as good for broken bones as it is for
wounds."

"If I only did have some of it, wretch that I am," said Don Quixote,
"what more could we ask for? But I swear to you, Sancho Panza, on
the word of a knight-errant, that before two days have passed, unless
fortune should rule otherwise, I shall have it in my possession, or else
my hands will have failed me."

"But how many days do you think it will be, your Grace, before we
are able to move our feet?" Sancho wanted to know.

"For my part," said his well-cudgeled master, "I must confess that I
cannot answer that question. I hold myself to blame for everything. I
had no business putting hand to sword against men who had not been
dubbed knights and so were not my equals. Because I thus violated the
laws of knighthood, the God of battles has permitted this punishment
to be inflicted upon me. For which reason, Sancho, you should pay at-
tention to what I am about to say to you, for it may have much to do
with the safety of both of us. Hereafter, when you see a rabble of this
sort committing some offense against us, do not wait for me to draw
my sword, for I shall not do so under any circumstances, but, rather,
draw your own and chastise them to your heart's content. If any knights
come to their aid and defense, I will protect you by attacking them
with all my might; and you already know by a thousand proofs and ex-
periences the valor of this, my strong right arm."

For the poor gentleman was still feeling puffed up as a result of his
victory over the valiant Biscayan. His advice, however, did not strike
Sancho as being so good that he could let it pass without an answer.

"Sir," he said, "I am a peaceful man, calm and quiet, and I can put
up with any insult because I have a wife and young ones to support and
bring up; and so let me advise your Grace, since it is not for me to lay
down the law, that under no consideration will I draw my sword, either
against rustic or against knight, but from now on, as God is my witness,
I hereby pardon all wrongs that have been done or may be done to me
by any person high or low, rich or poor, gentleman or commoner, with-
out excepting any rank or walk in life whatsoever."

"I wish," said his master, "that I had a little breath so that I could
speak to you without so much effort; I wish the pain in this rib would
subside somewhat so that I might be able, Sancho, to show you how
wrong you are. Come now, you sinner, supposing that the wind of for-
tune* which up to now has been so contrary a one, should veer in our
favor, filling the sails of our desire so that we should certainly and with-
out anything to hinder us be able to put into port at one of those islands
that I have promised you, what would happen to you if, winning the vie-
tory, I were to make you the ruler of it? You will have rendered that
impossible by not being a knight nor caring to become one, and by
having no intention of avenging the insults offered you or defending
your seignorial rights.

"For you must know that in newly conquered kingdoms and prov-
inces the minds of the inhabitants are never tranquil nor do they like
their new lord so well that there is not to be feared some fresh move on
their part to alter the existing state of affairs and, as the saying goes, see
what their luck will bring. And so it is necessary that the new ruler
possess the ability to govern and the valor to attack or defend himself
as the case may be."

"Well, in the present case," said Sancho, "I can only wish I had that
ability and that valor of which your Grace speaks; but I swear to you
on the word of a poor man that I need a poultice more than I do an argu-
ment. If your Grace will try to rise, we will help Rocinante up, al-
though he does not deserve it, seeing that he is the principal cause of
this thrashing we have received. I never would have thought it of him;
I always took him to be as chaste and peaceful as I am. Oh, well, they say
it takes a lot of time to get to know a person and nothing in this life is
certain. Who would have thought that those mighty slashes your Grace
gave that poor knight-errant would be followed posthaste by such a
tempest of blows as they let fall upon our shoulders?"

"Your shoulders, at any rate," observed Don Quixote, "ought to be
used to such squalls as that, but mine, accustomed to fine cambric and
Dutch linen, naturally feel more acutely the pain of this misfortune
that has befallen us. And if I did not imagine--why do I say imagine?--
if I did not know for a certainty that all these discomforts are the in-
evitable accompaniment of the profession of arms, I should straightway
lay me down and die of pure vexation."

"Sir," replied the squire, "seeing that these mishaps are what one
reaps when one is a knight, I wish your Grace would tell me if they
happen very often or only at certain times; for it seems to me that after
two such harvests, there will not be much left of us for the third, unless
God in His infinite mercy sees fit to succor us."

"Be assured, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that the life of
knights-errant is subject to a thousand perils and misadventures. At the
same time, it is within the power of those same knights to become at
almost any moment kings and emperors, as experience has shown in the
Case of many different ones whose histories I know welL If this pain
of mine permitted me, I could tell you right now of some who merely
by the might of their arm have risen to the highest stations such as I
have mentioned; yet these very ones, both before and after, endured
various troubles and calamities.

"There was the valorous Amadis of Gaul, who fell into the power of
his mortal enemy, Arcalaus the enchanter, who, after he had taken
him prisoner and had bound him to a pillar in the courtyard, is known
for a fact to have given him more than two hundred lashes with his
horse's reins. And there is a certain author of no little repute, though his
name is not widely known, who tells us how the Knight of the Sun, in
a certain castle, was caught in a trapdoor that opened beneath his feet;
on falling through the trap, he found himself in a deep underground pit,
bound hand and foot, and they gave him one of those so-called clysters of
sand and snow-water that all but finished him. Indeed, if in this great
peril a magician who was a great friend of his had not come to his aid,
it would have gone very badly with the poor knight.

"And so I well may suffer in the company of such worthy ones; for the
indignities that they endured are worse than those that we have had to
suffer. I would inform you, Sancho, that those wounds that are inflicted
by any instruments that chance to be in the assailant's hand do not consti-
tute an affront, as is expressly laid down in the dueling code. Thus, if the
shoemaker strike another with the last that he holds, although it is really
of wood, it cannot for that reason be said that the one attacked with it
has been cudgeled. I tell you this in order that you may not think that,
because we have been beaten to a pulp in this combat, an affront has
thereby been offered us; for the arms that those men bore and with which
they pommeled us were nothing other than stakes, and none of them, so
far as I can recall, carried a rapier, sword, or dagger."

"They did not give me time to see what they carried," said Sancho,
"for I had no sooner laid hands on my blade than they made the sign of
the cross over my shoulder with their clubs, taking away the sight of
my eyes and the strength of my feet, after which they went off and left
me lying here where I am now, and I am not taking the trouble to think
whether or not those blows they gave me with their poles were an affront;
all I can think of is the pain they have caused me, which is as deeply im-
printed on my memory as it is on my shoulders."

"But with all that, brother Panza," said Don Quixote, "I must remind
you that there is no memory to which time does not put an end and no
pain that death does not abolish."

"Well," said Panza, "what greater misfortune could there be than that
of having to wait on time and death? If this trouble of ours were one
of those that are cured with a couple of poultices, it would not be so bad.
But I am beginning to think that all the plasters in a hospital will not
be enough to put us in shape again."

"Leave all that," said Don Quixote, "and draw strength from weak-
ness as I propose to do. Come, let us see how Rocinante is; for, it appears
to me, the poor beast has had the worst of this mishap."

"I am not surprised at that," said Sancho, "in view of the fact that
he is a knight-errant also. What does astonish me is that my donkey
should have gone free and without costs while we have come off without
our ribs."138

"Fortune," said Don Quixote, "always leaves a door open in adversity
as a means of remedying it. What I would say is, this little beast may take
the place of Rocinante now by carrying me to some castle where I may
be healed of my wounds. And I may add that I do not look upon it as a
disgrace to go mounted like that, for I recall having read that good old
Silenus, the tutor and instructor of the merry god of laughter, when
he entered the city of the hundred gates,139 was pleased to do so mounted
upon a very handsome ass."

"That may very well be," said Sancho, "but there is a big difference
between going mounted and being slung across the animal's flanks like a
bag of refuse."

"Wounds received in battle," replied Don Quixote, "confer honor,
they do not take it away; and so, friend Sancho, say no more, but, as I
have already told you, lift me up the best you can and place me on the
ass in any fashion that pleases you, and we will then be on our way before
night descends upon us here in this wilderness."

"But I thought I heard your Grace say," remarked Panza, "that it is
very fitting for knights-errant to sleep out in the cold wastes and desert
places the better part of the year, and that they esteem it a great good
fortune to be able to do so."

"That," said Don Quixote, "is when they have no choice in the matter
or when they are in love; and, it is true, there have been knights who for
two years' time have remained upon a rock, in sun and shade and through
all the inclemencies of the heavens, without their ladies knowing any-
thing about it. One of these was Amadis, who, under the name of Bel-
tenebros, took up his lodging on the rock known as Pena Pobre, remain-
ing there either eight years or eight months, I am not quite certain as
to the exact length of time; what matters is that he was there doing
penance for some slight offense that he had given to his lady Oriana. But
let us quit this talk, Sancho, and make haste before something happens
to the ass as it did to Rocinante."

"There will be the devil to pay in that case," said Sancho; and venting
himself of thirty "Ohs" and "Ahs" and sixty sighs and a hundred-twenty
imprecations of various sorts, with curses for the one who had got him
into this, he arose, pausing halfway like a Turkish bow bent in the
middle, without the power to straighten himself. It was with the greatest
difficulty that he succeeded in saddling his ass, which, making use of the
unwonted freedom it had enjoyed that day, had wandered off some little
distance. He then managed to get Rocinante on his feet, and if that
animal had possessed the power to complain, you may be sure that he
Would have been an equal for Sancho and his master.

The end of the matter was, Sancho seated Don Quixote upon the
donkey, tying Rocinante on behind, and then started off leading the ass
by the halter, proceeding more or less in the direction in which he
thought the main highway ought to be; and as chance was now guiding
their affairs from good to better, he had gone but a short league when
there before them was the road? not only the road but an inn, which
greatly to Sancho's disgust and his master's delight had, of course, to
be a castle. The squire stubbornly insisted that it was not a castle but
a hostelry, while his master maintained the contrary. The argument
lasted so long that they had reached the inn before it was ended, and with
the point still unsettled, Sancho entered the gateway, followed by his
cavalcade.

CHAPTER XVI.

Of what happened to the ingenious gentleman in
the inn which he imagined was a castle.

Upon seeing Don Quixote thus slung across the ass, the innkeeper
inquired of Sancho what was wrong. The squire replied that it was
nothing; his master had fallen from a cliff and bruised a few ribs, that was
all. Now, the innkeeper had a wife who was not the kind one would
expect to find among women of her calling, for she was naturally of a
charitable disposition and inclined to sympathize with those of her neigh-
bors who were in trouble. She accordingly came running up to take
care of her injured guest and called upon her daughter, who was young
and very good-looking, to lend her a helping hand.

Serving in the inn, also, was a lass from Asturia, broad-faced, flat-
headed, and with a snub nose; she was blind in one eye and could not
see very well out of the other. To be sure, her bodily graces made up for
her other defects: she measured not more than seven palms from head
to foot, and, being slightly hunchbacked, she had to keep looking at the
ground a good deal more than she liked. This gentle creature in turn
aided the daughter of the house, and the two made up a very uncom-
fortable bed for Don Quixote in an attic which gave every evidence of
having formerly been a hayloft and which held another lodger, a mule
driver, whose bed stood a little beyond the one they had prepared for
our friend.

The muleteer's couch was composed of the packsaddles and blankets
from his beasts, but it was a better one for all of that. The other consisted
merely of four smooth planks laid upon two trestles of uneven height,
and had a mattress so thin that it looked more like a counterpane, with
lumps which, had they not been seen through the rents to be of wool,
might from the feel of them have been taken for pebbles. To cover him,
the knight had a pair of sheets made of the kind of leather they use on
bucklers and a quilt whose threads anyone who chose might have counted
without missing a single one.

On this wretched pallet Don Quixote stretched himself out, and then
the innkeeper's wife and daughter proceeded to cover him from top to
toe with plasters while Maritornes (for that was the Asturian girl's name)
held the light. As she applied the poultices, the mistress of the house re-
marked that he was so black-and-blue in spots that his bruises looked more
like the marks of blows than like those caused by a fall.

"They were not blows,'' said Sancho, adding that the rock had many
sharp points and jutting edges and each one had left its imprint. "If your
Ladyship," he went on, "can manage to save a little of that tow, it will
come in handy, for my loins also hurt me a little."

"So, then," replied the innkeeper's wife, "you must have fallen too."

"I did not fall," said Sancho Panza, "but the shock I had at seeing my
master take such a tumble makes my body ache as if I had received a
thousand whacks."

'That may very well be," said the daughter, "for I have often dreamed
that I was falling from a tower and yet I never reached the ground, and
when I awoke from my dream I would feel as bruised and broken as
if I had really fallen. I '

'The point is, lady," Sancho explained, "that I was not dreaming at all,
but was more wide awake than I am at this minute, and yet I find myself
with scarcely less bruises than my master, Don Quixote."

"What did you say the gentleman's name was?" asked Maritornes, the
Asturian.

"Don Quixote de la Mancha," replied Sancho, "and he is a knightly
adventurer and one of the best and bravest that the world has seen for a
long time."

"What is a knightly adventurer?" the girl wished to know.

"Are you so unused to the ways of the world that you don't know
that?" he said. "Then let me inform you, my sister, that it is something
that can be summed up in two or three words: well thrashed and an
emperor; today, he is the most wretched and needy creature that there
is, and tomorrow he will have the crowns of two or three kingdoms to
give to his squire."

"If that is so," said the innkeeper's wife, "how does it come that you,
being this worthy gentleman's squire, have not so much as an earldom,
to judge by appearances?"

"It is early yet," was Sancho's answer. "We have been looking for
adventures for only a month now, and so far have not fallen in with what
could rightly be called one. Sometimes you look for one thing and you
find another. The truth is, once my master Don Quixote is healed of this
wound or fall, providing I am none the worse for it all, I would not ex-
change my expectations for the best title in all Spain."

The knight had been following this conversation very closely; and at
this point, raising himself up in the bed as well as he was able, he took
the landlady's hand and said to her, "Believe me, beautiful lady, you well
may call yourself fortunate for having given a lodging in this your castle
to my person. If I myself do not tell you of my merits, it is for the reason
that, as the saying goes, self-praise is degrading; but my squire can inform
you as to who I am. I will only say that I have written down in my
memory for all eternity the service which you have rendered me, that I
may give you thanks as long as life endures. And I would to high Heaven
that love did not hold me so captive and subject to its laws, and to the
eyes of that beauteous but ungrateful one whose name I mutter between
my teeth;140 for then the orbs of this lovely damsel here would surely be
the mistress of my liberty."

The landlady, her daughter, and the worthy Maritomes were very
much bewildered by these remarks of the knight-errant; they under-
stood about as much of them as if he had been speaking Greek, although
they were able to make out that he was offering them flattery and com-
pliments. Being wholly unused to such language, they could but stare
at him in amazement, for he seemed to them a different kind of man than
any they had known. And so, thanking him in their own idiom, which
was that of a wayside tavern, they left him, while Maritomes looked
after Sancho, who had no less need of attention than did his master.

The mule driver had arranged with the Asturian to have a little sport
with her that night, and she had given him her word that, as soon as the
guests were quiet and her master and mistress asleep, she would come
to him and let him have his way. It was commonly said of the good lass
that she never made such a promise without keeping it, even though it
was in a forest and without witnesses, for she prided herself greatly upon
being a lady and did not look upon it as any disgrace to be a servant in
an inn, for, as she was in the habit of saying, it was misfortunes and ill
luck that had brought her to such a state.

Don Quixote's hard, narrow, cramped, makeshift bed stood in the middle
of this starry stable141 and was the first that one encountered upon
entering the room. Next to it was that of his squire, Sancho, which con-
sisted solely of a cattail mat and a blanket that looked as if it was of
shorn canvas rather than of wool. And beyond these two was that of the
mule driver, made up, as has been said, of packsaddles and all the trappings
of his two best mules, although he had twelve of them altogether, sleek,
fat, and in fine condition; for he was one of the richest carters of Arevalo,
according to the author of this history who knew him well and makes
special mention of him--some say they were related in one way or
another. In any event, Cid Hamete Benengeli was a historian who was
at great pains to ascertain the truth and very accurate in everything, as
is evident from the fact that he did not see fit to pass over in silence those
details that have been mentioned, however trifling and insignificant they
may appear to be.

All of which might serve as an example to those grave chroniclers who
give us such brief and succinct accounts that we barely get a taste, the
gist of the matter being left in their inkwells out of carelessness, malice,
or ignorance. Blessings on the author of the Tablante de Ricamonte 142
and the one who wrote that other work in which are related the deeds
of Count Tomillas--with what exactitude they describe everything!

But to go on with our story, the mule driver, after he had looked in
on his beasts and had given them their second feeding, came back and
stretched out on his packsaddles to await that model of conscientious-
ness, Maritomes. Sancho, having been duly poulticed, had also lain down
and was doing his best to sleep, but the pain in his ribs would not let
him* As for Don Quixote, he was suffering so much that he kept his eyes
open like a rabbit. The inn was silent now, and there was no light other
than from a lantern which hung in the middle of the gateway.

This uncanny silence, and our knight's constant habit of thinking of
incidents described at every turn in those books that had been the cause
of all his troubles, now led him to conceive as weird a delusion as could
well be imagined. He fancied that he had reached a famous castle--for,
as has been said, every inn where he stopped was a castle to him--and
that the daughter of the lord (innkeeper) who dwelt there, having been
won over by his gentle bearing, had fallen in love with him and had
promised him that she would come that night, without her parents'
knowledge, to lie beside him for a while. And taking this chimerical
fancy which he had woven out of his imagination to be an established
fact, he then began to be grieved at the thought that his virtue was thus
being endangered, and firmly resolved not be false to his lady Dulcinea
del Toboso, even though Queen Guinevere with her waiting-woman
Quintanona should present themselves in person before him.

As he lay there, his mind filled with such nonsense as this, the hour
that had been fixed for the Asturian's visit came, and an unlucky one it
proved to be for Don Quixote. Clad in her nightgown and barefoot, her
hair done up in a fustian net, Maritornes with silent, cautious steps stole
into the room where the three were lodged, in search of the muleteer.
She had no sooner crossed the threshold, however, than the knight be-
came aware of her presence; and, sitting up in bed despite his poultices
and the pain from his ribs, he held out his arms as if to receive the beauti-
ful maiden. The latter, all doubled up and saying nothing, was groping
her vay to her lover's cot when she encountered Don Quixote. Seizing
her firmly by the wrists, he drew her to him, without her daring to utter
a sound.

Forcing her to sit down upon the bed, he began fingering her night-
gown, and although it was of sackcloth, it impressed him as being of the
finest and flimsiest silken gauze. On her wrists she wore some glass beads,
but to him they gave off the gleam of oriental pearls. Her hair, which
rambled a horse's mane rather than anything else, he decided was like
filaments of the brightest gold of Araby whose splendor darkened even
that of die sun. Her breath without a doubt smelled of yesterday's stale
salad, but for Don Quixote it was a sweet and aromatic odor that came
from her mouth.

The short of it is, he pictured her in his imagination as having the same
appearance and manners as those other princesses whom he had read
about in his books, who, overcome by love and similarly bedecked, came
to visit their badly wounded knights. So great was the poor gentleman's
blindness that neither his sense of touch nor the girl's breath nor anything
else about her could disillusion him, although they were enough to cause
anyone to vomit who did not happen to be a mule driver. To him it
seemed that it was the goddess of beauty herself whom he held in his
arms.

Clasping her tightly, he went on to speak to her in a low and amorous
tone of voice. "Would that I were in a position, O beauteous and high-
born lady, to be able to repay the favor that you have accorded me by
thus affording me the sight of your great loveliness; but Fortune, which
never tires of persecuting those who are worthy, has willed to place me
in this bed where I lie so bruised and broken that, even though my desire
were to satisfy yours, such a thing would be impossible. And added to
this impossibility is another, greater one: my word and promise given
to the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the one and only lady of my most
secret thoughts. If this did not stand in the way, I should not be so in-
sensible a knight as to let slip the fortunate opportunity which you out
of your great goodness of heart have placed in my way."

Maritornes was extremely vexed and all a-sweat at finding herself held
fast in Don Quixote's embrace, and without paying any heed to what
he was saying she struggled silently to break away. Meanwhile, the mule
driver, whose evil desires had kept him awake, had been aware of his
wench's presence ever since she entered the door and had been listening
attentively to everything that Don Quixote said. Jealous because the
Asturian lass, as he thought, had broken her word and deserted him for
another, he came up to the knight's cot and, without being able to make
head or tail of all this talk, stood there waiting to see what the outcome
would be.

When he saw that the girl was doing her best to free herself and Don
Quixote was trying to hold her, he decided that the joke had gone far
enough; raising his fist high above his head, he came down with so fearful
a blow on the gaunt jaws of the enamored knight as to fill the poor man's
mouth with blood. Not satisfied with this, the mule driver jumped on his
ribs and at a pace somewhat faster than a trot gave them a thorough
going-over from one end to the other. The bed, which was rather weak
and not very firm on its foundations, was unable to support the mule-
teer's added weight and sank to the door with a loud crash. This awoke
the innkeeper, who imagined that Maritomes must be involved in some
brawl, since he had called twice to her and had received no answer. Sus-
picious of what was going on, he arose, lighted a lamp, and made his
way to the place from which the sound of the scuffle appeared to be
coming. Frightened out of her wits when she heard her master, for she
knew what a terrible temper he had, the girl took refuge beside Sancho
Panza, who was still sleeping, and huddled herself there like a ball of
yam.

"Where are you, whore?" cried the landlord as he came in; "for I am
certain that this is all your doing."

At that moment Sancho awoke and, feeling a bulky object almost on
top of him and thinking it must be a nightmare, began throwing his fists
about on one side and the other, giving Maritornes no telling how many
punches. Feeling the pain, the wench cast all modesty aside and let him
have so many blows in return that he very soon emerged from his sleepy
state. When he saw himself being treated like this by an unknown assail-
ant, he rose the best way he could and grappled with her, and there then
began between the two of them the prettiest and most stubbornly fought
skirmish that ever you saw.

When the muleteer perceived by the light of the lamp what was hap-
pening to his lady, he left Don Quixote and went to her assistance. The
innkeeper also came over to her, but with different intentions, for he
meant to punish the girl, thinking that, undoubtedly, she was the cause of
all the disturbance that prevailed. And so, then, as the saying goes, it
was "the cat to the rat, the rat to the rope, the rope to the stick."143 There
was the mule driver pounding Sancho, Sancho and the wench flaying
each other, and the landlord drubbing the girl; and they all laid on most
vigorously, without allowing themselves a moment's rest. The best part
of it was, the lamp went out, leaving them in darkness, whereupon there
ensued a general and merciless melee, until there was not a hand's breadth
left on any of their bodies that was not sore and aching.

As chance would have it, there was lodged at the inn that night a
patrolman of the old Holy Brotherhood of Toledo,144 who, hearing all
this uproar and the sounds of a struggle, at once snatched up his staff of
office and the tin box containing his warrants and went groping his way
through the darkness to the room above, as he cried, "Hold, in the name
of the law! Hold, in the name of the Holy Brotherhood!" The first one
whom he encountered was the well-pommeled Don Quixote, who lay
flat on his back and senseless on his broken-down bed. Grasping the
knight's beard, the officer cried, "I charge you to aid the law!" But when
he perceived that the one whom he thus held did not budge nor stir, he
concluded that the man must be dead and the others in the room his
murderers. Acting upon this suspicion, he called out in a booming voice,
"Close the gateway of the inn! See that no one leaves, for someone here
has killed a man!"

This cry startled them all, and each one left off his pommeling at the
point where he was. The innkeeper then retired to his room, the mule
driver to his packsaddles, and the wench to her stall, the poor unfortunate
Don Quixote and Sancho being the only ones that could not move. The
officer now let go of our friend's beard and left the room to go look for
a light, that he might arrest the offenders. He did not find any, however,
for the innkeeper had taken care to put out the lantern when he retired to
his room, and the representative of the Holy Brotherhood was ac-
cordingly compelled to have recourse to the hearth, where with a great
deal of time and trouble he finally succeeded in lighting another lamp.

CHAPTER XVII.

Wherein is continued the account of the innumerable troubles
that the brave Don Quixote and his good squire Sancho Panza
endured in the inn, which, to his sorrow, the knight took to be a
castle.

HAVING by this time recovered from his swoon, Don Quixote called
to his squire in the same tone of voice that he had used the day be-
fore as they lay stretched out in the "vale of stakes."145 "Sancho, my
friend, are you asleep? Are you asleep, friend Sancho?"

"How do you expect me to sleep, curses on it?" replied the squire,
who was filled with bitterness and sorrow. "I think all the devils in Hell
must have been after me tonight"

"You are undoubtedly right about that," said his master; "for either
I know little about it or this castle is an enchanted one. I may as well
fell you? but first you must swear that you will keep it a secret until after
I am dead."

"I swear," said Sancho.

"I ask that," Don Quixote went on, "because I hate taking away any-
one's good name."

"I told you," Sancho repeated, "that I will say nothing about it until
your Grace has reached the end of his days; and please God I may be
able to reveal it tomorrow."

"Do I treat you so harshly, Sancho, that you wish to see me die so
soon?"

"It is not for that reason," said Sancho. "It is just that I am opposed to
keeping things too long--I don't like them to spoil on my hands."

"Be that as it may," said Don Quixote, "I am willing to trust your
friendship and your courtesy. And so I may tell you that one of the
weirdest adventures happened to me that I could possibly describe. To
make a long story short, you must know that, a short while ago, the
daughter of the lord of this castle came to me. She is the most genteel
and lovely damsel to be found in many a land. How can I describe to
you the grace of her person, her sprightly wit, or all those other hidden
charms which, in order to keep faith with my lady Dulcinea, I must
leave untouched and pass over in silence? I can only say that Heaven
was envious of this gift that fortune had placed in my hands? or it may
be (and this is more likely) that this castle, as I have remarked to you,
is enchanted; at any rate, just as I was engaged with her in most sweet
and amorous parley, without my seeing him or knowing whence he came,
a monstrous giant seized me by the arm and gave me such a blow on the
jaw that my mouth was bathed in blood; and after that he flayed me in
such a manner that I am even worse off today than yesterday, when those
carters on account of Rocinante's excesses did us that wrong with which
you are acquainted. I therefore can only conjecture that the treasure of
this damsel's beauty must be in the keeping of some enchanted Moor,
and that it is not for me."

"Nor for me either," said Sancho; "for more than four hundred Moors
have been mauling me and have made such a job of it that the thrashing
those fellows gave me with their poles was but cakes and gingerbread
by comparison. But tell me, sir, what name do you give to this fine and
rare adventure which has left us where we are now? Your Grace, it is
true, did not have quite so bad a time of it, with that incomparable beauty
in your arms that you have been telling me about; but what was there
in it for me except the worst beating that I hope to receive in all my born
days? Pity me and the mother that bore me, for I am not a knight-errant
nor ever expect to be, yet I always get the worst of whatever's com-
ing!"

"So, you were beaten too, were you?" said Don Quixote.

"Did not I tell you I was, curses on it?" said Sancho.

"Well, do not let it worry you, my friend," said the knight; "for I will
now make some of that precious balm and we shall both of us be healed
in the blink of an eye."

The officer of the Brotherhood had lighted his lamp by this time and
now came in to have a look at the one he thought was dead. The moment
Sancho caught sight of him, in his nightgown, with a lamp in his hand,
a towel around his head, and an evil-looking face, the squire turned to
his master and said, "Could this be the enchanted Moor coming back to
give us some more punishment, if there is any left in the inkwell?"

"No," replied Don Quixote, "it cannot be; for those who are under
a spell do not let themselves be seen by anyone."

"If they do not let themselves be seen," remarked Sancho, "they cer-
tainly make themselves felt; if you do not believe it, let my ribs speak
for me."

"Mine," said Don Quixote, "could tell the same story; but that is not a
sufficient reason for believing that he whom we see here is the enchanted
Moor."

Upon seeing them talking together so calmly, the officer did not know
what to make of it, although the knight, true enough, was still flat on his
back and unable to move, on account of his plasters and because he was
still so stiff and sore.

"Well," said the officer coming up to him, "and how goes it, my good
man?"

"If I were you," said Don Quixote, "I would speak a little more politely.
Is it the custom in this country to address knights-errant in such a fashion,
you dunce?"

Unable to bear being treated so ill by one whose appearance was so
unimpressive, the patrolman raised his lamp with all the oil that was in
it and let him have it over the head, a good stiff blow at that; after which,
in the darkness, he slipped out of the room.

"Undoubtedly, sir," said Sancho, "that must be the enchanted Moor.
He must be keeping the treasure for others, seeing all that he gives us
is punches with his fist and blows with the lamp."

"Yes," said Don Quixote, "that is it; but no notice is to be taken of
such things where enchantments are concerned, nor should one be angry
or annoyed by them. Since these are invisible and fanciful beings, we
should find no one on whom to take revenge even if we were to go
looking for him. Arise, Sancho, if you can, summon the governor of
this fortress, and tell him to let me have a little oil, wine, salt, and rose-
mary that I may make that health-giving balm. I think that truly I have
need of it now, for there is much blood coming from the wound which
that phantom gave me."

His bones aching all over, Sancho got to his feet and went out into the
darkness to look for the landlord. On the way he met the officer, who was
listening to find out what happened to his enemy.

"Sir," said the squire, "whoever you may be, kindly do us the favor of
giving us a little rosemary, oil, salt, and wine, for they are needed to
heal one of the most gallant knights-errant that ever walked the earth;
he lies now in that bed, badly wounded at the hands of the enchanted
Moor who is lodged in this inn."

Hearing this, the officer thought the man must be out of his senses, but
inasmuch as day was already dawning, he threw open the inn door and
told the proprietor what it was that Sancho required. The innkeeper
provided all the things mentioned, and Sancho then took them to Don
Quixote, who was lying there with his hands to his head, complaining
of the pain from the blow that had been dealt him with the lamp, although
the fact of the matter was that it had done him no more harm than to
raise a couple of rather large bumps, while what he fancied to be blood
was in reality nothing other than sweat, due to the anxiety he felt over
the tempest that had but recently subsided.

Taking the ingredients, he now made a compound of them, mixing
them all together and boiling them for some little while until he thought
they were properly steeped. He then asked for a small vial into which he
might pour the liquid, but as there was none to be had, he resolved to
make use of an oil flask made of tinplate which the innkeeper presented
to him free of charge. Above this flask he muttered more than eighty
Our Fathers and as many Hail Marys and other prayers, each word
being accompanied by the sign of the cross in way of benediction. All
of which was witnessed by Sancho, the landlord, and the officer of the
Holy Brotherhood. As for the carter, he had quietly gone out to look
after his mules.

Having done this, the knight wished to try out the virtues of this
precious balm, as he fancied it to be, and so he drank what remained in
the pot, amounting to nearly half a quart. No sooner had he swallowed
it than he at once began to vomit and kept it up until there was ab-
solutely nothing left in his stomach; and with all his anxiety and the
agitation of vomiting, a most copious sweat broke out upon him, where-
upon he asked them to throw some covering over him and leave him
alone. They did so, and he slept for more than three hours, at the end
of which time he awoke, feeling greatly relieved in body and especially
in his much battered bones. This led him to believe that he had been
cured and that he had indeed discovered Fierabras's balm; from now
on he would be able to face with no fear whatsoever any kind of destruc-
tion, battle, or combat, no matter how perilous the undertaking.

Marveling at the change for the better that had been wrought in his
master, Sancho Panza asked that what remained in the pot, which was
no small quantity, be given to him. Don Quixote consented; and, taking
the kettle in both hands, with good faith and right good will, the squire
gulped down only a trifle less than his master had taken. Now, Sancho's
stomach was not so delicate as the knight's, for he did not vomit at first
but suffered such cramps and nausea, perspired so freely, and felt so faint,
that he thought surely his last hour had come; and, finding himself in
such misery and affliction, he cursed the balm and the thief who had
given it to him.

"It is my opinion, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that all this comes of
your not having been dubbed a knight, for which reason this liquor is
not suited to you."

"If your Grace knew that all the time," replied his squire, "then, curse
me and all my kin, why did you let me taste it?"

At this point the beverage took effect and poor Sancho began to dis-
charge at both ends and with such force that neither the cattail mat on
which he had dropped down nor the coarse linen coverlet that had been
tossed over him was of much use afterward. The sweat poured off him
in such abundance, accompanied by such spasms and convulsions, that
not only he but all who saw him thought that he was dying. This un-
toward squall kept up for nearly two hours, and when it was over he was
not left in better condition as his master had been, but was so tired and
weak that he was not able to stand.

But Don Quixote, who, as has been said, felt greatly relieved and quite
himself again, was all for setting out at once in search of adventures;
for, as he saw it, every moment that he tarried he was cheating the world
and the needy ones in it of his favor and assistance--especially in view
of the sense of security and confidence which the possession of his balm
now afforded him. Accordingly, impelled by this desire, he himself
saddled Rocinante and the ass and then aided his squire to clothe himself
and straddle his beast, after which the knight mounted his steed and pre-
pared to ride away. As he passed a corner of the inn, he seized a pike that
was standing there to serve him as a lance.

All the guests in the hostelry, more than twenty persons, stood around
watching, among them the innkeeper's daughter, and the knight in turn
could not keep his eyes off the lass; every so often he would heave a sigh
which it seemed must come from the depths of his entrails, but the others
thought it must be from the pain in his ribs--at least, those who had
seen him covered with plasters as he had been the night before were of
this opinion.

As the two rode up to the gateway of the inn, Don Quixote called to
his host and said to him, gravely and calmly, "Many and great are the
favors, Sir Governor, which I have received in this your castle, and I
shall be under obligations to you all the days of my life. If I can repay
you by avenging the wrong done you by some haughty foe, you know
that my profession is none other than that of helping those who cannot
help themselves, avenging those who have been wronged, and chastising
traitors. Search well your memory, and if you find anything of this sort
with which to entrust me, you have but to speak, and I promise you by
the order of chivalry which I have received to see that you are given
satisfaction and are paid in accordance with your wishes."

The innkeeper's manner was equally tranquil as he replied, "Sir Knight,
I have no need of your favor nor that you should avenge me of any
wrong; for I can take such vengeance as I see fit when the need arises.
The only thing needed in this case is for your Grace to pay me what
you owe me for last night, including straw and barley for the two animals,
your supper, and beds."

^Then this is an inn, is it?" said Don Quixote.

"And a very respectable one," replied the innkeeper.

"In that case I have been laboring under a mistake all this time," said the
knight; "for the truth is, I thought it was a castle, and not a bad one at
that. However, seeing it is not a castle but an inn, the only thing for you
to do is to overlook the payment, since I cannot contravene the rule of
knights-errant, none of whom, I am sure--at least, up to now, I have read
nothing to the contrary--ever paid for his lodging or anything else when
he stopped at an inn; for any hospitality that is offered to knights is only
their just due, in return for all the hardships they suffer as they go in quest
of adventures day and night, in summer and in winter, on horseback and
on foot, enduring hunger and thirst and heat and cold, being subject
to all the inclemencies of Heaven and all the discomforts of earth."

"I have little to do with all that," said the landlord. "Pay me what you
owe me and let us hear no more of these accounts of chivalry. The only
accounts that interest me are those that are due me."

"You are but a stupid, evil-minded tavernkeeper," was Don Quixote's
answer; and, putting spurs to Rocinante and bringing his lance into posi-
tion, he sallied out of the inn with no one to stop him. Without looking
back to see if his squire was following him, he rode along for some dis-
tance. The innkeeper, meanwhile, seeing him leave like this without
settling his account, straightway made for Sancho Panza, who said that
since his master would not pay, neither would he, for being squire to a
knight-errant as he was, he came under the same rule with regard to inns
and taverns.

The landlord grew very indignant at this and began to threaten him,
telling him that if he did not pay he would regret it. But Sancho replied
that, by the law of knighthood which his master had received, he would
not part with a single coronado,146 even though it cost him his life; for if
the worthy and ancient custom of knights-errant was to be violated, it
would not be by him, nor would the squires of those knights who were
yet to come into the world have any cause to complain of him or to
reproach him for breaking so just a code.

As poor Sancho's ill luck would have it, stopping at the inn that day
were four wool carders of Segovia, three needlemakers from the vicinity
of the Horse Fountain of Cordova, and a couple of lads from the Fair of
Seville,147 merry fellows all of them, well intentioned, mischievous, and
playful. They now, as if moved and instigated by one and the same im-
pulse, came up to Sancho and pulled him off his donkey, and then one
of them entered the inn to get the blanket off the host's bed. Throwing
Sancho into it, they glanced up and saw that the roof was a little too low
for the work in hand; so they went out into the stable yard, which was
bounded only by the sky above. Placing the squire in the middle of the
blanket, they began tossing him up and down, having as much sport with
him as one does with a dog at Shrovetide.

The cries of the poor wretch in the blanket were so loud that they
reached his master's ears. Reining in his steed to listen attentively, Don
Quixote at first thought that it must be some new adventure that awaited
him, until he came to distinguish clearly the voice of his squire. Turning
about then, he returned to the inn at a painful gallop and, finding it closed,
started circling the hostelry to see if he could find an entrance of some
sort. The moment he reached the walls of the stable yard, which were
not very high, he saw the scurvy trick that was being played on Sancho.
He saw the latter going up and down in the air with such grace and dex-
terity that, had the knight's mounting wrath permitted him to do so, it
is my opinion that he would have laughed at the sight.

He then endeavored to climb down from his horse onto the wall, but
he was so stiff and sore that he was unable to dismount; whereupon, from
his seat in the saddle he began hurling so many insults and maledictions
at those who were doing the tossing that it would be quite impossible to
set them all down here. The men in the yard, however, did not for this
reason leave off their laughing sport, nor did the flying Sancho cease his
lamentations, mingled now with threats and now with entreaties, all of
which were of no avail until his tormentors saw fit to stop from pure
exhaustion. After that, they brought his ass and set him upon it, bundling
him in his greatcoat. Seeing him so done in, Maritornes felt sorry for
him and, in order to refresh him, brought him a jug of water which she
got from the well that it might be cooler. Taking the jug and raising it to
his mouth, Sancho paused at sound of his master's words.

"Sancho, my son, do not drink that water. Do not drink it, my son,
for it will kill you. Do you not see? I have here the most blessed balm"--
and he showed him the vial containing the beverage--"of which you
have but to imbibe two drops and you shall be healed without a doubt."

At this, Sancho rolled his eyes and cried out in a voice that was even
louder than his master's, "Can it be your Grace has forgotten that I am
not a knight, or do you want me to vomit up what guts I have left from
last night? Keep your liquor and to the devil with it; just leave me alone,
that's all."

Even as he finished saying this he started to take a drink; but perceiv-
ing at the first swallow that it was only water, he stopped and asked
Maritornes to bring him some wine instead. She complied right willingly,
paying for it out of her own money; for it is said of her that, although
she occupied so lowly a station in life, there was something about her
that remotely resembled a Christian woman. When he had drunk his
fill, Sancho dug his heels into his ass's flanks, and the gate of the inn having
been thrown wide open for him, he rode away quite well satisfied with
himself because he had not had to pay anything, even though it had
been at the expense of those usual bondsmen, his shoulders.

The truth is, the innkeeper had kept his saddlebags, but Sancho was
so excited when he left that he did not notice they were gone. Once
the two unwelcome guests were safely outside, the landlord was all for
barring the gate; but the blanket-tossers would not hear of this, for they
were fellows to whom it would not have made a penny's worth of
difference if Don Quixote had really been one of the Knights of the
Round Table.

CHAPTER XVIII.

In which is set forth the conversation that Sancho Panza had
with his master, Don Quixote, along with other adventures
deserving of record.

By THE time Sancho reached his master, he was so exhausted and
felt so faint that he was not even able any longer to urge on his beast.

"Well, Sancho," said Don Quixote when he saw him, "I am now con-
vinced that yonder castle or inn is without a doubt enchanted; for what
sort of creatures could they be who had such atrocious sport with
you if not phantoms from another world? The thing that confirms me
in this belief is the fact that, when I was alongside the stable-yard wall,
witnessing the acts of that sad tragedy, it was not possible for me to
climb it or even so much as get down off Rocinante, and that shows they
must have cast a spell on me. But I swear to you, by the sword of a
knight, that if I had been able to dismount and come over that wall, I
should have wreaked such vengeance in your behalf that those villainous
knaves would never have forgotten their little jest; and I should have
done this even though it be against the laws of knighthood; for as I have
told you many times, it is not permitted that a knight raise his hand
against one who is not of his calling, save it be in defense of his own
life and person in a case of great and urgent necessity."

"I would have avenged myself, if I had been able," said Sancho,
"whether I had been dubbed a knight or not; although it is my opinion
that those who had such sport with me were not phantoms or human
beings under a spell as your Grace says, but flesh-and-blood men like
us. They all had names, for I heard them calling one another by them
as they were tossing me. There was one who was called Pedro Martinez,
and another Tenorio Hernandez, and the innkeeper's name was Juan
Palomeque the Left-Handed. And so, Senor, your not being able to
leap over the stable-yard wall or even get down off your horse was due
to something other than enchantments. What I make out of it all is that
these adventures that we go looking for will end by bringing us so many
misadventures that we shan't know which is our right foot. The best
and most sensible thing to do, in my judgment, would be for us to return
home, now that it is harvest time, and stop running about from Ceca to
Mecca and from pail to bucket, as the saying goes."148

"How little you know, Sancho, about the matter of chivalry!" Don
Quixote replied. "Hush, and have patience; the day shall come when you
will see with your own eyes how honorable a calling it is that we fol-
low. For tell me, if you will: what greater pleasure or satisfaction is to
be had in this world than that of winning a battle and triumphing over
one's enemy? None, undoubtedly none."

"That may be," said Sancho; "I cannot say as to that; but one thing
I know is that since we have been knights-errant, or since your Grace
has been one, for I am not to be counted among that honored number,
we have not won a single battle, unless it was with the Biscayan, and
even there your Grace came out with half an ear and half a helmet the
less. Since then, all that we have had has been poundings, punches, and
more poundings; and over and above that, I got the blanketing at the
hands of certain persons who were under a spell, and so I do not know
what that pleasure of conquering an enemy, of which your Grace
speaks, is like."

"That," said Don Quixote, "is the thing that vexes me, and I can
understand that it should vex you as well, Sancho. But from this time
forth I shall endeavor to have at hand some sword made by so master-
ful an art that anyone who carries it with him cannot suffer any manner
of enchantment. It may even be that fortune will procure for me the
blade of Amadis,149 the one he bore when he was called the Knight of the
Flaming Sword. It was one of the best that ever a knight had in this
World, for in addition to the aforesaid virtue which it possessed, it cut
like a razor, and there was no suit of armor, however strong or enchanted
if might be, that could withstand it."

"It would be just my luck," said Sancho, "that if your Grace did find
a sword like that, it would be of use only to those who had been dubbed
knights; as for the squires, they are out of luck."

"Never fear, Sancho," said his master, "Heaven will do better by you
than that."

As they went along conversing in this manner, Don Quixote caught
sight down the road of a large cloud of dust that was drawing nearer.

"This, O Sancho," he said, turning to his squire, "is the day when you
shall see the boon that fate has in store for me; this, I repeat, is the day
when, as well as on any other, shall be displayed the valor of my good
right arm. On this day I shall perform deeds that will be written down
in the book of fame for all centuries to come. Do you see that dust cloud
rising there, Sancho? That is the dust stirred up150 by a vast army march-
ing in this direction and composed of many nations."

"At that rate," said Sancho, "there must be two of them, for there is
another one just like it on the other side."

Don Quixote turned to look and saw that this was so. He was over-
joyed by the thought that these were indeed two armies about to meet
and clash in the middle of the broad plain; for at every hour and every
moment his imagination was filled with battles, enchantments, non-
sensical adventures, tales of love, amorous challenges, and the like, such
as he had read of in the books of chivalry, and every word he uttered,
every thought that crossed his mind, every act he performed, had to do
with such things as these. The dust clouds he had sighted were raised
by two large droves of sheep coming along the road in opposite direc-
tions, which by reason of the dust were not visible until they were close
at hand, but Don Quixote insisted so earnestly that they were armies
that Sancho came to believe it.

"Sir," he said, "what are we to do?"

"What are we to do?" echoed his master. "Favor and aid the weak
and needy. I would inform you, Sancho, that the one coming toward
us is led and commanded by the great emperor Alifanfardn, lord of the
great isle of Trapobana. This other one at my back is that of his enemy,
the king of the Garamantas, Pentapolfn of the Rolled-up Sleeve, for he
always goes into battle with his right arm bare."151

"But why are they such enemies?" Sancho asked.

"Because," said Don Quixote, "this Alifanfaron is a terrible pagan and
in love with Pentapolin's daughter, who is a very, beautiful and gracious
lady and a Christian, for which reason her father does not wish to give
her to the pagan king unless the latter first abjures the law of the false
prophet, Mohammed, and adopts the faith that is Pentapolfn's own."

"Then, by my beard," said Sancho, "if Pentapolin isn't right, and I
am going to aid him all I can."

"In that," said Don Quixote, "you will only be doing your duty; for
to engage in battles of this sort you need not have been dubbed a knight."

"I can understand that," said Sancho, "but where are we going to put
this ass so that we will be certain of finding him after the fray is over?
As for going into battle on such a mount, I do not think that has been
done up to now."

"That is true enough," said Don Quixote. "What you had best do
with him is to turn him loose and run the risk of losing him; for after
we emerge the victors we shall have so many horses that even Rocinante
will be in danger of being exchanged for another. But listen closely to
what I am about to tell you, for I wish to give you an account of the
principal knights that are accompanying these two armies; and in order
that you may be the better able to see and take note of them, let us
retire to that hillock over there which will afford us a very good view."

They then stationed themselves upon a slight elevation from which
they would have been able to see very well the two droves of sheep that
Don Quixote took to be armies if it had not been for the blinding clouds
of dust. In spite of this, however, the worthy gentleman contrived to
behold in his imagination what he did not see and what did not exist in
reality.

Raising his voice, he went on to explain, "That knight in the gilded
armor that you see there, bearing upon his shield a crowned lion
crouched at the feet of a damsel, is the valiant Laurcalco, lord of the
Silver Bridge; the other with the golden flowers on his armor, and on his
shield three crowns argent on an azure field, is the dread Micocolembo,
grand duke of Quirocia. And that one on Micocolembo's right hand,
with the limbs of a giant, is the ever undaunted Brandabarbaran de
Boliche, lord of the three Arabias. He goes armored in a serpent's skin
and has for shield a door which, so report has it, is one of those from
the temple that Samson pulled down, that time when he avenged him-
self on his enemies with his own death.

"But turn your eyes in this direction, and you will behold at the head
of the other army the ever victorious, never vanquished Timonel de
Carcajona, prince of New Biscay, who comes with quartered arms--
azure, vert, argent, and or--and who has upon his shield a cat or on a
field tawny, with the inscription Miau, which is the beginning of his
lady's name; for she, so it is said, is the peerless Miulina, daughter of
Alfeniquen, duke of Algarve. And that one over there, who weights
down and presses the loins of that powerful charger, in a suit of snow-
white armor with a white shield that bears no device whatever--he is a
novice knight of the French nation, called Pierres Papin, lord of the
baronies of Utrique. As for him you see digging his iron spurs into the
flanks of that fleet-footed zebra courser and whose arms are vairs azure,
he is the mighty duke of Nervia, Espartafilardo of the Wood, who has
for device upon his shield an asparagus plant with a motto in Castilian
that says 'Rastrea mi suerte' "152

In this manner he went on naming any number of imaginary knights
on either side, describing on the spur of the moment their arms, colors,
devices, and mottoes; for he was completely carried away by his
imagination and by this unheard-of madness that had laid hold of him.

Without pausing, he went on, "This squadron in front of us is com-
posed of men of various nations. There are those who drink the sweet
waters of the famous Xanthus; woodsmen who tread the Massilian
plain; those that sift the fine gold nuggets of Arabia Felix; those that
are so fortunate as to dwell on the banks of the clear-running Ther-
modon, famed for their coolness; those who in many and diverse ways
drain the golden Pactolus; Numidians, whose word is never to be trusted;
Persians, with their famous bows and arrows; Medes and Parthians, who
fight as they flee; Scythians, as cruel as they are fair of skin; Ethiopians,
with their pierced lips; and an infinite number of other nationalities
whose visages I see and recognize although I cannot recall their names.

"In this other squadron come those that drink from the crystal cur-
rents of the olive-bearing Betis;153 those that smooth and polish their
faces with the liquid of the ever rich and gilded Tagus; those that en-
joy the beneficial waters of the divine Genii;154 those that roam the Tartes-
sian plains with their abundant pasturage;155 those that disport them-
selves in the Elysian meadows of Jerez;156 the men of La Mancha, rich
and crowned with golden ears of corn; others clad in iron garments,
ancient relics of the Gothic race; those that bathe in the Pisuerga, noted
for the mildness of its current;157 those that feed their herds in the wide-
spreading pasture lands along the banks of the winding Guadiana, cele-
brated for its underground course;158 those that shiver from the cold of
the wooded Pyrenees or dwell amid the white peaks of the lofty Apen-
nines? in short, all those whom Europe holds within its girth."

So help me God! How many provinces, how many nations did he not
mention by name, giving to each one with marvelous readiness its proper
attributes; for he was wholly absorbed and filled to the brim with what
he had read in those lying books of his! Sancho Panza hung on his words,
saying nothing, merely turning his head from time to time to have a look
at those knights and giants that his master was pointing out to him; but
he was unable to discover any of them.

"Sir," he said, "may I go to the devil if I see a single man, giant, or
knight of all those that your Grace is talking about. Who knows? Maybe
it is another spell, like last night."

"How can you say that?" replied Don Quixote. "Can you not hear the
neighing of the horses, the sound of trumpets, the roll of drums?"

"I hear nothing," said Sancho, "except the bleating of sheep."

And this, of course, was the truth; for the flocks were drawing near.

"The trouble is, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "you are so afraid that
you cannot see or hear properly; for one of the effects of fear is to dis-
turb the senses and cause things to appear other than what they are. If
you are so craven as all that, go off to one side and leave me alone, and
I without your help will assure the victory to that side to which I lend
my aid."

Saying this, he put spurs to Rocinante and, with his lance at rest, darted
down the hillside like a flash of lightning.

As he did so, Sancho called after him, "Come back, your Grace, Senor
Don Quixote; I vow to God those are sheep that you are charging. Come
back! O wretched father that bore me! What madness is this? Look you,
there are no giants, nor knights, nor cats, nor shields either quartered or
whole, nor vairs azure or bedeviled. What is this you are doing, O sin-
ner that I am in God's sight?"

But all this did not cause Don Quixote to turn back. Instead, he rode
on, crying out at the top of his voice, "Ho, knights, those of you who
follow and fight under the banners of the valiant Pentapolin of the
Rolled-up Sleeve; follow me, all of you, and you shall see how easily I
give you revenge on your enemy, Alifanfardn of Trapobana."

With these words he charged into the middle of the flock of sheep and
began spearing at them with as much courage and boldness as if they
had been his mortal enemies. The shepherds and herdsmen who were
with the animals called to him to stop; but seeing it was no use, they
unloosed their slings and saluted his ears with stones as big as your fist.

Don Quixote paid no attention to the missiles and, dashing about here
and there, kept crying, "Where are you, haughty Alifanfardn? Come
out to me; for here is a solitary knight who desires in single combat to
test your strength and deprive you of your life, as a punishment for
that which you have done to the valorous Pentapolin Garamanta"

At that instant a pebble159 from the brook struck him in the side and
buried a couple of ribs in his body. Believing himself dead or badly
wounded, and remembering his potion, he took out his vial, placed it to
his mouth, and began to swallow the balm; but before he had had what
he thought was enough, there came another almond,160 which struck him
in the hand, crushing the tin vial and carrying away with it a couple
of grinders from his mouth, as well as badly mashing two of his fingers.
As a result of these blows the poor knight tumbled from his horse. Be-
lieving that they had killed him, the shepherds hastily collected their
flock and, picking up the dead beasts, of which there were more than
seven, they went off down the road without more ado.

Sancho all this time was standing on the slope observing the insane
things that his master was doing; and as he plucked savagely at his beard
he cursed the hour and minute when luck had brought them together.
But when he saw him lying there on the ground and perceived that the
shepherds were gone, he went down the hill and came up to him, find-
ing him in very bad shape though not unconscious.

"Didn't I tell you, Senor Don Quixote," he said, "that you should come
back, that those were not armies you were charging but flocks of sheep?"

"This," said Don Quixote, "is the work of that thieving magician, my
enemy, who thus counterfeits things and causes them to disappear. You
must know, Sancho, that it is very easy for them to make us assume any
appearance that they choose; and so it is that malign one who perse-
cutes me, envious of the glory he saw me about to achieve in this battle,
changed the squadrons of the foe into flocks of sheep. If you do not be-
lieve me, I beseech you on my life to do one thing for me, that you may
be undeceived and discover for yourself that what I say is true. Mount
your ass and follow them quietly, and when you have gone a short way
from here, you will see them become their former selves once more;
they will no longer be sheep but men exactly as I described them to you
in the first place. But do not go now, for I need your kind assistance;
come over here and have a look and tell me how many grinders are miss-
ing, for it feels as if I did not have a single one left."

Sancho went over and almost put his eyes into his master's mouth.
Now, as it happened, this was just the moment when the balm in Don
Quixote's stomach began to work, and he promptly discharged its en-
tire contents with more force than a musket straight into the beard of
his good-hearted squire.

"Holy Mary!" exclaimed Sancho, "and what is this that has happened
now? This sinner must surely be mortally wounded, for he is vomiting
blood from the mouth."

When he investigated a little more closely, however, he discovered
from the color, taste, and smell that this was not blood but balm from
the vial from which he had seen his master drinking; and so great was
the disgust he felt that, his stomach turning over, he now vomited up
his insides all over Don Quixote and both of them were in a fine state
indeed. Sancho then made for his saddlebags to get something with
which to wipe the vomit off them, and when he found the bags were
missing, it was more than he could do to contain himself. Cursing him-
self anew, he made up his mind that he would leave the knight and re-
turn home, even though he did lose what was coming to him for his
services, along with all hope of becoming governor of that promised
island.

Don Quixote then rose and, with his left hand to his mouth to keep
his teeth from popping out, grasped Rocinante's reins in the other
hand--for the animal had not stirred from his side, so loyal and well
trained was he--and went over to where the squire was bending above
his donkey with his hand to his cheek like one lost in thought.

Seeing him so downcast, his master said to him, "Bear in mind, Sancho,
that one man is worth no more than another unless he does more. All
these squalls that we have met with are merely a sign that the weather is
going to clear and everything will turn out for the best; for it is impos-
sible that either good or evil should be lasting; and from this it follows
that, the evil having lasted so long, the good must be near at hand. And
so you should not grieve for the misfortunes that have befallen me,
since you have had no part in them."

"How is that?" replied Sancho. "I suppose the one they tossed in a
blanket yesterday was somebody else than my father's son? And my
saddlebags, which are gone now, did they belong to some other person?"

"You mean to say your saddlebags are missing, Sancho?"

"Yes," replied the squire, "that they are."

"Well, in that case, we shan't have anything to eat today," said Don
Quixote.

"Not unless these meadows have some of those herbs which your
Grace was saying he knows so well, with which unfortunate knights-
errant like your Grace are in the habit of supplying their needs."

"So far as that goes," said his master, "right now I would rather have
a quarter of a loaf or a loaf of bread and a couple of pilchards' heads
than all the herbs that Dioscorides describes, even with Dr. Laguna's
commentary.161 But, nevertheless, Sancho, mount your ass and follow me;
for inasmuch as God is the provider of all things, He will not fail us,
especially seeing that we are so active in His service; for gnats never lack
the air, grubs the earth, nor polliwogs the water; and He is so merciful
that He causes His sun to shine on the good and the bad and the rain to
fall on the just and the unjust."

"It strikes me," said Sancho, "that your Grace is better fitted to be a
preacher than a knight-errant."

"Knights-errant," was Don Quixote's rejoinder, "have always known,
and have to know, everything; for they might be called upon to deliver
a sermon or make a speech in the middle of the open country, just as
if they were graduates of the University of Paris; from which it may
be deduced that the lance never yet blunted the pen nor the pen the
lance."162

"That may all very well be as your Grace says," replied Sancho, "but
let us leave here at once and go look for a lodging for tonight; and God
grant it may be someplace where there are no blankets or blanket-
tossers, nor phantoms nor enchanted Moors, for if I come upon any of
those, I'll have nothing whatever to do with them."163

"Pray God, then, my son," said Don Quixote, "and lead the way
where you will; for this time I will leave the lodging to your choice.
But, first, put your finger in my mouth and feel how many teeth and
grinders are missing on this right side of my upper jaw, for that is where
the pain is."

Sancho did as he was told. "How many grinders did your Grace have
on this side?"

"Four besides the double tooth and all of them whole and healthy."

"Mind what you are saying, your Grace," Sancho warned.

"I am telling you: four, if not five," said Don Quixote; "for in all my
life I have never had a tooth or grinder pulled, nor has any fallen out
or been destroyed by decay or abscess."

"Well, in this lower jaw," Sancho went on, "your Grace has not more
than two grinders and a half left; and in the upper jaw, there is not even
a half, there is none at all--it is all as smooth as the palm of your hand."

"How unfortunate I am!" cried Don Quixote as he heard this sad news
from his squire. "I would rather they had robbed me of an arm so long
as it was not my sword arm. For I must tell you, Sancho, that a mouth
without grinders is like a mill without a millstone, and a tooth is more
to be prized than a diamond. But to all this we are subject, those of us
who follow the arduous profession of knighthood. So mount, my friend,
and lead on, and I will follow at whatever pace you will."

Sancho obeyed, heading in the direction in which he thought they
might be able to find a lodging without leaving the highway, which
at this point was a much-traveled stretch of road. They went along
slowly, for Don Quixote's jaws were hurting him so much that he could
think of nothing else and was in no mood to make haste. Perceiving this,
Sancho sought to divert him and to take his mind off his troubles by
small talk of one kind or another; and some of the things he said to him
are set forth in the chapter that follows.

CHAPTER XIX.

Of the shrewd things that Sancho Panza said to his master and
the adventure that happened to him in connection with a dead
body, along with other famous events.

IT SEEMS to me, sir, that all these misadventures that have hap-
pened to us of late are without any doubt a punishment for the sin your
Grace committed against the order of knighthood by failing to keep the
vow that you made not to eat bread off a tablecloth, or embrace the
queen, and all the rest of it; your Grace swore not to do any of these
things until you had taken a helmet from that Moor Malandrino164 or
whatever his name is, I don't rightly remember."

'There is much in what you say, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "but
to tell you the truth, I had forgotten about it; and you may be sure
that it was because you had failed to remind me in time that the business
Of the blanket occurred. But I will see to making amends for it all; for
in knighthood there are ways of adjusting everything."

"Why," said Sancho, "did I take some kind of oath, then?"

"It makes no difference whether you did or not," said Don Quixote.
"It appears to me that you are not wholly clear of complicity in this
matter, and so it will not be a bad thing to provide ourselves with a
remedy,"

"In that case," said his squire, "will your Grace please be sure not to
fotget the remedy as you did the vow? For who knows, the phantoms
may take it into their heads to have sport with me again, and with your
Grace as well, if they see you so stubborn."

While they were engaged in this and similar talk, night descended
upon them as they were going along the highway, before they had as
yet found a lodging; and what made matters worse, they were very
hungry, for with their saddlebags they had lost their entire pantry and
store of provisions. And on top of all their misfortunes, they now had
an experience which, if it was not a real adventure, certainly had all
the earmarks of one. Although it was already quite dark, they continued
on their way, for Sancho was sure that, since this was a main highway,
they would have to go but a league or two before they came upon some
kind of inn. And as they were riding along through the darkness like that,
the squire hungry and the master with a great desire to eat, they sud-
denly saw coming toward them a great number of lights which looked
exactly like moving stars. Sancho was stunned by the sight, while Don
Quixote did not feel altogether easy about it, and the one pulled on the
halter of his ass, the other on his horse's reins. They sat there watching
closely, trying to make out what these lights could be, which were all
the time coming nearer--and the nearer they came, the bigger they
seemed. Sancho was shaking like someone who had had a dose of mer-
cury, and his master's hair was standing on end. Then Don Quixote man-
aged to pluck up a little courage.

"There can be no doubt, Sancho," he said, "that this is going to be a
very great and perilous adventure in which it will be necessary for
me to display all my strength and valor."

"Poor me!" said his squire. "If by any chance this is to be another ad-
venture with phantoms, where am I going to find the ribs to bear it?"

"Phantoms or not," said the knight, "I will not permit them to touch
the nap of your garments. If they had sport with you last time, it was
only because I was unable to get over the stable-yard wall; but here we
are in the open where I can wield my sword as I like."

"And what if they enchant and benumb you as they did before, what
difference will it make whether or not you are in the open?"

"Nonetheless," replied Don Quixote, "I beg of you, Sancho, to keep
up your courage; for experience will teach you what mine is."

"Very well, I will keep it up, God willing," was Sancho's answer.

Retiring then to one side of the road, the two of them continued
watching attentively to see what those moving lights could be; and it
was not long before they caught sight of a large number of white-shirted
figures,165 a vision so frightening that Sancho lost what courage he had.
His teeth began chattering like those of a person who has the quartan
fever, and they chattered more than ever as the apparition came near
enough to be distinguishable; for there were some twenty of those
shirted figures, all mounted on horseback and with lighted torches in
their hands, and behind them came a litter covered with mourning, fol-
lowed by six other riders all in black down to the feet of their mules,
for it was obvious from their leisurely gait that these animals were not
horses. As the cavalcade approached, it could be seen that the shirted
ones were muttering something to themselves in a low and mournful
tone of voice.

This weird vision, at such an hour and in so out-of-the-way a place,
was sufficient to strike terror to Sancho's heart, and his master would
have felt the same way had he been anyone else than Don Quixote. As
it was, the former had by now reached the end of his strength, but not
so the latter, whose vivid imagination was already at work and who saw
here another adventure out of his storybooks. The litter had to be a
bier, bearing some knight either dead or badly wounded, and it was for
him, Don Quixote, and him alone, to exact vengeance; and so, without
another word, he rested his lance, settled himself well in the saddle,
and, with highborn mettle and intrepid bearing, took up his stand in the
middle of the road along which the shirted figures had to pass.

When they were close upon him, he raised his voice and cried, "Halt,
knight, or whoever you may be, and give an account of yourself; tell
me whence you come and whither you are bound, and who it is that
you bring with you on that bier; for to all appearances either you have
done some wrong or some wrong has been done to you, and it is fitting
and necessary that I should know of it, either to punish you for your
evil deeds or to avenge you for the misdoings of another."

At this point, one of the figures spoke up. "We are in a hurry," he
said, "and the inn is far, and we cannot stop to give you the information
that you seek." And, so saying, he spurred his mule forward.

Don Quixote was greatly put out at such a reply and, seizing the mule
by the bridle, he repeated, "Halt, I say, and show a little better breeding
by giving me an answer to my questions. Otherwise, you shall all do
battle with me."

Now, the mule as it happened was a little shy, and when Don Quixote
laid hold of the bridle, it reared on its hind legs and threw its master to
the ground. A lad who was on foot, upon seeing the shirted one fall,
began reviling the knight; but our friend's wrath was up, and without
further delay he brought his lance into position and bore down upon one
of those who were clad in mourning, wounding him badly and tumbling
him from his mount. Then he turned upon the others, and it was some-
thing to see the dexterity with which he attacked and routed them. It
seemed as if at that moment Rocinante had sprouted wings, so proud-
stepping and light-footed did he show himself to be.

All these shirt-wearers were timid folk, without arms, and so, naturally
enough, they speedily quit the fray and started running across the fields,
still bearing their lighted torches in their hands, which gave them the
appearance of masked figures darting here and there on some night when
a fiesta or other celebration is being held. Those who wore the mourn-
ing, on the other hand, wrapped and swathed in their skirts and gowns,
were unable to move; and, accordingly, with no risk to himself, Don
Quixote smote them all and drove them off against their will; for they
thought that this surely was no man but a devil straight out of Hell who
had come to rob them of the body that they carried on the litter.

Sancho watched it all, greatly admiring his master's ardor. "No doubt
about it," he told himself, "he is as brave and powerful as he says he is."

There was a flaming torch that had been stuck in the ground near the
first one who had fallen from his mule; and by its light Don Quixote
could be seen coming up to the fellow, sticking the point of his lance
in his face, and calling upon him to surrender as he valued his life.

"I am prisoner enough as it is," the man said; "for my leg is broken
and I cannot stir. I beg your Grace, if you are a Christian knight, not to
slay me; if you were to do so, you would be committing a great sacrilege,
for I am a licentiate and have already taken my first orders "

"Well," said Don Quixote, "what in the devil brings you here if you
are a churchman?"

"What, sir?" said the man on the ground. "My bad luck, that's all."

"Still worse luck awaits you," said Don Quixote, "if you do not answer
to my' satisfaction all those questions that I put to you in the first
place."

"Your Grace shall be easily satisfied as to all that," replied the licentiate.
"To begin with, I may tell your Grace that, although I said I was a
licentiate, I am really but a bachelor, and my name is Alonso Lopez, a
native of Alcobendas. I come from the city of Baeza with eleven other
priests, the ones that are carrying the torches. We are on our way to the
city of Segovia, accompanying the corpse that is in that litter, the body
of a gentleman who died in Baeza, where he was first interred; and now
we are taking his bones to their last resting place in Segovia, where
he was born."

"And who killed him?" demanded Don Quixote.

"God," said the bachelor, "by means of a pestilential fever that took
him off."

"In that way," said the knight, "Our Lord has absolved me of the
trouble of avenging him, as I should have had to do had he met his death
at the hands of another; but He who slew him having slain him, there is
nothing to do but be silent and shrug one's shoulders, and I should do
the same if it were I whom He was slaying. I would have your rever-
ence know that I am a knight of La Mancha, Don Quixote by name, and
it is my calling and profession to go through the world righting wrongs
and redressing injuries."

"I do not know what you mean by righting wrongs, seeing that you
found me quite all right and left me very wrong indeed, with a broken
leg which will not be right again as long as I live;166 and if you have re-
dressed any injury in my case, it has been done in such a way as to leave
me injured forever. It was a great misadventure for me to fall in with
you who go hunting adventures."

"Everything," replied Don Quixote, "does not occur in the same man-
ner. The big mistake you made, Sir Bachelor Alonso Lopez, was in com-
ing as you did, by night, dressed in those surplices, bearing lighted
torches and praying, all of which gave the appearance of something evil
and of the other world. I accordingly could not fail to fulfill my obliga-
tion by attacking you, and I would have done so even though I knew
for a certainty that you were devils out of Hell; for such I took you to
be all the time."

"Since that is the way fate has willed it," said the bachelor, "I beseech
your Grace, Sir Knight-errant--whose errantry has done me so bad a
turn--I beseech you to help me up from under this mule, for one of
my legs is caught between the stirrup and the saddle."

"Why," exclaimed Don Quixote, "I might have talked on until tomor-
row! How long were you going to wait to tell me of your distress?"

He then called to Sancho to come, but the squire did not see fit to do
so, being engaged at that moment in robbing a sumpter mule of the
larder which these gentlemen were carrying with them and which was
well stocked with things to eat. Having made a sack of his greatcoat, he
dumped into it all that it would hold and threw it across his ass's back;
and then, and only then, did he answer his master's call to come and
help get the bachelor out from under the mule. Setting the fellow on
his beast once more, they gave him his torch, and Don Quixote told him
to follow in the track of his companions and beg their pardon on his be-
half for the wrong which he had not been able to avoid doing them.

"And if," said Sancho, "those gentlemen wish to know who the valiant
one was who did this to them, your Grace may inform them that he is
the famous Don Quixote de la Mancha, otherwise known as the Knight
of the Mournful Countenance."

At this the knight inquired of his squire what had led him to call him
by such a title at that particular moment.

"I can tell you," said Sancho. "I was looking at you for a time by
the light of the torch that poor fellow carried; and truly, your Grace
now has the worst-looking countenance that I have ever seen, whether
due to exhaustion from this combat or the lack of teeth and grinders, I
cannot say."

"It is not that," said Don Quixote; "it is simply that the sage who is
to write the history of my exploits must have thought that it would be
a good thing for me to take another appellation as all knights of the past
have done. Thus one was called the Knight of the Flaming Sword; an-
other the Knight of the Unicorn; one the Knight of Damsels, and one
the Knight of the Phoenix; another the Knight of the Griffin; and still
another the Knight of Death: and by these names and insignia were they
known all the world over. And so, I tell you, it must have been that
sage of whom I was speaking who put it into your mind and on your
tongue to dub me the Knight of the Mournful Countenance. This title
I mean to adopt as my own from now on; and in order that it may better
fit me, I propose, as soon as opportunity offers, to have painted on my
shield a very sad-looking face "

"There is no necessity of wasting time and money on having a face
made for you," said Sancho. "All that your Grace has to do is to un-
cover your own to those who look at you, and without need of any
image or shield they will call you that. This is the truth I speak; for I
assure your Grace--not meaning any harm--that hunger and the lack
of grinders have given you so ill a countenance that you can very well
do without the painted one."

Don Quixote laughed heartily at Sancho's wit, but still he could not
give up the idea of calling himself by that name and having a suitable
device painted on his buckler or shield just as he had conceived it.

At this point the bachelor prepared to take his departure.167 "I neglected
to warn your Grace," he said, "that you are hereby excommunicated
for having laid violent hands on a holy thing: luxta illud, si quis, suadente
diablo, etc."168

"I do not understand that Latin of yours," said Don Quixote, "but I
am quite sure that I did not lay my hands on anything; I laid on with
this lance. What is more, I did not realize that I was insulting priests or
sacred things of the Church, which I respect and revere as the good
Catholic and loyal Christian that I am; I thought, rather, that it was
phantoms and monsters from the other world that I was attacking. But,
even so, I cannot but recall what happened to Cid Ruy Diaz when he
broke the chair of the royal ambassador in the presence of his Holiness
the Pope, that day when the worthy Rodrigo de Vivar showed himself
to be a brave and honored knight."169

Having listened to this speech, the bachelor went his way without
saying a word in reply.

Don Quixote then wanted to see whether it really was bones they had
in that litter or not; but Sancho would not consent.

"Sir," he said, "your Grace has concluded this adventure in the safest
manner of any yet. But those fellows whom you overcame and routed
may come to realize that it was, after all, only one individual who con-
quered them; and being thoroughly ashamed of themselves, they may
pluck up courage and return to look for us, in which case they could
give us plenty of trouble. The ass is ready, the mountains near by, and
we are hungry;. there is nothing for us to do but to retire as decently as
may be, and as the saying goes, 'To the grave with the dead and the
living to the bread.'"170

Urging his ass forward, he begged his master to follow him, and the
latter, deciding that his squire was right, made no reply but fell in be-
hind. After going a short distance they found themselves between two
small mountains, in a broad and hidden valley. Here they dismounted,
and Sancho relieved the donkey of its burden; after which, stretched
upon the green grass and with hunger as a sauce, they breakfasted,
lunched, dined, and supped at one and the same time, satisfying their
stomachs with more than one cold cut which the gentlemen of the
clergy attending the deceased--who seldom stint themselves in this re-
gard--had brought along in their well-stocked larder upon the back of
their sumpter mule.

But they still had one misfortune to endure, which for Sancho was
the worst of all: they had no wine, nor even water, to drink, and so
were harassed by thirst. Whereupon, noting the green young grass of
the meadow round about, he conceived an idea which will be set forth
in the following chapter.

CHAPTER XX.

Of an adventure such as never was seen nor heard of, which
was completed by the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha with
less peril than any famous knight in all the world ever incurred
in a similar undertaking.

"It is not possible, sir," said Sancho, "that this grass should not be-
token the presence near by of some spring or brook that provides it with
moisture; and so, it would be a good thing if we were to go a little
farther, for I am sure we should be able to find someplace where we
might quench this terrible thirst that is consuming us and that, un-
doubtedly, is more painful to bear than hunger."

This impressed Don Quixote as being good advice; and after they
had placed upon the ass what was left of their dinner, he took
Rocinante's rein and Sancho took the halter of his beast and they started
feeling their way up the meadow, for the night was so dark that they
were unable to see anything at all. They had not gone two hundred paces
when they heard a roaring sound, which appeared to be that of water
falling from great, high cliffs. This cheered them enormously; but as
they paused to determine the direction from which it came, another and
terrible din fell upon their ears, watering down the satisfaction they
had felt at the thought of finding water,171 especially for Sancho, who
was by nature timid and lacking in spirit. What they heard, I am telling
you, was the sound of measured blows, together with the rattling of
iron chains, accompanied by so furious a thunder of waters as to strike
terror in any other heart than that of Don Quixote.

It was night, as has been stated, and they now chanced to reach a clus-
ter of tall trees, whose leaves, stirred by the mild wind that was blowing,
rustled with a soft and gentle murmur. The solitude, the place, the dark-
ness, the din of the water, the rustling of the leaves--all this was fright-
ful, horror-inspiring, especially when they found that the blows did not
cease, nor did the wind fall asleep or morning come; and added to it all
was the fact that they had no idea where they were. Don Quixote, how-
ever, with his own intrepid heart to keep him company, leaped upon
Rocinante's back and, bracing his buckler on his arm, brought his lance
into play.

"Sancho, my friend," he said, "you may know that I was born, by
Heaven's will, in this our age of iron, to revive what is known as the
Golden Age. I am he for whom are reserved the perils, the great ex-
ploits, the valiant deeds. I am--I say it again--he who is to revive the
Knights of the Round Table, the Twelve Peers of France, and the
Nine Worthies. I am he who is to cast into oblivion the Platirs, the
Tablantes, the Olivantes, and the Tirants, the Knights of the Sun and
the Belianises, together with the entire throng of famous knights-errant
of times past, by performing in this age in which I live such great and
wonderful feats of arms as shall darken the brightest of their achieve-
ments. Note well, my rightful and my loyal squire, the shades of night
that lie about us; this uncanny silence; the low and indistinct rustling of
those trees; the frightful sound made by that water that we came to
seek, which appears to be falling precipitously from the tall mountains
of the moon; those unceasing blows that grieve and wound our ears; all
of which things together, and each one singly, are sufficient to strike
fear, dread, and terror in the breast of Mars himself, not to speak of him
who is not accustomed to such happenings and adventures.

Well, all these things that I have been describing are for me but the
incentives and awakeners of my courage, causing the heart within my
bosom to burst with the desire of entering upon this adventure, however
difficult it may be. And so, tighten Rocinante's girth a bit if you will,
and God be with you. Wait for me here three days, no longer. If at the
end of that time I have not returned, you may go back to our village;
and then, as a special favor to me, you will go to El Toboso, where you
will tell that incomparable lady, my Dulcinea, how her captive knight
died, undertaking things that would render him worthy of being called
hers."

Hearing his master speak these words, Sancho began weeping as if his
heart would break. "Sir," he said, "I do not know why your Grace is
so bent upon this fearful undertaking. It is night now, no one can see
us, and we can easily turn about and take ourselves out of danger's path,
even though we do not drink for the next three days. Since there is
none here to see us, the fewer will there be to call us cowards. What's
more, I have often heard the curate of our village say in his sermons?
your Grace knows him very well? that whoever goes looking for danger
will perish by it,172 It is not good to tempt God by entering upon some
monstrous undertaking from which you can escape only by a miracle,
and Heaven has performed enough of them for your Grace by saving
you from being tossed in a blanket as I was and by bringing you out the
victor, safe and free, over all those enemies who were accompanying that
corpse.

"And if all this does not suffice to move or soften that hard heart of
yours, let it be moved by the thought, the certain knowledge, that no
sooner will you have left this spot than I out of fear will yield my soul
to any that cares to take it. I have left my native land, my wife and
young ones, to come and serve your Grace, believing that by so doing
I would better my lot, not make it worse; but as avarice always bursts
the bag,173 so has it torn my hopes to shreds. Just when they are brightest
and I seem nearest to obtaining that wretched island, that cursed island,
which your Grace so many times has promised me, I perceive that, in
place of fulfilling that hope, you are about to go away and leave me in
a place like this, so far from any human beings.

"In God's name, sir, do me not this wrong. If your Grace will not
wholly desist from this enterprise, at least put it off until morning;
for according to that knowledge of the heavens that I acquired as a
shepherd, it should not be as much as three hours from now until dawn,
seeing that the mouth of the Horn is directly overhead and midnight
is in line with the left arm."174

"How, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "can you see that line or where
the mouth of the Horn or your own head is, when it is so dark and there
is not a star in the sky?"

"That," replied Sancho, "is because fear has many eyes and can see
things under the earth and much more in the heavens above; and any-
way, it stands to reason that daybreak cannot be far off."

"Far off or near," said his master, "it shall not be said of me, either now
or at any other time, that tears and entreaties kept me from fulfilling
my duties as a knight; and so, Sancho, I beg you to be quiet; for God,
who has put it into my heart to undertake this dread adventure such as
never before was heard of--God will see to my well-being and will
comfort you in your sorrow. The thing for you to do is to tighten
Rocinante's girth and remain here, and I shall return soon, either living
or dead."

Perceiving his master's firm resolve, and seeing of how little avail were
his own tears, advice, and entreaties, Sancho determined to have resort
to his ingenuity in compelling him, if he could, to wait until daylight.
Accordingly, when he went to tighten Rocinante's girth, he very deftly
arid without being observed slipped the halter of his ass over the hack's
two front feet so that, when Don Quixote started to ride away, he
found that his steed was unable to move except by little hops and jumps.

"Ah, sir," Sancho said to his master when he saw that his trick had
worked, "Heaven itself, moved by my tears and supplications, has or-
dained that Rocinante should not stir; and if you stubbornly insist upon
spurring and whipping him, you will merely be angering fortune and, so
to speak, kicking against the prick."

Don Quixote was truly in despair now; for the more he dug his legs
into his horse's flanks the less inclined that animal was to budge; and
without noticing that the hack's feet had been bound, the knight de-
cided there was nothing for him to do but be calm and wait until day-
light should come or Rocinante should see fit to move; for he was con-
vinced that all this came of something other than his squire's cleverness.

"Since Rocinante will not go," he said, "I am content, Sancho, to wait
until dawn shall smile, even though I myself may weep that she is so
long in coming."

"There is no occasion for weeping," replied Sancho, "for I will enter-
tain your Grace by telling stories from now until daybreak, unless you
care to dismount and lie down to sleep for a little while upon this green
grass, as knights-errant are accustomed to do, so that you may be rested
when day comes and fit to undertake this unlikely adventure that
awaits you."

"Why," said Don Quixote, "do you call upon me to dismount or to
sleep? Am I, perchance, one of those knights who take their repose
amid dangers? Sleep, then, if you will, for you were born to sleep, or
do whatever you like, and I shall do that which best befits my knightly
character."

"Sir," said Sancho, "let not your Grace be angry, for I did not mean
it in that way."

Coming up to his master, then, he laid both hands on the saddletree in
such a manner that he stood embracing Don Quixote's left leg; and he
did not stir an inch from there, so great was his fear of those blows
which were still to be heard in regular cadence. Don Quixote then re-
marked that his squire might tell him a story by way of amusing him as
he had promised; to which Sancho replied that he would be glad to do
so if the fear which that sound inspired in him would only let him.

"But, in spite of all that," he said, "I will try to tell you a story which,
if it does not escape me in the telling, and nobody stops me, is one of the
best there is; and pay attention, your Grace, for I am about to begin. Let
bygones be bygones; and may the good come to all and the evil to him
who goes to look for it. For your Grace must know that when the an-
cients began their fables the beginning was by no means left to the choice
of the one who told the tale; instead, they always began with a maxim
from Cato Zonzorino,175 the Roman, who uttered the words that I have
quoted, '. . . and the evil to him who goes to look for it,' a saying that
fits like the ring on your finger, signifying that your Grace should re-
main here and not go hunting trouble anywhere else, and that we should
return by another road since there is no one to compel us to keep fol-
lowing this one where there are so many frightful things to startle us."

"Go on with your story, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and as for the
road that we are to follow, leave that to me."

"I will tell you, then," continued Sancho, "that in a village of
Estremadura there lived a certain goat shepherd--I mean, one who
tended goats---and this shepherd or goatherd of my story was named
Lope Ruiz; and this Lope Ruiz was in love with a shepherd lass whose
name was Torralba, which shepherd lass called Torralba was the daugh-
ter of a wealthy cattle-raiser, and this wealthy cattle-raiser--"

"If that is the way you are going to tell your story, Sancho, saying
everything over twice, you will not be finished in a couple of days. Tell
it in a straightforward manner, like a man of good sense, or otherwise do
not tell it at all."

"In my country," said Sancho, "they tell all fables just the way I am
telling this one, and I cannot tell it any other way, nor is it right for
vour Grace to ask me to adopt new customs."

"As you like, then," said Don Quixote, "and since fate has willed that
I must listen, proceed with it."

"And so, then, my dear master, as I was saying, this shepherd was in
love with Torralba, the shepherd lass, who was sturdy of figure, wild
in her ways, and somewhat mannish--I can see yet those little mustaches
of hers."

"You knew her, then?" asked Don Quixote.

"I did not know her, but the one who told me the story described her
for me so truly and faithfully that, when I go to tell it to another, I
could swear and affirm that I have seen her with my own eyes. And so,
as days and days went by, the devil, who never sleeps but sweeps every-
thing up into his pile, saw to it that the shepherd's .love for the shepherd
lass turned into hatred and ill will. The reason for this, according to the
gossiping tongues, was that she had given him certain grounds for
jealousy, which crossed the line and reached forbidden territory. And as
a result of all this, the shepherd hated her from then on, so much, that
in order not to have to see her again, he made up his mind to leave his
native land and go where his eyes would never behold her. Finding her-
self thus spurned, La Torralba, who had never loved him before, became
enamored of him."

"That is the way with women,'' said Don Quixote; "they spurn those
that care for them and love those that hate them. But go on, Sancho."

"The shepherd then proceeded to do as he had resolved; and, getting
together his goats, he set out through the countryside of Estremadura
on his way to the kingdom of Portugal. Learning of this, La Torralba
set out after him, following him, barefoot, from afar, a shepherd's staff
in her hand and a knapsack around her neck, in which, so it is said, she
carried a broken mirror, a piece of a comb, and some kind of paint or
other for her face; but whatever it was she carried, I am not going to
take the trouble to find out. I will merely tell you that the shepherd with
his flock had by this time crossed the Guadiana River, which in that
season was swollen and almost out of its banks; and at the point where
he was, there was neither boat nor bark to be had, nor anyone to ferry
him and his goats to the other side; all of which grieved him sorely, for
he could now see La Torralba close on his heels and knew that she
would be bound to annoy him greatly with her tears and pleas.

"As he was looking about, he saw a fisherman alongside a boat so small
that it would hold only one person and a goat, but, nevertheless, he spoke
to the man, who agreed to take the shepherd and his flock of three hun-
dred to the opposite bank. The fisherman would climb into the boat
and row one of the animals across and then return for another, and he
kept this up, rowing across with a goat and coming back, rowing across
and coming back--Your Grace must be sure to keep count of the goats
that the fisherman rowed across the stream, for if a single one of them
escapes your memory, the story is ended and it will not be possible to
tell another word of it.

"I will go on, then, and tell you that the landing place on the other side
was full of mud and slippery, and it took the fisherman a good while to
make the trip each time; but in spite of that, he came back for another
goat, and another, and another-?"

"Just say he rowed them all across," said Don Quixote; "you need
not be coming and going in that manner, or it will take you a year to get
them all on the other side."

"How many have gone across up to now?" Sancho demanded.

"How the devil should I know?" replied Don Quixote.

"There, what did I tell you? You should have kept better count. Well,
then, by God, the story's ended, for there is no going on with it."

"How can that be?" said the knight. "Is it so essential to know the
exact number of goats that if I lose count of one of them you cannot
tell the rest of the tale?"

"No, sir, I cannot by any means," said Sancho; "for when I asked your
Grace to tell me how many goats had been rowed across and you replied
that you did not know, at that very instant everything that I was about
to say slipped my memory; and you may take my word for it, it was
very good and you would have liked it."

"So," said Don Quixote, "the story is ended, is it?"

"As much ended as my own mother is," Sancho replied.

"Well, then," said Don Quixote, "I can assure you that you have told
me one of the most novel fables, stories, or histories that anyone in the
world could possibly conceive.176 And I may add that such a way of tell-
ing and ending it has never been nor will be heard of in the course of a
lifetime; although I expected nothing else from one with a wit like yours.
However, I do not marvel at it, for it is possible that those ceaseless blows
we hear have disturbed your understanding."

"Anything may be," said Sancho; "but in the matter of my story, I
know that there is nothing more to be told, for it ends where you begin
to lose count of the number of goats that have crossed."

"Let it end where it will, and well and good. But come, let us see if
Rocinante can carry me now." With this, he applied the spurs once more,
and the hack once again gave a start, but without budging from the
spot, so well was he shackled.

At this juncture, whether it was the cool of the morning which was
coming on, or something laxative he had eaten at supper, or--which is
most likely--merely a necessity of nature, Sancho felt the will and de-
sire to do that which no one else could do for him;177 but so great was
the fear that had lodged in his heart that he did not dare stir by so much
as the tip of a fingernail from his master's side. It was, however, out of
the question not to satisfy the need he felt; and what he did, accordingly,
in order to have a little peace, was to remove his right hand which held
the back of the saddle, and with this hand he very adroitly and without
making any noise unloosed the slip-knot which alone sustained his
breeches, thus letting them drop to the ground, where they lay like
fetters about his feet; after which, he lifted his shirt and bared his be-
hind, no small one by any means.

Having done this--and he thought it was all he needed to do in order
to be rid of his agonizing cramps--he encountered another difficulty :
how was he to vent himself without making some noise or sound? Grit-
ting his teeth and huddling his shoulders, he held his breath as best he
could; but despite all these precautions, the poor fellow ended by emit-
ting a little sound quite different from the one that had filled him with
such fear.

"What noise was that, Sancho?" said Don Quixote.

"I do not know, sir," he replied . "It must be something new; for ad-
ventures and misadventures never come singly."

He then tried his luck again and succeeded so well that, without any
more noise or disturbance than the last time, he found himself free of
the load that had given him so much discomfort. But Don Quixote's
sense of smell was quite as keen as his sense of hearing, and Sancho was
so close upon him that the fumes rose in almost a direct line, and so it
is not surprising if some of them reached the knight's nostrils, where-
upon he came to the aid of his nose by compressing it between two fin-
gers.

"It strikes me, Sancho," he said in a somewhat snuffling tone of voice,
"that you are very much frightened."

"That I am," replied his squire, "but how does your Grace happen to
notice it, now more than ever?"

"Because you smell now more than ever, and it is not of ambergris."

"That may well be," said Sancho, "but I am not to blame; it is rather
your Grace, for keeping me up at such hours and putting me through
such unaccustomed paces."

"Retire, if you will, three or four paces from here, my friend," said
Don Quixote, without taking his fingers from his nose; "and from now
on, see to it that you take better care of your person and show more
respect for mine. It is my familiarity with you that has bred this con-
tempt."

"I'll wager," said Sancho, "your Grace thinks I have done some-
thing with my person that I ought not to have done."

"It only makes it worse to stir it, friend Sancho," Don Quixote an-
swered him.

In talk such as this master and man spent the rest of the night; and
when Sancho saw that morning was near he very cautiously removed the
fetters from Rocinante and tied up his breeches. Finding himself free,
although he was by no means a mettlesome animal, the hack appeared
to be in high spirits and began pawing the earth, since--begging his
pardon--he was not capable of leaping and prancing. When he beheld
his steed in motion, Don Quixote took it for a good sign, a sign that
he should begin that dread adventure.

It was light now and things could be clearly seen, and he discovered
that they were in a grove of chestnut trees that cast a very deep shade.
He was aware, also, that the sound of blows continued, although he
could see no cause for it; and so, without any further delay, he dug his
spurs into Rocinante and, turning to Sancho to bid him good-by, com-
manded him to wait three days at the most, as he had told him before. If
at the end of that time he had not returned, his squire would know for
a certainty that it had pleased God to have him end his life's span in
this perilous undertaking.

Once again he reminded Sancho of the mission which the latter was
tp fulfill by bearing a message on his master's behalf to the lady Dulcinea.
As to pay for his services, Sancho was not to let that worry him, as the
knight before leaving home had made out his will in which his squire
would find himself recompensed in full for all the wages due him in
accordance with the time he had served. If, on the other hand, God should
bring him, Don Quixote, safe, sound, and unscathed out of this peril,
then his faithful servitor might be more than certain of obtaining that
promised island. At hearing these sad words from his good master,
Sancho again fell to weeping and resolved not to leave him until the
final outcome and end of the business.

These tears and this noble resolve on the part of Sancho Panza are
duly recorded by the author of the history, who must have been well
bred and at the very least an old Christian.178 Such a display of sentiment
somewhat softened his master's heart. Not that Don Quixote showed any
weakness, however; on the contrary, hiding his feelings as well as he
could, he rode away in the direction from which the noise of water and
the sound of blows appeared to be coming, with Sancho following on
foot, leading his ass by the halter as usual, for that beast was his constant
companion in good fortune or adversity.

When they had gone quite a way through the dense shade of the
chestnut trees, they came out upon a little meadow at the foot of some
tall cliffs over which poured a huge stream of water. Down below were
a number of rude huts which looked more like ruins than houses, and
it was from here that the hammering noise which never ceased was
coming. Rocinante was frightened by the din of the waters and the sound
of the blows, but Don Quixote quieted him and gradually made his way
to where the huts stood, commending himself with all his heart to his
lady and begging her favor in this dread enterprise; and as he went, he
likewise commended himself to God, praying that He would not forget
him . Sancho, meanwhile, never left his master's side but kept stretching
his neck as far as he could between Rocinante's legs to see if the thing
that had caused him so much fear and suspense was at last visible.

They had gone perhaps a hundred yards farther when, upon turning
a corner, they discovered the obvious, unmistakable cause of that hor-
rendous and, for them, terror-inspiring noise that all night long had so
bewildered and alarmed them. And that cause was--if, O reader! you
will not be too disappointed and disgusted--six fulling hammers which
with their alternating strokes produced the clangor that resembled the
sound of blows.

When Don Quixote saw what it was, he was speechless and remained
as if paralyzed from head to foot. Gazing at him, Sancho saw that his
head was on his bosom, as if he were abashed. The knight then glanced
at his squire and perceived that his cheeks were puffed with laughter as
if about to explode, and in spite of the melancholy that possessed him
he in turn could not help laughing at the sight. Thus encouraged, Sancho
gave in to his mirth and laughed so hard that he had to hold his sides
to keep from bursting. He would stop for a while and then begin all over
again, any number of times, laughing as hard as he had at first.

Don Quixote was furious at this, especially when he heard his squire
saying, as if to mock him, "'Sancho, my friend, you may know that I
was born by Heaven's will, in this our age of iron, to revive what is
known as the Golden Age. I am he for whom are reserved the perils,
the great exploits, the valiant deeds...'" And he went on repeating all
the other things that Don Quixote had said the first time they heard
those frightening blows.

At seeing himself thus made sport of, the knight was so exceedingly
wroth that he raised his lance and let Sancho have a couple of whacks,
which, had they been received upon the head instead of across the shoul-
ders, would have freed Don Quixote from the necessity of paying his
wages, unless it had been to his heirs. The jest was becoming serious, and
Sancho was afraid things might go further. He was very humble now.

"Calm yourself, your Grace," he said. "In God's name, I was only jok-
ing."

"Well, you may be joking, but I am not," said Don Quixote. "Come
over here, my merry gentleman, I want to ask you a question. Supposing
that, in place of fulling hammers, this had really been another dangerous
adventure, did not I display the requisite courage for undertaking and
carrying it through? Am I obliged, being a gentleman as I am, to recog-
nize and distinguish sounds and know whether they come from fulling
hammers or not? Especially when I may never before have laid eyes on
such things, as happens to be the case, whereas you, rude bumpkin that
you are, were born and brought up among them. But turn these six ham-
mers into six giants and beard me with them one by one, or with all of
them together, and if I do not cause them all to turn up their toes, then
you may make as much sport of me as you like."

"I shall do so no more, sir," replied Sancho, "for I admit that I carried
the joke a little too far. But tell me, your Grace, now that there is peace
between us--and may God in the future bring you out of all adventures
as safe and sound as He has brought you out of this one? -tell me if it
was not truly a laughing matter, and a good story as well, that great fright
of ours? For I, at least, was afraid, although I am well aware that your
Grace does not know what fear is."

"I do not deny," said Don Quixote, "that what happened to us has its
comical aspects; but it is best not to tell the story, for not everyone is
wise enough to see the point of the thing."

"Well, at any rate," said Sancho, "your Grace saw the point when
you pointed your lance at my head--but it fell on my shoulders, thank
God, and thanks also to my quickness in dodging it. But never mind, it
will all come out in the wash;179 and I have heard it said, 'He loves you
well who makes you weep.'180 It is the custom of great lords, after they
have scolded a servant, to give him a pair of breeches; although I am sure
I do not know what they would give him after a good clubbing, unless
they happened to be knights-errant, and then perhaps they would give
him a few islands or some kingdoms on terra firm "181

"The dice may so fall," replied Don Quixote, "that everything you
say will come true. But let us overlook the past; for you are shrewd
enough to know that the first instinctive movements a man makes are not
within his control. Be advised of one thing for the future, however: you
are to abstain and refrain from conversing with me so much; for in all
the books of chivalry that I have read, and they are infinite in number,
I have never heard of any squire talking so much to his master as you do
to me. The truth is, I look upon it as a great fauit, on your part and on
mine: on your part because it shows that you have little respect for
me; and on mine because I do not make myself more respected.

"There was, for example, Gandalin, squire to Amadis of Gaul, who
was count of Firm Island. I have read of him that he never spoke to his
master save with cap in hand, with lowered head and body bent double
more turquesco.182 Then, what shall we say of Gasabal, squire to Don
Gaiaor, who was so very silent that, by way of indicating how excellent
a thing such taciturnity on his part was, the author of that history, which
is as voluminous as it is veracious, sees fit to mention his name only once?

"From all this that I have told you, Sancho, you are to infer that it is
necessary that there be a difference between master and man, lord and
servant, a knight and his squire. And so, from now on, we must treat each
other with more respect and less bantering; for in whatever way I may
become annoyed with you, it will be bad for the pitcher.183 The favors
and benefits that I have promised you will all come in due time; and if
they should not, your wages at least are safe as I have told you."

"That is all well and good," said Sancho, "but what I should like to
know of your Grace is, if by any chance the time for the granting of
favors does not come and it is necessary to think of the wages, how
much did the squire of a knight-errant earn in those times, and was it
reckoned by months, or by days as in the case of bricklayers?"

"I do not think," said Don Quixote, "that the squires of old received
wages, but only favors; and if I have provided a wage for you, in the
sealed will which I have left at home, it was in view of what might
happen; as yet I do not know how chivalry will work out in these calami-
tous times in which we live, and I do not wish my soul in the other world
to have to suffer on account of trifles; for I may tell you, Sancho, that
there is no calling anywhere more dangerous than that of adventurer."

"That is the truth," said Sancho, "seeing that the mere sound of fulling
hammers can disturb and agitate the heart of so valiant a knightly ad-
venturer as is your Grace. But you may be sure that from now on I will
not open my mouth to make light of what concerns your Grace, but will
speak only to honor you as my liege lord and master."

"By so doing," replied Don Quixote, "you will live long upon the face
of the earth; for after parents, masters are to be respected as if they
were the ones that bore us."

CHAPTER XXI

Which treats of the high and richly rewarded adventure of
Mambrino's helmet, together with other things that happened
to our invincible knight.

At THIS point it began to rain a little, and Sancho suggested that
they enter the fulling mill; but Don Quixote had conceived such a dis-
like for the place by reason of the offensive joke184 associated with it that
he would not hear of their setting foot inside it; and so, turning to the
right, they came out into another road like the one they had traveled
the day before.

They had not gone far before Don Quixote sighted a man on horseback
wearing something on his head that gleamed like gold, and no sooner had
he laid eyes upon him than he said to his squire, "It is my opinion, Sancho,
that there is no proverb that is not true; for they are all drawn from ex-
perience itself, mother of all the sciences, and especially that saying that
runs, 'Where one door closes another opens.' By this I mean to say that
if, last night, fortune closed the door on what we were seeking by deceiv-
ing us with those fulling hammers, she is now opening another upon a
better and more assured adventure, and if I do not embark upon that
undertaking the fault will be mine, and I shall not be able to blame it
upon those hammers or the darkness of night. I tell you this for the
reason that, if I am not mistaken, there comes toward us now one who
wears upon his.head that helmet of Mambrino concerning which, as you
know, I have taken a vow."

"But, your Grace," said Sancho, "mark well what I say and even
better what you do; for I should not like to have any more fulling ham-
mers fulling and finishing us off and cudgeling our brains."

"To the devil with the fellow!" exclaimed Don Quixote. "What has
the helmet to do with fulling mills?"

"I know nothing about that," replied Sancho, "but upon my word, if
I were free to talk as I used to, I could give you such reasons that your
Grace would see he was mistaken in what he just said."

"How could I be mistaken in what I said, you unbelieving traitor? Tell
me, do ypu not see that knight coming toward us, mounted on a dappled
gray steed and with a golden helmet on his head?"

"What I see and perceive," said Sancho, "is a man upon an ass, a gray
ass like mine, with something or other on his head that shines."

"Well," said Don Quixote, "that is Mambrino's helmet. Go off to one
side and let me meet him singlehanded; and you shall see me end this
adventure without wasting a word in parley, and when it is ended, the
helmet which I have so greatly desired shall be mine."

"I will take care to go to one side, right enough," said Sancho; "but--
I say again--I only pray God that it may turn out to be marjoram and
not fulling hammers."185

"I have told you, brother," said Don Quixote, "not to think of men-
tioning those hammers to me again; and if you do, I vow--I need say no
more--that I will full your very soul."

Sancho was silent, for he was afraid that his master would carry out
this vow which he had hurled at him like a bowling ball.

The truth concerning that helmet and the horse and horseman that
Don Quixote had sighted was this: in these parts there were two villages,
one so small that it had neither apothecary nor barber, whereas the other
had both; and as a consequence, the barber of the larger village served
the smaller one, in which, as it happened, there was a sick man who had
need of a blood-letting and another individual who needed to have his
beard trimmed; and so the barber was on his way now, carrying with
him a brass basin, and as it had started to rain and he did not wish to
have his hat spoiled (it was probably a new one), he had placed the basin
on his head, and since it was very clean it could be seen glittering half
a league away. He was riding on an ass, a gray one as Sancho had re-
marked, and it was all this that had given Don Quixote the impression
of a knight, a dappled steed, and a helmet of gold, for he readily fitted
all the things that he saw to his own mad, ill-errant186 thoughts of
chivalry.

As he saw the poor fellow whom he took to be a knight approaching,
without pausing for any exchange of words he bore down upon him
with lowered lance at the best speed that Rocinante could make, with
intent to run him through with his pike. As he drew near, without abating
his fury in the least, he cried out, "Defend yourself, vile wretch, or else
render to me of your own free will that which is so justly my due!"

The barber who, without any thought or fear of what was about to
happen, had seen this apparition descending upon him, now had no other
recourse by way of protecting himself from the lance blow than to slide
down off his ass's back, and he had no more than touched the earth
when he was up and running away across the fields faster than the wind,
leaving his basin behind him upon the ground. Don Quixote was content
with this, observing that the heathenish fellow had been wise in imitating
the beaver, which, when it finds itself hard pressed by the hunters, bites
and tears off187 with its teeth that for which it knows it is being pursued.
He commanded Sancho to pick up the helmet for him.

"By God," said the squire, taking it in his hands, "if it isn't a very good
basin and worth a piece of eight if it's worth a maravedi."

With this, he handed it to his master, and Don Quixote at once placed
it on his head, turning it round and round in search of the visor.

"Undoubtedly," he said when he failed to find one, "the pagan to whose
measure this helmet was originally made must have had a very large
head. The regrettable part of it is, half of it is missing."

Upon hearing the basin called a helmet, Sancho could not help laugh-
ing, but mindful of his master's ire, he stopped short.

"What are you laughing at, Sancho?" said Don Quixote.

"I was just thinking what a big pate that pagan had who owned it, for
this helmet looks exactly like a barber's basin."

"Do you know what I think, Sancho? I think that this famous piece of
that enchanted helmet must by some strange accident have fallen into the
hands of someone who did not know, and was incapable of estimating,
its worth, and who, seeing that it was of the purest gold and not realizing
what he was doing, must have melted down the other half for what he
could get for it, while from the remaining portion he fashioned what
appears, as you have said, to be a barber's basin. But be that as it may; I
recognize its value, and the transformation that it has undergone maker
no difference to me; the first village that we come to where there is a
blacksmith, I will have it repaired in such a manner that the helmet which
the god of smithies made and forged for the god of battles shall not sur-
pass or even come up to it. In the meanwhile, I will wear it the best way
I can, for something is better than nothing at all,188 especially seeing that
it will serve quite well to protect me from stones."

"That is," said Sancho, "providing it is not a stone from a slingshot
of the kind they let you have in the battle of the two armies, that time
they made the sign of the cross on your Grace's grinders and broke the
vial which held that blessed potion that made me vomit up my guts."

"I am not greatly grieved over having lost it," said Don Quixote, "for
as you know, Sancho, I have the receipt in my memory."

"So have I," replied Sancho, "but if I ever in all my life make it or
try it again, may this be my last hour on earth. What is more, I do not
expect to have any occasion to use it, for I mean to see to it with all my
five senses that I neither wound anybody nor am wounded by anyone
else. As to being tossed in a blanket, I say nothing about that. Troubles
of that kind are hard to foresee, and if they come, there is nothing to
do but shrug your shoulders, hold your breath, shut your eyes, and let
yourself go where luck and the blanket take you."

"You are a bad Christian, Sancho," said his master when he heard this,
"for you never forget an injury that once has been done you. You should
know that it is characteristic of noble and generous hearts to pay no
attention to trifles. You have no lame leg, no fractured rib, no broken
head to show for it; so why can you not forget that bit of buffoonery?
For when you look at it closely, that is all it was: a jest and a little pastime;
for had I not regarded it in that light, I should have returned and, in
avenging you, should have wrought more damage than those Greeks
did who stole Helen of Troy--who, you may be sure, if she had lived in
these times or my Dulcinea had lived in those, would not have been so
famed for her beauty as she now is." With this, he breathed a sigh and
wafted it heavenward.

"Let it pass for a jest," said Sancho, "seeing that it cannot be avenged
in earnest; but I know what jest and earnest mean, and I further know
that this joke will never slip from my memory any more than it will
from my shoulders. But leaving all that aside, tell me, your Grace, what
are we to do with this dappled gray steed that looks like a gray-colored
ass, which that fellow Martino189 whom your Grace just routed has left
here? For judging by the way he took to his heels, I don't think he ever
means to come back for it; and by my beard, but the gray is a good one!"

"It is not my custom," said Don Quixote, "to despoil those whom I
conquer, nor is it in accordance with the usages of knighthood to deprive
one's enemy of his steed and leave him to go away on foot, unless it be
that the victor has lost his own mount in the fray, in which case it is
permitted to take that of the vanquished as something that has been won
in lawful warfare. And so, Sancho, leave this horse, or ass, or whatever
you choose to call him; for as soon as its master sees that we are gone,
he will come back for it."

"God knows I'd like to take it," said Sancho, "or at least exchange it
for this one of mine, which does not strike me as being a very good one.
Surely the laws of knighthood must be pretty strict if they cannot be
stretched far enough to permit you to exchange one ass for another.
Could I not at least exchange trappings?"

"I am none too certain as to that," replied Don Quixote; "but being
in doubt and until I am better informed, I should say that you might
exchange them in case of extreme necessity."

"The necessity," said Sancho, "is so extreme that I could not need
them more if they were for my own person."

Having been granted permission to do so, he now effected the mutatio
capparum,190 trigging his own beast out in great style, in such a manner
as to alter its appearance most advantageously. This being done, they
made their lunch on what was left over from the spoils of the sumpter
mule, drinking water from the brook where the fulling hammers were but
without turning their heads to look at them, for they still could not
forget the fright which those distasteful objects had given them.

At length, all anger and melancholy gone, they mounted again and
without taking any definite direction, as was the custom of knights-
errant; they let Rocinante follow his own will, his master's inclinations
and those of the ass falling in behind; for the ass followed wherever the
hack led, very sociably and affectionately. Proceeding in this manner,
they came back to the highway and continued riding along, leaving
everything to chance and with no plan whatsoever.

Finally Sancho spoke up and addressed the knight. "Sir," he said,
"would your Grace grant me permission to have a word with you? Ever
since you gave me that order to be silent, a number of things in my
stomach have gone to rot, and I have one now on the tip of my tongue
that I do not want to see wasted."

"Say what you have to say," said Don Quixote, "and be brief about
it, for there is no pleasure in listening to long speeches."

"Very well, sir," replied Sancho. "I just wanted to tell you that for
some days now I have been thinking how little gain or profit there is in
your Grace's going in search of adventures in these wasteland and cross-
road places; for even if you come out the victor in the most dangerous
of them, there is no one to witness them or know about them, and as
a result, nothing will ever be heard of them, which is contrary to what
your Grace had in mind and what they deserve. And, accordingly, it
seems to me that it would be better--saving, always, your Grace's better
judgment--for us to go serve some emperor or other great prince who
has some war on his hands and in whose service your Grace would have
an opportunity to display the valor of your person, the great feats of
which you are capable, and your superior understanding. For when the
lord we served beheld all this, being obliged to reward each according
to his merits, he could not fail to have your Grace's exploits set down in
writing, that they might never be forgotten. Of my own I say nothing,
for they do not go beyond the bounds of what is becoming in a squire;
although I may say this much: that if it were the custom of knighthood
to record squirely achievements, I do not think mine would be left out."

"There is something in what you say, Sancho," replied Don Quixote;
"but before we come to that, it is necessary for a knight to roam the
world in quest of adventures and, so to speak, serve a period of probation,
in order that, having brought a number of those adventures to a success-
ful conclusion, he may win such name and fame as will render him well
known for his accomplishments by the time he arrives at the court of
some great monarch. He must be so well known that, when he enters
the gate of the city, all the young lads will follow and surround him,
shouting, 'There goes the Knight of the Sun,' or of the Serpent, or what-
ever insignia it was under which he performed his feats of valor. 'He,'
they will say, 'is the one who overcame singlehanded the giant Broca-
bruno of the Mighty Strength; he it was who freed the Mameluke of
Persia of the spell under which he had been for nearly nine hundred
years.'

"Thus from mouth to mouth his fame will spread, until at last, aroused
by the tumult of the lads and the throng that will have gathered, the
king of that realm will appear at the windows of his royal palace, and as
soon as he sees the knight, recognizing him by his armor or by the device
on his shield, he will be certain to cry, 'What, ho! Up, all ye knights that
be in my court and go forth to receive the flower of chivalry who cometh
hither.' At this command, they will all come out, and the monarch him-
self, descending the stair halfway, will welcome the new arrival, giving
him a warm embrace and a kiss on the cheek, after which he will conduct
him to the apartment of my lady the queen, and in her company the
knight will be presented to her daughter, who will be one of the most
beautiful and faultless damsels to be met with anywhere in the known
world. And then it will come to pass that she will rest her eyes on the
knight and he will rest his on her, and each will appear to the other as
something that is nearer divine than human; and, without knowing how
or why it comes about, they will find themselves caught and entangled
in love's inextricable net, with a deep pain in their hearts at not being
able to put into words their longings and desires.

"After that, they undoubtedly will take him to some room in the
palace that is richly fitted out, and there, having relieved him of his
armor, they will bring him a sumptuous scarlet cloak to wear; and if he
presented a handsome appearance in his suit of armor, he will be even
handsomer in a doublet. When night comes, he will sup with the king,
queen, and infanta, and he will never take his eyes off the princess but will
steal glances at her without the others seeing him, and she with equal
cunning will do the same, for, as I have said, she is a very circumspect
young lady. And then, when the tables have been cleared, through the
door of the great hall there will at once enter a small and ugly dwarf,
followed by a beautiful duenna between two giants, who comes to pro-
pose a certain adventure191 conceived by a wise man of very long ago;
and whoever carries it through is to be looked upon as the best knight in
the world.

"The king will thereupon command all those present to undertake the
adventure, and none will bring it to an end and conclusion except the
knight who is their guest. This will greatly add to his fame, and the
infanta will be very happy and feel well recompensed for having placed
her affections upon so exalted a personage. But the best part of it is,
this king or prince or whoever he may be is engaged in a bitter war with
another monarch who is quite as powerful as he; and the stranger knight
--after a few days spent at court--will then beg his royal host's per-
mission to go serve him in the said war. His Majesty will grant this request
with right good grace, and the knight will courteously kiss the king's
hand in return for the favor shown him.

"That night, he will take leave of his lady the infanta through the
grating of her chamber overlooking the garden where he has already
conversed with her many times, the go-between and confidante in the
affair being a maid-in-waiting whom the princess greatly trusts. He will
sigh and she will swoon, and the damsel will bring water to revive her.
He will be very much distressed at this, for morning is near, and for the
sake of his lady's honor he would not have them discovered. Finally the
infanta will come to herself and will hold out her white hands through
the bars to her knight, who will kiss them thousands upon thousands of
times, bathing them with his tears.

"It will be arranged between them how they are to keep each other
informed as to the good or ill that befalls them, and the princess will en-
treat him not to remain away any longer than need be. He will give her
this promise, with many oaths to bind it, and then he will kiss her hands
once more and depart, so deeply moved that he is on the verge of dying.
Going to his apartment, he will cast himself down upon his bed, but will
be unable to sleep from the pain of parting. In the morning, very early,
he will go to bid adieu to the king, queen, and infanta; but after he has
paid his respects to the royal pair, he is informed that the princess is in-
disposed and cannot receive any visitors. The knight will think that she
too must be suffering at prospect of their separation, his heart will be
transfixed, and it will be all he can do to hide his feelings.

"But the damsel who is the go-between will be there; she will take note
of everything and will go to report it all to her mistress, who will receive
her with tears. The princess will then tell her maid-in-waiting that one
of the things that causes her most sorrow is the fact that she does not
know who her knight is, or whether he is of royal lineage or not. The
damsel will assure her that so much courtesy, gentleness of bearing, and
valor could be displayed only by a grave and royal personage, and with
such words as these she will endeavor to assuage her mistress's grief. The
princess will then seek to compose herself so as not to make a bad im-
pression upon her parents, and after a couple of days she will appear in
public once more.

"Meanwhile, the knight has left for the wars; he conquers the king's
enemy, takes many cities, is victorious in many battles, returns to court,
meets his lady in the accustomed place, and they agree that he is to ask
her father for her hand in payment of his services. The king is unwilling
to grant this request, for he does not know who the knight is; but, never-
theless, whether she is carried off or however it happens, she becomes
his bride, and her father in the end comes to look upon it as a piece of
great good fortune, for he has learned that the knight is the son of the
valiant king of some realm or other which I do not think you will find
on the map. The king then dies, the infanta inherits the throne, and, in
a couple of words, the knight becomes king.192

"And here is where the bestowal of favors comes in, as he rewards his
squire and all those who have assisted him in rising to so exalted a state.
He marries the squire to one of the infanta's damsels, undoubtedly the
one who was the go-between in his courting of the princess, and who is
the daughter of a very great duke."

"That's what I want, and no mistake about it," said Sancho. "That is
what I'm waiting for. All of this, word for word, is bound to happen to
your Grace now that you bear the title Knight of the Mournful Coun-
tenance."

"Do not doubt it, Sancho," Don Quixote assured him; "for in this very
manner and by these very steps of which I have told you, many come,
and have come, to be kings and emperors. It only remains to find out
what king of the Christians or the pagans is at war and has a beautiful
daughter. But there will be time to think of all that; for, as I have said,
one must achieve fame elsewhere before repairing to court. There is one
other thing: supposing that I find a king with a war and with a beautiful
daughter, and supposing that I have won an incredible amount of fame
throughout the universe, I do not know how I am going to make myself
out to be of royal line or even second cousin to an emperor; for the king
will not wish to give me his daughter's hand unless he is first thoroughly
satisfied on this point, however much my deeds may merit the honor;
and for this reason I fear losing that which my good right arm has so
well earned for me. It is true that I am a gentleman property-holder with
a country house and estate, and am entitled to an income of five hundred
sueldos;193 and it may further be that the learned scribe who writes my
history will so clear up my relationships and ancestry that I shall be found
to be the descendant, fifth or sixth in line, of some king.

"For I would have you know, Sancho," he went on, "that there are in
this- world two kinds of ancestral lines. In the one case, there are those
who trace their descent from princes and monarchs whom time has little
by little reduced until they come to end in a point like a pyramid upside
down; and in the other case, there are those who spring from the lower
classes and who go upward, one step after another, until they come to
be great lords; the difference being that the former were what they no
longer are, while the latter are what they formerly were not. And I may
be one of those who, after it has been ascertained that they are of great
and famous origin, are accepted for what they are, and the king, my
father-in-law, in that case will be content; but should he not be, the
infanta will love me so much that, in spite of her father's wishes and
even though she definitely knows me to be a water carrier's son, she
still will insist upon my being received as a gentleman and her consort.
And if everything else fails, then it will come to my abducting and carry-
ing her off wherever I see fit; for time or death must eventually put an
end to her parents' wrath."

"It comes to something else as well," said Sancho. "For I am reminded
here of what certain wicked ones say: 'Never beg as a favor what you
can take by force'; although they might better say: 'An escape from the
slaughter is worth more than good men's prayers.194 I tell you this be-
cause if the king, your Grace's father-in-law, will not condescend to
give you my lady the infanta, then, as your Grace says, there is nothing
for it but to abduct and carry her off. But the trouble is that until you
make your peace and come into the tranquil enjoyment of your king-
dom, your poor squire can whistle for his favors--that is, unless the damsel
who was the go-between and who is to be his wife accompanies the
princess and shares her ill fortune with her until Heaven ordains other-
wise; for I take it that his master will give her to him at once as his lawful
spouse."

"No one can deny him that," said Don Quixote.

"Well, then," replied Sancho, "if that is so, we have nothing to do
but to commend ourselves to God and let fortune take whatever course
it will."

"May God fulfill my desires and your needs, Sancho," said Don
Quixote; "and let him be vile who looks upon himself as such."195

"In God's name, so let him be," said Sancho. "I am an old Christian, and
that in itself is enough to make me a count."196

"Enough and more than enough for you," said Don Quixote; "and
even if you were not, it would make no difference; for once I am king,
I can very well make a noble of you without any purchase price or
service on your part; and in making you a count, I make a gentleman
of you at the same time, and then let them say what they will, upon my
word they will have to call you 'my lordship' whether they like it or
not."

"And I would lend dignity to the tittle!"197 said Sancho.

"Title, you mea.tv to say, not tittle," bis master corrected him.

"So be it," said Sancho. "I'd know how to behave myself properly, for
there was a time in my life when I was the beadle of a confraternity, and
the beadle's gown sat so well upon me that everybody said I ought to
be the steward. So what will it be when I put a ducal robe on my back
or dress myself out in gold and pearls like one of those foreign counts?
I think, myself, that folks will be coming to see me for a hundred leagues
around."

"You will cut a fine figure," said Don Quixote, "but it will be necessary
for you to shave your beard quite often, for it is so thick and unkempt
that unless you use the razor on it every other day at the least, people will
be able to see what you are at the distance of a musket shot."

"What more have I to do," said Sancho, "than to hire a barber and keep
him in the house? If necessary, I can even have him walk behind me
like a nobleman's equerry."

"How do you know," asked Don Quixote, "that noblemen have
equerries walking behind them?"

"I will tell you about that," Sancho replied. "Years ago I spent a month
near the court, and there I saw a very small gentleman who, they told
me, was a very great lord.198 He was out for a stroll, and there was a man
on horseback following him at every turn he took just as if he had been
his tail. I asked why it was this man did not join the other one but always
rode along behind him, and they replied that he was an equerry and that
such was the custom of the nobility. I have known it ever since then,
for I have never forgotten it."

"You are right," said Don Quixote, "and you may take your barber
with you in the same manner; for all customs did not come into use, nor
were they invented, at one and the same time; and so you may be the
first count to be followed by his barber, for shaving the beard is a more
intimate matter than saddling a horse."

"Just leave the barber to me," said Sancho, "while your Grace sees
to becoming a king and making a count of me."

"So shall it be," said Don Quixote; and, raising his eyes, he saw some-
thing that will be related in the following chapter.

CHAPTER XXII.

Of how Don Quixote freed many unfortunate ones who, much
against their mill, were being taken where they did not wish to go.

ClD HAMETE BENENGELI, the Arabic and Manchegan199 author, in
the course of this most grave, high-sounding, minute, delightful, and
imaginative history, informs us that, following the remarks that were
exchanged between Don Quixote de la Mancha and Sancho Panza, his
squire, as related at the end of Chapter xxi, the knight looked up and
saw coming toward them down the road which they were following a
dozen or so men on foot, strung together by their necks like beads
on an iron chain and all of them wearing handcuffs. They were ac-
companied by two men on horseback and two on foot, the former
carrying wheel-lock muskets while the other two were armed with
swords and javelins.

"That," said Sancho as soon as he saw them, "is a chain of galley slaves,
people on their way to the galleys where by order of the king they are
forced to labor."

"What do you mean by 'forced'?" asked Don Quixote. "Is it possible
that the king uses force on anyone?"

"I did not say that," replied Sancho. "What I did say was that these
are folks who have been condemned for their crimes to forced labor in
the galleys for his Majesty the King."

"The short of it is," said the knight, "whichever way you put it, these
people are being taken there by force and not of their own free will."

"That is the way it is," said Sancho.

"Well, in that case," said his master, "now is the time for me to fulfill
the duties of my calling, which is to right wrongs and come to the aid of
the wretched."

"But take note, your Grace," said Sancho, "that justice, that is to say,
the king himself, is not using any force upon, or doing any wrong to,
people like these, but is merely punishing them for the crimes they have
committed."

The chain of galley slaves had come up to them by this time, where-
upon Don Quixote very courteously requested the guards to inform
him of the reason or reasons why they were conducting these people in
such a manner as this. One of the men on horseback then replied that
the men were prisoners who had been condemned by his Majesty to
serve in the galleys, whither they were bound, and that was all there was
to be said about it and all that he, Don Quixote, need know.

"Nevertheless," said the latter, "I should like to inquire of each one
of them, individually, the cause of his misfortune." And he went on
speaking so very politely in an effort to persuade them to tell him what
he wanted to know that the other mounted guard finally said, "Although
we have here the record and certificate of sentence of each one of these
wretches, we have not the time to get them out and read them to you;
and so your Grace may come over and ask the prisoners themselves, and
they will tell you if they choose, and you may be sure that they will, for
these fellows take a delight in their knavish exploits and in boasting of
them afterward."

With this permission, even though he would have done so if it had
not been granted him, Don Quixote went up to the chain of prisoners
and asked the first whom he encountered what sins had brought him to
so sorry a plight. The man replied that it was for being a lover that he
found himself in that line.

"For that and nothing more?" said Don Quixote. "And do they, then,
send lovers to the galleys? If so, I should have been rowing there long
ago.

"But it was not the kind of love that your Grace has in mind," the
prisoner went on. "I loved a wash basket full of white linen so well and
hugged it so tightly that, if they had not taken it away from me by force,
I would never of my own choice have let go of it to this very minute. I
was caught in the act, there was no need to torture me, the case was soon
disposed of, and they supplied me with a hundred lashes across the
shoulders and, in addition, a three-year stretch200 in the gurapas, and that's
all there is to tell."

"What are gurapas?" asked Don Quixote.

"Gurapas are the galleys," replied the prisoner. He was a lad of around
twenty-four and stated that he was a native of Piedrahita.

The knight then put the same question to a second man, who appeared
td be very downcast and melancholy and did not have a word to say. The
first man answered for him.

"This one, sir," he said, "is going as a canary--I mean, as a musician
and singer."

"How is that?" Don Quixote wanted to know. "Do musicians and
singers go to the galleys too?"

"Yes, sir; and there is nothing worse than singing when you're in
trouble."

"On the contrary," said Don Quixote, "I have heard it said that he who
sings frightens away his sorrows."201

"It is just the opposite," said the prisoner; "for he who sings once weeps
all his life long."

"I do not understand," said the knight.

One of the guards then explained. "Sir Knight, with this non sancta
tribe, to sing when you're in trouble means to confess under torture.202
This sinner was put to the torture and confessed his crime, which was
that of being a cuatrero, or cattle thief, and as a result of his confession
he was condemned to six years in the galleys in addition to two hundred
lashes which he took on his shoulders; and so it is he is always downcast
and moody, for the other thieves, those back where he came from and
the ones here, mistreat, snub, ridicule, and despise him for having con-
fessed and for not having had the courage to deny his guilt. They are
in the habit of saying that the word no has the same number of letters as
the word si,203 and that a culprit is in luck when his life or death depends on
his own tongue and not that of witnesses or upon evidence; and, in my
opinion, they are not very far wrong."

"And I," said Don Quixote, "feel the same way about it." He then went
on to a third prisoner and repeated his question.

The fellow answered at once, quite unconcernedly. "I'm going to
in)r ladies, the gurapas, for five years, for the lack of five ducats."

"I would gladly give twenty," said Don Quixote, "to get you out of
this."

"That," said the prisoner, "reminds me of the man in the middle of the
ocean who has money and is dying of hunger because there is no place
to buy what he needs. I say this for the reason that if I had had, at the
right time, those twenty ducats your Grace is now offering me, I'd have
greased the notary's quill and freshened up the attorney's wit with them,
and I'd now be living in the middle of Zocodover Square in Toledo in-
stead of being here on this highway coupled like a greyhound. But God
is great; patience, and that's enough of it."

Don Quixote went on to a fourth prisoner, a venerable-looking old
fellow with a white beard that fell over his bosom. When asked how he
came to be there, this one began weeping and made no reply, but a fifth
comrade spoke up in his behalf.

"This worthy man," he said, "is on his way to the galleys after having
made the usual rounds clad in a robe of state and on horseback."204

"That means, I take it," said Sancho, "that he has been put to shame
in public."

"That is it," said the prisoner, "and the offense for which he is being
punished is that of having been an ear broker, or, better, a body broker.
By that I mean to say, in short, that the gentleman is a pimp, and besides,
he has his points as a sorcerer."

"If that point had not been thrown in," said Don Quixote, "he would
not deserve, for merely being a pimp, to have to row in the galleys, but
rather should be the general and give orders there. For the office of pimp
is not an indifferent one; it is a function to be performed by persons of
discretion and is most necessary in a well-ordered state; it is a profession
that should be followed only by the wellborn, and there should, more-
over, be a supervisor or examiner as in the case of other offices, and the
number of practitioners should be fixed by law as is done with brokers on
the exchange. In that way many evils would be averted that arise when
this office is filled and this calling practiced by stupid folk and those with
little sense, such as silly women and pages or mountebanks with few years
and less experience to their credit, who, on the most pressing occasions,
when it is necessary to use one's wits, let the crumbs freeze between their
hand and their mouth205 and do not know which is their right hand and
which is the left

"I would go on and give reasons why it is fitting to choose carefully
those who are to fulfill so necessary a state function, but this is not the
place for it. One of these days I will speak of the matter to someone who
is able to do something about it. I will say here only that the pain I felt
at seeing those white hairs and this venerable countenance in such a
plight, and all for his having been a pimp, has been offset for me by the
additional information you have given me, to the effect that he is a
sorcerer as well; for I am convinced that there are no sorcerers in the
world who can move and compel the will, as some simple-minded persons
think, but that our will is free and no herb or charm can force it. All
that certain foolish women and cunning tricksters do is to compound
a few mixtures and poisons with which they deprive men of their
senses while pretending that they have the power to make them loved,
although, as I have just said, one cannot affect another's will in that man-
ner."206

"That is so," said the worthy old man; "but the truth is, sir, I am not
guilty on the sorcery charge. As for being a pimp, that is something I
cannot deny. I never thought there was any harm in it, however, my
only desire being that everyone should enjoy himself and live in peace
and quiet, without any quarrels or troubles. But these good intentions on
my part cannot prevent me from going where I do not want to go, to a
place from which I do not expect to return; for my years are heavy upon
me and an affection of the urine that I have will not give me a moment's
rest"

With this, he began weeping once more, and Sancho was so touched
by it that he took a four-real piece from his bosom and gave it to him
as an act of charity.

Don Quixote then went on and asked another what his offense was.
The fellow answered him, not with less, but with much more, briskness
than the preceding one had shown.

"I am here," he said, "for the reason that I carried a joke too far with
a couple of cousins-german of mine and a couple of others who were not
mine, and I ended by jesting with all of them to such an extent that the
devil207 himself would never be able to straighten out the relationship.
They proved everything on me, there was no one to show me favor, I
had no money, I came near swinging for it, they sentenced me to the
galleys for six years, and I accepted the sentence as the punishment that
was due me. I am young yet, and if I live long enough, everything will
come out all right. If, Sir Knight, your Grace has anything with which
to aid these poor creatures that you see before you, God will reward you
in Heaven, and we here on earth will make it a point to ask God in our
prayers to grant you long life and good health, as long and as good as
your amiable presence deserves."

This man was dressed as a student, and one of the guards told Don
Quixote that he was a great talker and a very fine Latinist.

Back of these came a man around thirty years of age and of very good
appearance, except that when he looked at you his eyes were seen to be
a little crossed. He was shackled in a different manner from the others,
for he dragged behind him a chain so huge that it was wrapped all around
his body, with two rings at the throat, one of which was attached to
the chain while the other was fastened to what is known as a keep-friend
or friend's foot, from which two irons hung down to his waist, ending
in handcuffs secured by a heavy padlock in such a manner that he could
neither raise his hands to his mouth nor lower his head to reach his hands.

When Don Quixote asked why this man was so much more heavily
chained than the others, the guard replied that it was because he had
more crimes against him than all the others put together, and he was so
bold and cunning that, even though they had him chained like this, they
were by no means sure of him but feared that he might escape from them.

"What crimes could he have committed," asked the knight, "if he has
merited a punishment no greater than that of being sent to the galleys?"

"He is being sent there for ten years," replied the guard, "and that is
equivalent to civil death. I need tell you no more than that this good man
is the famous Gines de Pasamonte, otherwise known as Ginesillo de
Parapilla."

"Senor Commissary," spoke up the prisoner at this point, "go easy there
and let us not be so free with names and surnames. My just name is Gines
and not Ginesillo; and Pasamonte, not Parapilla as you make it out to
be, is my family name. Let each one mind his own affairs and he will have
his hands full."

"Speak a little more respectfully, you big thief, you," said the commis-
sary, "unless you want me to make you be quiet in a way you won't
like."

"Man goes as God pleases,208 that is plain to be seen," replied the galley
slave, "but someday someone will know whether my name is Ginesillo
de Parapilla or not."

"But, you liar, isn't that what they call you?"

"Yes," said Gines, "they do call me that; but I'll put a stop to it, or else
I'll skin their you-know-what. And you, sir, if you have anything to give
us give it and may God go with you, for I am tired of all this prying into
other people's lives. If you want to know anything about my life, know
that I am Gines de Pasamonte whose life story has been written down
by these fingers that you see here."

"He speaks the truth," said the commissary, "for he has himself written
his story, as big as you please, and has left the book in the prison, having
pawned it for two hundred reales."

"And I mean to redeem it," said Gines, "even if it costs me two hun-
dred ducats."

"Is it as good as that?" inquired Don Quixote.

"It is so good," replied Gines, "that it will cast into the shade Lazarillo
de Tormes209 and all others of that sort that have been or will be written.
What I would tell you is that it deals with facts, and facts so interesting
and amusing that no lies could equal them."

"And what is the title of the book?" asked Don Quixote.

"The Life of Gines de Fasamonte"

"Is it finished?"

"How could it be finished," said Gines, "when my life is not finished
as yet? What I have written thus far is an account of what happened to
me from the time I was born up to the last time that they sent me to the
galleys."

"Then you have been there before?"

"In the service of God and the king I was there four years, and I
know what the biscuit and the cowhide are like. I don't mind going very
much, for there I will have a chance to finish my book. I still have many
things to say, and in the Spanish galleys I shall have all the leisure that
I need, though I don't need much, since I know by heart what it is I
want to write."

"You seem to be a clever fellow," said Don Quixote.

"And an unfortunate one," said Gines; "for misfortunes always pursue
men of genius."

"They pursue rogues," said the commissary.

"I have told you to go easy, Senor Commissary," said Pasamonte, "for
their Lordships did not give you that staff in order that you might mis-
treat us poor devils with it, but they intended that you should guide and
conduct us in accordance with his Majesty's command. Otherwise, by
the life of? But enough. It may be that someday the stains made in the
inn will come out in the wash. Meanwhile, let everyone hold his tongue,
behave well, and speak better, and let us be on our way. We've had
enough of this foolishness."

At this point the commissary raised his staff as if to let Pasamonte have
it in answer to his threats, but Don Quixote placed himself between them
and begged the officer not to abuse the man; for it was not to be won-
dered at if one who had his hands so bound should be a trifle free with
his tongue. With this, he turned and addressed them all.

"From all that you have told me, my dearest brothers," he said, "one
thing stands out clearly for me, and that is the fact that, even though it
is a punishment for offenses which you have committed, the penalty you
are about to pay is not greatly to your liking and you are going to the
galleys very much against your own will and desire. It may be that the
lack of spirit which one of you displayed under torture, the lack of
money on the part of another, the lack of influential friends, or, finally,
warped judgment on the part of the magistrate, was the thing that led to
your downfall; and, as a result, justice was not done you. All of which
presents itself to my mind in such a fashion that I am at this moment
engaged in trying to persuade and even force myself to show you what
the purpose was for which Heaven sent me into this world, why it was
it led me to adopt the calling of knighthood which I profess and take the
knightly vow to favor the needy and aid those who are oppressed by the
powerful.

"However, knowing as I do that it is not the part of prudence to do
by foul means what can be accomplished by fair ones, I propose to ask
these gentlemen, your guards, and the commissary to be so good as to
unshackle you and permit you to go in peace. There will be no dearth of
others to serve his Majesty under more propitious circumstances; and it
does not appear to me to be just to make slaves of those whom God
created as free men. What is more, gentlemen of the guard, these poor
fellows have committed no offense against you. Up there, each of us will
have to answer for his own sins; for God in Heaven will not fail to
punish the evil and reward the good; and it is not good for self-respecting
men to be executioners of their fellow-men in something that does not
concern them. And so, I ask this of you, gently and quietly, in order
that, if you comply with my request, I shall have reason to thank you;
and if you do not do so of your own accord, then this lance and this
sword and the valor of my arm shall compel you to do it by force."

"A fine lot of foolishness!" exclaimed the commissary. "So he comes
out at last with this nonsense! He would have us let the prisoners of the
king go free, as if we had any authority to do so or he any right to com-
mand it! Be on your way, sir, at once; straighten that basin that you
have on your head, and do not go looking for three feet on a cat."210

"You," replied Don Quixote, "are the cat and the rat and the rascal!"
And, saying this, he charged the commissary so quickly that the latter
had no chance to defend himself but fell to the ground badly wounded
by the lance blow. The other guards were astounded by this unexpected
occurrence; but, recovering their self-possession, those on horseback
drew their swords,211 those on foot leveled their javelins, and all bore
down on Don Quixote, who stood waiting for them very calmly. Things
undoubtedly would have gone badly for him if the galley slaves, seeing
an opportunity to gain their freedom, had not succeeded in breaking the
chain that linked them together. Such was the confusion that the guards,
now running to fall upon the prisoners and now attacking Don Quixote,
who in turn was attacking them, accomplished nothing that was of any
use.

Sancho for his part aided Gines de Pasamonte to free himself, and
that individual was the first to drop his chains and leap out onto the
field, where, attacking the fallen commissary, he took away that officer's
sword and musket; and as he stood there, aiming first at one and then at
another, though without firing, the plain was soon cleared of guards, for
they had taken to their heels, fleeing at once Pasamonte 's weapon and
the stones which the galley slaves, freed now, were hurling at them.
Sancho, meanwhile, was very much disturbed over this unfortunate
event, as he felt sure that the fugitives would report the matter to the
Holy Brotherhood, which, to the ringing of the alarm bell, would come
out to search for the guilty parties. He said as much to his master, telling
him that they should leave at once and go into hiding in the near-by
mountains.

"That is all very well," said Don Quixote, "but I know what had best
be done now." He then summoned all the prisoners, who, running riot,
had by this time despoiled the commissary of everything that he had,
down to his skin, and as they gathered around to hear what he had to
say, he addressed them as follows:

"It is fitting that those who are wellborn should give thanks for the
benefits they have received, and one of the sins with which God is most
offended is that of ingratitude. I say this, gentlemen, for the reason that
you have seen and had manifest proof of what you owe to me; and now
that you are free of the yoke which I have removed from about your
necks, it is my will and desire that you should set out and proceed to the
city of El Toboso and there present yourselves before the lady Dulcinea
del Toboso and say to her that her champion, the Knight of the Mourn-
ful Countenance, has sent you; and then you will relate to her, point by
point, the whole of this famous adventure which has won you your
longed-for freedom. Having done that, you may go where you like, and
may good luck go with you."

To this Gines de Pasamonte replied in behalf of all of them, "It is
absolutely impossible, your Grace, our liberator, for us to do what you
have commanded. We cannot go down the highway all together but
must separate and go singly, each in his own direction, endeavoring to
hide ourselves in the bowels of the earth in order not to be found by the
Holy Brotherhood, which undoubtedly will come out to search for us.
What your Grace can do, and it is right that you should do so, is to
change this service and toll that you require of us in connection with
the lady Dulcinea del Toboso into a certain number of Credos and Hail
Marys which we will say for your Grace's intention, as this is some-
thing that can be accomplished by day or night, fleeing or resting, in
peace or in war. To imagine, on the other hand, that we are going to
return to the fleshpots of Egypt, by which I mean, take up our chains
again by setting out along the highway for El Toboso, is to believe that
it is night now instead of ten o'clock in the morning and is to ask of us
something that is the same as asking pears of the elm tree."212

"Then by all that's holy!" exclaimed Don Quixote, whose wrath was
now aroused, "you, Don Son of a Whore, Don Ginesillo de Parapilla, or
whatever your name is, you shall go alone, your tail between your legs
and the whole chain on your back."

Pasamonte, who was by no means a long-suffering individual, was by
this time convinced that Don Quixote was not quite right in the head,
seeing that he had been guilty of such a folly as that of desiring to free
them; and so, when he heard himself insulted in this manner, he merely
gave the wink to his companions and, going off to one side, began raining
so many stones upon the knight that the latter was wholly unable to
protect himself with his buckler, while poor Rocinante paid no more
attention to the spur than if he had been made of brass. As for Sancho,
he took refuge behind his donkey as a protection against the cloud and
shower of rocks that was falling on both of them, but Don Quixote was
not able to shield himself so well, and there is no telling how many struck
his body, with such force as to unhorse and bring him to the ground.

No sooner had he fallen than the student was upon him. Seizing the
basin from the knight's head, he struck him three or four blows with it
across the shoulders and banged it against the ground an equal number of
times until it was fairly shattered to bits. They then stripped Don Quixote
of the doublet which he wore over his armor, and would have taken his
hose as well, if his greaves had not prevented them from doing so, and
made off with Sancho's greatcoat, leaving him naked; after which, divid-
ing the rest of the battle spoils amongst themselves, each of them went his
own way, being a good deal more concerned with eluding the dreaded
Holy Brotherhood than they were with burdening themselves with a
chain or going to present themselves before the lady Dulcinea del
Toboso.

They were left alone now--the ass and Rocinante, Sancho and Don
Quixote: the ass, crestfallen and pensive, wagging its ears now and then,
being under the impression that the hurricane of stones that had raged
about them was not yet over; Rocinante, stretched alongside his master,
for the hack also had been felled by a stone; Sancho, naked and fearful
of the Holy Brotherhood; and Don Quixote, making wry faces at seeing
himself so mishandled by those to whom he had done so much good.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Of what happened to the famous Don Quixote in the Sierra
Morena, which is one of the rarest adventures related in this
true history.

Seeing himself so mistreated, Don Quixote remarked to his squire,
"Always, Sancho, I have heard it said that to do good to boors is to pour
water into the sea.213 Had I believed what you told me, this would not
have happened; but it is done now. Patience, and let us be warned from
now on."

"If your Grace takes warning," said Sancho, "then I am a Turk; but
since you say that all this might have been avoided if you had believed
me, why not believe me now and so avoid a worse misfortune? For I must
inform you that the Holy Brotherhood does not observe the customs
of chivalry; they would not give a couple of maravedis for all the
knights-errant that there are--do you know, I think I can already hear
their arrows whizzing past my ears."

"You, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "are a natural-born coward; but
in order that you may not be able to say that I am obstinate and never
do what you advise, for this once I am going to take your advice and
withdraw to a place where that fury you so dread cannot reach us. Upon
one condition, however: you are never, in life or in death, to say to any-
one that I retired and withdrew from this danger out of fear, but only
by way of yielding to your entreaties. If you say anything else, you will
be lying, and from now until then and from then until now I shall give
you the lie, and say that you lie and will lie, every time that you think or
say anything of the sort. Give me no further words; for at the very
thought that I am withdrawing and retiring from some danger, and es-
pecially from this present one, which, I admit, does carry with it the
shadow of fear--at the very thought of such a thing, I am all for remain-
ing here and waiting alone, not only for that terrible Holy Brotherhood
of which you are all the time talking, but for the twelve tribes of Israel
and the seven Maccabees and for Castor and Pollux and all the brothers
and brotherhoods that there are in this world."

"Sir," replied Sancho, "to retire is not to flee, nor would remaining here
be an act of prudence on your part. Where danger outweighs hope, wise
men save themselves for the morrow and do not venture all upon a single
day. For you may know that, although I am but an ignorant countryman,
I have a little of what they call good sense. And so, do not repent of hav-
ing taken my advice, but mount Rocinante if you can, and if you cannot
I will help you, and then follow me. My noodle tells me that we have
more need of feet than we do of hands just now."

Without another word Don Quixote mounted his hack, and with Sancho
leading the way upon his donkey they set out in the direction of the
near-by Sierra Morena, it being Sancho's intention to cross the range
and come out at El Viso or Almoddvar del Campo, where they would
hide for a few days among the crags, in case the Brotherhood came look-
ing for them. He was encouraged in this purpose when he discovered
that the stock of provisions they carried with them upon the ass's back
had emerged safely from the fray with the galley slaves, and this he
looked upon as little less than a miracle in view of the manner in which
they had pillaged and plundered everything else.

[By the time darkness fell214 they had reached the heart of the highlands,
where Sancho thought it would be a good thing for them to spend the
night and a few days as well, at least as long as their supplies held out.
And so they came to a halt in a dense cork-tree grove between two cliffs;
and it was then that fate took a hand, fate which, according to those who
are not enlightened by the true gospel, directs everything. Fate now
directed and arranged things after its own fashion by ordaining that
Gines de Pasamonte, the famous rogue and thief who had been freed from
his chains by Don Quixote's mad but kindly whim, should come their
way again. Dreading the Holy Brotherhood, which he had good reason to
fear, Pasamonte, also, had decided to hide out in these mountains, and fate
and his fear brought him to the very same part of the highlands where the
knight and Sancho Panza were.

Arriving while it was light enough to recognize them, he let them fall
asleep; for as evildoers are always ungrateful, necessity prompting them
to misdeeds and with present advantage outweighing future gains, Gines,
who was neither grateful nor well intentioned, had made up his mind to
steal Sancho Panza's ass, not caring to bother with Rocinante since the
h&ck could neither be pawned nor sold with profit. Accordingly, while
Sancho slept, he drove the beast off, and by the time daylight came was
too far away to be found.

The dawn brought cheer to the earth but sadness to the heart of Sancho
Panza, who, when he discovered that his gray ass was missing, began
weeping so plaintively that Don Quixote was awakened by the sound.

"O son of my loins, born in my very house," he heard his squire ex-
claiming. "My children's playmate, joy of my wife, envy of my neigh-
bors, solace in my cares, and, finally, half-supporter of my person, since
the twenty-six maravedis that you earned each day met half of my ex-
penses!"

Hearing the weeping and learning the cause, the knight did what he
could to console Sancho. Begging him to be patient, he promised to give
him a letter directing that three out of five ass-colts215 that he had at home
be turned over to his squire to make up for the loss. Sancho was consoled
by this and, drying his tears and repressing his sobs, thanked his master
for this favor.]

Upon entering the mountains, Don Quixote felt glad at heart, for it
seemed to him that this was a place admirably adapted to the adventures
that he sought. It brought back to mind all the marvelous things which in
similar solitudes, amid surroundings such as these, had happened to
knights-errant of old, and he became so lost in thought and carried away
by his imaginings that he paid no heed to anything else. Nor did Sancho
have any other care--now that it seemed to him they were safe from
harm--than that of satisying his stomach with what remained of the
clerical spoils; and so he came behind his master with all that the ass
carried,216 emptying the bag and stuffing his paunch at the same time, and
he would not have given a penny for another adventure while he could
go along like that.

Glancing up and perceiving that the knight, having come to a halt,
was endeavoring to lift with the tip of his lance some bulky object that
lay on the ground, he at once hastened to offer his assistance in case it
should be needed. He arrived at Don Quixote's side just as the latter was
raising the object in question, which proved to be a saddle pad with a
valise attached to it, both of them half or wholly rotten and falling to
pieces. They weighed so much, however, that it was necessary for Sancho
to dismount and take them in his hands. The knight then told him to
see what was in the valise. Although it was secured by a chain and pad-
lock, it had so rotted away that its contents were visible through the
rents in the side, which revealed four fine cambric shirts and a number of
other curious articles made of linen and all very clean, while wrapped in
a handkerchief was a small pile of gold crowns.

"Thank Heaven," cried Sancho, "for providing us at last with a profit-
able adventure!" Looking further, he came upon a memorandum book,
richly bound. Don Quixote asked to have this but told his squire to keep
the money for himself. Out of gratitude for this favor, Sancho kissed his
master's hand; after which he removed the linen and stored it away in
the bag with the provisions.

"Do you know, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "it is my opinion--and
it cannot be otherwise? that some traveler must have lost his way in
these mountains and been set upon by robbers, who must have slain him
and then brought his body to this isolated spot to bury it."

"It can't be that," said Sancho, "for if they had been robbers, they
would not have left this money behind them."

"That is true," agreed Don Quixote; "and in that case I am sure I can-
not guess, nor have I any idea, what all this may mean. But wait a moment.
Let us see if in this little memorandum book there may not be something
written down that will enable us to make out what we wish to know."

He opened the book and the first thing he found in the way of writing
was the rough draft of a sonnet, in a very good hand; and in order that
Sancho might hear it, he read it aloud:

"Either Love, 'twould seem, lacks sensibility,
Or else 'tis over-cruel, or my poor heart
Is all unequal to its painful part,
Condemned to the direst torment there can be .
If Love is God, why, it is certain He
Knows all--that takes no casuistic art--
And He's not cruel. Where, then, does my grief start,
That grief I cherish so persistently--
To say that it is thou, Phyllis, were wrong;
So much of good and ill cannot abide
In the same body, nor is Heaven to blame.
One thing l know: I am not here for long;
He's a sick man indeed cannot decide
The Nature of his ill or whence it came."

"There is nothing much to be learned from that ballad," said Sancho,
"unless this thread leads to the yarn-ball of the whole matter."217

"What thread is that?" asked Don Quixote.

"I thought," said Sancho, "that your Grace said hilo."--218

"No, I did not say hilo, but Fili,"219 replied Don Quixote. "That is un-
doubtedly the name of the lady to whom this author addresses his lament;
and, upon my word, he must be a very fair poet or else I know nothing
about the art."220

"So," said Sancho, "your Grace knows something of ballad-making
too?"

"More than you think," said Don Quixote. "You will see that I do when
you carry a letter, written in verse from beginning to end, to my lady
Dulcinea del Toboso. For you must know, Sancho, that all or nearly all
knights-errant in ages past were great troubadours and musicians, both
these accomplishments, or, better, graces, being characteristic of love-
lorn and wandering men of arms, though I must admit that the verses of
those knights of old indicate more spirit than rhyming ability."

"Read on, your Grace, until you find something that will throw some
light on this matter."

"This," said Don Quixote, turning a page, "is prose and appears to
be a letter."

"A regular letter?" asked Sancho.

"The beginning seems to be all about love."

"Well, then, read it aloud, your Grace, for I am very fond of love
stories."

"With pleasure," said Don Quixote; and he read the following:

"Your false promise and my certain misfortune are taking me to a place
whence will come to your ears the news of my death. You have rejected
me, O ungrateful creature! for one who has more but is not worth more
than I. If virtue were esteemed wealth, I should not envy the fortune of
others nor weep for my own. That which your beauty raised up your
deeds have laid low. By reason of the former I believed you to be an
angel, and by reason of the latter I know you to be a woman. Be at peace,
you who have sent me to war, and may Heaven grant that the deceits of
your husband remain ever hidden, that you may not repent of what you
have done, and I take a vengeance that I do not desire.

"This," said Don Quixote, as he finished reading the letter, "throws
even less light on the subject than do the verses, beyond the fact that the
one who wrote it was a rejected lover."

Leafing nearly all the way through the little book, he came upon other
verses and letters, some of which he was able to read while others he could
not. They were filled, all of them, with complaints, laments, misgiv-
ings, expressions of joy and sadness, talk of favors granted and a suit re-
jected. Some were exalted in tone, others mournful. While Don Quixote
was going through the book, Sancho was doing the same with the valise;
there was not a corner of it, or of the saddle pad, that he did not search,
scrutinize, and pry into, not a seam that he did not rip out, not a tuft of
wool that he did not unravel, being determined to let nothing escape
him from want of care and proper pains, so great was the covetousness
that had been awakened in him by the crowns he had discovered, a hun-
dred or more of them all told. And although he found nothing more, he
still felt that the tossings in the blanket, the potion that he had drunk,
the benediction of the stakes, the mule driver's punches, the loss of his
saddlebags, the theft of his greatcoat,221 and all the hunger, thirst, and
weariness that he had known in his good master's service, had been amply
repaid by the finding of this treasure.

The Knight of the Mournful Countenance was extremely desirous of
knowing who the owner of the valise was; for from the sonnet and the
letter, the gold coins and the shirts of such good quality, he conjectured
that this must be an important personage, very much in love, who had
been led by the disdain his lady showed him and the ill treatment received
at her hands to commit some desperate act. But seeing that in this rugged,
uninhabitable place there was no one who might be able to give him the
information that he wanted, his only concern now was to go on, letting
Rocinante as usual choose the road to be followed, with the idea in mind
always that by so doing he could not fail to meet with some extraordinary
adventure there in those wilds.

As he rode along thinking of these things, he caught sight of a man
on top of a small mountain facing him who went leaping from cliff to
cliff and one tuft of underbrush to another with great agility. He had
the appearance of being naked or nearly so, with a thick black beard and
long tangled hair, his feet and lower legs bare, while his thighs were
covered with a pair of trousers which seemed to be of tawny-colored
velvet but which were so ragged that in many places the flesh was visible.
He wore nothing on his head, and although his movements, as has been
stated, were extremely swift, the Knight of the Mournful Countenance
had a chance to observe and make note of all the details mentioned. Al-
though he tried to follow the man, he was not able to do so, for Rocinante
was too weak to traverse such rough ground as that, being, moreover, by
nature slow-paced and phlegmatic.

At once Don Quixote conceived the idea that this must be the owner
of the saddle pad and valise, and he made up his mind that he would
hunt him down even if he had to spend a year in these mountains. And
so he directed Sancho to get down off his donkey222 and look on one side
of the mountain while he would look on the other, until they should meet,
and in this way it might be that they would be able to come upon the
individual who had fled so hastily from in front of their eyes.

"I could not do that," protested Sancho, "for when I leave your Grace's
side fear assaults me with a thousand different kinds of starts and visions.
And let what I am saying serve as a notice, for from now on I do not
intend to stir an inch from your presence."

"So be it," said the Knight of the Mournful Countenance. "I am very
glad that you wish to avail yourself of my courage, for it shall not fail
you even though your soul fails your body. Follow me closely, then, or
as best you can, and make lanterns of your eyes. Let us circle this ridge,
and perhaps we shall meet the one of whom we had a glimpse and who,
undoubtedly, cannot be any other than the owner of that treasure."

"It would be much better," said Sancho, "not to go looking for him; for
if we do find him and the money turns out to be his, I, of course, will
have to give it back to him; but it would be better, without all this fruit-
less search, for me just to keep it until by some other less meddlesome
and prying means we discover who the true owner is. And who knows,
by that time I may have spent it and the king will then cancel the debt
for me."

"You are wrong about that, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "for since
we already have in advance a well-founded suspicion as to who the real
owner is, we are obliged to seek him out and return the money. If we
do not do this, the strong suspicion that we have of his being the owner
renders us as guilty as if he were. And so, Sancho, do not let our search
for him give you any anxiety, for it will relieve mine if we find him."

So saying, he spurred Rocinante and rode off, followed by Sancho on
foot and heavily loaded down, thanks to Ginesillo de Pasamonte.223 When
they had rounded a part of the mountain, they came upon a mule, saddled
and bridled, lying dead in a brook and half devoured by dogs and jack-
daws; all of which confirmed them in the suspicion that the one who
had fled them was the owner of the mule and the saddle pad.

As they stood there looking at the mule they heard a whistle, as of
a shepherd tending his flock, and immediately thereafter, on their left
hand, there appeared a large number of goats. Behind the flock, on top
of the mountain, the figure of the goatherd, a very old man, now ap-
peared. Don Quixote called him to come down where they were. He
replied by shouting back at them the question as to what had brought
them to this one spot which was almost never trodden by any feet but
those of goats or wolves and other wild beasts. Sancho answered him,
saying that, if he would come down, they would give him an account
of everything.

The goatherd did so, and as he approached Don Quixote, he said, "I'll
wager that you are looking at that hack mule that lies dead in that hol-
low. Upon my word, it's been there for six months now. Tell me, did you
meet its owner anywhere?"

"We have met no one," replied Don Quixote. "All that we found was
a saddle pad and a small valise not far from here."

"I found it too," said the goatherd, "but I never wanted to pick it up
or go near it from fear of some bad luck or other, lest they charge me
with having stolen it; for the devil is a sly one, and from under a man's
feet things rise up to cause him to stumble and fall without knowing how
it comes about."

"That is what I say," Sancho told him. "I also found it and I wouldn't
come within a stone's throw of it; I left it there, and there it remains just
as it was. I don't want a dog with bells."224

"Tell me, my good man," said Don Quixote, "do you know who the
owner is?"

"All I know," said the old man, "is that six months ago, more or less,
there came to a sheepfold which is some three leagues from here a youth
of well-bred manners and appearance, mounted upon that same mule
that lies dead there and with the same saddle pad and valise which you
say you found and did not touch. He inquired of us which part of these
highlands was the most rugged and inaccessible, and we told him that it
was this part where we are now; which is indeed the truth, for if you
go half a league farther in, you will not be able to find your way out
I am wondering how you two ever came here, seeing that there is no
road or footpath that leads to this spot. But as I was saying, the youth
upon hearing our answer turned about and made for the site that we had
pointed out to him, leaving us all well pleased with the impression which
he by his appearance had made upon us, while at the same time we were
astonished at his question and the haste with which we had seen him turn
toward the mountains and ride away.

"We saw no more of him after that until a few days ago, when without
saying a word he fell upon one of our shepherds and began beating and
kicking him severely, after which he went up to the ass that carried our
supplies and took all the bread and cheese that he found there. Having
done this, with amazing swiftness he darted back to his mountain hiding
place. When some of us goatherds learned of what had happened, we
spent nearly two whole days in looking for him through the most densely
wooded part of this region, and at last we found him in the hollow of a
thick and sturdy cork tree. He came out and greeted us very mildly, his
clothing now in rags and his face burned and scarred by the sun to such an
extent that we should scarcely have recognized him if his garments, which
were familiar to us even though they were in shreds, had not served to
convince us that he was the man we sought.

"His greeting was a courteous one. In a few well-chosen words he told
us that we should not marvel at seeing him in this condition, for it was
by way of fulfilling a certain penance that had been laid upon him for
his many sins. We asked him if he would tell us who he was, but we did
not succeed in finding out his name. We also requested him, when he
was in need of food, which of course he must have, to let us know where
we would find him and we would be only too glad to bring it to him;
or if he did not care to do this, he should at least come and ask us for it
and not take it by force from the shepherds. He thanked us for our offer,
begged forgiveness for the assault he had committed, and promised that
from then on he would ask for what he wanted in the name of God, with-
out giving offense to anyone.

"As for his place of abode, he assured us that he had none, save such as
chance might offer when night overtook him; and he ended by weeping
so bitterly that we who heard him must have been made of stone if we
had not wept with him, as we compared the way he looked now with
that first sight we had had of him. For, as I have said, he was a very
pleasant-mannered youth, and his courtesy and agreeable way of speak-
ing showed him to be a person who was wellborn and well reared. Al-
though we were but countryfolk, his polite way of speaking was such
that it was not hard for us to grasp his meaning.

"As he was in the middle of his story, he stopped suddenly and fell
silent, fixing his eyes upon the ground for a good long while as we stood
there in suspense, waiting to see what the outcome of this fit of abstrac-
tion would be. We were more than a little sad as we gazed at him. He
would sit there for many minutes, staring down at the earth, his eyes
wide open and without batting a lash; and again he would close his eyes,
compress his lips, and arch his eyebrows, and we were then sure that some
kind of madness had come upon him. He soon convinced us that we were
right in thinking this. Rising furiously from the ground to which he had
fallen, he attacked the first person he encountered so boldly and in such a
rage that if we had not pulled him off, he would have slain his victim with
blows and bites. And as he did this he kept shouting, 'Ah, false Fernando!
Now, now you shall pay for the wrong you have done me! These hands
shall tear out your heart, abode and nesting place of every form of evil,
but, above all, of fraud and deceit! ' He had more to say, and it was all
against Fernando, whom he accused of faithlessness and betrayal.

"With considerable difficulty we forced him to release his hold on
our companion, and he then, without saying another word, ran off and
hid himself among the brambles and the underbrush, so that it would
have been impossible to follow him. This led us to surmise that his mad-
ness seized him at intervals, and that someone named Fernando must have
done him a very great wrong indeed to have brought him to such a pass;
all of which later was shown to be the truth, for he has often come up
to the shepherds, sometimes to request them to give him something to
eat, and at other times to take it from them by force. When the fit is
on him, even though they may offer him food of their own free will, he
will not accept it but will attack them with his fists and appropriate it;
but when he is in his right senses, he politely and with courteous phrases
begs it of them in God's name, thanking them profusely and shedding
not a few tears.

"The truth is, gentlemen," the goatherd went on, "that only yesterday
I and four other lads, two of them my servants and the other two my
friends, made up our minds to keep on looking for him until we found
him; and we vowed that when we did find him, we would take him, either
of his own free will or by force, to the town of Almoddvar, eight leagues
from here, and there would have him given a cure, if there be any cure for
his disease, or at least we would find out who he is when he is in his right
mind and whether or not he has any relatives that we might notify. This,
gentlemen, is all that I can tell you in answer to the question you have
asked me. You know now that the owner of those belongings is the same
one whom you saw running over the mountains so nimbly and so lightly
clad." For Don Quixote had told him of having glimpsed the man.

The knight marveled greatly at what he had just heard and was more
eager than ever to learn who the poor madman was, being resolved now
to carry out his first intention, which was that of seeking for him all
over the mountain without leaving a corner or a cave unsearched until
he had found him. Fate, however, arranged matters for him better than
he could have hoped or expected, for at that very instant the youth whom
he sought emerged from a ravine near where they stood and came
toward them, muttering something to himself that could not be under-
stood when one was close upon him, much less from a distance. His
costume was such as has been described, except that, as he approached,
Don Quixote noticed that the ragged doublet he wore was amber-
scented,225 which indicated that a person who wore clothes of such quality
could not be of the lowest rank.

As the youth came up, he greeted them in a hoarse, discordant voice,
but very courteously. Don Quixote returned his salutation no less politely,
and, dismounting from Rocinante, he gently and gracefully went over
and embraced the young man, holding him tightly in his arms for some
little while, as if he had known him for a long time. The Ragged One of
the Sickly Countenance, as we may call him? just as Don Quixote is
the Knight of the Mournful Countenance? after permitting himself to
be embraced, fell back a step or two and laid his hands upon Don
Quixote's shoulders as if to see whether or not he knew him; for it may be
that he was no less astonished at beholding the knight's face, figure, and
suit of armor than the knight was at seeing him. To make a long story
short, the first to speak was the Ragged One, and what he had to say will
be set forth in the following pages.

CHAPTER XXIV.

In which is continued the adventure of the Sierra Morena.

The history tells us that Don Quixote listened to the Knight of the
Mountain most attentively.

"Although I do not know you, sir," the latter went on, "I certainly
thank you for the courtesy that you have shown me, and I only wish
that I were in a position to repay with something more than good will
the kind reception you have accorded me, but fate has given me nothing
with which I might suitably requite your favors except the desire to do
so.

"My own desire," said Don Quixote, "is to be of service to you, and
it was for this reason that I resolved not to leave these highlands until I
had found you and learned from your own lips if any remedy was to
be found for the sorrow that, from the strange way of life you lead, ap-
pears to beset you. I accordingly had meant to leave no stone unturned
in searching for you, had a search been necessary. Even though your
misfortune might be of that kind that closes the door on any sort of
consolation, I would, I thought, weep with you and share your grief in
so far as I could. For when one is in trouble, it is consoling to find some
person who can feel with one the weight of one's misfortunes.

"But if my good intentions do deserve to be repaid with any of that
courtesy that I see you possess in so high a degree, I would beg you,
sir, by all in this life that you love or have loved, to tell me who you are
and what it is that has brought you to live and die like a brute beast amid
these solitudes, for your person and your bearing show that the life you
now lead is one that is alien to you. And I further swear, by the order
of knighthood which I, though unworthy and a sinner, have received,
and by my profession of knight-errant, that if you accede to my request,
I will serve you in accordance with those obligations that I have assumed,
either by helping you if there is any help to be had, or by weeping with
yqu as I have promised."

The Knight of the Wood, upon hearing the Knight of the Mournful
Countenance speak in this manner, could only stare at him long and
hard, surveying him from head to foot, and it was not until after he had
studied him intently that he replied.

"If you have anything that you can give me to eat," he said, "for the
love of God, let me have it, for I have had nothing since yesterday. Give
me food, and I will do all that you command, out of gratitude for your
good intentions toward me."

Sancho then brought out from his bag, and the shepherd from his
pouch, sufficient food to satisfy the Ragged One's hunger. The man ate
like one who is stupefied, with no time between mouthfuls, gulping down
the victuals rather than swallowing them. Meanwhile, the others watched
him, saying nothing. When he had finished, he made signs for them to
follow him, which they did. He then led them around the corner of a
cliff to a little plot of green not far from there and dropped down upon
the grass. The others did the same, and not a word was spoken by any of
them until the Ragged One had settled himself to his liking.

"If, gentlemen," he said to them then, "you would like me to tell you
briefly how enormous the misfortunes are that I have suffered, you must
promise me that you will not interrupt with questions, or in any other
manner, the thread of my mournful tale, for the moment you do so it will
come to an end."

This remark reminded Don Quixote of the story his squire had told
him, when the knight had been unable to remember the number of goats
that had crossed the river and the tale had been left hanging in the air.
But to come back to the Ragged One--

"If I make this stipulation," the latter continued, "it is for the reason
that I desire to relate my misfortunes as briefly as I can, since the telling
of them serves only to bring me fresh sorrows; and so, the fewer questions
you ask of me the sooner I shall be done, it being understood, of course,
that I shall leave out nothing of importance such as you might wish to
know."

Don Quixote promised in the name of the others, and with this assur-
ance, the Ragged One began.

"My name is Cardenio, my birthplace one of the finest cities in this
province of Andalusia,226 my lineage noble, my parents rich, my misfor-
tune so great that my kin must have wept and grieved over it, without
being able to alleviate it with their wealth; for when it comes to remedy-
ing the ills that Heaven sends us, the gifts of fortune are of little avail.
In that same country there lived one who was Heaven to me, a Heaven
that held all the glory I could desire. Such was the beauty of Luscinda,
a damsel noble and rich as I, but more fortunate and with less constancy
than was due to such a passion as mine. From my first and tenderest years
I had loved, longed for, and adored this Luscinda, and she had cared for
me with her simple, innocent, childlike heart. Our parents knew how we
felt toward each other and were not disturbed, for they saw that later on
our youthful affection must surely lead to marriage, a thing that was
altogether fitting in view of the fact that our wealth and lineage were
so evenly matched. As we grew older our love grew to such an extent
that Luscinda's father felt obliged, out of respect for the conventions, to
forbid me his house, thus imitating the example set him by the parents of
that Thisbe so celebrated by the poets.

"This denial merely added flame to flame and desire to desire; for even
though tongues may be silenced, pens cannot be, and the latter with more
freedom than the former can make known to a loved one that which is
locked in the heart, since very often the presence of the loved object
disturbs the firmest resolution and ties the boldest tongue. Ah, good
Heaven, how many letters I wrote her! How many charmingly modest
answers did I receive! How many love verses did I compose in which
my heart declared and translated its feelings, painted its kindled desires,
feasted on its memories, and re-created its passion. In short, seeing my-
self wasting away like that, my soul consumed with longing to behold her,
l determined to go through with what appeared to me to be the best plan
for winning the prize that I coveted and deserved: I would ask her father
for her hand in lawful wedlock; and this I did. He replied, thanking me
for the honor I had shown him by telling him that I should feel honored
in receiving such a treasure from him; but he added that, inasmuch as
my own father was still alive, it was only right that he and not I should
make this request, and if it was not my father's will and pleasure, then
Luscinda was not a woman to be taken or given by stealth.

"I thanked him for his kindness, for it seemed to me that he was right,
and I felt sure, as I have said, that my father would give his consent. I ac-
cordingly lost no time in going to my parent to make my wishes known
to him. When I entered the room where he was, I found him with an open
letter in his hand, and before I could say a word he began addressing me.
‘From this letter, Cardenio,' he said, ‘you will see how ready the Duke
Ricardo is to do you a favor.' Now, this Duke Ricardo, as you gentle-
men should know, is a Grandee of Spain whose estate lies in the best
part of this province of Andalusia. I took the letter and read it, and the
offer contained in it was so flattering a one that I myself felt my father
would have done wrong in not accepting it; for the duke proposed that
I should be sent to be the companion, not the servant, of his eldest son,
agreeing to see to it that I should be provided for in accordance with that
esteem in which he held me. I read the epistle and was silent, especially
when I heard my father saying, ‘You will be leaving in two days, Car-
denio, to do as the duke desires; and I thank God that the way is now
being opened for you to attain that which I know should be yours by
merit.' To which he added other words of fatherly advice.

"As the time for my departure drew near, I spoke to Luscinda one night
and told her all that had happened, and I also had a word with her father,
begging him to wait a few days and not dispose of her hand until I could
find out what Duke Ricardo wished of me. He promised, and she con-
firmed it with a thousand oaths and swoons. I then went to the duke's
place and was so well received and treated that envy at once began to do
its work, the old servants feeling that their master's eagerness to do me
favors was to their own detriment. But the one who was most delighted
by my arrival was the duke's second son, named Fernando, a gallant lad
of gentle breeding, generous and loving by nature, who within a short
while became so great a friend of mine that everyone was talking about
it. Although the eldest son liked me well enough and was very kind to
me, he did not treat me with the extreme show of affection that Fernando
did.

"Between friends there is no secret that is not shared, and as my inti-
macy with Fernando grew into friendship, he told me all that was on
his mind, one of his special confidences having to do with a love affair
that was giving him some concern. He was enamored of a peasant lass,
one of his father's vassals, whose parents were very rich and who was
so beautiful, modest, virtuous, and discreet that none could say in which
of these virtues she excelled or which outweighed the others. These good
qualities on the part of the girl raised Fernando's desires to such a pitch
that in order to possess her he determined to give her his word to marry
her, since it was impossible to get what he wanted in any other way. I
as his friend felt obliged to restrain and dissuade him from doing this,
with the best arguments and most striking examples that I could find;
and when I saw that my efforts were in vain, I decided to lay the matter
before Duke Ricardo, his father.

"Don Fernando, however, being very clever and astute, feared and
dreaded this, knowing that as a good servant I was bound to keep nothing
hidden that might be prejudicial to the honor of my lord the duke; and,
accordingly, by way of distracting and deceiving me, he told me that he
could think of no better means of forgetting the beauty that so enslaved
him than to absent himself for a few months, and he suggested that the
two of us go to my father's house, under the pretext, which he would give
to the duke, that he wished to buy a few of the very fine horses that are to
be found in my city, which produces the best in the world.

"Upon hearing him say this I was pleased, since even if his resolve had
not been so good a one, I still should have looked upon it as one of the
most praiseworthy that could be conceived, inasmuch as it would provide
me with a fine occasion and opportunity to see my Luscinda once again.
With this thought in mind and animated by my own amorous desires, I
approved his judgment and urged him to go through with the plan, tell-
ing him that he should set about it as soon as possible and assuring him
that absence had its effect in spite of the firmest of attachments. But
at the very time he told me this story, as I afterward learned, he had
already had the peasant girl through a promise of marriage and was
only waiting for a chance to reveal it with safety to himself, being fearful
of what the duke his father would do when he learned of his son's foolish
conduct.

"Now, love with young lads is for the most part nothing more than
appetite whose ultimate aim is pleasure, and once that aim has been
achieved, love disappears, being unable to pass beyond the bounds as-
signed it by nature, which on the other hand sets no limit to true love;
and so it was that, once Don Fernando had had his way with the peasant
lass, his desires were appeased and his ardor cooled, and if he pretended
that he wished to go away in order to be cured of his love, it was in
reality that he might not have to keep his promise. In any case, the duke
having granted his permission and directed me to accompany his son,
we came to my city, and Fernando was received by my father in a manner
befitting his rank. I then saw Luscinda once more, and although they
had never been dead or even deadened, my desires began to live again.
To my sorrow, I took Fernando into my confidence, as it seemed to me
that, by reason of the great friendship he had shown me, I ought to con-
ceal nothing from him. I praised Luscinda's beauty, grace, and modesty
until my words aroused in him the desire to see a young woman adorned
with so many good qualities.

"Most unfortunately, I yielded to his wishes and showed her to him
one night by the light of a candle at a window where we were accus-
tomed to converse. As she appeared to him in her loose-flowing robe, she
at once caused him to forget all the beauties that he had thus far seen. He
was struck dumb and stood there in a daze as if he had lost his senses. In
brtef, as you will see in the course of my story, he had fallen in love with
her. His passion, which he hid from me and revealed only to Heaven, was
still further inflamed when, as chance would have it, he found one day a
letter of hers begging me to ask her father to give her to me in marriage,
a letter so modest and discreet and yet so filled with love that upon reading
it he assured me that in Luscinda and in her alone were to be found all
the grace, beauty, and wit that are divided among the other women of
the world.

"As I heard Don Fernando bestowing such well-merited praise upon
her, I must confess that I was disturbed and began to fear and distrust him,
for not a moment went by without his wishing to speak of her and he
would so direct the conversation as to drag her name into it somehow
or other. This awakened in me a spark of jealousy, not because I doubted
Luscinda's loyalty and virtue, but for the reason that, despite the trust
that she inspired, I dreaded what fortune might have in store for me. Don
Fernando always contrived to read the notes that I sent her and those that
I received from her in reply, under pretense that he greatly enjoyed the
wit that each of us displayed. And then it came about that Luscinda asked
me for a book of chivalry to read, one of which she was very fond, the
Amadis of Gaul--"

No sooner did he hear a book of chivalry mentioned than Don Quixote
spoke up. "Had your Grace told me," he said, "at the beginning of your
story that Senora Luscinda was fond of books of that sort, it would not
have been necessary for you to add anything more in order to give me
an idea of her superior qualities of mind; for I must say that I should not
have found her all that you, sir, have painted her as being if she had lacked
the taste for such pleasant reading as that. Consequently, so far as I am
concerned, it is not necessary to waste any more words in assuring me of
her beauty, worth, and understanding, since merely upon hearing of this
preference of hers, I set her down as the most beautiful and modest
woman that there is. I could only wish, sir, that along with the Amadis of
Gaul you had sent her the worthy Don Rugel of Greece,227 for I am sure
the lady Luscinda would have liked Daraida and Garaya very much and
would have enjoyed the shrewd observations of the shepherd Darinel228
and those admirable Bucolics of his as sung and recited by himself; but
all this can be remedied in time if your Grace will but come with me to
my village, for there I can give you more than three hundred books which
are the delight of my soul and the solace of my life--but come to think
of it, I have not a single one left, thanks to certain evil and envious en-
chanters who robbed me of them.

"Pardon me, your Grace, if I have broken my promise not to interrupt
your story, for in hearing of knights-errant and deeds of chivalry I can
no more refrain from speaking of such things than the rays of the sun
can help giving heat or those of the moon moisture. And so, forgive me
and continue, for that is what matters now."

As Don Quixote was saying all this, Cardenio's head had sunk to his
bosom and he gave evidence of being deeply lost in thought. Although
the knight twice requested him to go on with his story, he did not raise his
head nor utter a word in reply. Finally, however, after a good while, he
did so.

"I cannot rid myself of the thought," he said, "nor will anyone in the
world ever be able to rid me of it or make me believe anything else--
indeed, he would be a blockhead who believed the contrary--no, I am
convinced that great villain of an Elisabat was living in adultery with the
Queen Madasima?"

"That," replied Don Quixote in high dudgeon, "is not true, I swear it
is not!" And he turned upon him angrily as he always did in such cases.
"That is pure malice, or, better, a most villainous assertion. The Queen
Madasima was an illustrious lady, and it is not to be presumed that a
princess of her high birth would commit adultery with a quack. Whoever
says that she would lies like a villain himself, and I will give him so to
understand, mounted or on foot, armed or unarmed, day or night, as he
may prefer?"

Cardenio was now staring attentively at the knight, for his madness
had come upon him again and he was in no condition to go on with his
story, nor was Don Quixote capable of listening to it, so disgusted was he
with what he had just heard regarding Queen Madasima. A strange thing!
but he felt impelled to defend her as if she had been his own lady, to such
a pass had those unholy books of his brought him. Cardenio, then, being
mad as I have said, upon hearing himself called a liar and a villain, along
with other epithets of the same sort, and not fancying the jest, picked up
a stone that was lying near him and let Don Quixote have such a blow
in' the chest with it as to lay him flat on his back.

Seeing his master attacked in this fashion, Sancho Panza fell upon the
madman with clenched fists, but the Ragged One received him in such a
manner, having resort to his own fists, that the squire the next moment
was lying at his feet, whereupon he leaped on his ribs and began crushing
them with great zest. The goatherd, who sought to defend Sancho, suf-
fered the same fate; and after he had beaten and mauled them all, the mad
assailant left them lying there and calmly went away to his hiding place
in the mountains.

Furious at having been thus set upon through no fault of his own.
Sancho when he arose ran to take vengeance on the goatherd, saying the
shepherd was to blame for not having warned them that this man was
subject to fits of madness; for had they known it, they would have been
upon their guard and might have been able to protect themselves. The
shepherd replied that he had told them this, and if Sancho had not heard
it, that was no fault of his. One word led to another until the squire and
the goatherd were pulling beards and exchanging such fist blows that if
Don Quixote had not made peace between them they would have
knocked each other to pieces.

"Leave me alone, your Grace, Sir Knight of the Mournful Counte-
nance," said Sancho as he grappled with the shepherd, "for this one is a
countryman like me and has not been dubbed a knight, and so I may take
satisfaction for what he has done to me by fighting with him hand to hand
like an honest man."

"What you say is true," replied Don Quixote, "but I am sure that he
is not in any way to blame for what happened."

Having pacified them, the knight once more inquired of the goatherd
if it would be possible to find Cardenio, as he was extremely desirous of
hearing the end of the story. The shepherd repeated what he had told
him before, to the effect that he was not certain as to the man's place of
abode, but if they went about enough in those parts they would not fail
to encounter him, whether in his right senses or not.

CHAPTER XXV.

Which treats of the strange things that happened to the valiant
Knight of La Mancha in the Sierra Morena and of his imitation
of Beltenebros's penance.

TAKING his leave of the goatherd, Don Quixote once again mounted
Rocinante and ordered Sancho, who was now in a very bad humor, to
follow him, which the latter did with his donkey.229 They were gradually
making their way into the most rugged part of the mountain, and the
squire was dying to have a talk with his master, but he wished the latter
to begin the conversation so that he would not have to disobey his com-
mand. At last, he was unable to endure the silence any longer.

"Senor Don Quixote," he began, "will your Grace give me your
blessing and your permission, for I wish to return home at once to my
wife and young ones. I can at least talk to them as much as I like; but to
have to go through these lonely places day and night, as your Grace
would have me do, without being able to speak when I feel like it, is
a living death for me. If fate willed that the animals should talk as they
did in Aesop's time, it would not be so bad, for I could then talk to my
gray230 about anything that I pleased and forget my troubles. It is a terrible
thing, and too much to put up with, to go all your life seeking adventures
and get nothing out of it but kicks and blanketings, brickbats and punches,
and with all that to have to sew up your mouth and not dare to say what
is in your heart, as if you were dumb."

"I know what is the trouble with you," said Don Quixote. "That inter-
dict that I put on your tongue is killing you. Well, just regard it as lifted
and say what you like, but with the understanding that it is only for the
time it takes us to cross these highlands."

"So be it," said Sancho. "Let me speak now, for God knows what will
happen afterward; and so, beginning at once to take advantage of this
privilege, let me ask you: what led your Grace to stick up so for that
Queen Magimasa or whatever her name was--And what difference did
it make whether that abbot231 was her friend or not--If your Grace had
let that pass, seeing that you were not a judge in the matter, I believe the
madman would have gone on with his story and we'd have avoided the
blow from the stone, the kicks, and more than half a dozen good cuffs."

"Upon my word, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "if you but knew what
an honored and illustrious lady the Queen Madasima was, I am certain
you would say that I have a great deal of patience not to smash the
mouth from which such blasphemies come. For it is a very great blas-
phemy to say, or so much as think, that a queen would commit adultery
with a surgeon. The truth is, that Master Elisabat of whom the madman
spoke was a very prudent man and sound in his judgments, who served
the queen as tutor and physician; but to imagine that she was his friend
is nonsense and merits severe punishment. And in order to perceive that
Cardenio did not know what he was saying, you have but to remember
that he was out of his wits when he said it."

"And I say," Sancho insisted, "that it was not for you to make much
of the words of one who is mad; for if luck had not favored your Grace
and that stone had hit your head instead of your chest, we'd have been in
a pretty pickle as a result of standing up for that lady of yours, may
God confound her. And what would you wager that Cardenio would not
have gone free as being insane?"

"Against the sane and the insane," said Don Quixote, "every knight-
errant is obliged to defend the honor of women, especially when they are
queens of high rank and dignity such as was Queen Madasima, for whom
I have a particular affection by reason of her excellent qualities; for in
addition to being comely, she was very prudent, and long-suffering in
calamities of which she had many. And the counsels and companionship
of Master Elisabat were of great help to her by enabling her to endure
her troubles with patience and wisdom. All of which has given the ignor-
ant and ill-intentioned mob an excuse for asserting that she was his mis-
tress. And--I repeat it--all those who say and think so lie, and will lie
two hundred times more."

"I neither say nor think it," said Sancho. "Let those that do, eat it with
their bread.232 Whether they were lovers or not, it is to God that they
must give an account. I come from my vineyard, I know nothing. I am
not fond of prying into other people's lives. He who buys and lies feels
it in his purse. What is more, naked was I born and naked I find myself;
I neither win nor lose. Supposing that they were, what's that to me--
Many think to find bacon when there are no pegs.233 Who can put doors
to the open country--Moreover, they said of God?"

"So help me God, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "what are all these
absurdities that you are stringing together--What has the subject of which
we were speaking to do with those proverbs you are threading--As you
value your life, keep quiet; confine yourself to prodding your ass, and do
not meddle in what does not concern you. And understand with all your
five senses that what I do, have done, and shall do, is the fruit of sound
reason and wholly in conformity with the rules of chivalry, with which
I am better acquainted than all the professed knights in this world."

"Sir," said Sancho, "is it a good rule of chivalry for us to be wander-
ing lost in these mountains, without road or path, in search of a madman
who, when we find him, may undertake to finish what he has begun--
and I do not mean his story but your Grace's head and my ribs, by smash-
ing them altogether this time?"

"I tell you once again, Sancho, be quiet; for I will inform you that it
is not so much the desire to find a madman that leads me to traverse these
regions as it is the hope of accomplishing here an exploit that will win
for me perpetual renown and fame throughout the whole of the known
world, one that will place the seal on all that there is that can make a
knight-errant famous and perfect."

"And is it a very dangerous exploit, that one?" Sancho Panza asked.

"No," replied the Knight of the Mournful Countenance, "it is not--not
if the dice fall right for us; but everything will depend on your diligence."

"On my diligence?" said Sancho.

"Yes," said Don Quixote, "for if you return quickly from where I
mean to send you, my labors will soon be at an end and my fame will
begin to spread. And in order not to keep you any longer in suspense with
regard to the meaning of my words, I want you to know, Sancho, that
the famous Amadis of Gaul was one of the most perfect of knights-errant.
But I am not correct in saying that he was ‘one of the'; he was the sole
and only one, the very first, the lord of all those in the world in his time.
A plague on Don Belianis and all the others who claimed to equal him
in anything, for they are wrong, I swear they are! When a painter wishes
to become famous, he strives to imitate the works of the most distinctive
practitioners of his art; and the same rule holds for all the other arts and
crafts that serve as the ornament of states and nations.

"Thus, he who would achieve a reputation for prudence and long-
suffering must and does follow in the footsteps of Ulysses; for in de-
scribing his character and the hardships that he endured Homer gives us
a lively picture of the virtues mentioned. Similarly, Vergil, in the person
of Aeneas, portrays for us a dutiful son and the sagacity of a brave and in-
telligent leader. And these personages, be it noted, are not depicted or
revealed to us as they were but as they ought to have been, that they
may remain as an example of those qualities for future generations. In
this same way, Amadis was the north star, the morning star, the sun of all
valiant and enamored knights, and all those of us who fight beneath the
banner of love and chivalry should imitate him. This being true, and true
it is, l am of the opinion, Sancho my friend, that the knight-errant who
most closely models himself upon Amadis will come the nearest to attain-
ing the perfection of chivalry.

"One of the occasions upon which that knight most clearly displayed
his prudence, true worth, valor, endurance, firmness of will, and loving
devotion was when, having been rejected by the lady Oriana, he retired
to do penance on Poor Rock,234 having changed his name to Beltenebros,235
one that was certainly significant and suited to the life he had voluntarily
chosen. Accordingly, seeing that it is easier for me to imitate him in this
than by cleaving giants, beheading serpents, slaying dragons, routing
armies, sinking fleets, and undoing enchanters' spells, and seeing, also,
that this place where we are is better adapted to such a purpose as the
one I have in mind, I feel that I should not let slip the opportunity that
now so conveniently offers me its forelock."

"To get down to the purpose," said Sancho, "what is it that your Grace
proposes to do in this lonely spot?"

"Have I not told you," replied Don Quixote, "that I mean to imitate
Amadis by playing the part of a desperate and raving madman, thus
imitating Orlando at the same time, on that occasion when he discovered
in a fountain the signs that Angelica the Beautiful had committed a vil-
lainy with Medoro, which so grieved him that he went mad, tore up trees,
muddied the waters of clear-running springs, slew shepherds, destroyed
herds, set fire to huts, tore down houses, dragged mares along after him,
and did a hundred thousand other outrageous things that are worthy of
eternal renown and record--I grant you, I am not thinking of imitating
point by point Roland, or Orlando, or Rotolando--for he went by all
three names--in every mad thing that he did, said, and thought; what
I shall give, rather, is a rough sketch, containing what appear to me to
be the essentials; or it may be I shall content myself with merely imitating
Amadis, whose madness did not prompt him to do any damage of that
sort but who confined himself to tears and sighs and yet gained as much
fame as the best of them."

"It strikes me," said Sancho, "that those knights who did all that had
provocation and some cause for such foolish penances, but what reason
has your Grace for going mad, what damsel has rejected you, or what
signs have you found that lead you to think the lady Dulcinea del Toboso
has been up to some foolishness with a Moor or Christian?"

"That," said Don Quixote, "is the point of the thing; that is the beauti-
ful part of it. What thanks does a knight-errant deserve for going mad
when he has good cause--The thing is to go out of my head without any
occasion for it, thus letting my lady see, if I do this for her in the dry,
what I would do in the wet. Moreover, I have occasion enough in the
long absence I have endured from the side of her who shall ever be my
lady, Dulcinea del Toboso; for you have heard that shepherd Ambrosio
saying, ‘He who is absent, suffers and fears all evils.' And so, Sancho my
friend, do not waste time in advising me to forego so rare, so felicitous,
and so unheard of an imitation as this. Mad I am and mad I must be until
you return with a letter which I mean to send by you to my lady Dul-
cinea. If that answer be such as my devotion merits, there will be an end
to my madness and my penance; but if the contrary is the case, I shall
truly go mad and, being mad, suffer no more. Thus, whatever the manner
which she responds, I shall emerge from the painful struggle in which
you leave me, either by enjoying as a sane man the good news you bnng
me, or, as one who is insane, by ceasing to feel the pain of the bad news.

"But tell me, Sancho, were you careful to preserve Mambrino's helmet--
For I saw you pick it up from the ground when that wretch tried to
smash it to bits but could not, from which you may see how finely tem-
pered it is."

"God alive, Sir Knight of the Mournful Countenance," said Sancho, "I
cannot bear in patience some of the things that your Grace says! Listen-
ing to you, I come to think that all you have told me about deeds of
chivalry and winning kingdoms and empires and bestowing islands and
other favors and dignities is but wind and lies, all buggery or humbug-
gery, or whatever you choose to call it. For when anyone hears your
Grace saying that a barber's basin is Mambrino's helmet, and after four
days you still insist that it is, what is he to think except that such a one
is out of his mind--I have the basin in my bag, all crushed and dented.
I'm taking it home to have it mended so that I can trim my beard into it,
if God is only good enough to let me see my wife and children again
someday."

"Look, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "by that same God I swear that
you have less sense than any squire in the world ever had. How is it
possible for you to have accompanied me all this time without coming to
perceive that all the things that have to do with knights-errant appear
to be mad, foolish, and chimerical, everything being done by contraries--
Not that they are so in reality; it is simply that there are always a lot of
enchanters going about among us, changing things and giving them a
deceitful appearance, directing them as suits their fancy, depending upon
whether they wish to favor or destroy us. So, this that appears to you as
a barber's basin is for me Mambrino's helmet, and something else again
to another person.

--"It was a rare bit of foresight on the part of the magician who is on
my side to have what really is the helmet appear to all others as a mere
basin; for if it were known that it is of so great a worth, everyone would
pursue me and endeavor to deprive me of it. On the other hand, thinking
that it is no more than what it seems, they do not care to have it, as was
shown when that fellow tried to smash it and went off and left it lying on
the ground. Believe me, if he had known what it was, he never would
have done that. Take good care of it, then, my friend, for I do not need
it at present. Indeed, it is my intention to lay aside all this armor and re-
in naked as when I was born--that is to say, if I decide to take Orlando
rather than Amadis as a model in doing my penance."

Conversing in this manner, they reached the foot of a tall mountain,
which, standing alone amid a number of surrounding peaks, had almost
the appearance of a rock that had been carved out of them. Alongside
it flowed a gentle brook, while all about was a meadow so green and
luxuriant that it was a delight for the eyes to behold. There were many
forest trees and a number of plants and flowers to add to the quiet charm
of the scene. And such was the spot which the Knight of the Mournful
Countenance was to choose for his penance.236

The moment he caught sight of it he cried out in a loud voice, as if he
really had lost his senses, "This is the place, O ye heavens! which I select
and designate; it is here that I will weep for that misfortune that ye your-
selves have brought upon me. This is the place where the fluid from my
orbs shall increase the waters of this little brook while my deep and con-
stant sighs shall keep in incessant motion the leaves of these mountain
trees, as a sign and testimony of the pain my tortured heart is suffering.
O ye rustic deities, whoever ye may be, who make your abode in this
uninhabitable place, hear the complaints of this unfortunate lover who,
suffering from long absence and a jealous imagination, has come here
to voice his laments amid these rugged surroundings and to bemoan the
harshness of that fair but thankless creature who is the end and sum of
all that humankind may know in the way of beauty!

"And O ye nymphs and dryads too, who are accustomed to dwell in
groves and thickets--may the light-footed and lascivious satyrs, who
cherish for you an unrequited love, never disturb your sweet repose, but
may you join me in weeping for my sorrows, or at least not tire of hear-
ing them! And thou, O Dulcinea del Toboso, day of my night, glory of
my sufferings, guide of my every path, star of my fortunes, may Heaven
grant thee all thou seekest, and wilt thou look upon the place and state
to which absence from thee has brought me and be moved to repay with
kindness the debt that is due to my fidelity! Ye trees also, ye solitary trees
that from this day forth are to be the companions of my solitude, give me
a sign by the gentle murmuring of your leaves that my presence is not
displeasing to you! And, finally, thou, my faithful squire, my congenial
comrade in prosperity and adversity, remember well what thou seest
me do here that thou mayest relate and recite it afterward to the one
who is the sole cause of it all."

With these words he dismounted from Rocinante and in a moment had
removed saddle and bridle, after which he gave the hack a slap on the
rump.

"Freedom," said the knight ; "he now gives thee who himself is left
without it, O steed as unexcelled in deeds as thou art unfortunate in thy
fate! Go where thou wilt, and bear with thee inscribed upon thy fore-
head this legend: that neither Astolfo's Hippogriff nor the renowned
Frontino that cost Bradamante so dear237 could equal thee in fleetness of
foot"

As he saw his master do this, Sancho said, "Good luck to him who has
saved us the trouble now of stripping the ass;238 for upon my word, if the
gray had been here, he too would have had a slap on the rump and a few
words of praise. I'd never consent to it, however, for there would be no
occasion, since there was nothing of the despairing lover about him any
more than there was about his master, which I happened to be so long as
God willed it. The truth of the matter is, Sir Knight of the Mournful
Countenance, if you mean what you say about my departure and your
fit of madness, then you'd better saddle Rocinante again so that he can
take the gray's place, as that will save me time coming and going. If I
go on foot, I cannot tell how long I'll be, for, the short of it is, I'm a very
poor walker."

"You may do as you like, Sancho," said Don Quixote. "It is not a bad
suggestion that you have made. You will set out three days from now. In
the meantime, I want you to see all that I do for her sake and make note
of all I say in order that you may be able to tell her of it."

"What more is there for me to see," said Sancho, "than what I've seen
already?"

"You do not know what you are talking about," said Don Quixote.
"I have yet to rend my garments, scatter my armor about, knock my
head against those rocks, and other things of that sort, all of which you
must witness."

"For the love of God!" exclaimed Sancho. "I hope your Grace has
a care how you go about that head-knocking, for you may come up
against such a rock or in such a way that with the very first knock you
will put an end to this whole business of your penance. If your Grace
feels that it is absolutely necessary to do this, and that you cannot go
through with your undertaking without doing it, then it seems to me that,
since it is all a matter of pretending and in the nature of a joke, you ought
to be satisfied with bumping your head in water or something soft like
cotton, and just leave the rest to me; I will tell my lady that your Grace
did it against a piece of jutting rock hard as a diamond."

"I thank you for your good intentions, Sancho," said Don Quixote,
"but you must know that the things I do are not done in jest but very
much in earnest. Otherwise, I should be violating the rules of knighthood,
which command that we shall tell no lie whatsoever under pain of suffer-
ing the penalty that is meted out for apostasy; and to do one thing in
place of another is the same as lying. My head-knockings, therefore, have
to be real ones, solid and substantial, with nothing sophistical or imag-
inary about them. And it will be necessary for you to leave me a little
lint to dress my wounds, since fortune would have it that we should
be without that balm that we lost."

"It was worse losing the ass," said Sancho, "for with it we lost the
lint and all.239 And I would ask your Grace not to remind me again of
that accursed potion; the very mention of it turns my soul, not to speak
of my "stomach. I also beg of you to regard those three days that you
gave me for witnessing your deeds of madness as being past; for, so far
as I am concerned, that is the truth; I have seen and judged everything
and will tell my lady marvels. Write the letter, then, at once and send me
on my way, as I have a great desire to return and rescue your Grace
from this purgatory in which I leave you."

"Purgatory you call it, Sancho?" said Don Quixote. "Better say Hell,
or even worse, if there is anything worse than that."

"He who is in Hell," said Sancho, "has no retention,240 so I've heard it
said."

"I do not understand what you mean by retention" said Don Quixote.

"Retention " said Sancho, "means that he who is in Hell never can,
and never will, get out. But it will be just the opposite with your Grace,
or else my legs will fail me--that is, if I have spurs to put a little life into
Rocinante. Just set me down once in El Toboso and in my lady Dul-
cinea's presence, and I will tell her such things about your Grace's foolish-
ness and madness (it is all one), and all the things you are doing and have
done, that, even though I find her harder than a cork tree, I will make
her softer than a glove. And then when I have her gentle, honeyed answer,
I will come flying back through the air like a witch and snatch your
Grace out of this purgatory which seems to you to be a Hell but is not,
seeing there is hope of your getting out of it; for as I have just said, those
in Hell do not come out, and I do not think your Grace will contradict
me on that."

"You speak the truth," said the Knight of the Mournful Countenance,
"but how are we going to write the letter?"

"And the order for the ass-colts too," added Sancho.

"All that will be inserted," said Don Quixote, "and since we have no
paper, it would be well for us to write it as the ancients did, on the leaves
of trees or a few wax tablets; although it would be about as hard to find
anything like that now as it would be to procure paper. It would be a
good idea, an excellent idea, for me to write it in Cardenio's memorandum
book, and then you will take care to have it transcribed on paper, in a
fair hand, in the first village where you find a schoolmaster, or, failing
that, some sacristan; but do not give it to any notary to be copied, for
they write a legal hand that Satan himself would not be able to make out."

"But what is to be done about the signature?" asked Sancho.

"The letters of Amadis were never signed," Don Quixote assured him.

"That is all very well," said the squire, "but that order you are to give
me has to be signed, and if it is copied over, they will say the signature is
false and I'll not get the ass-colts."

"The order, duly signed, will be in that same little book, and when my
niece sees it, she will not give you any trouble about carrying out my
instructions. As for the love letter, you will have them put as the signa-
ture: ‘Yours until death, the Knight of the Mournful Countenance.' It
will make little difference if it is in some other person's handwriting,
for, as I recall, Dulcinea does not know how to read or write, nor has
she ever in all her life seen a letter of mine or anything else that I wrote;
for our love has always been platonic and has never gone beyond a modest
glance. Even that happened but rarely, since in the course of the dozen
years that I have loved her--more than the light of these eyes which the
earth will one day devour--I can truthfully swear that I have not seen her
four times, and even then, it may be, she did not once perceive that I
was looking at her, such is the seclusion and retirement in which her
father, Lorenzo Corchuelo, and her mother, Aldonza Nogales, have
reared her."

"Aha!" said Sancho, "so the lady Dulcinea del Toboso is Lorenzo
Corchuelo's daughter, otherwise known as Aldonza Lorenzo?"

"That is the one," said Don Quixote, "and she deserves to be mistress
of the entire universe."

"I know her well," Sancho went on, "and I may tell you that she can
toss a bar as well as the lustiest lad in all the village. Long live the Giver
of all good things, but she's a sturdy wench, fit as a fiddle and right in
the middle of everything that's doing. She can take care of any knight-
errant or about to err241 that has her for a mistress! Son of a whore, what
strength she has and what a voice! They tell me that one day she went
up into the village belfry to call some lads who were out in the field that
belongs to her father, and although they were more than half a league
away, they heard her as plainly as if they had been standing at the foot
of the tower. And the best of it is, there's nothing prudish about her;
shes very friendly with everybody and always laughing and joking.
And so, I say to you now, Sir Knight of the Mournful Countenance, that
you not only may and ought to play mad for her sake, but you have good
reason to despair and go off and hang yourself, and anyone who hears
of it will say you did exactly the right thing, even though the devil takes
you.

"I'd like to be on my way just to have a look at her again, for it's been
a long time since I saw her, and the sun and air do a lot to the complexion
of a woman who's all the time working in the field. I must confess the
truth, Senor Don Quixote, that up to now I have been laboring under
a great mistake; for I thought, right enough, that the lady Dulcinea must
be some princess with whom your Grace was smitten, or at least some
personage that merited the rich presents which your Grace sent her,
such as the Biscayan and the galley slaves, and many others as well, no
doubt, for your Grace must have won many victories before I became
your squire. But, come to think of it, what is there about Mistress Aldonza
Lorenzo--I mean, Mistress Dulcinea del Toboso--that those conquered
ones whom your Grace sends to her should bend the knee before her--
For at the moment they arrived she may very well have been dressing
flax or thrashing in the granary, and they would run away when they
saw her and she'd be annoyed by the present."

"Sancho," said Don Quixote, "I have told you many times before that
you are much too talkative; and although your wit is very dull, your
tongue is all too sharp at times. In order that you may see how foolish
you are and how sensible I am, I would have you listen to a brief story
which I am about to relate to you. Once upon a time there was a beautiful
widow, young, rich, unattached, and, above all, free and easy in her
ways, who fell in love with a youthful cropped-headed lay brother242
of large and sturdy build. When his superior heard of this, he took occa-
sion to speak to the widow one day, giving her a word of brotherly re-
proof. ‘I am astonished, Madam,' he said, ‘and not without a good cause,
that a woman of your standing, so beautiful and so rich as your Grace is,
should be in love with a fellow so coarse, so low, so stupid as is So-and-
So, in view of the fact that there are in this institution so many masters,
graduates, and theologians from whom your Grace might have her pick
as from among so many pears, saying, "This one I like, this one I do not
care for." ' She however, answered him with much grace and sprightli-
ness, ‘You are mistaken, your Reverence, and very old-fashioned in your
ideas, if you think that I have made a bad choice by taking So-and-So,
stupid as he may appear to be, since so far as what I want him for is con-
cerned, he knows as much and even more philosophy than Aristotle him-
self.*

"Similarly, Sancho, as regards my need of Dulcinea del Toboso, she is
worth as much to me as any highborn princess on this earth. Not all
the poets who praised their ladies under names of their own choosing
actually had such mistresses. Do you think that the Amarillises, the
Phyllises, the Sylvias, the Dianas, the Galateas, the Filidas, and all the
others of whom the books, ballads, barbershops, and theaters are full
were in reality flesh-and-blood women who belonged to those that
hymned their praises--Certainly not; most of the writers merely invented
these creatures to provide them with a subject for their verses in order
that they might be taken for lovelorn swains and respected as individuals
capable of an amorous passion. And so it is enough for me to think and
believe that the good Aldonza Lorenzo is beautiful and modest. So far
as her lineage is concerned, that is a matter of small importance; no one
is going to look into it by way of conferring on her any robes of nobility,
and, as for me, she is the most highborn princess in the world.

"For you should know, Sancho, if you do not know already, that the
two things that more than any others incite to love are great beauty and
a good name, and these two things are to be found to a consummate
degree in Dulcinea; for in beauty none can vie with her, and in good name
few can come up to her. But to bring all this to a conclusion: I am content
to imagine that what I say is so and that she is neither more nor less than
I picture her and would have her be, in comeliness and in high estate.
Neither Helen nor Lucretia nor any of the other women of bygone
ages, Greek, Latin, or barbarian, can hold a candle to her. And let anyone
say what he likes; if for this I am reprehended by the ignorant, I shall not
be blamed by men of discernment."

"I agree with all that your Grace says" replied Sancho. "It is true
that I am an ass--although I don't know how that word ass happened to
slip out, since you do not speak of the rope in the house of a gallows
bird. ut let us have that letter, and then, God be with you, I am off."

Don Quixote thereupon took out the memorandum book and, going
off to one side, proceeded to compose the letter with great deliberation.
When he had finished he called Sancho, telling him to listen while he
read it to him and to memorize it, in case the original should be lost along
the way, as he had reason to fear from the ill luck that seemed to pursue
him.

"Just write it two or three times in that book, your Grace," Sancho
said, "and then give it to me; for it is nonsense to think I am going to
learn it by heart when my memory is so bad that I often forget my own
name. But go ahead and read it to me; I'll enjoy hearing it very much,
for it ought to be as smooth as if it were all set down in print."

"Listen, then," said Don Quixote. "This is what it says:

DON QUIXOTE'S LETTER TO
DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO

Sovereign and Highborn Lady:

He who is pricked by absence and 'wounded to the heart, O sweetest
Dulcinea del Toboso, wishes thee the health that is not his. If thy beauty
despise me, if thy great worth be not for me, if my lot be thy disdain,
even though I am sufficiently inured to suffering l hardly shall sustain this
affliction which, in addition to being grievous, is lasting in the extreme .
My good squire Sancho will tell thee, O beauteous ingrate, my beloved
enemy! of the state in which I now find myself on account of thee.
Shouldst thou care to succor me, I am thine; if not, do as thou seest fit,
for by putting an end to my life I shall pay the price exacted by thy
cruelty and mine own desire.

Thine until death.

THE KNIGHT OF THE MOURNFUL COUNTENANCE"

"By the life of my father," exclaimed Sancho when he had heard the
letter, "that is the most high-flown thing I ever listened to. Why, damn
me, how your Grace does manage to say everything here just the way it
should be said, and how well you work that Knight of the Mournful
Countenance into the signature! To tell the truth, your Grace is the very
devil himself, and there's nothing you don't know."

"In the profession that I follow," replied Don Quixote, "one needs to
know everything."

"And now," said Sancho, "if your Grace will put the order for the
three ass-colts on this other page and sign it very clearly so that they
will recognize your signature when they see it--"

"With pleasure," said Don Quixote. Having written the order, he read
it aloud;

Upon presentation of this first order for ass-colts, mistress my niece,
you will turn over to Sancho Panza, my squire, three of the five that l
left at home and in your Grace's charge. The said three ass-colts to be
delivered in return for three others here received on account; upon
presentation of this order and his receipt they are to be duly turned over
to him as specified.

Done in the heart of the Sierra Morena on the twenty -second day 243
of August of this present year.

"That is very good," said Sancho, "and now sign it, your Grace."

"It is not necessary to sign it," said Don Quixote. "All I need do is to
add my flourish, which is the same as a signature and will suffice for three,
and even three hundred, asses."

"I will trust your Grace," said the squire. "And now, let me go saddle
Rocinante, and do you be ready to give me your blessing, for I am think-
ing of leaving at once without waiting to witness the foolish things that
your Grace has to do; but I will tell her that I saw you do so many of them
that she will not want to hear any more."

"There is one thing at least that I should like to ask of you, Sancho,"
the knight said, "and if I do ask this, it is because it is necessary. I should
like you to see me stripped and performing a couple of dozen acts of mad-
ness, which I can get through with in less than half an hour; for having
seen them with your own eyes, you can safely swear to the other things
that you may care to add, and I assure you I mean to do more than you
will be able to relate."

"For the love of God, my master," Sancho replied, "let me not see
your Grace stripped, for I'd feel so sorry that I'd never stop weeping,
and I wept so much for the gray last night that I have no more tears left
to shed. If your Grace wants me to witness some of your insane actions,
please perform them with your clothes on and be brief about it and to
the point. So far as I am concerned, all this is unnecessary; for as I have
told you, it would save time if I were to leave now and I'd be back all
the sooner with the news that your Grace desires and deserves. For if
it is not such as you desire, let the lady Dulcinea be prepared; if she does
not give me a reasonable answer, I solemnly swear I'll have one out of her
stomach with kicks and cuffs. Why should a knight-errant as famous as
is your Grace have to go mad without rhyme or reason for a--Her lady-
ship had better not force me to say it, or by God I'll speak out and lay
them out by the dozen even though there's no buyer. I am pretty good
at that sort of thing. She doesn't know me very well, or, faith, if she
did, we'd have no trouble in coming to an understanding."

"And faith, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "you appear to me to be no
sounder in mind than I am."

"I'm not as crazy as you are," said Sancho; "I've more of a temper, that's
all. But leaving all this aside, what is your Grace going to eat until I
return--Are you going out, as Cardenio did, and take it away from the
shepherds?"

"Do not let that trouble you," said the knight, "for even if I had other
food, I should eat nothing but the herbs and fruits with which this
meadow and these trees shall provide me. The fine point of my undertak-
ing lies in not eating and in putting up with other hardships of the same
sort."

"And, by God," said Sancho, "there's another thing. Do you know
what I am afraid of, your Grace--I'm afraid I'll not be able to find my
way back to this place once I leave it, it's so out of the way."

"Get your bearings well," said Don Quixote, "and I will try not to
stray far from this vicinity. I will also make it a point to go up on those
high cliffs to see if I can catch a glimpse of you on your way back. But in
order not to miss me and lose yourself, the best thing would be to cut a
few branches of the broom plant that is so abundant around here and
scatter them along the way at intervals until you come out onto the
plain; these will serve you as signs and landmarks, like the clues in
Perseus's labyrinth,244 and will help you to find me when you return."

"I will do that," said Sancho, and cutting a few of the brooms, he
asked his master's benediction; after which, each of them shedding not
a few tears, he took his departure. Mounting Rocinante--Don Quixote
had charged him to take as good care of the steed as he would of his own
person--he set out in the direction of the lowlands, scattering the
branches at intervals as he had been advised to do. And so he went his
way, although, the knight still insisted that he wait and watch him per-
form at least a couple of mad acts. He had not gone a hundred paces when
he turned and looked back.

"You know," he said, "I believe your Grace was right. In order to
be able to swear without a weight on my conscience, I really ought to
see you do at least one mad thing, although your remaining here is mad
enough in itself."

"Did I not tell you that?" said Don Quixote. "Wait, Sancho, and you
will see me do them before you can say a Credo!"

With this, he hastily slipped off his breeches and, naked from the waist
down, leaped into the air a couple of times, falling heels over head and
revealing things that caused Sancho to give Rocinante the rein, that he
might not have to see them again. The squire was satisfied now; he could
Swear that his master was quite mad. And so we shall leave him to pursue
his journey until his return, which was not to be long delayed.

CHAPTER XXVI.

In which is continued the account of those refinements that Don
Quixote practiced in playing the part of a lover on the Sierra Morena.

But to come back to the Knight of the Mournful Countenance and
what he did when he found himself alone, the history informs us that
after Don Quixote, naked from the waist down and clothed from the
waist up, had finished performing those somersaults of his, and after
Sancho had departed without waiting to see any more of his master's mad
antics, the knight betook himself to the top of a tall cliff and there began
turning over in his mind a question which long had been troubling him
but for which he had never been able to find a solution: namely, as to
whether he should seek to imitate the monstrous things that Orlando
did in his fits of madness or, rather, the melancholy actions of Amadis.

"If Orlando," he mused, "was so good and valiant a knight as they all
say he was, what is so marvelous about that--After all, he was enchanted
and no one could kill him save by running a tenpenny nail through the
sole of his foot, and he always wore shoes with seven iron soles, although
such wiles did not avail him against Bernardo del Carpio, who under-
stood them very well and strangled him in his arms at Roncesvalles. How-
ever, leaving aside the question of his valor, let us consider his loss of
reason, for it is certain that he did lose it on account of the evidence that
he discovered in the fountain and the news which the shepherd gave
him, to the effect that Angelica had slept for more than two siestas with
Medoro, a young Moor with curly locks who was Agramante's page.245
If he was convinced that this was true and that his lady had done him a
wrong, it is small wonder that he went mad. But how can I imitate him
in his acts of madness unless I have a similar occasion for committing
them--I would swear that my Dulcinea del Toboso in all the days of
her life has never seen a single Moor, as he is, in his native costume; she
is today what she was when her mother bore her, and I should clearly be
wronging her if, with any other idea in mind, I were to go mad in the
manner of Orlando the Furious.246

"On the other hand, I note that Amadis of Gaul, without losing his
mind or committing any acts of madness, achieved as much fame as a
lover as any other knight; for, seeing himself scorned by his lady Oriana,
who commanded him not to appear any more in her presence until she
so willed it, what he did, according to the history that we have of him,
was to retire to Poor Rock in the company of a hermit, where he had
his fill of weeping and commending himself to God until Heaven came to
his succor in the midst of his greatest agony and need. And if this be
true, and true it is, then why should I go to the trouble of stripping myself
stark naked--Why should I injure these trees which have done me no
harm or disturb the clear water of these brooks which provide me with
a drink when I desire it--

"Long live the memory of Amadis, then, and let him be imitated in so
far as may be by Don Quixote de la Mancha, of whom it shall be said,
as was said of the other, that if he did not accomplish great things, he
died in attempting them. I may not have been scorned or rejected by
Dulcinea del Toboso, but it is enough for me, as I have said, to be absent
from her. And so, then, to work! Refresh my memory, O Amadis, and
teach me how I am to imitate your deeds. I already know that what he
did chiefly was to pray and commend himself to God; but what am I to
do for a rosary, seeing that I have none with me?"

At this point a thought occurred to him, and, tearing a large strip from
the tail of his shirt, which hung down over his buttocks, he made eleven
knots in it, one bigger than the others, and this it was that served him
as a rosary247 as long as he was there, during which time he said a round
million of Hail Marys. He was not a little put out at the fact that there
was no other hermit there to hear his confession and offer him consola-
tion; and so he spent his time walking up and down the little meadow,
carving inscriptions on the bark of trees, and writing many verses in the
fine sand, all reflective of his melancholy and some of them in praise of
Dulcinea; but when he was found there later, the only ones that proved
to be legible were the following:

Ye trees and shrubs, each plant
In this place that grows,
So tall and green, not scant,
Do I tire you with my woes
As for my love I pant--
Let not my grief disturb
You, even though it be a
Thing that might perturb.
Don Quixote cannot curb
His tears for Dulcinea
　　　　　　　　del Toboso.

Here is the place to which
The lover most loyal far
Hath fled from a beauteous witch,
Under an evil star.
To wander he has an itch;
Love drags him every way,
Which certainly cannot be a
Very good thing, l should say.
Don Quixote his tears doth spray
By the kegful for Dulcinea
　　　　　　　　del Toboso.

Seeking adventure he goes
Among the barren rocks;
Cursing his many woes
And fortune's cruel knocks,
He flounders in Love's throes.
Held by no gentle rein,
It must ever be a
Lash that adds to his pain.
Don Quixote, sorrowful swain
Weeps for his Dulcinea
　　　　　　　　del Toboso.

Those who came upon the foregoing verses laughed no little at the
addition of "del Toboso" to Dulcinea's name; for they assumed that Don
Quixote must have thought that unless he added those words the stanza
would be unintelligible, which was the fact, as he himself afterward
admitted. He wrote many others, as has been said, but only these three
could be deciphered in their entirety. Thus it was he spent his days, in
sighing and in calling on the fauns and satyrs of these groves, and on
the river nymphs and the dolorous and humid Echo, beseeching them to
answer him, to hear his prayers and console him; and he also looked for
herbs with which to sustain himself until Sancho should return--and
if the squire had stayed away for three weeks instead of three days, the
Knight of the Mournful Countenance would have worn so altered a look
that the mother who bore him would not have recognized him.

But it will be as well to leave him wrapped up in his sighs and verses
as we relate what happened to Sancho Panza on his mission. The latter,
immediately upon reaching the highroad, had struck out for El Toboso,
and the next day he came to the inn where that unfortunate affair of the
blanketing had occurred. He no sooner caught sight of it than it seemed
to him he was once again flying through the air; and he had no desire
to enter, although it was an hour when he might well have done so,
for it was dinnertime and he had a great desire to taste something hot,
having existed on cold cuts for many days past. Irresistibly, he drew
near the tavern, unable to make up his mind whether to enter or not,
and as he stood there two persons came out who at once recognized
him.

"I say, Senor Licentiate," one of them remarked to the other, "that
fellow on the horse there--isn't that Sancho Panza, the one who, so our
adventurer's housekeeper told us, went away with her master as his
squire?"

"Yes," said the licentiate, "it is, and that is our Don Quixotes horse.

If they knew him so well, it was for the reason that these two were
the curate and barber of his own village, the same ones that had scruti-
nized and passed sentence on the books. As soon as they recognized
Sancho and Rocinante, being desirous of having news of Don Quixote,
they went up to the squire, the curate calling him by name.

"Friend Sancho Panza," he said, "where is your master?"

Perceiving who they were, Sancho made up his mind not to tell them
where he had left the knight or under what circumstances. He accord-
ingly replied that Don Quixote was in a certain place, occupied with a
very important matter the nature of which, by the eyes that he had in
his head, he could not reveal.

"No, no," said the barber, "that will not do, Sancho Panza. Unless you
tell us where he is, we shall imagine, as indeed we do, that you have slam
and robbed him, since you come riding on his horse. The truth is, you
are going to have to produce the owner of the hack or take the conse-
quences."

"There is no need for you to threaten me," said Sancho. I am not a
man who robs and kills anybody. Let his own fate or the God who made
him kill each one. My master is up there in the middle of those mountains
doing penance and enjoying himself very much.

And then, all in one breath and without stopping, he proceeded to tell
them of the state that Don Quixote was in, the adventures that had hap-
pened to him, and how he, Sancho, was at present carrying a letter to
the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, who was the daughter of Lorenzo Cor-
chuelo, with whom the knight was hopelessly in love. The pair from
the village were greatly astonished at what they heard, for although
they were familiar with the nature of their friend's madness, they never
ceased to wonder at it. They then asked Sancho to show them the letter,
and he informed them that it was written in a memorandum book and
that he was to have it transcribed on paper in the first village at which he
stopped; whereupon the curate said that he himself would make a fair
copy of it. But when Sancho put his hand in his bosom to search for the
book he could not find it, and he would not have been able to find it if he
had searched until now, for the reason that Don Quixote still had it, the
squire having forgotten to ask him for it.

Upon discovering that the book was not there, he turned deadly pale.
Hastily feeling all over his person and still not finding it, he plunged both
fists into his beard and tore out the half of it and then in rapid succession
gave himself half a dozen blows in the face and on the nose until he was
fairly dripping with blood. Seeing this, the curate and the barber asked
what was the matter with him that he mistreated himself in this manner.

"What is the matter with me?" said Sancho. "I've just lost from one
hand to the other, in a moment's time, three ass-colts, and each of them
built like a castle."

"How is that?" inquired the barber.

"I've lost the memorandum book," said Sancho, "with the letter for
Dulcinea and an order signed by my master directing his niece to turn
over to me three ass-colts of the four or five that he has at home."

He then went on to tell them of the loss of the gray ass, whereupon
the curate did what he could to console him by telling him that when
he returned his master would give him another order and they would
have it done on paper this time as was the usage and custom, for those
that were made out in memorandum books were never accepted nor com-
plied with. At this, Sancho felt relieved, remarking that the loss of the
letter did not worry him greatly since he knew it almost by heart and so
they would be able to transcribe it where and when they liked.

"Tell us, then, what was in it," said the barber, "and we will have it
copied later "

With this, Sancho began scratching his head and standing first on one
foot and then on the other, now staring hard at the ground and now
looking up at the sky, in an effort to recall the contents of the note.
Finally, after he had gnawed off half the end of one finger as the barber
and the curate waited anxiously for him to begin, he turned to them and
said, "In God's name, Senor Licentiate, may the devil take me if I can
remember it! I know that it began, ‘High and sufferable lady--'"

"He would not have said sufferable," the barber corrected him; "it
must have been sovereign lady or something of that sort."248

"That's it," said Sancho. "Well, then, unless my memory fails me, it
went like this: ‘The pierced and wounded one, the sleepless one kisses
your Grace's hands, 0 ungrateful fair one and most unrecognized,' and
so on and so forth, all about health and sickness which he was sending her
and a rigamarole that ended with ‘Yours until death, the Knight of the
Mournful Countenance.' "

The village pair were quite pleased with the good memory that Sancho
Panza displayed and praised him not a little, asking him to repeat the
letter a couple of times so that they themselves might memorize it and
be able to copy it out when occasion offered. Repeat it he did, three times,
and each time he uttered three thousand other absurdities; after which he
went on to tell them other things about his master, but never a word did
he say about how he had been tossed in a blanket at this inn which he
now refused to enter. He also told how Don Quixote, in case he had a
favorable reply from the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, was going to set out
to make himself an emperor or at least a monarch, for so they had agreed
between them, this being a very easy thing to accomplish in view of his
personal worth and the might of his arm; and when he had achieved it,
he was to marry off his squire, who would, of course, be a widower by
that time, giving him as a wife one of the empress's damsels, the heiress
to a large and rich estate on terra firma, for he wanted nothing more to
do with islands of any kind.

He said all this with so much composure and so little show of judg-
ment, wiping his nose from time to time, that his friends could not but
marvel once more as they reflected how very infectious Don Quixote's
madness must be to have turned the head of this poor man in such a
fashion. They did not care to take the trouble of disabusing Sancho of
his errors, for it seemed to them that, as they were doing no harm to his
conscience, it was better to leave him his illusions and there would be
all the more pleasure in listening to his nonsense. And so they told him
that he should pray God for his master's good health, adding that it was a
very likely and practicable thing for the knight in the course of time to
become an emperor as he said, or at the least an archbishop or some other
dignitary of equal rank.

"But, good sirs," said Sancho, "if Fortune should so bring things about
that my master should decide upon being an archbishop in place of an
emperor, what do archbishops-errant usually give to their squires?"

"They commonly give them," replied the curate, "some simple bene-
fice or curacy, or else they make them a sacristan, which brings them
in a sizable fixed income, in addition to the altar fees which are just so
much more to the good."

"For that," Sancho reflected, "it will be necessary for the squire not
to be married, and he must be able to serve mass, at any rate; and if that
is so, poor unfortunate me, for I have a wife and I don't know the first
letter of my ABC's! What will become of me if my master takes it into
his head to become an archbishop and not an emperor as is the use and
custom of knights-errant?"

"Do not let that trouble you, friend Sancho," said the barber, for we
will entreat and advise him, even making it a matter of conscience, to
decide to be an emperor, as that will be easier for him, since he is more
a man of arms than he is a student."

"That's the way it looks to me," said Sancho, "although I can tell you
that he has the ability for anything. What I mean to do, for my part, is to
pray Our Lord to place him where it will be best for him and where he
will be in a position to do me the most favors."

"Spoken like a wise man," said the curate, "and you will be acting like
a good Christian. But the thing to be done now is to get your master out
of that futile penance which you say he is engaged in performing; and
as we think over what we have to do, it would be well for us to enter
this inn and have a bite to eat, for it is now dinnertime."

Sancho thereupon told them to go in, saying that he would wait out-
side, adding that he would give them his reasons later for not wishing to
set foot in the tavern. He asked them, however, to bring him out some-
thing to eat that was hot and also some barley for Rocinante. They did
as he requested, and in a few minutes the barber was back with the food.
The curate and his companion then set themselves to thinking how they
might achieve the result they desired, and the former hit upon a plan that
was very well adapted to Don Quixote's turn of fancy and to the purpose
that they had in mind.

That plan, as he outlined it to the barber, was to put on the disguise of
a wandering damsel while his friend would make himself up the best
way he could as a squire, and the two of them would then go to Don
Quixote, pretending that it was a maiden in deep affliction and distress
who had come to ask a boon, one which he as a valiant knight-errant
could not refuse her. The boon was to be that he should come with her
wherever she might take him in order to right a wrong which a wicked
knight had done her.

She would further entreat him not to ask her to remove her mask nor
to make any inquiries concerning her affairs until the wrong done by the
wicked knight had been repaired. There was no doubt, the curate
thought, that Don Quixote would do anything they wanted him to when
they put it in this way, and thus they would be able to get him out of
that place and back home, where they would endeavor to see if there was
any remedy to be had for the strange madness that possessed him.

CHAPTER XXVII.

How the curate and the barber carried out their plan, along
with other things worthy of being related in this great history.

1HE curate's plan impressed the barber as not being a bad one at all.
Indeed, it was so good that they at once set about putting it into execu-
tion. They asked the landlady for a skirt and a couple of hoods, leaving
in pawn for them the curate's new cassock. The barber then made a great
beard out of a reddish-gray oxtail into which the innkeeper was in the
habit of sticking his comb. When the mistress of the house inquired as
to why they wanted these things, the curate proceeded to describe Don
Quixote's madness to her briefly, explaining that this disguise was neces-
sary in order to get him down off the mountain where he was at present.
At this point it dawned upon the landlord and his wife that the madman
had been their guest, the one who had prepared the balm and whose
squire had been tossed in the blanket; and she then told the curate all
that had happened, not neglecting to mention the incident which Sancho
had taken such pains to pass over in silence.

The short of it is, she dressed the curate up in a way that left nothing
to be desired, in a cloth skirt with black velvet stripes as broad as your
hand, all gored and flounced, and a bodice of green velvet with white
satin trimming, both garments being of the kind that must have been
worn in the days of King Wamba.249 The curate would not consent to
their putting a hood on him, but instead donned a quilted linen nightcap,
binding his forehead with a strip of black taffeta, while out of another
strip he fashioned a mask that served very well to cover his beard and
face. He then put on his hat, which was big enough to serve him as an
umbrella, and wrapping himself in his cloak he mounted his mule in lady-
like fashion, his companion straddled the other beast, and they set out.
The barber wore a beard, half red, half white, that fell all the way to
his waist, for, as has been said, it was made of the tail of a reddish ox.
They took their leave of all those in the inn, not forgetting the good
Maritornes, who, sinner that she was, promised to say a rosary that God
might grant them success in so arduous and Christian an undertaking as
the one upon which they were now embarked.

No sooner had they left the inn, however, than the thought occurred
to the priest that it was not right, but an indecent thing, for one of his
calling to trig himself out like this, even though much might depend
upon it. Accordingly, he asked the barber to change costumes with him,
as it was more fitting for the latter to be the damsel in distress while the
curate played the squire; in that way the dignity of the cloth would not
be profaned to such an extent. He added that if the barber did not agree
to this, he was determined to proceed no further and Don Quixote might
go to the devil for all he cared.

At this point Sancho came up, .and, seeing the two of them dressed in
such a manner, he could not keep from laughing. The barber ended by
acceding to the curate's wishes, and, changing the plot, the priest went
on to school him as to what his words and behavior in Don Quixote's
presence should be, in order that they might be able to persuade and
compel the knight to come with them and to give up his fondness for the
place that he had chosen for his vain and futile penance. The barber
replied that he needed no lessons but would carry everything off all
right. Meanwhile, he did not care to don his costume until they were
near the place where Don Quixote was; and so he folded up the garments,
the curate adjusted his beard, and they started off down the road with
Sancho Panza as their guide, who was now engaged in telling them about
the other madman who had been found upon the mountain, saying
nothing, however, of the valise and the treasure it contained; for despite
the fact that our young fellow's wits were none too sharp, they were
sharp enough where money was concerned.

The next day they came to where Sancho had strewn the branches as
a landmark to guide him to the spot where he had left Don Quixote.
Recognizing the signs, he told his companions that this was the way into
the place and they might put on their costumes if that was what was
needed in order to save his master. For they had previously made it clear
to him that their going in this manner and dressing in this fashion was
of the greatest importance if they were to rescue the knight from the
evil way of life that he had chosen; and they strongly charged him not
to reveal their identity or let it appear that he knew them. If his master
should ask him, as he was bound to do, if he had delivered the letter to
Dulcinea, Sancho was to say that, not being able to read or write, she had
replied by word of mouth, her message being that her lover was to come
to her at once, under pain of her displeasure if he failed to do so. They
explained that it meant much for Don Quixote's welfare, and by this
means, with what they proposed to say to him, they felt certain that they
would be able to bring him to a better life and at once put him on the
road to becoming an emperor or a monarch, since no one need fear that
he would end as an archbishop.

Sancho listened to it all, taking great pains to fix it in his memory. He
was grateful that they intended to advise his master to become an emperor
instead of an archbishop, for he still thought that emperors could do more
favors for their squires than archbishops-errant could. He also suggested
that it would be a good thing for him to go on ahead, hunt up his master,
and give him my lady's answer, for it was possible that this would be
enough to persuade him to leave and they would not have to go to so
much trouble. The squire's advice seemed worth following, and so they
decided to wait there until he returned with word of the knight.

Sancho then made his way into the mountain ravines, leaving the curate
and the barber in a gully through which there ran a small and gently
flowing brook, while other cliffs and a grove of trees that was there cast
a cool and pleasing shade. The day on which they arrived at this spot
was one in the month of August, which is usually a very hot month in
these parts; and the heat and the hour of day--it was three o'clock in the
afternoon--combined to render this an inviting spot in which to wait.
And then, as they were taking their ease in the shade, they caught the
sound of a voice, which, unaccompanied by an instrument of any kind,
reached their ears with a sweet and regular cadence. They were quite
astonished at hearing so good a singer in a place like this; for though it
is said that in the woods and fields one comes upon shepherds with super-
lative voices, this is an embellishment of the poets rather than the truth;
and they wondered still more when they discovered that these were not
such verses as rustic herdsmen compose but were, rather, the work of a
city-bred poet. The verses in question were the following, which con-
firm the truth of what has just been said:

What lessens all the good I gain--
　　　　　　　Disdain.
What is it augments my agony--
　　　　　　　Jealousy.
What tries my patience, keeps me tense--
　　　　　　　Absence .
Thus ' tis I'm always in suspense;
No remedy ever do l find,
Since all hope's killed within my mind
By disdain, jealousy, and absence.

Who sends this grief, what power above--
　　　　　　　Love.
Who at my glory casts a hateful glance--
　　　　　　　Chance.
Who consents to my woe without leaven--
　　　　　　　Heaven.
And so, I fear, to me ' tis given
To die of this strange malady,
Seeing that there's a conspiracy
Of Love and Chance and highest Heaven.

What can diminish my pain of breath--
　　　　　　　Death.
What can alter Love's humor strange--
　　　　　　　Change.
What can ever cure my sadness--
　　　　　　　Madness.
And so, since all of life is badness,
'Tis not wise to seek a cure
When the remedies most sure
Are death and change and utter madness.

The hour, the season, the solitude, the voice and skill of the singer
aroused admiration in the listeners and brought them contentment as
they waited to see if there was more of the song. When the silence had
lasted for some little while, they decided to go out and look for the
musician who had given them so much pleasure; but just as they were
about to do so, the voice began again, the same one as before, and as
they stayed their steps the following sonnet fell upon their ears:

O sacred Friendship that on lightsome wing,
Leaving thy counterpart with us below,
Hast gone to dwell with the blest, amid the glow
Of Heaven where the saints and angels sing,
While lending us still thy semblance, signaling
Thy true self 'neath a veil, thou mayest know
That what we oft behold is a lying show,
And from thy good works many evils spring.
Quit Heaven, then, O Friendship, nor permit
The hypocrite to don thy livery
And mock the heart sincere; take back the life
Thou gavest this shadow, for it is not fit
To walk the earth; its artful treachery
Will plunge the world once more in primal strife.

The song ended with a deep sigh, and the two once again waited
attentively to see if there would be more; but when they perceived that
the music had turned into sobs and mournful cries, they resolved to find
out who the saddened singer was whose voice was as marvelous as his
moans were lugubrious. They had not gone far when, in rounding the
edge of a cliff, they saw before them a man with the same face and figure
as Cardenio, according to Sancho Panza's description when he told them
the story of the lovelorn swain. This man as they beheld him now was
not leaping in the air, but stood with his head on his bosom like one who
was deep in thought, and did not raise his eyes to look at them beyond
a first glance when they suddenly came upon him.

The curate already knew of Cardenio's misfortune and recognized him
from what Sancho had said, and, being a pleasant-spoken man, he now
went up to him and with a few brief but well-chosen words endeavored
to persuade him to give up this wretched life he was leading, lest by re-
maining there he lose life itself, which was the greatest misfortune of
all. At that moment Cardenio was wholly in his right mind and free of
those furious fits that so frequently took him out of himself. Seeing the
two dressed in a manner that was so unusual among those who dwelt
in these wilds, he could not but wonder somewhat, and he wondered
still more when he heard them speaking of his personal affairs as of some-
thing that was well known to them; for such was the impression he
derived from the curate's words, and he, accordingly, replied as follows:

"I can see plainly enough, gentlemen, whoever you may be, that
Heaven, which is careful to succor the good, and the wicked as well
very often, without my deserving it has sent to me here in this remote
spot, so far from the ways of men, certain persons who with various and
forceful reasons have shown me how unreasonable I am in continuing
to lead the kind of life that I do, and who would induce me to leave it
for a better one. But they do not know what I know, that in escaping
from this evil I should but fall into a greater one, and so, they will perhaps
take me for a weak-willed individual or one of little sense, and it would be
small wonder if they did, for it is plain even to me that thinking about
my troubles so intently as I do can lead only to my ruination, and without
my being able to avoid it, I come to be like a stone, wholly lacking in
consciousness and a proper sense of things.

"I am made aware of this truth when people at times tell me about, or
show me, evidence of the things that I have done when that terrible mad-
ness rules me, in which case I can do no more than vainly grieve or futilely
curse my fate, and by way of excuse can only tell the cause of it all
to such as may care to hear it. For those who are sound of mind, when
they behold the cause, will not marvel at the effects; if they can offer no
remedy, they will at least not blame me, and the repulsion they feel at my
waywardness will turn to pity for my woes. And so, if you, my dear
sirs, have come here with the same intention as others in the past, before
you go any further with your wise reasoning I would have you listen to
the story of my misadventures, and perhaps when you have heard it
you will spare yourselves the trouble of endeavoring to console a grief
that is beyond all consolation."

The curate and the barber, who desired nothing more than to hear
from Cardenio's own mouth the cause of his troubles, now begged him
to tell them of it, promising him that they would do nothing that he
would not want them to do by way of helping or consoling him. At this,
the unfortunate gentleman began his pitiful tale with almost the same
words and gestures that he had used in speaking to Don Quixote and the
goatherd a few days before, when, owing to the dispute over Master
Elisabat and the knight's punctiliousness in observing the code of
chivalry, the narrative had been left unfinished, as has already been set
forth in the course of this history. But this time, as good fortune would
have it, the fit held off and gave him an opportunity to tell it to the end.
Coming to the incident of the note which Don Fernando had found be-
tween the pages of Amadis of Gaul, Cardenio said that he could remem-
ber it very well and that it went like this:

　　　　　　　　　　　LUSCINDA TO CARDENIO

Each day l discover in you qualities that persuade and oblige me to
esteem you more; and if you would have me fulfill this obligation while
leaving my honor intact, you can very easily do so. I have a father who
knows you and who loves me well, and he without forcing my inclina-
tions will grant whatever it is right that you should have, if you love
me as you say and as l believe you do.

"By this letter I was led to ask for Luscinda's hand in marriage, as I
have already told you, and it was by reason of it that she came to be
looked upon by Fernando as one of the most discreet and prudent women
of her age. It was this letter that gave him the desire to ruin me before
my own desires could be gratified. I told Don Fernando that all that
Luscinda's father was waiting for was my father's formal request for her,
but that I dared not speak to my father about it, being fearful that he
would not consent; not that he was unacquainted with her rank, gracious-
ness, virtue, and beauty, for she had enough good qualities to ennoble
any other line in Spain; it was simply that he had given me to understand
that he did not wish me to marry so soon, until we had seen what Duke
Ricardo meant to do for me. Finally, I confessed to my friend that if I
had not ventured to tell my father, it was not on account of this difficulty
alone, for there were many others that tended to make a coward of me,
although I could not rightly say what they were; all I knew was that it
seemed to me that I was destined never to attain the object of my desires.

"In reply to all this, Don Fernando told me that he would take it upon
himself to speak to my father and have him talk to Luscinda's father. O
ambitious Marius! O cruel Catiline! O wicked Sulla! O lying Galalon!250
O treacherous Vellido!251 O vengeful Julian!252 O greedy Judas! O cruel,
vengeful, lying traitor! What disservice did this unhappy one do you,
he who so openly laid bare to you the contents and inmost secrets of his
heart--How did he offend you--What words did he ever say to you,
what counsel did he ever give you that were not all intended to augment
your honor and advantage--But of what do I complain, poor wretched
creature that I am--For it is certain that misfortunes, springing from the
course of the stars and coming from on high, fall upon us with such fury
and violence that there is no force on earth that can restrain them, no
human ingenuity that can forestall them.

"Who would have believed that Don Fernando, a gentleman of illus-
trious birth and able wit, one who was under obligations to me for my
services and who was in a position to take what he wanted in the way
of love wherever his fancy might choose to roam--who would have be-
lieved that he would stoop so low, as the saying is, as to deprive me of
my one ewe lamb which I had not as yet possessed--But let us leave all
these considerations aside as being futile and profitless and resume the
broken thread of my unfortunate history.

"To continue, then: Finding my presence an obstacle to the carrying
out of his treacherous and wicked plan, Don Fernando determined to
send me to his elder brother under pretext of asking him for money with
which to pay for six horses that he had bought the very day he offered to
speak to my father, all of this being a clever ruse on his part, designed
solely to get me out of the way in order that he might better be able to
put that damnable scheme of his into execution. Could I have foreseen
this treason--Could I by any chance have imagined it--Most assuredly
not; instead, it was with the greatest pleasure that I understood the errand,
being quite happy over the good bargain he had made.

‘That night I spoke to Luscinda, telling her of the arrangement with
Don Fernando and adding that I now felt confident that our desires,
which were right and proper, would be realized. She no more than I sus-
pected Fernando's treason, but urged me to return as speedily as possible
since she was convinced that the moment my father spoke to hers the ful-
fillment of our wishes would be delayed no longer. I do not know why it
was, but as she said this her eyes filled with tears and a lump formed in
her throat so that she was unable to put into words all the other things
that she had to say to me. I was greatly surprised, for I had never seen
her in such a mood before. On those occasions when good fortune and
my own wits had brought about a meeting, we had always talked gaily
and happily, and there had been no tears, sighs, jealousy, fears, or suspi-
cions. At such times, I would thank my stars that Heaven had given her
to me for my lady and would extol her beauty and praise her worth and
understanding; and she would give me payment in kind by praising in
me those qualities that most endeared me to her.

"We would then go on to speak of a hundred thousand trifles and
happenings that concerned our neighbors and acquaintances, and the
most daring thing I did was to take, almost by force, one of her white
hands and raise it to my lips as best I could in those confined quarters,
over the low grating that separated us. But on this night, preceding the
sad day of my departure, she wept, moaned, and sighed, and then ran
off, leaving me deeply bewildered and perturbed, for I still could not
recover from my astonishment at seeing so many unwonted and distress-
ing signs of grief and feeling on her part. However, in order not to slay
my hopes, I attributed it all to the power of love and the suffering that
absence causes in those who care for each other deeply.

"Finally, I set out, downcast and pensive, my heart filled with imagin-
ings and suspicions without my knowing what it was that I suspected
or imagined, which in itself was an ill omen of the sorrowful event and
misfortune that awaited me. Arriving at my destination, I presented the
letter to Don Fernando's brother and was well received, although, much
to my' disappointment, I was not sent back at once but was ordered to
wait for the matter of a week in some place where the duke would not
see me, for Fernando had asked his brother to send him a certain sum
without their father's knowing anything about it. All this was a treacher-
ous plot on his part, since his brother had sufficient money and there
was no need for him to keep me waiting. I was of a mind not to obey the
order, as it seemed to me an impossibility to spend so many days of my
life away from Luscinda, especially in view of the unhappy state in which
I had left her on that last night of which I have told you. Nevertheless, I
did obey like a good servant, even though I realized it would have to be
at the expense of my own welfare.

"I had not been there four days, however, when a man arrived with
a letter for me bearing a superscription which I recognized as that of
Luscinda, for the missive proved to be from her. I opened it with fear
and trembling, thinking there must be something very wrong indeed
that had moved her to write me at a distance, since she seldom wrote when
I was near her. Before reading the message I inquired of the man as to
who had given it to him and how long he had been on the road, and he
informed me that as he chanced to be passing down a city street at mid-
day a very beautiful lady had called to him from a window, her eyes
full of tears, and had said to him, ‘My brother, if you are a Christian as
you appear to be, I beg you to take this letter at once to the place and
person, both well known, that are indicated on the back of it and by so
doing you will render a great service to Our Lord; and in order that it
may not inconvenience you to do so, take what you find in this handker-
chief.'

"The man then went on to explain, ‘And saying this, she tossed me
from the window a handkerchief in which were wrapped up a hundred
reates and this gold ring that I hand you now along with the letter that
I have already given you; after which, without waiting for any answer,
she left the window, but not until she had observed me pick up the letter
and the handkerchief and make a sign to her that I would do as she had
commanded. And so, seeing that I was being well paid for my trouble
in delivering it, and noting by the superscription that it was you, sir,
whom I know very well, to whom it was addressed--not to speak of the
tears of that beautiful lady and the obligation they laid upon me--I de-
termined not to trust any other person with this communication but to
come myself and place it in your hands. And in sixteen hours from the
time it was given me, I have made the journey, which as you know is
one of eighteen leagues.'

"As the newly arrived and grateful messenger told me all this, I hung
on his every word, my legs trembling so that I could hardly stand. When
I opened the letter, this was what I found:

"The promise that Don Fernando gave you to speak to your father and
have him speak to mine has been fulfilled by him to his own satisfaction
rather than to your advantage. You must know, sir, that he has asked to
have me as his wife, and my father, looking upon him as being a more
advantageous match than you, has acceded to his request with such
alacrity that the marriage is to take place two days from now, with such
secrecy and in such privacy that only Heaven and the household
servants will be the witnesses. Picture the state that l am in and judge
for yourself as to whether it is urgent for you to return, and from the
outcome of this affair you will see if l love you dearly or not. Please God
that this may reach you before my hands are joined to those of one who
knows so little what it means to keep the promise he has made!

"Such, in brief, were the contents of the note, which caused me to
take to the road at once without waiting any longer for the reply or the
money which I was supposed to bring back with me; for I now knew
that it was not the purchase of horses but his own wayward fancy that
had prompted Fernando to send me to his brother. The resentment I
felt against him, together with the fear of losing the prize which I had
rightfully won through so many years of loving service, gave me wings,
so that, almost, flying, I reached home the next day, at the very hour
when I was accustomed to go and speak to Luscinda. I entered secretly,
leaving the mule on which I had come at the house of the good man who
had brought me the letter. Fortune for once was kind, and I found
Luscinda at the grating which had been the witness of our love. She
recognized me at once and I her, but it was not in the way that we ought
to have recognized each other. However, who is there in the world who
can flatter himself that he has known and fathomed a woman's confused
mind and changeable disposition?253 No one, certainly.

As soon as she caught sight of me, Luscinda said, ‘Cardenio, you see
me in bridal dress. Waiting for me in the great hall at this moment are
Don Fernando the traitor, my father the covetous one, and others who
shall be the witnesses of my death rather than of my nuptials. Do not
be perturbed, my dear, but, rather, try to be present at this sacrifice, and
if it cannot be prevented by any words of mine, then this dagger that
I have concealed here will forestall more determined violence by putting
an end to my life and a beginning to the knowledge that will be yours
of the love that I have and always have had for you.'

"Feeling pressed for time, I replied to her hastily and distractedly,
‘May your deeds, Q lady, make good your words. If you bear a dagger to
affirm your honor, I have here a sword to defend you or to slay myself
if fate should be against us.' I do not think that she could have heard all
that I said, for I became aware that they were calling to her to come
quickly as her bridegroom was waiting for her. Thus did the night of
my sorrow close in upon me, thus did the sun of my happiness set; the
light of my eyes was gone, my mind had lost the power to reason. At first,
I could not bring myself to enter the house; indeed, I was not capable
of any movement whatsoever; but then, reflecting on what was about
to take place and how important my presence might be, I plucked up
what courage I could and went in. I was very well acquainted with all
the entrances and ways of egress in that house, and in any event, with all
the confusion that secretly prevailed there, no one would have noticed
me; and so, without being perceived, I contrived to conceal myself in
the recess formed by a window in the hall itself, covered by the borders
of two tapestries from behind which I could see without being seen and
observe everything that went on in the room.

"Who can describe now the dread that was in my heart as I stood there,
the thoughts that occurred to me, the things that went through my mind--
They were such as cannot be told, and it is as well that they cannot be.
I may merely say that the bridegroom entered the room dressed in his
ordinary garments, without ornament of any kind. As attendant he had
with him a cousin-german of Luscinda's, and there was not a person
there from outside the family with the exception of the servants. After
a little, Luscinda came out from a dressing-room, accompanied by her
mother and her two damsels. She was made up and adorned as befitted
her rank and beauty, as for a festive or ceremonial occasion. I had neither
the time nor the presence of mind to note the details of her costume, but
was conscious only of the colors that she wore, crimson and white,254 and
of the glitter of the gems and jewels on her headdress and all over her
robe, which, however, could not vie with the striking beauty of her
blond hair, which was such as far to outshine the precious stones and
the light from the four torches that flared in the room.

"O memory, mortal foe to my peace of mind! What purpose does it
serve to bring before me now the incomparable loveliness of my adored
enemy--Would it not be better, O cruel memory, to remind me of, and
picture for me, what she then did in order that, moved by so manifest a
wrong, I may at least seek to end my life, now that vengeance is no
longer mine to take--

"I hope, good sirs, that you will not tire of these digressions that I
make, for my sorrow is not one of those that can be related briefly and
succinctly, inasmuch as each circumstance appears to me to be worthy of
a long discourse."

To this the curate replied that not only were they not tired of listening
to him, but all the little things that he had to tell were of great interest to
them and deserved not to be passed over in silence but to be narrated as
attentively as the main body of the story.

"Well, then," Cardenio went on, "when they were all gathered in the
great hall, the curate of the parish entered and, taking the two of them
by the hand, performed the required ceremony. As he came to the words
4 Do you, Senora Luscinda, take Senor Don Fernando here present to be
your lawfully wedded husband as our Holy Mother Church commands?'
--at that point I thrust my head and neck all the way out from behind
the tapestries and, with deep perturbation of soul, strained my ears for
Luscinda's response, feeling that upon her answer depended a death
sentence or a grant of life for me. Oh, if then I had but dared to burst
forth and cry, 'Ah, Luscinda, Luscinda, look well to what you are doing,
think of what you owe to me, and remember that you are mine and can-
not belong to another! Remember that if you say yes, my life at that
instant will come to an end! Ah, traitorous Don Fernando, robber of
my bliss, death of my life, what would you--Reflect that as a Christian
you cannot accomplish your desires, for Luscinda is my bride and I her
bridegroom!'

"Ah, fool that I am, now that I am far away and out of danger's reach,
I have let him steal my jewel, I can but curse the thief on whom I might
have avenged myself had I had the heart for vengeance in place of merely
complaining as I do now. In short, I was both a coward and a fool, and it
is little wonder if I am now dying a shamed and repentant madman.

"The curate, then, was standing there waiting for Luscinda's response,
which was some while in coming; and just as I thought that she was about
to take out her dagger to assert her honor or was trying to unloose her
tongue to disabuse them and speak some truth that would redound to my
advantage, I heard her saying in a weak, fainthearted voice, ‘Yes, I do.'
Repeating the same words, Don Fernando placed the ring on her finger,
and they were bound by an indissoluble knot. The bridegroom then went
to kiss his bride, but she with a hand to her heart fell back fainting in her
mother's arms. It only remains now for me to tell you the state that I
was in as I heard that yes making a mockery of my hopes, proving false
Luscinda's words and promises, and rendering impossible for all time
to come the attainment of the blessing which I at that moment had lost.
I was stunned by it all, left unprotected as it seemed to me by all the
heavens, while the earth was my sworn enemy, denying me breath for
my sighs, moisture for my tears; it was fire alone that grew in strength
until I was wholly aflame with rage and jealousy.

"They were all greatly agitated by Luscinda's fainting fit; and as her
mother opened the bride's bodice to give her air, they found there a
sealed note which Don Fernando promptly took. When he had read it
by the light of the torches, he sat down in a chair with a hand to his
cheek, in the attitude of a man who is thinking deeply, paying no atten-
tion to what they were doing to revive his bride. Perceiving that the
entire household was in confusion, I ventured to slip out. It made little
difference to me whether I was seen or not, for, in case I was, I had made
up my mind to commit some insane act that would let the world know of
the just indignation that burned in my bosom, through the punishment
inflicted upon the perfidious Don Fernando and upon the fickle and
swooning traitress as well. But my fate, which must have been reserving
me, if possible, for still greater ills to come, if there be any such, ordained
that at this moment I should have enough and to spare of that wit that I
have lacked since then; and accordingly, without seeking to take
vengeance on my greatest enemies--all thought of me being so far from
their minds, it would have been an easy matter to slay them--I resolved
instead to inflict upon myself the suffering that should have been theirs,
employing even greater severity, it may be, than I should have shown
toward them by killing them, for sudden pain is soon over but that which
is marked by long-drawn-out torments always kills without putting an
end to life.

"To be brief, departing from that house I returned to the one where
I had left the mule. I had the man saddle it for me, and then, without
so much as bidding him good-by, I mounted the animal and rode out of
the city like another Lot, not daring to turn my face to look back. When
I found myself alone in the open country and enveloped in the darkness
of night, I was tempted to give vent to my grief without restraint or fear
of being heard or recognized, and then it was I raised my voice and loosed
my tongue, heaping curses on Luscinda and Don Fernando as if by that
means I might obtain satisfaction for the wrong which they had done
me. I called her cruel, ungrateful, false, and thankless, but, above all, I
upbraided her for covetousness, seeing that my enemy's wealth had closed
the eyes of her love and had taken her from me and handed her over to
one with whom fortune had dealt more freely and liberally than it had
with me.

"Yet even in the midst of this outburst of curses and vituperations I
still found excuses for her, telling myself it was no wonder that a young
girl reared in seclusion in her parents' house and brought up to obey them
always should have seen fit to yield to their choice when they offered
her for a husband a gentleman of such high rank and so rich and well
bred that not to have readily accepted him would have led others to
think either that she was lacking in sound judgment or that she had be-
stowed her affections somewhere else, a thing which would so have
prejudiced her good name and reputation.

"And then again, I said to myself, supposing she had declared me to
be her betrothed, they would have seen that she had not chosen so badly
that she was not to be forgiven; for before Don Fernando had made his
offer of marriage, they themselves, had their desires been tempered with
reason, could not have wished a better husband for their daughter than
I. And she, before letting herself be placed in that forced and final situa-
tion of having to give her hand to another, might very well have said that
I had already given her mine, knowing that I would come forward to
verify any assertion of this sort that she made. At last I reached the con-
clusion that little love, small judgment, much ambition, and great worldly
longings had led her to forget the words with which she had deceived
me and which had served to sustain my own firm hopes and honorable
desires.

"Talking to myself in this manner, and deeply agitated, I journeyed
all the rest of that night and at dawn found myself in a pass leading into
the heart of these highlands. I traveled over the mountains for three days
more, with no road or footpath to guide me, until I came to a halt in
the meadows that lie on one side of this range, though I cannot tell you
which side it is, and there I inquired of some shepherds as to which was
the most rugged part of the region. They told me it was where we are
now, and so I came here, meaning to end my life; and, upon entering
this inhospitable land, my mule fell dead of weariness and hunger, or,
I am more inclined to think, in order to be done with so useless a burden
as the one he bore. I was left, then, without a mount, worn out, starving,
with no one to give me aid and with no thought of seeking it.

"I cannot tell you how long it was I lay stretched out on the ground
like that, but at last I arose, feeling no hunger, and found myself in the
company of some goatherds, who must have been the ones who had aided
me in my distress; for they told me of the condition I was in when they
had found me, the nonsensical things I had said, the mad actions I had
performed, all of which clearly indicated that I had lost my reason. And
I myself since then have become conscious of the fact that I am not al-
ways in full possession of it and that it is so weak and decayed that I do a
thousand mad things such as rending my garments and shouting at the
top of my voice in these solitudes as I curse my fate and vainly repeat the
loved name of my fair enemy, all with no other purpose than that of
putting an end to my existence through such loudly voiced laments, and
then, when I am myself once more, I am so tired and battered that I can
barely move.

"My most common habitation is in the hollow of a cork tree large
enough to shelter this wretched body. The cowherds and goatherds that
frequent these mountains, moved by charity, bring me food, placing it
along the paths and cliffs where they think that I may pass and find it;
for though my wits may fail me, the necessities of nature teach me what
l need in order to sustain the spark of life, awakening in me the desire
to seek it and the willingness to accept it. At other times, so they tell me
when they find me in my right senses, I go out on the roads and take
by force, though they would gladly give it to me, the food which the
shepherds are bringing back from the village to their folds.

"Such is the manner in which I spend my wretched life, what is left
me of it until Heaven shall see fit to bring it to a close or so order things
that I shall no longer remember the beauty of the treacherous Luscinda
or the wrong done me by Don Fernando. If it does this without depriving
me of life, I will then turn my thoughts to better things; if not, there is
nothing left but to pray that it will have mercy on my soul, for I do not
feel that I have the ability or the strength to retrieve my body from these
straits in which I have placed it of my own volition.

"This, then, 0 worthy gentlemen, is the bitter story of my misfortunes.
Tell me if it is such as could be related with any less feeling than you have
seen me display. And do not trouble yourselves with persuading or ad-
vising me to take that remedy that reason says may be good for me, for
it will do me no more good than the medicine prescribed by a famous
physician for a patient who will have none of it. I want no health with-
out Luscinda; and inasmuch as she chooses to be another's when she is
or ought to be mine, let my choice be misfortune when it might have
been happiness. She with her changeableness would make stable my
perdition, and I, by seeking my own ruin, will gratify her wishes, thus
serving as an example to those in days to come, of one who alone among
men lacked that of which all the wretched have more than enough: that
is, the ability to console themselves with the impossibility of any consola-
tion; for this in my case only leads to greater sorrows and sufferings,
since I do not believe that there will be an end to my pain even in death."

Here Cardenio brought to a close his long speech and a story as filled
with misfortunes as it was with love. The curate was about to offer him
a few words of sympathy but stopped short when a voice reached his
ears, crying in pitiful accents what will be related in the fourth part of
this narrative; for it was at this point that the wise and learned historian,
Cid Hemete Benengeli, brought the third part to a conclusion.255

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Which treats of the new and pleasing adventure of the
curate and the barber on the same mountain.

MOST happy and most fortunate were those times when that boldest
of knights, Don Quixote de la Mancha, came into the world; and it is
by reason of his noble resolve to revive and restore to that same world the
calling of knight-errantry, so long lost to memory and all but dead, that
we now, in this age of ours which is so sadly lacking in merry entertain-
ment, are able to enjoy not only the charm of his veracious history, but
also the tales and episodes interpolated in it, which in a manner are no
less pleasing, artful, and true than the history itself.

Pursuing, then, its hackled, twisting, winding thread of plot,256 I the
work in question goes on to relate that just as the curate was beginning
to offer Cardenio certain words of consolation, he heard a voice crying
in mournful accents, "O God! Is it possible that I have found a place
that may serve as a hidden grave for the burdensome weight of this body
which I so unwillingly support--I have indeed, if the solitude that these
mountains promise me is not a lie. Ah, unfortunate one that I am! How
much more agreeable company do these crags and thickets afford me for
my purpose--since here I may cry aloud my woes to Heaven--than
would any human being, seeing that there is no one on earth to whom
I may look for counsel in my doubts, a comforting answer to my lamen-
tations, or a remedy for the ills that beset me."

Upon hearing and grasping the sense of these words, the curate and his
companions rightly decided that the voice came from near by, and they
accordingly arose to search for its owner and had not gone twenty paces
when, behind a large rock, seated at the foot of an ash tree, they beheld
a lad, dressed as a peasant, whose face they could not clearly see at the
moment for the reason that his head was bent over as he bathed his feet in
the rivulet that flowed there. They came up very quietly, giving no sign
of their presence, while he devoted all his attention to what appeared
to be two pieces of white crystal embedded among the stones of the
brook, rather than feet. Feet they were, however, of a surprising white-
ness and beauty, and, belying the lad's garb, they did not seem made to
tread clods or follow the plow and the oxen.

Perceiving that the young peasant had not heard them, the curate, who
had gone ahead, made signs to the others to crouch down and hide them-
selves behind some pieces of rock that lay scattered around, and this they
all did, watching attentively, meanwhile, the actions of the one by the
stream. The latter was clad in a gray-colored double-skirted jacket tightly
bound about the waist by a girdle of white cloth, and he also had on
breeches and gaiters of gray cloth and a cap of the same material on his
head. His gaiters were rolled halfway up his legs, which, it seemed, must
surely be of pure alabaster. Having bathed his feet, he took out a towel
from beneath his cap and dried them; and in removing his montera,257 he
lifted his head, affording the onlookers a glimpse of a face of incompa-
rable beauty.

"That," said Cardenio to the curate, "since it cannot be Luseinda, Is
no human being but a divine one."

Being now without his cap, the youth shook his head from side to
side, and, as he did so, a mass of hair whose brightness the sun might have
envied was unloosened and fell down over his shoulders. This told them
that the one who had appeared to be a peasant lad was in reality a woman
of exquisite loveliness, indeed the most beautiful that two of them had
ever beheld, and the same might have been said of Cardenio if he had
not looked upon and known Luseinda, for as he afterward observed, only
her beauty could compete with that of the creature before them, whose
long blond locks not only covered her shoulders, but were so abundant
as to conceal the whole of her body with the exception of her feet. For
a comb she made use of her two hands, and if her feet in the water had
the appearance of crystal, her hands in her hair were like driven snow.
All of which filled her beholders with admiration and made them more
desirous than ever of knowing who she was.

They accordingly resolved to show themselves, and at the sound which
they made upon getting to their feet the lovely lass raised her head and,
parting her hair from in front of her eyes with both hands, gazed in
their direction. No sooner did she see them than she rose, without pausing
to put on her shoes or gather in her flowing locks, and, hastily snatching
up something like a bundle of garments that was on the bank beside her,
she started to flee in great fear and alarm. She had not gone six paces, how-
ever, when, her delicate feet being unused to the rough stones, she sank
to the ground; whereupon the three of them ran up to her. The curate
was the first to speak.

"Stay, my lady," he said, "whoever you may be, for we whom you see
here only wish to be of service to you. There is no reason for you to
take to importunate flight like this, for your feet will not suffer it, nor
can we consent to it."

To this she replied not a word, being very much astonished and be-
wildered. They then came closer to her, and the curate, taking her by
the hand, went on speaking.

What your garb denies, lady," he began, "your hair has revealed to us;
and we feel sure that the causes cannot have been slight ones that have
led you to disguise your beauty in so unworthy a habit and come to so
lonely a place as this where it has been our good fortune to find you. If
we cannot remedy your griefs, we at least would offer you such comfort
as we can; for no sorrow so long as life lasts can be so overwhelming or
so far beyond the reach of human aid that the sufferer will refuse to listen
to those words of comfort that are uttered with good intentions. And so,
dear lady, or dear sir, whichever you prefer, try to overcome the fear
which the sight of us has caused you and tell us of your good or evil
fortunes, for in all of us together and in each of us individually you will
find a sympathetic audience."

While the curate was saying this, the lass in boy's clothing stood as if
spellbound, looking first at one and then at another, without moving
her lips or saying a word, like a rustic villager who is suddenly shown
some curious thing that he has never seen before. But as the priest went
on with other arguments to the same effect, she gave a deep sigh and
broke her silence at last.

"Inasmuch," she said, "as these mountain wilds have not been able to
Conceal me, while the sight of my loosened hair renders futile any lie my
tongue might tell, it would be vain for me to go on pretending to be what
I am not, since if you believed it at all, it would be out of politeness rather
than for any other reason. In view of this fact, then, gentlemen, I would
say that I thank you for the offer you have made me, which has put me
under the obligation of granting your request by telling you all that you
may wish to know; although I fear that the story of the misfortunes
which I shall relate to you will cause you boredom as well as compas-
sion, seeing that there is no remedy or comfort to be had for them. Never-
theless, I would not have my honor compromised in your sight, for you
now know me to be a woman and see me, a young girl, alone here and in
this costume, two things that well might drag in the dust any woman's
good name. And so, I shall tell you what I would much rather keep secret
if I could."

All this was uttered so gracefully and fluently and in so charming a
voice that they could not but admire the cleverness as much as they did
the beauty of this creature who stood revealed as one of the most entranc-
ing of women. With this, they repeated their offers, begging her to fulfill
her promise, and she, without further urging, after first very modestly
putting on her shoes and gathering up her hair, seated herself upon a
rock with the three about her. Doing her best to restrain her tears, she
began the story of her life, in a calm, clear voice.

"In this province of Andalusia there is a village that lies within the
domains of a duke, one of those who are known as Grandees of Spain.
This duke has two sons: the elder, who is heir to his estate and, ap-
parently, to his good morals as well; and a younger one, who is heir to--
I cannot tell you what, unless it be the treasons of Vellido and the lying
wiles of Galaldn. My own parents are the vassals of this lord, and though
of humble antecedents are so rich that if their lineage had been equal to
their fortune they would have had nothing left to wish for and I should
have had no fear of finding myself in my present plight. For it well may
be that my misfortunes spring from theirs in not having been born to
the nobility. It is true enough that they are not so lowly born that they
need blush for their station in life, but, on the other hand, their rank is
not so high that I can rid myself of the thought that it was their humility
that brought my troubles upon me.

"They are, in short, plain country people without any admixture of
disreputable blood; they are rusty258 old Christians but so well off that,
by reason of their luxurious mode of living, they have come to be known
as hidalgos and even caballeros,259 although the wealth and nobility that
they most prized lay in having me for a daughter. They were fond
parents and had no other son or daughter to be their heir, and, as a result,
I was one of the most pampered young ladies that ever was. I was the
mirror in which they beheld themselves, the staff of their old age, and
the object toward which, by the grace of Heaven, all their wishes tended;
and their wishes being such worthy ones, my own were in agreement
with theirs. And just as I was the mistress of their hearts and minds, so
was I of their estate as well. It was through me that they engaged and
discharged servants, and it was through my hands that the accounts of the
sowing and the harvest passed, of the oil mills, wine presses, herds, flocks,
and hives, all the things that a rich farmer like my father might possess--
I kept count of them all; I was at once the mistress and the major-domo,
all of which duties were performed with such diligence on my part and
such satisfaction on the part of my parents that I cannot well describe
it to you.

That portion of the day that was left me after I had dealt with the
stewards, overseers, and laborers I devoted to those pursuits that are
as proper as they are necessary for young ladies, commonly represented
by the needle, the sewing-cushion, and the distaff. And if I occasionally,
by way of recreation, forsook these tasks, it was to read some book of
devotion or play upon the harp, for experience has taught me that music
soothes the troubled mind and brings rest to the weary soul.260

"Such, then, was the life that I led in my parents' house. If I have pic-
tured it for you in so great detail, it has not been for purposes of ostenta-
tion or by way of impressing upon you the fact that I am wealthy. My
object, rather, is to show you how, through no fault of my own, I have
fallen from that happy state of which I have told you to the one in which
I now find myself. It was a busy life I led but one so cloistered that it
can be compared only to that of a convent. It seemed to me I saw no one
at all outside the servants; for on those days that I went to early morning
mass, accompanied by my mother and the women of the household, I
was so veiled and so closely attended that my eyes scarcely beheld more
of the ground than that on which I set my feet. Yet for all of that, the
eyes of love, or, it would be better to say, dalliance, with which those of
the lynx cannot compare, found me out through the persistency of Don
Fernando, for that is the name of the duke's younger son of whom I
spoke."

The moment he heard Fernando's name mentioned, Cardenio turned
pale and began perspiring all over, displaying such signs of deep emotion
as to lead the curate and the barber, who were watching him, to fear he
was about to have one of those fits that, so they had been told, came over
him from time to time. He did nothing more than sweat, however, and
sat there quietly, staring hard at the peasant lass, for by now he suspected
who she was. Without paying any attention to him, she went on with
her story.

"Those eyes of his had had no more than one good glimpse of my face
when, as he said afterward, he fell violently in love with me, as his later
actions proved. But to bring the tale of my misfortunes to as speedy an
end as possible, I will pass over all the means to which Don Fernando
had resort in making known his love. He bribed all the servants in the
house and gave and offered gifts and favors to my parents. Every day in
our street was an occasion for festivity and rejoicing, and at night one
could not sleep for the music that was played. The love notes that, with-
out my knowing how, reached my hands were infinite in number and
were filled with amorous phrases and declarations. They contained more
oaths and promises than they did letters of the alphabet. All of which did
not soften me in the least, but, rather, hardened me against him to such an
extent that I came to look upon him as my mortal enemy, while all the
efforts that he made to win my love had just the opposite effect. It was
not that I disliked his courteous intentions or found them excessive; for
it gave me a certain satisfaction to be loved and held in such esteem by
a gentleman of his illustrious rank. Nor was I annoyed by reading his
praises of me in the notes that he sent me, for however ugly we may
be, I think we women always enjoy hearing ourselves called beautiful.

"No, it was simply that my sense of propriety was opposed to all this,
and my parents, moreover, were constantly advising me against him, as
they now very clearly perceived Don Fernando's purpose, and he did not
care if all the world knew it. My parents reminded me that my virtue was
the sole depository of their honor and good name and urged me to take
into consideration the disparity of rank between him and myself, saying
that if I did so, I would see that, whatever he might say, he was thinking
more of his own pleasure than of my welfare. They added that if I cared
to oppose in the slightest degree his unjust claims to my affection, they
would marry me at once to anyone I might choose from among the lead-
ing families of our village or the neighboring ones, since in view of their
wealth and my reputation for virtue, there was no limit to our expecta-
tions.

"These assured promises and the truths my parents told me greatly
strengthened my resolution, and I never said a word in reply to Don
Fernando that might have afforded him the remotest hope of attaining
his desire. This reserved attitude on my part, which he must have mis-
taken for flirtatiousness, merely served to whet his lascivious appetite;
for that is the only name that I can give to the feeling that he showed for
me, since if it had been anything else, you would not be hearing of it
now, as there would be no occasion for telling you of it,

"Finally, he learned that my parents were about to arrange another
match by way of putting an end to his hopes of possessing me, or at least
were going to have me more carefully watched over in the future, and
it was this news or suspicion that led him to commit the act which I shall
now relate. One night, being alone in my room, with the doors well
locked and only my maid for company--for I feared that in some way,
though I did not know how, my virtue might be endangered--I suddenly
found him, in spite of all my modesty and precautions, standing before
me there in the silence and seclusion of my chamber. The sight of him
so perturbed me that I could not take my eyes off him and my tongue was
tied.

"I was so frightened that I could not even cry out, and I do not believe
that he would have permitted me to do so; for he at once came up to me
and, taking me in his arms--as I have told you, I did not have the strength
or presence of mind to defend myself--he began to say all sorts of things
to me, making lies appear to be the truth in a manner that I should not
have believed possible. And what is more, the traitor even managed a few
tears and sighs by way of making his words sound plausible. As a result,
poor young thing that I was, alone with my attendants who had had
little experience in such cases as this, I came somehow to accept his
falsehoods as the truth, although it was nothing more than a kindly com-
passion that his tearful protestations aroused in me.

"And so, when my first start of surprise was over, I began to recover
somewhat of my self-possession and with more spirit than I should have
believed myself capable of showing, I spoke to him.

"'Sir,' I said,261 if instead of being in your arms as I am at this moment
I were in the grasp of a fierce lion and my liberation depended upon my
saying or doing something which would prejudice my virtue, that thing
would be as impossible for me as it is to undo that which has already
been. Though your arms may hold me like this, my soul is firmly attached
to worthy desires very different from yours, as you shall see if you
endeavor by force to put your own into effect. I am your vassal, but
I am not your slave, and your nobility of blood does not, and should not,
give you the right to despise and dishonor my humble origins. As a
peasant girl of the countryside I have as much self-respect as do you,
a lordly gentleman. With me neither force nor your wealth nor any
words that you may utter to deceive me nor all your sighs and tears
shall be of any avail in softening my resolve.

"'If I were to find any of these qualities262 I have mentioned in the one
whom my parents gave me for a husband, I would adjust my will to his
and never go beyond the bounds of his wishes; and thus my honor would
be left me even though my desires were not gratified, and I would give
him freely that which you, sir, now seek to take so forcibly. I have told
you all this in order that you may know that he who is not my husband
never will obtain anything from me.'

"‘If that,' replied the faithless gentleman, ‘is all that is troubling you,
my loveliest Dorotea' "--for such was the name the unfortunate one
bore--"‘then look, I give you my hand and promise to be yours, and
Heaven itself from which nothing is hidden shall be my witness as well
as that image of Our Lady that you have there.' "

When Cardenio heard the name Dorotea he was once more deeply agi-
tated, for it appeared to him to confirm the opinion he had held from
the start, but he did not wish to interrupt the story whose end, he felt
almost certain, he already knew.

"So, Dorotea is your name, lady?" was all he said. "I know another
of whom the same story is told and whose misfortunes, it may be, equal
your own. But continue. When the time comes, I may tell you some
things that will astonish you as much as they will excite your pity."

Listening attentively to what Cardenio had to say and studying at the
same time his strange manner and shabby attire, Dorotea begged him if
he knew anything else concerning her to tell her at once. For if Fortune
had left her any blessing at all, it was that of being able to bear any calam-
ity that might overtake her, inasmuch as, so it seemed to her, nothing
could increase in the slightest degree the weight of suffering that she
already carried,

"Lady," replied Cardenio, "I should not let the opportunity pass to
tell you what I think if I felt that my suspicions had any basis in fact,
but up to now there is nothing to show that they do have, and so it is
not important that you should know of them."

"Be that as it may," said Dorotea, "and to go on with my story: Picking
up a holy image that was in the room, Don Fernando took it to be the
witness of our troth. With highly persuasive arguments and the most
unusual oaths, he gave me his word that he would be my husband; al-
though, before he said this, I warned him that he should take good care
as to what he was doing and think of what his father would say of his
being married to a peasant girl who was his vassal. I added that he should
not let my beauty, such as it was, blind him, as it would not be a sufficient
excuse for his error, and that if he really loved me he ought to let my fate
take its course in accordance with my station in life, for marriages in
which the parties were so unevenly matched never made for happiness,
nor did the glow with which they began ever last for long.

"All this I told him, and many other things besides which I do not
recall; but nothing that I might say could dissuade him from his purpose,
since he who has no intention of paying does not quibble over the bargain.
At this point, I thought things over, saying to myself, ‘I certainly shall
not be the first one to rise from a lowly estate to a high one by way of
matrimony, nor will Don Fernando be the first whom beauty or, what is
surely the better word, a blind passion has led to take a companion un-
suited to his lofty rank. Accordingly, seeing that I am setting no new
custom or fashion, it would be well to accept this honor that fate offers
me even though the affection that he displays toward me lasts no longer
than the achievement of his desires; for when all is said, I shall still be
his wife before God. If I repel him with scorn, I can see that, fair means
failing him, he is of a mind to use force, and then I shall be left dishonored
and without excuse in the mind of anyone who did not know how blame-
lessly I came to be in such a position as this. For what could ever bring
my parents to believe that this gentleman had thus come into my chamber
without my consent?'

To turn over all these questions and answers in my mind was the
work of a moment. But it was, above all, Don Fernando's oaths, the
witnesses to whom he appealed, the tears he shed, and, finally, his high-
bred manner, which, accompanied by so many manifestations of true
love, well might have won over any heart, even one as free and shy as
mine--it was these things that inclined me to what, without my realizing
it at the time, was to be my ruin. I summoned my maid in order that
she might be an earthly witness to go with the heavenly ones he had in-
voked. Don Fernando then began reiterating and confirming his previous
oaths, calling upon yet more saints and invoking a thousand future curses
upon himself in case he did not fulfill his promises. Once again his eyes
brimmed with tears and his sighs grew in volume as he clasped me still
more tightly in his arms which had never let go of me. As a consequence
of all this and of my maid's leaving the room at that moment, I ceased
to be a maid and he became a traitor and a faithless wretch.

"The day that followed the night of my dishonor did not come as
quickly, I imagine, as Don Fernando would have liked; for once appetite
has had its fill, the dominant impulse is to hasten away from the place
where it has found satisfaction. By this I mean to say that he was in great
haste to leave me, and through the cleverness of my maid, who was the
one who had admitted him in the first place, he slipped out into the street
before it was yet dawn. Upon bidding me farewell, he swore again,
though not with so much earnestness and vehemence, that I might be as-
sured of his good faith and that all his vows were stanch and true. By way
of confirming what he said, he took from his finger a costly ring and put
it upon my hand.

"With this, he departed and I was left neither sad nor happy. That is to
say, I was pensive and bewildered, almost beside myself with what had
just happened, and I either did not have the spirit or I forgot to scold
my maid for the treachery of which she had been guilty by closeting
Don Fernando with me; for the truth is, I could not as yet make up my
mind as to whether what had befallen me was good or bad. I had told
Don Fernando as he left that he might visit me on other nights by the
same means that he had employed on this occasion, until such time as
he should see fit to make it public, since I now belonged to him. With
the exception of the following night, however, he came no more, and
for a month and longer I was unable to catch a glimpse of him either in
the street or in church. Vainly, I wore myself out waiting for some word,
for I knew that he was in the town and that most days he went hunting,
this being a sport of which he was very fond.

"Those days, those hours, I well remember, were sad and wretched
ones for me. It was then that I began to doubt and disbelieve in Don
Fernando's good faith, and it was then, also, that my maid had from me
those words of reproof for her bold act that she had not heard before.
I recall that it was all I could do to restrain my tears and maintain the
composure of my countenance that I might not give my parents an ex-
cuse for inquiring as to the cause of my unhappiness, and the result was
that I had to invent lies to tell them. But the time came when considera-
tions of this sort and all thoughts of honor were abandoned, for as my
patience gave out my secret thoughts became known. The occasion was
the news that came, within a short while, of Don Fernando's marriage to
an exceedingly beautiful maiden in a near-by city, the daughter of
parents who enjoyed some rank, though she was not so rich that by reason
of her dowry she might have looked forward to such a match as this.
They tell me that her name was Luscinda and that at her wedding certain
things happened that are truly cause for wonderment."

Upon hearing Luscinda's name, Cardenio did no more than shrug his
shoulders, bite his lips, and arch his brows as a double stream of tears
poured from his eyes. Dorotea, however, did not for this reason break off
her story.

"When this news reached my ears," she went on, "in place of my
heart's being congealed, the rage and desire for vengeance that was
kindled in it was so great that it was all I could do to keep from running
out into the street and crying aloud the perfidy and treason of which he
had been guilty toward me. The only thing that stayed my wrath was
the plan that came to me then, one that I put into execution that very
night. The plan in question was to don this costume which I now have
on and which was given me by one of those zagales,263 as they are called
in peasant homes. He was a servant of my father's, and I had told him all
that had happened and had asked him to come with me to the city where
I had heard that my enemy was. After reproving me for my bold scheme
of which he sternly disapproved, he nevertheless, when he saw how bent
I was upon carrying it out, offered to accompany me--to the end of the
world as he assured me. I at once put into a pillowcase a woman's dress
and a few pieces of jewelry along with a little money in order that I might
be prepared for any eventuality; and that night when all was still, with-
out saying anything to my treacherous maid, I left my home, and in
the company of the servant lad and my many thoughts I set out on foot
for the city, borne on the wings of desire as it were, being anxious, if
not to prevent what was already done, at least to demand of Don
Fernando how in all conscience he could have done it.

"I arrived at my destination in two days and a half, and, entering the
city, I inquired at once for the home of Luscinda's parents. The first per-
son to whom I put the question told me more than I sought to know.
Pointing out the house, he informed me of all that had occurred at the
marriage of the daughter, a thing so well known throughout the town
that people formed in groups on the street to discuss it. It seemed that,
after the ceremony had been performed and Luscinda had given him
her promise to be his bride, she had been seized with a violent fainting
fit, and when he had opened her bodice to give her air he had found there
a letter in her handwriting in which she stated and declared that she could
not be his bride for the reason that she belonged to Cardenio--the name,
so the man assured me, of a leading gentleman of that same city--adding
that if she had said yes to Fernando, it was to avoid having to disobey
her parents.

"In short, as the story was told to me, the letter made plain her inten-
tion to kill herself following her marriage and went on to set forth the
reasons why she was taking her life. All of which, they say, was con-
firmed by a dagger that they found somewhere or other on her person.
In view of this, Don Fernando could not but feel that she had mocked
and belittled him, and, accordingly, before she had been revived from
her faint, he fell upon her and endeavored to stab her to death and would
have done so if the parents and others present had not prevented him.
It was further stated that Don Fernando went away at once and that
Luscinda did not recover from her fit until the next day, when she in-
formed her parents that she was in reality the bride of that Cardenio
whom I have mentioned.

"Another thing: they say that Cardenio was present at the wedding
and that upon seeing Luscinda given to another as a bride, something
he had never thought would happen, he had flung himself out of the city
in desperation, leaving behind him a note in which he spoke of the wrong
that she had done him and announced his intention of going where people
would never see him again. All this, as I say, was well known throughout
the town and everyone was talking of it, and they talked still more when
it was learned that she was not to be found either in her father s house
or anywhere in the city, and that as a consequence her parents were
frantic, not knowing what measures to take.

"These circumstances of which I had just learned gave me fresh hope,
for it seemed to me better not to have found Don Fernando at all than
to have found him married, as this meant that the door might not yet
be wholly closed upon my chance for happiness. It might be that Heaven
had placed this obstacle in the way of a second match as a means of bring-
ing him to realize his obligations to the first one, and perhaps now he
would come to reflect that he was, after all, a Christian and owed more
consideration to his soul than to mundane matters.

"All these things I turned over in my mind, consoling myself without
achieving consolation, pretending that I cherished certain faint and dis-
tant hopes of sustaining the life that I now abhor. Being in the city, then,
and not knowing what to do since Don Fernando was not there, I chanced
to hear a public crier who was promising a large reward to anyone that
found me and was giving my age and a description of the clothes I wore.
The crier went on to say that I had been taken from the home of my
parents by the lad who was with me, a thing that cut me to the quick
when I saw how low my reputation had sunk. It was not enough to tarnish
my good name by reporting my flight, but they must add with whom
I had fled, a person so low of station and so unworthy of my affections.
Upon hearing the crier, I left the city immediately, along with my
servant, who was already giving signs of wavering in the faith and loyalty
that he had promised me, and that same night we entered this mountain
fastness, being very much afraid of being discovered.

"But, as the saying is, one evil calls to another, and the end of one
trouble is usually the beginning of a greater one. That was the way it
was with me; for my servant, who up to that time had been loyal and
dependable, upon finding himself with me in this lonely spot, moved
more by his own vileness than by my beauty, sought to take advantage of
the opportunity which, as he saw it, was offered him by these solitudes.
With no shame and less fear of God or respect for me, he made advances
to me, and when I replied to his disgraceful proposals with well-merited
words of scorn, he left off the entreaties which he had at first employed
and began to use force.

"But Heaven is just and seldom or never fails to regard and favor good
intentions; and so, with the little strength that I had and no great amount
of effort, I managed to push him over a precipice, where I left him,
whether dead or alive I do not know. After which, with greater swiftness
than I would have thought possible in my weariness and fright, I made
my way into the heart of these mountains with no other thought, no other
plan, than that of hiding myself here from my father and those whom
he had sent out to look for me.

"I cannot tell you how many months ago it was that, animated by this
desire, I came here. I ended by meeting a herdsman who took me as his
servant to a place in the very heart of these mountains, where I have
worked up to now as a shepherd, striving always to stay out in the
meadows in order that they might not catch a glimpse of this hair of
mine, which you, through no intention on your part, have chanced to
discover. However, all my care and ingenuity were in vain, for my master
found out that I was not a lad, whereupon there was born in him the same
evil passion as in my servant; and inasmuch as fate does not invariably
provide a remedy along with a misfortune, I now found no cliff or ravine
where I might fling him down as I had done in the other instance. Ac-
cordingly, I decided that it would be better to leave him and hide myself
once more in this rugged place than to risk trying my strength or force
of arguments.

"And so, as I say, I came back here to look for a spot where, with
nothing to prevent me, I might beseech Heaven to take pity on my woes
and either give me the intelligence and the luck to escape them or else
let me lay down my life amid these wastes, leaving no memory of one
who, through no fault of hers, has given occasion for talk and gossip in
her own and other provinces."

CHAPTER XXIX.

Which treats of the amusing artifice and means employed in extricating
our enamored knight from the extremely harsh penance he had inflicted
upon himself.

"And that, sirs, is the true story of my tragedy. Look now and judge
if the sighs to which you listened, the words you heard, the tears that
you saw starting from my eyes, might not well have been more in num-
ber. When you shall have considered the nature of my disgrace, you will
see how vain is all consolation, how impossible is any kind of remedy.
All that I ask--a thing that you can and should do--is that you advise
me where I may spend the rest of my life without suffering from this
deadly fear I have of being found by those who are searching for me.
For even though the great love that my parents have for me is assurance
that I shall be well received by them, so great is the shame that lays hold
of me at the mere thought of appearing in their presence in so different
a guise than what they expect, that I regard it as better to banish myself
from their sight forever than to look them in the face with the thought
that they are beholding my own countenance robbed of that decency
that they had a right to expect of me."

Saying this, she fell silent, her visage taking on a hue that showed clearly
enough the deep shame and feeling of her soul. The faces of those who
listened to her, meanwhile, were filled as much with pity as with wonder-
ment at her troubles, and although the curate was ready to console and
counsel her, it was Cardenio who first addressed her.

"The short of it is, lady," he said, "that you are the beauteous Dorotea,
only daughter of the rich Clenardo."

Dorotea was astonished at hearing her father's name mentioned, es-
pecially by so unprepossessing a person as this; for we have already
spoken of the shabby manner in which Cardenio was clothed.

"And who are you, my brother, who thus know my father's name--
For I up to now, unless my memory fails me, in all the course of my
unhappy story have not mentioned it once."

"I," replied Cardenio, "am that luckless one whom, you tell me, Lu-
scinda claimed for her bridegroom. I am the unfortunate Cardenio, who
have been brought to the plight in which you now see me by the evil
designs of the same one who is responsible for your being where you
are. You behold me now, ragged, half-naked, lacking all human comfort,
and, what is worse, lacking in reason as well, of which none is left me
save when it pleases Heaven to restore it to me for a brief while. I, Dor-
otea, am he who was present when Don Fernando committed those
wrongs, who waited to hear the yes uttered by his bride, Luscinda. I
am he who did not have the courage to wait and see what came of her
swoon or what resulted from the letter that was found in her bosom, for
my soul did not have the power of suffering to endure so many misfor-
tunes all at once. And so, I lost my patience and quit the house, leaving
a letter with my host which I asked him to place in Luscinda's hands.

After that, I came to these solitudes with the intention of spending
the rest of my life here, a life which I hated as if it had been my mortal
enemy. Fate, however, was not minded to end my existence, being con-
tent to deprive me of my reason, possibly with the object of preserving
me for the good fortune of meeting you. If what you have told us is
true, as I believe it is, it may be that Heaven has planned a better out-
come for our calamities than we think. For since Luscinda, being mine
as she openly declared herself to be, cannot marry Don Fernando, and
Don Fernando, being yours, cannot marry her, we have a right to hope
that Heaven will restore to us that which is ours, seeing that it still exists
and has not been alienated or destroyed.

"And since we do have this comfort, not born of an exceedingly remote
hope nor founded on the hallucinations of our own minds, I beg of you,
lady, to adopt another resolution, letting your virtuous thoughts dwell
upon it, as I myself mean to do: namely, to become used to looking for-
ward to better times to come; for I swear to you by the faith of a gentle-
man and a Christian not to desert you until I see you possessed of Don
Fernando. If words will not bring him to recognize his obligations to
you, then I will make use of that privilege which my rank as a gentleman
gives me and will justly challenge him, calling upon him to give an ac-
count of the wrong he has done you, without taking thought of those
that I have suffered at his hands and which I shall leave to Heaven to
avenge while I here on earth see to righting yours."

By the time that Cardenio finished speaking Dorotea had ceased to
wonder at his appearance and, not knowing how to thank him for so
great an offer, wished to take his feet and kiss them, but he would not
consent. The licentiate replied for both of them, expressing approval of
the fine sentiments that Cardenio had voiced, and then he begged, ad-
vised, and sought to persuade them to accompany him to his village where
he could supply them with the things they lacked and where they could
plan how to set about looking for Don Fernando and how to get Dorotea
back to her parents, while making such other arrangements as might be
necessary.

Cardenio and Dorotea accepted his offer with thanks, and the barber,
who had been taking it all in without saying a word, now made a pleasing
little speech, declaring his willingness as the curate had done to help them
in any way in which he could best be of service. He also informed them
what it was that had brought him and his companion to this place, and
told them of Don Quixote's strange madness and how they were waiting
for the latter's squire who had gone to look for him. Then it was that
Cardenio recalled as in a dream the struggle he had had with the knight,
and he related the incident to the others, although he no longer remem-
bered what had occasioned the quarrel.

At this moment they heard a shout which the curate and the barber
recognized as coming from Sancho Panza, who, not finding the pair
where he had left them, was now calling to them at the top of his lungs.
They thereupon went forward to meet him, and when they made in-
quiries concerning Don Quixote, he told them how he had found him
clad only in his shirt, very lean, jaundiced-looking, near-dead with
hunger, and sighing constantly for his lady Dulcinea. Sancho had told
his master that Dulcinea had commanded him to leave this place and coine
to El Toboso where she was awaiting him, but the knight had replied
that he was determined not to appear before his beauteous one until he
should have performed such exploits as would render him deserving of
her grace. And if all this kept up, the squire added, there was a danger that
the poor man would never become an emperor as was his bounden duty,
nor even so much as an archbishop, which was the very least that he ought
to expect. And so, they must all put their heads together to see what could
be done to get him away from there.

The licentiate replied by assuring Sancho that there was no cause for
uneasiness, for they would rescue the knight whether he liked it or not.
He then revealed to Cardenio and Dorotea the plan they had formed,
by which they hoped, in any event, to be able to induce Don Quixote to
return home with them. She thereupon remarked that she could play
the part of the damsel in distress better than the barber; and what was
more, she had with her the garments that would enable her to give a most
lifelike semblance to the role. All they needed to do was to leave it all
to her and she would see to everything that was necessary to the carry-
ing out of their plan; for she had read many books of chivalry and was
familiar with the mode of speech that was employed by afflicted maidens
when they sought a boon of knights-errant.

"Well, then," said the curate, "it only remains for us to put our scheme
into execution. Fortune is undoubtedly favoring you,264 seeing that it has
so unexpectedly opened the door for your relief, and by doing so it has
at the same time facilitated our present task."

Dorotea then took from her pillowcase a skirt made of a certain rich
woolen material and a mantellina 265 of elegant green cloth, and from a
small box she drew forth a necklace and other jewels, and within a
moment's time she was adorned as befitted a rich young lady of high
estate. All these things and others too, she told them, she had brought
with her from home in case of emergency, but up to then she had had
no occasion to use them. They were all extremely pleased with her grace
and beauty and highbred appearance, which led them to reflect that Don
Fernando must have been a man of very little discernment to have cast
aside such charms as these.

The one who admired her most of all, however, was Sancho Panza,
for it seemed to him, which was indeed the truth, that he had never in all
the days of his life beheld so ravishing a creature. He accordingly with
great eagerness now inquired of the curate who this beautiful woman
might be and what she was doing in these parts.

"This lovely lady, Sancho, my brother," replied the curate, "and let
no one tell you otherwise, is heiress in the direct male line to the great
kingdom of Micoinicon,266 and she comes here in search of your master
to ask a favor of him, which is that he right the injury or wrong which
a wicked giant has done her. By reason of the fame as a worthy knight
which your master enjoys throughout the known world, this princess
has journeyed all the way from Guinea to seek him out."267

Happy search and happy find!" exclaimed Sancho upon hearing this.
And still more so if my master is fortunate enough to right the wrong
and redress the injury by slaying that son of a whore of a giant that your
Grace is speaking about. Slay him he will if he meets him and the giant is
not a phantom, for against phantoms he can do nothing whatsoever. But
there is one thing among others, Senor Licentiate, that I would ask of
your Grace. In order that my master may not take it into his head to be
an archbishop, which is what I am afraid of, I would have your Grace
advise him to marry this princess and in that way it would be impossible
for him to be ordained, and he would get his empire and I'd get my wish.
For I have studied it all out very thoroughly and have come to the con-
clusion that it would not be a good thing for me if he took holy orders,
since I, being married, am of no use to the Church, and it would be an
endless business for me with my wife and children to set about trying
to obtain a dispensation so that I could hold a benefice. And so, every-
thing depends upon my master's marrying this lady--for as yet I am
unacquainted with her Grace and cannot call her by name."

"Her name," said the curate," is Princess Micomicona, for inasmuch as
her realm is Micomicon, it could not be anything else."

"I do not doubt that," replied Sancho, "for I have known many who
took their name and title from the place where they were born, calling
themselves Pedro of Alcala, Juan of Ubeda, Diego of Valladolid, and so
forth, and they must have this same custom in Guinea, that of calling
queens after their kingdoms."

"Yes," agreed the curate, "that is the way it is. And as to marrying off
your master, I will do all that lies within my power."

Sancho was as pleased with this as the curate was astonished at his
simplicity. The priest could not bur marvel still at the extent to which
the master's mad whims had laid hold of his man's imagination, for there
was no doubt that Panza had fully convinced himself that Don Quixote
was going to be an emperor.

By this time Dorotea had seated herself upon the curate's mule and
the barber had put on his oxtail beard, and they now directed Sancho to
lead them to the place where the knight was, after first warning him to
give no sign that he knew either the licentiate or his companion, since his
master's becoming on emperor depended upon their not being recog-
nized, However, neither Cardenio nor the curate wished to accompany
them, the former fearing that Don Quixote would be reminded of their
quarrel, while the latter felt that his presence was not called for as yet.
They accordingly let the others go on ahead while they followed slowly
on foot. The curate in the meantime had not failed to advise Dorotea as
to how she was to conduct herself, but she replied that they should not
worry about that, for she would do everything precisely as it should be
done in accordance with the rules and descriptions in the books of
chivalry.

They had gone about three-quarters of a league when they came upon
Don Quixote amid a confused cluster of rocks. He was clothed now but
did not have on his armor; and as soon as Dorotea had caught sight of
him and had been assured that it was he, she applied the whip to her
palfrey268 and hastened toward him, followed by the well-bearded barber.
As she drew near to where the knight stood, her squire leaped down from
his mule and, taking her in his arms, assisted her to alight, which she did
very gracefully. She then fell upon her knees in front of Don Quixote,
and, though he did his best to lift her to her feet, she remained kneeling
and addressed him in the following manner:

"I shall not rise from this spot, O brave and doughty knight, until you
out of your courtesy and kindness shall have granted me a boon, one
which will redound to your own honor and glory and which will be of
advantage to the most grievously wronged and disconsolate maiden that
ever the sun has looked upon. If your immortal fame is indeed borne out
by the valor of your strong right arm, then you are bound to show favor
to the hapless one who, brought here by the fragrance that attaches to
your name of great renown, has come from distant lands to seek a remedy
for her woes."

"I shall not answer you a word, beauteous lady," said Don Quixote,
"nor will I hear anything more of your business until you rise."

"That, sir, I will not do," responded the afflicted damsel, "unless you
first, out of your courtesy, grant me the boon I seek."

"I grant and bestow it," said the knight, "providing that it does no
hurt or detriment to my king, my country, and the one who holds the
key to the freedom of my heart."

"It shall not be to the hurt or detriment of any of those you mention,
my good sir," was the grieving maiden's answer.

Sancho Panza then came up and whispered very softly in his master's
car, "Your Grace may very well grant her the boon she asks, for it is
nothing at all: just killing a big giant, and she who asks it is the highborn
Princess Micomicona, queen of the great kingdom of Micomicon, in
Ethiopia."

"No matter who she may be," said Don Quixote, "I shall do my duty
and follow the dictates of my conscience in accordance with the calling
that I profess." And, turning to the damsel, he added, "Rise, most beauti-
ful one; I grant you the boon you seek."

"What I ask, then," said the damsel, "is this: that your magnanimous
person deign to accompany me at once to the place to which I shall
conduct you, and that you further promise me not to concern yourself
with any other adventure or request until you shall have taken vengeance
oii a traitor who, in defiance of all laws human and divine, has usurped
my kingdom."

"I tell you again that I grant it," said the knight. "And so, lady, you
may now lay aside the melancholy that oppresses you and let your faint-
ing hope recover new strength and courage; for by the aid of God and
my good arm you shall soon see your kingdom restored to you and shall
sit once again on the throne of your great and ancient realm in spite of
all the knaves who would forbid it. To work, then; for it is the common
saying that there is danger in delay."269

The distressed lady stubbornly insisted upon kissing his hands, but
Don Quixote, who in every respect was the courteous and obliging
gentleman, would by no means consent to this. Instead, he made her rise
and then embraced her with great affability and politeness. He there-
upon ordered Sancho to see to Rocinante's girths at once and bring him
his suit of armor, which was hanging like a trophy from the bough of
a tree. The squire did as he had been commanded. Having taken down
the armor, he helped his master on with it, and then, seeing his steed in
readiness and himself in battle harness, Don Quixote spoke.

"Let us go," he said, "in the name of God, that we may succor this
great lady."

The barber was still on his knees, doing his best to keep from laughing
and to prevent his beard from falling off, for if that had happened they
would not have been able to carry out their clever scheme. Upon hearing
the boon granted and perceiving that Don Quixote was so ready to em-
bark upon the enterprise, he arose and took his lady's other hand and
between the two of them they helped her on the mule. The knight then
mounted Rocinante and the barber his own beast, while Sancho came
along on foot, which led him to think once more of the gray ass whose
loss he now felt worse than ever, although he bore it all very cheerfully,
being convinced that his master was on the road to becoming an emperor
very soon; for there was no doubt that he would marry this princess and
become at the very least king of Micomicon. The only thing that troubled
Sancho was that the kingdom in question was in the land of the blacks,
and his vassals accordingly would all be Negroes. But for this he at once
thought of a good remedy.

"Does it make any difference to me if they are black?" he said to him-
self. "What more do I have to do than take a boatload of them to Spain
and sell them for ready cash, and with the money buy some title or office
and live at ease all the rest of my life--That is to say, unless I'm asleep
and am not clever or shrewd enough to make the most of things and sell
thirty or ten thousand vassals in the twinkling of an eye! By God, but
I'd make them fly, the little with the big, or do the best I could at it; I'd
turn the blacks into white or yellow men! But come, I'm making a fool of
myself!"270

Occupied with these thoughts, he went along so contentedly that he
forgot all about his annoyance at having to travel on foot.

Observing all this from behind a thicket, Cardenio and the curate did
not know just how to set about joining the others, but the priest, who was
a great schemer, at once thought up a means by which they could ac-
complish what they desired. Taking out a pair of scissors that he carried
with him in a sheath, he very skillfully trimmed Cardenio's beard and
then threw over his companion's shoulders a drab-colored cape that he
wore, giving him in addition a black coat, while he himself remained in
breeches and doublet; all of which so altered the young man's appearance
that he would not have recognized his own image in a mirror. While they
were thus engaged in disguising themselves, the others had gone on
ahead, but they had little difficulty in reaching the highroad before Don
Quixote and his party did, for owing to the brambles and the rough places
it was impossible to make as good time mounted as on foot. They there-
with took up their position on the plain at the entrance to the mountain
passes, and as soon as Don Quixote and his companions appeared, the
curate began staring at the knight from afar, making signs as if he recog-
nized him. After he had stood gazing at him in this fashion for a little
while, he went up to him with open arms.

"Why bless me!" he exclaimed, "what a fortunate thing that I should
here encounter the mirror of chivalry, my good countryman, Don
Quixote de la Mancha, the flower and cream of nobility, friend and pro-
tector of those in distress, the very quintessence of knight-errantry!"

Saying this, he embraced the knight's left knee. Startled at the man's
words and behavior, Don Quixote studied him attentively for a moment
or so and then, recognizing him at last and being very much taken aback
at seeing him there, made a great effort to dismount. The curate, how-
ever, would not permit him to do so.

"But allow me, Senor Licentiate," Don Quixote protested. "It is not
fitting that I should remain mounted while a reverend person like your
Grace is on foot."

"To that," replied the curate, "I can by no means give my consent.
Let your Excellency remain on horseback since it was on horseback that
you accomplished the greatest exploits and adventures that this age of
ours has known. As for me, unworthy priest that I am, it will be enough
if I may ride the crupper of one of the mules belonging to these gentlefolk
who are of your company--that is to say, if there is no objection to it.
If you grant this, it will seem to me that I go mounted on the steed
Pegasus, or upon the zebra, or else upon the charger that the famous
Moor Muzaraque rode, the same Muzaraque who to this day lies en-
chanted beneath the great slope of Zulcma, not far distant from the great
Complutum."271

"That, Senor Licentiate, is something to which I in turn cannot agree,"
said Don Quixote. "I am sure that my lady the princess will do me the
favor of commanding her squire to yield you his saddle upon the mule,
and he can ride the beast's crupper if she will allow it."

"She will, I am sure," said the princess; "and as to commanding my
squire, that will not be necessary, for he is so courteous and urbane that
he would never think of letting a churchman go on foot while he himself
was in the saddle."

"Indeed, I would not," said the barber. And, dismounting at once, he
offered his seat to the curate, who accepted it without much urging.

The unfortunate thing was, however, that just as the barber was set-
tling himself upon the crupper, the mule--which was one of those that are
for hire, that is to say, a bad one--raised its hind quarters in the air and
gave a couple of kicks which, had he received them in the head or chest,
would have caused Master Nicholas to curse himself for ever having
come in search of Don Quixote. As it was, the shock was such that he
was thrown to the ground, and at the same time his beard, to which he was
able to give little thought, fell off. Finding himself without it, he could
think of nothing better to do than cover his face with both hands and
moan that his grinders had been knocked out.

Seeing that heap of beard lying there, far from the squire's face but
without any sign of jawbone or blood, Don Quixote cried out, "By the
living God, this is a miracle! His beard has been knocked off and torn
away from his face as cleanly as if he had deliberately shaved it off."

The curate, seeing that his scheme was in danger of being discovered,
ran over and, snatching up the beard, took it over to where Master
Nicholas still lay. Drawing the barber's head down to his chest, he
quickly attached the oxtail once more, muttering certain words as he did
so which he said were a psalm that was appropriate to the sticking-on
of beards, as they would see for themselves. Then he stepped aside, and
there was the squire as well bearded and sound of limb as he had been
before. Don Quixote was tremendously impressed by this and begged
the curate, when he had time, to teach him that psalm, since it must be
possessed of virtues beyond the one just demonstrated, it being obvious
that when beards are torn off the flesh must remain raw and bleeding,
but there was nothing like that in the present instance. The psalm, then,
must be good for something more than beards.

"That it is," said the curate; and he promised to teach it to him at the
first opportunity.

It was agreed upon among them that for the present the curate should
mount the mule and that he should take turns with Cardenio and the
barber until they reached the inn, a distance of some two leagues from
there.272 There were, then, three of them in the saddle, namely, Don
Quixote, the princess, and the priest, while the other three walked along
beside them.

As they started out, the knight turned to the damsel. "My lady," he
said, "will your Highness be so good as to lead the way?"

Before she could reply, the licentiate spoke up. "Toward what king-
dom does your Ladyship mean to guide us--Is it by any chance the
realm of Micomicon--I take it that it is, or I know little of kingdoms."

She, being well schooled in everything, understood that she was sup-
posed to answer yes, and so she said, "Yes, sir, my road lies toward that
realm."

If that is so, said the curate, "then we shall have to pass through my
village, and from there your Grace will take the highway to Cartagena,
where with good fortune you will be able to embark; and if you have a
fair wind and a calm sea without squalls, in less than nine years you
should come within sight of the great Meona--I mean Meotides--lake,273
which is only a little more than a hundred days' journey from your
Highness's kingdom."

"Your Grace is mistaken," she replied, "for it is not yet two years since
I left there; and although the truth is that I never had good weather,
nevertheless I am here to behold that which I so greatly desired: Senor
Don Quixote de la Mancha, whose fame, reaching my ears the moment
I set foot in Spain, has induced me to seek him out, commend myself to
his courtesy, and entrust my cause to the might of his invincible arm."

"That will be enough! " said Don Quixote. "Let me hear no more words
of praise! For I am opposed to any kind of adulation, and even though
this be no fawning, such talk for all of that offends my chaste ears. But
one thing I may tell you, my lady: whether my arm is or is not possessed
of might, it shall be employed in your service until I yield my life in
your behalf. But, leaving all this for the time being, I should like to ask
the Senor Licentiate what it is that brings him to these parts, alone, un-
accompanied even by servants, and so lightly clad that I am really amazed
by it."

"I can answer that in a few words," said the curate. "I may inform
your Grace that I and Master Nicholas, our friend and barber, were
on our way to Seville to collect a certain sum of money which a relative
of mine who went to the Indies many years ago had sent me. It was not
so small a sum at that, since it came to more than seventy thousand pieces
of eight duly assayed, which is something. And as we were passing
through this region yesterday we were set upon by four highwaymen
who stripped us of everything down to our beards, and, as a result, the
barber had to put on a false one. Even this young man here, and he
pointed to Cardenio, "they so mistreated that you would not recognize
him.

"And the best part of it is," the curate went on, "it is a matter of com-
mon rumor around here that those who set upon us were certain galley
slaves who, so they tell me, had been freed on this very spot by a man
so valiant that, in spite of the commissary and the guards, he was able to
turn them all loose. He must undoubtedly have been out of his mind, or
else he must be as great a villain as they, some soulless creature without
a conscience; for one might as well think of turning the wolf loose among
the sheep, the fox among the hens, the fly in the honey,274 as to seek to
defraud justice and go against the king, his natural liege lord, for this was
indeed an act against his Majesty's just commandments. I tell you, that
one has cheated the gallows of their feet, has aroused the Holy Brother-
hood which for many years had been quiet, and, Anally, has committed
an act for which he well may lose his soul while his body gains nothing
by it." .

Sancho had told the curate and the barber about the adventure of the
galley slaves and the glory that his master had achieved thereby; and the
priest now thought that he would allude to it by way of seeing what Don
Quixote would say or do. The knight changed color at every word and
did not dare to tell them that he was the one who had freed those worthy
folk.

"And they," continued the curate, "were the ones who robbed us.
May God in His mercy pardon him who kept them from the punishment
they deserved."

CHAPTER XXX.

Which treats of the fair Dorotea's ready wit and other
matters very pleasant and amusing.

THE curate had scarcely finished speaking when Sancho addressed
him.

"Faith, Senor Licentiate," he said, "the one who performed that deed
was my master. Not that I didn't warn him beforehand and advise him
to look to what he was doing, it being a sin to free them, for they were
all of them the greatest rogues that ever were."

"Blockhead!" cried Don Quixote upon hearing this. "It is not the
business of knights-errant to stop and ascertain as to whether the afflicted
and oppressed whom they encounter going along the road in chains like
that are in such straits by reason of their crimes or as a result of misfor-
tunes that they have suffered. The only thing that does concern them
is to aid those individuals as persons in distress, with an eye to their suffer-
ings and not to their villainies. I chanced to meet with a rosary, or string,
of poor wretches and merely did for them that which my religion de-
mands of me. As for the rest, that is no affair of mine. And whoever thinks
ill of it--saving the dignity of your holy office and your respected per-
son, Senor Licentiate--I will simply say that he knows little of the laws
of chivalry and lies like an ill-begotten son of a whore. All of which I
will make plain to him, to the fullest extent, with my sword."

Having said this, he settled himself in the stirrups and pulled down his
morion; for the barber's basin, which to him was Mambrino's helmet, he
carried hanging from the saddletree in front of him until such time as he
could have the damage repaired that the galley slaves had done to it. Then
Dorotea, who was a very discerning and witty young lady, perceiving
the mad character of Don Quixote's fancies and noting that all the others
with the exception of Sancho were making sport of him, decided that she
would have her share of the fun; and observing how annoyed he was,
she now spoke to him.

"Sir Knight," she said, "I would remind your Grace of the boon that
you have promised me, and of the stipulation that you are not to engage
in any other adventure however urgent it may be. And so, let your Grace
Calm that breast of yours, for had the Senor Licentiate known that it was
by your unconquered arm those prisoners were liberated, he would have
taken three stitches in his lip or would have bit his tongue three times
before he would have spoken a disrespectful word of your Grace."

"That I would, I swear it," said the curate, "and I would even have
lopped off a mustache."

"I will be silent, my lady," Don Quixote assured her. "I will repress the
just wrath that has arisen in my bosom and will go along quietly and
peacefully until I shall have rendered you the boon that I have promised.
But in return for this good will on my part, I beg you, if it will not trouble
you too much, to tell me what the nature of your grievance is and who,
how many, and of what sort are the persons of whom I am to demand full
satisfaction and upon whom I am to wreak an utter vengeance."

"That I will gladly do," replied Dorotea, "if it will not tire you to listen
to my griefs and misfortunes."

"It most certainly will not, my lady," said Don Quixote.

"Very well, then," continued Dorotea, "pay attention, kind sirs."

As she said this, Cardenio and the barber came up alongside her, for
they were curious to see how her ready wit would serve her in making
up her story; and Sancho likewise drew near, though he was as much
deceived by her as was his master. Having straightened herself in the
saddle, she coughed a little and indulged in a few other mannerisms by
way of gaining time and then with an easy grace began her narrative.

"In the first place, I would have your Worships know that I am
called " At this point she paused for a moment, for she had forgotten
the name which the curate had bestowed upon her. He, however, seeing
what her trouble was, promptly came to her rescue.

"It is no wonder, my lady," he said, "if your Highness in relating your
misfortunes should become confused and embarrassed; for they are of
the kind that very frequently deprive those who suffer them of their
memory, so that they are unable even to remember their own names. That
is what has happened to your exalted Ladyship, who has forgotten that
she is the Princess Micomicona, legitimate heiress to the great kingdom
of Micomicon; but with this reminder, your Highness will readily be
able to recall all that she may desire to tell us."

"That is true enough," said the damsel. "And from now on, I do not
believe that I shall require any more prompting but shall be able to bring
this true story of mine safely into port. To continue, then: The king my
father bore the name Tinacrio the Wise, being very learned in what is
known as the art of magic. It was through this science that he learned that
my mother, the queen Jaramilla, was to die before he did and that he him-
self shortly after would pass from this life, leaving me bereaved of father
and mother alike. He said, however, that this did not cause him so much
anxiety as did the certain knowledge of what a monstrous giant, the lord
of a great island near our kingdom who was called Pandafilando of the
Frowning Look, was to do when he heard that I was left an orphan. This
giant was so called for the reason that, so it was asserted, though his eyes
were straight enough, he always squinted as if cross-eyed by way of giv-
ing himself a malignant appearance and striking fear and terror in those
who beheld him.

"But as I was saying: My father knew that this giant, upon learning
that I was an orphan, was to overrun my kingdom with a powerful army
and drive me out of it, without leaving me so much as a tiny village where
I might take refuge. The only thing that could save me from all this ruin
and misfortune was for me to consent to marry him, but my father pre-
dicted that I would never agree to so unsuitable a match, and in this he
was quite right, for I never would have entertained the thought of taking
this or any other giant for a husband, however powerful and lawless he
might be.

"My father also said that when, following his death, I saw my realm
being overrun by Pandafilando, I should not wait to put myself upon the
defensive, since that would be sheer self-destruction, but that, if I would
avoid the slaughter of my good and loyal vassals, I should leave the king-
dom free and open to him, since it would be impossible to defend myself
against his diabolic strength. What I rather must do was to take a few
attendants and set out for Spain, where I would find relief for my troubles
in the person of a certain knight-errant, whose fame at that time extended
throughout the whole of our country and whose name, unless my memory
plays me false, was Azote or Don Gigote--"

"Don Quixote it should he, lady," Sancho Panzo corrected her, "other-
wise known as the Knight of the Mournful Countenance."

"Yes, that is it," said Dorotea. "My father told me more: that this
knight was to be tall, with a lean face, and that on his right side, under his
left shoulder, or somewhere thereabouts, he was to have a brown mole
with a few hairs around it resembling bristles."

Upon hearing this, Don Quixote said to his squire, "Come here,
Sancho, my son, and help me undress, for I wish to see if I am the knight
that wise king meant when he made that prophecy."

"But why undress, your Grace?" asked Dorotea.

--"To see if I have the mole that your father spoke of," Don Quixote re-
plied;

"There is no need of your Grace's doing that," said Sancho, "for l
happen to know that you have a mole with those markings in the middle
of your backbone, which is the sign of a strong man."

"That will suffice," said Dorotea. "With friends, one does not look
into little things, and whether it is on his shoulder or his backbone does
not greatly matter; it is enough that he has it wherever it may be, seeing
that it is all of the same flesh. There is no doubt that my father was right
in everything, and I was right in throwing myself on the mercy of Don
Quixote. I know that he is the one my father meant, for the signs of his
face are in accord with the high repute which this knight enjoys not
only in Spain but throughout La Mancha. Indeed, I had barely disem-
barked at Osuna when I heard of all his many exploits, and my heart at
once told me that he was the one I had come to seek."

"But, my lady," said Don Quixote, "how is it that your Grace disem-
barked at Osuna when it is not a seaport?"

Before she could reply, the curate took a hand in the matter. "What
the princess must mean," he said, "is that after she had disembarked at
Malaga, the first place that she had news of your Grace was in Osuna."

"Yes, that is what I meant to say," said Dorotea.

"That is all natural enough," remarked the priest. "And now, if your
Highness will continue?"

"There is nothing more to add, except that, in the end, fate has been
kind to me and I have found Senor Don Quixote. As a consequence, I
already account and look upon myself as the queen and liege lady of all
my realm, since he out of his courtesy and splendid bounty has promised
to grant me the boon of going with me wherever I may take him, and
that will be nowhere else than to the place where he may confront Panda -
filando of the Frowning Look, in order that he may slay him and restore
to me those domains that the giant has so unjustly usurped. And all this
is bound to come about, for my good father, Tinacrio the Wise, has
prophesied it; and he also said, and put it down in writing, in Chaldean
or Greek characters which I am unable to read, that if this knight, after
having beheaded the giant, wished to marry me, I was to give myself at
once, with not the slightest demurring, to be his legitimate bride, and I
was to yield him possession of my kingdom along with that of my per-
son."

"What do you think of that, friend Sancho?" said Don Quixote at this
point. "Do you hear what is happening--What did I tell you--Just look,
we already have a kingdom to rule over and a queen to wed."

"You're right, I'll swear you are," said Sancho, "and he's a whoring
rascal who wouldn't slit that Senor Pandahilado's windpipe and marry
her! Why, just see how homely she is! I only wish the fleas in my bed
were like that!"

Saying this, he gave a couple of leaps in the air with a great show of
satisfaction and then ran up to take the reins of Dorotea's mule; forcing
her to come to a halt, he fell upon his knees before her, begging her to
let him have her hands to kiss as a sign that he took her to be his queen and
mistress. Who would not have had a good laugh over it all, at beholding
the master's madness and his servant's simple-mindedness--Dorotea let
him kiss her hand and promised to make him a great lord of her realm,
whenever Heaven should be so kind as to let her recover and enjoy it.
And Sancho thanked her for these favors in words that set them all to
laughing once more.

"That, gentlemen," continued the princess, "is my story. It only re-
mains for me to tell you that of the many subjects whom I brought along
there is left me only this well-bearded squire, for all the others were
drowned in a great storm which overtook us within sight of port. He
and I by a miracle managed to reach land upon a couple of planks; but,
for that matter, my entire life is at once a miracle and a mystery, as you
will have observed. If in telling my story I have in any respect been too
prolix or not as accurate as I should have been, the blame must be ascribed
to the circumstance which the curate mentioned at the beginning: the
tendency of constant and extraordinary troubles to deprive those who
suffer them of their memory."

"They shall not deprive me of mine, O highborn and worthy lady!"
said Don Quixote. "And it makes no difference how many I shall have
to endure in serving you nor how great and unheard of they may be. And
so, once again I confirm the boon I promised you and swear to go with
you to the end of the world until I find myself face to face with that
fierce enemy of yours. God helping me, and my own good arm, I mean
to cut off his head with the edge of this--I cannot say good sword, thanks
to Gines de Pasamonte who carried mine away with him."275 (This was
uttered between his teeth.) "And after I have cut it off," he went on,
"and have placed you in peaceful possession of your country, it will then
be for you to make such disposition of your person as you may desire;
for so long as my memory is occupied, my will held captive, and my mind
enslaved by a certain lady--I say no more--it is out of the question for me
to think of marrying anyone, even the Phoenix herself."

This last remark on the part of his master, to the effect that he did not
wish to marry, displeased Sancho very much, and it was with a great deal
of annoyance that he now spoke to the knight.

"Senor Don Quixote," he exclaimed, "I swear and vow that you are not
in your right senses! How can your Grace hesitate about marrying so
highborn a princess--Do you think that fortune is going to offer you
behind every stone such a piece of luck as this--Is my lady Dulcinea more
beautiful, perchance--No, indeed, not by a half; and I will even say that
she does not come up to the shoe of the one you see in front of you. A
fine chance I have of getting that earldom I'm waiting for if your Grace
goes around looking for tidbits at the bottom of the ocean.276 Marry, then,
marry, in Satan's name, and take this kingdom which is falling into your
hands with no effort on your part;277 and then, when you are king, make
me a marquis or the governor of a province, and to the devil with all the
rest."

Unable to endure such blasphemies against his lady Dulcinea, Don
Quixote raised his lance and, without saying a word to Sancho or giving
him a warning of any kind, he let him have a couple of thwacks which
sent him sprawling on the ground; and if Dorotea had not cried out to
him to desist, the knight undoubtedly would have finished off his squire
then and there.

"Do you think, base lout," he said after a while, "that you can always
be meddling in my affairs and that you can do anything you like and
I will forgive you--If so, excommunicated knave, for that undoubtedly
is what you are, think it no longer, now that you have set your tongue
to wagging against the peerless Dulcinea! Do you not know, clodhopper,
drudge, scoundrel, that if it were not for the valor she infuses into my
arm, I should not have the strength to kill a flea--Tell me, rascal with a
viper's tongue, what do you think it was that won this kingdom and cut
off that giant's head and made you a marquis--for I regard all this as a
thing settled and accomplished--unless it was Dulcinea's own valor mak-
ing use of my arm merely as the instrument for the achievement of her
own enterprises--She fights and conquers in my person, and I live and
breathe and have my life and being in her. O knavish son of a whoring
mother, how ungrateful you are! You see yourself raised from the dust
of the earth to be a titled lord, and all this you repay by speaking ill of
your benefactress!"

Sancho was not so badly stunned that he did not hear all his master was
saying, and, scrambling to his feet with some agility, he ran and stood
behind Dorotea's palfrey and from there answered the knight.

"Tell me this, sir," he said. "If your Grace is bent upon not marrying
this great princess, then it is clear that the kingdom will not be yours, and
if that is the case, what favors will you be in a position to do me--That is
just what I am complaining about. Let your Grace marry this queen
once and for all, now that we have her here as if she had been rained down
from Heaven, and afterward you can go back to my lady Dulcinea. After
all, there must have been kings in this world who kept concubines. So
far as beauty is concerned, I'm not saying anything about that. To tell
you the truth, I like them both, although I have never seen the lady
Dulcinea."

"What do you mean, you have never seen her, blasphemous traitor?"
said Don Quixote. "Did you not just bring me a message from her?"

"What I mean," replied Sancho, "is that I did not have a good look
at her. That is to say, I did not have a chance to take particular note of
her beauty and her good features, point by point, but in the bulk I liked
her well enough."

"Then I forgive you," said Don Quixote, "and pardon me for having
lost my temper, for it is not in the power of men to control their first
impulses"

"I can see that," said Sancho. "My first impulse is always the desire to
speak, and I cannot keep from saying for once at least whatever is on the
tip of my tongue."

"Nevertheless," his master admonished him, "be careful of your words,
Sancho; for the pitcher that goes to the well too often--I need say no
more."278

"Ah, well," replied his squire, "God's in his Heaven and sees all our
tricks, and He will be the judge of who is the greater sinner: I in not
speaking as I should, or you in doing what you should not do."

"Let's have no more of this!" cried Dorotea. "Sancho, run over and
kiss your master's hand and beg his pardon, and from now on be more
careful of whom you praise and whom you vituperate, and do not be
speaking ill of that lady Tobosa, whom I do not know but whose servant
I am. Meanwhile, trust in God to raise you to that condition where you
may live like a prince."

Hanging his head, Sancho then came up and asked for his master's hand,
and Don Quixote extended it with great dignity and composure. After
the squire had kissed it, the knight gave him his blessing and then sug-
gested that they go on a little way together as he had something to ask
him and some very important matters to discuss with him.

Sancho complied with this request, and when they were some little
distance in advance of the others, Don Quixote said to him, "Since you
returned, I have not had the time nor the opportunity to question you
with regard to many of the details connected with your mission and the
answer that you brought back with you; and now that fortune does pro-
vide the time and the place, do not deny me the pleasure that you can
give me with such good news."

"Ask whatever you will, your Grace," said Sancho, "and I will find
my way out of everything as well as I found my way in. But I beg your
Grace not to be so revengeful after this."

"Why do you say that, Sancho?"

"I say it," he replied, "because those blows you gave me just now were
more for the quarrel that the devil got us into the other night than for
anything that I said against my lady Dulcinea, whom I love and rever-
ence as I would a relic--not that I mean to say she is one; I was merely
thinking of her as something belonging to your Grace."

"Upon your life, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "let us not go back to
that subject, for it is one that causes me annoyance. I have pardoned you
for it once, and you know the saying--‘Fresh sin, fresh penance.'"279

[As they were proceeding in this manner, they saw coming down the
road toward them a man mounted upon an ass, who, as he drew near,
appeared to them to be a gypsy. But Sancho Panza, whose heart and soul
were stirred every time he caught sight of a donkey, had no sooner laid
eyes on the fellow than he recognized him as Gines de Pasamonte, and
in this case the gypsy served as the thread that led him to the yam-ball of
his stolen gray, for it was indeed the gray upon which Pasamonte was
riding. That worthy, in order to dispose of the ass and avoid being identi-
fied, had got himself up in gypsy costume, for he knew how to speak
their language and many others as if they had been his native tongue.

As soon as Sancho had seen and recognized him, he called out at the
top of his voice, "Hey, Ginesillo, you thief! Release my jewel, my
treasure, my life, the beast on which I take my rest. Flee, you whoring
knave; begone, you robber, and leave me that which is not yours!"

All these words and insults were quite unnecessary, for at the first
sound of Sancho's voice Gines had leaped down and, trotting, or, better,
running, away, had soon left them all behind. Sancho then went up to
the gray and threw his arms around it.

"How have you been, old friend," he said, "joy of my life, apple of
my eye?" With this, he kissed and caressed it as if it had been a person,
the ass standing quietly all the while, submitting without a word to this
show of affection. The others now came up and congratulated him on
the recovery of the beast, especially Don Quixote, who assured him that
he would not for this reason annul the order for the three ass-colts, for
which Sancho thanked him very much.]

As the two280 went along conversing in this manner, the curate remarked
to Dorotea that she had shown a great deal of cleverness in the telling
of her story as well as in keeping it so short and preserving so close a
resemblance to the books of chivalry. She replied that she had often
found entertainment in reading those books; but, unfortunately, she was
unfamiliar with the various provinces and seaports and so had said, quite
at random, that she had landed at Osuna.

"I suspected as much," said the curate, "and for that reason I came to
your assistance by saying what I did, which smoothed everything over.
But is it not a strange thing to see how readily this unfortunate gentle-
man believes all these falsehoods and inventions, simply because they are
in the style and manner of those absurd tales?"

"It is indeed," said Cardenio, "so rare and unheard of a thing that if
anyone desired to invent and fabricate it, in the form of fiction, I do not
know if there would be any mind that would be equal to the task."

"But there is another aspect of the matter," the curate went on. "Out-
side of the nonsense that he talks where his madness is concerned, if some
other subject comes up he will discuss it most intelligently and will reason
everything out very calmly and clearly; and, accordingly, unless the
topic of chivalry is mentioned, no one would ever take him to be anythin*
other than a man of very sound sense."

While this conversation was in progress, Don Quixote was saying to
Sancho, Friend Sancho, let us make up our quarrel. And now, laying
aside all rancor and irritation, tell me how and when it was you found
Dulcinea. What was she doing--What did you say to her and what did
she reply--What was the expression on her face when she read my letter--
Who copied it out for you--Tell me all this and everything else that
seems to you worth knowing or asking about or concerning which I
might be curious, neither adding anything nor telling me anything that
is not true merely to please me; and be sure that you do not shorten the
story and thereby deprive me of any of it."

Sir, replied Sancho, "if I am to tell the truth, the letter was not copied
for me by anyone, for I did not have it with me."

That is true enough," said Don Quixote, "for a couple of days after
you had left I found the memorandum book in which I had written it out
and was very much grieved about it, not knowing what you would do
when you found you did not have it, though I felt sure you would return
for it."

"That is what I'd have done," said Sancho, "if I hadn't learned it by
heart while your Grace was reading it to me, so that I was able to recite
it to a sacristan who copied it all down for me, point by point. And he
said that in the course of his life he had read many a letter of excommuni-
cation but never a pretty one like that."

"And do you still remember it, Sancho?" Don Quixote asked.

No, sir, I do not; for as soon as I had said it over to him, seeing that I
had no further need of remembering it, I proceeded to forget it. If there
is anything I do recall, it is that business about the sufferable--I mean,
sovereign--lady, and the ending, ‘Yours until death, the Knight of the
Mournful Countenance.' And between those two I put in ‘my soul,' ‘my
life,' and ‘light of my eyes,' more than three hundred times."

CHAPTER XXXI.

Of the delectable conversation that took place between Don
Quixote and Sancho Panza, his squire, together with other events.

ALL this does not displease me," said Don Quixote. "You may con-
tinue. What was my beauteous queen engaged in doing when you ar-
rived--Surely you must have found her stringing pearls or embroidering
some device in gold thread for this her captive knight."

"No," replied Sancho, "I did not. I found her winnowing two fanegas281
of wheat in the stable yard of her house."

"If that is so," said Don Quixote, "then you may be sure that those
grains of wheat were so many pearls when her fingers touched them. And
did you observe, my friend, if the wheat was fine and white or of the
ordinary spring-sown variety?"

"It was neither," Sancho informed him; "it was the reddish kind."

"Then I assure you," the knight insisted, "that without a doubt, when
winnowed by her hands, it made the finest of white bread. But go on.
When you gave her my letter, did she kiss it--Did she place it on her
head282 or accord it any ceremony such as it deserved--If not, what was
it that she did?"

"When I went to give it to her," said Sancho, "she was busy swinging
the sieve, with a good part of the wheat in it, from side to side. ‘Lay it on
that sack,' she said to me. ‘I'll not have time to read it until I have finished
sifting all that there is here.' "

"Discreet lady!" said Don Quixote. "That was in order that she might
take her time in reading it and revel in it. Continue, Sancho. While she
was thus occupied, what words passed between you--Did she ask after
me--And what did you say in reply--Come, tell me all and do not leave the
smallest part of it in the inkwell."283

"She asked me nothing," said Sancho, "but I told her how your Grace,
in her service, was doing penance naked from the waist up, living in these
mountains like a wild animal, sleeping on the ground, without eating
bread off a tablecloth or combing your beard, and weeping and cursing
over your unhappy fate."

"That was wrong to say that I was cursing my unhappy fate; the truth
is, I bless it and shall do so all the days of my life, for having rendered
me worthy of loving so highborn a lady as Dulcinea del Toboso."

"She is so high," said Sancho, "that she tops me by more than a hand's
breadth."

"How do you come to know that, Sancho--Did you measure with
her?"

"I measured in this way. When I went to help her lift a sack of wheat
onto a mule's back, we stood so close alongside each other that I could
see she was the taller by more than a good-sized palm."

"That may be true," said Don Quixote, "though her height is accom-
panied and set off by a thousand million spiritual graces! You will not
deny one thing, Sancho: that when you come near her you are conscious
of a Sabaean odor, an aromatic fragrance, an indescribable and pleasing
something for which I can find no name--What I mean is, an exhalation
or emanation, as if one were in the shop of some exquisite glovemaker."

"All I can tell you," said Sancho, "is that I did notice a sort of mannish
smell about her--it must have been because she was working so hard and
all in a sweat."

"No," said Don Quixote, "it could not have been that. You must have
been suffering from a cold in the head, or else it was yourself that you
were smelling; for I well know what the fragrance of that rose among
thorns is like--that lily of the field, that bit of diluted amber."

"You may be right," said Sancho, "for very often that same smell comes
from me that I then thought was coming from her Grace, the lady
Dulcinea. There's nothing surprising in that, for one devil's like another,
you know."

"Very well, then," continued Don Quixote, "she has finished sifting her
wheat and sent it to the mill. What did she do when she read the letter?"

"She did not read it; for, as I have told you, she does not know how
to read or write. Instead, she tore it up into small pieces, saying she did not
want anyone else to see it and have her private affairs known in the vil-
lage. It was enough what I had told her about the love your Grace has for
her and the extraordinary penance you are doing for her sake. Finally,
she said to tell your Grace that she kissed your hands and that she would
rather see you than write to you. And she further begged and com-
manded you, upon receipt of this message, to leave off your foolishness,
come out of these woods, and set out at once for El Toboso before some-
thing worse happened to you, for she was very anxious for a sight of
your Grace. She had a good laugh when I told her that your Grace was
known as the Knight of the Mournful Countenance. I asked her if the
Biscayan that we met a long while ago had been there, and she told me
that he had been and that he was a very fine man. I also asked after the
galley slaves, but she said she had seen nothing of any of them as yet."

"All goes very well up to now," said Don Quixote. "But tell me, what
jewel was it that she gave you when you took your leave, in return for
the news of me that you had brought her--For it is the usage and ancient
custom among knights- and ladies-errant to present to the squires,
damsels, or dwarfs who bring them word of their mistresses or their
champions some costly gem as a guerdon and token of appreciation of
the message they have received."

"That may all be true," said Sancho, "and I think it is a very good
custom myself; but that must have been in times past, for nowadays all
that they commonly give you is a little bread and cheese, which is what
I had from my lady Dulcinea. She handed it to me over the wall of the
stable yard as I was leaving, and that it might be still more of a token, it
was cheese made from sheep's milk."

"She is extremely generous," observed Don Quixote, "and if she did
not give you a golden jewel, it was undoubtedly because she did not have
one at hand, for sleeves are good after Easter.284 I shall see her and every-
thing will be taken care of. But do you know what astonishes me, Sancho--
I think you must have gone and returned through the air, for it has taken
you less than three days to make the journey from here to El Toboso
and back, a distance of more than thirty leagues. Which leads me to think
that the wise necromancer who watches over my affairs and is a friend of
mine---for there must be someone of that sort or else I should not be a
real knight-errant--I think he must have aided you without your know-
ing it. For there are cases in which one of those magicians will snatch
up a knight-errant as he lies sleeping in his bed and, without his knowing
hbw or in what manner it was done, the next morning that knight will find
himself thousands of leagues away from where he was the evening be-
fore.

"If it were not for this, knights-errant would not be able to succor one
another when in peril as they are in the habit of doing all the time. For
it may happen that one of them is fighting in the mountains of Armenia
with some dragon or other fierce monster or with another knight, and
he is having the worst of the battle and is at the point of death when sud-
denly, just as he least expects it, there appears over his head upon a cloud
or a chariot of fire another knight, a friend of his, who a short while be-
fore was in England and who has now come to aid him and save him from
death; and that same evening he is back at his lodgings having a pleasant
dinner, although from one place to the other is a distance of two or three
thousand leagues. All this is done through the wisdom and ingenuity
of those skilled enchanters who watch over valiant knights. And so, friend
Sancho, it is not hard for me to believe that you have gone from here
to El Toboso and back in so short a space of time, for, as I have said, some
wise magician must have carried you through the air without your know-
ing it."

"That may be," said Sancho, "for 'pon my word, if Rocinante didn't
go as if he had been a gypsy's donkey with quicksilver in his ears!"285

"Quicksilver indeed!" exclaimed Don Quixote; "and a legion of devils
besides, for they are folk who can travel and cause others to travel with-
out growing weary, whenever the fancy takes them. But, putting all
this aside, what do you think I should do now about going to see my lady
as she has commanded--On the one hand, I am obligated to obey her com-
mand, and on the other, this is rendered impossible by the promise I have
given to the princess who accompanies us, and the law of knighthood re-
quires that I should keep my word before satisfying my own inclinations.
I am wearied and harassed with longing to see my lady, yet my pledged
word and the glory to be won in this undertaking calls to me and spurs
me on.

"What I plan to do, accordingly, is to go with all haste to where this
giant is, and then, after I have cut off his head and restored the princess
to the peaceful possession of her throne, I shall return at once to see the
light that illuminates my senses, giving her such excuses for my delay that
she will come to be glad of it, inasmuch as it all redounds to her greater
fame and glory. All that I have ever achieved or shall achieve by force
of arms in this life is due to the favor she bestows upon me and the fact
that I am hers.!'

"Ah," cried Sancho, "what a sad muddle your Grace's brains are in!
For tell me, sir, do you mean to go all that way for nothing and let slip the
chance of making so rich and important a match as this, where the bride's
dowry is a kingdom--A kingdom which in all truth, I have heard them
say, is more than twenty thousand leagues around, which abounds in
all the things that are necessary to support human life, and which, in
short, is greater than Portugal and Castile combined,. For the love of God,
do not talk like that, but be ashamed of what you have just said. Pardon
me and take my advice, which is that you get married in the first village
where you find a curate; or, for that matter, here is our own licentiate,
who would do a first-rate job. Believe me, I am old enough to be giving
advice, and this that I now give you is very pat; for a small bird in the
hand is worth more than a vulture on the wing,286 and he who has the good
and chooses the bad, let the good that he longs for not come to him.287

"See here, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "if the reason for your advising
me to marry is that you wish me, when I have slain the giant, to become
a king at once so that I shall be in a position to grant you the favors I have
promised, I may inform you that without marrying I can very easily
gratify your desires; for before going into battle I shall lay down the
condition that, in case I come out victorious, whether I marry or not, they
are to give me a part of the kingdom which I may bestow upon whom-
soever I see fit, and to whom should I give it if not to you?"

"That is fair enough," said Sancho, "but let your Grace see to it that
my part is on the seacoast, so that, if I don't like the life there, I can take
ship with my Negro vassals and do with them what I have said. Mean-
while, your Grace should not be seeing my lady Dulcinea just now, but
should rather go and kill the giant and have done with this business; for,
by God, it strikes me there's great honor and profit in it."

"You are quite right about that, Sancho, and I shall take your advice
so far as going with the princess before I see Dulcinea is concerned. And
I would impress upon you that you are to say nothing to anyone, includ-
ing those who come with us, regarding the subject that we have just been
discussing; for Dulcinea is of so retiring a disposition that she would not
have her thoughts known, and it is not for me or any other to reveal
them."

"Well, then," said Sancho, "how comes it that your Grace sends all
those whom you conquer by the might of your arm to present them-
selves before my lady Dulcinea, this being as good as a signature to the
effect that you are lovers--And since those that go there have to kneel
before her and say that they come from your Grace to yield obedience
to her, how can the thoughts of the two of you be kept hidden?"

"Oh, what a simple-minded fool you are!" exclaimed Don Quixote. "Can
you not see that all this redounds to her greater praise--For you must
know that in accordance with our rules of chivalry it is a great honor for
a lady to have many knights-errant who serve her and whose thoughts
never go beyond rendering her homage for her own sake, with no ex-
pectation of any reward for their many and praiseworthy endeavors
other than that of being accepted as her champions."

"That," observed Sancho, "is the kind of love I have heard the preacher
say we ought to give to Qur Lord, for Himself alone, without being
moved by any hope of eternal glory or fear of Hell; but, for my part,
I prefer to love and serve Him for what He can do for me."

"May the devil take the bumpkin!" cried Don Quixote. "What a wit
you show at times; one would think you had been a student."

"But, on my word," said Sancho, "I cannot even read."

At this point Master Nicholas called out to them to wait a while as the
others wished to pause at a little roadside spring for a drink. Don Quixote
accordingly came to a halt, and Sancho was by no means displeased with
this, for he was tired by now of telling so many lies and was afraid that
his master would catch him up, the truth being that, while he knew that
Dulcinea was a peasant girl of El Toboso, he had never in his life laid eyes
upon her.

--Cardenio in the meantime had put on the clothes that Dorotea had
worn when they found her. Though they were none too good, they were
much better than the ones he took off. They then dismounted beside the
spring, and with the food that the curate had procured at the inn, while
it was not much, they all contrived to satisfy their hunger. As they were
engaged in their repast, a lad came along the highway and, after studying
them all attentively, ran over to Don Quixote and clasped him around
the legs, weeping copiously.

"Ah sir! Do you not know me, your Grace--Look at me well, for I am
the lad Andres that your Grace freed from the oak tree to which he was
bound."

The knight then recognized him and, taking him by the hand, he turned
to the others and said, "In order that your Worships may see how im-
portant it is to have knights-errant in the world to right the wrongs and
injuries done by the insolent and evil beings who inhabit it, you may
know that some while ago, as I was passing through a wood, I heard
certain pitiful cries and moans as from one who was afflicted and in dis-
tress. I then, as was my duty, went to the place from which the cries ap-
peared to come, and there I found, bound to an oak tree, this lad who
now stands before you. I am heartily glad that he is with us now, for he
will be my witness that I do not lie in anything I say. He was, as I said,
bound to that tree while a peasant who, I later learned, was his master
lashed him unmercifully with the reins of his mare. The moment I saw
this, I asked the man what was the reason for the flogging, and the lout
replied that he was whipping the boy because he was his servant and had
been guilty of certain acts of carelessness that indicated he was a thief
rather than a dunce. At this, however, the lad spoke up and said, ‘Sir, he
is whipping me because I asked for my wages and for no other reason.'
The master then made some excuses or other which, if I heard them, I
did not accept as valid,

"The short of it was, I compelled the peasant to release the boy and
made him promise to take him home and pay him every real of what he
owed him, and perfumed into the bargain.288 Is not that all true, Andres,
my son--Did you not note how imperiously I commanded him to do
that and with what humility he promised to carry out all my orders and
instructions--Speak up and tell these ladies and gentlemen, clearly and
in a straightforward manner, just what happened; for I would have them
see and be convinced that I was right when I said that it is very useful to
have knights-errant going up and down the highroads."

"All that your Grace has said is very true," the lad replied, "but the
end of the matter was quite different from what you think."

"What do you mean by saying that it was quite different?" Don
Quixote demanded. "Did not the peasant pay you?"

"He not only did not pay me," said the boy, "but the moment your
Grace had left the wood and we were alone, he tied me to that same tree
again and gave me so many fresh lashes that I was like St. Bartholomew
when they had done flaying him. And at each stroke he made some jest
or gibe about how he had fooled you, so funny that I would have laughed
myself if the pain had not been so great. In short, he mishandled me to
such an extent that I have been in a hospital up to now with the cuts that
wicked lout gave me. For all of which your Grace is to blame. If you had
gone your way and had not come where you were not called nor meddled
in the affairs of others, my master would have been satisfied with giving
me one or two dozen lashes and then would have untied me and paid me
what he owed me. But your Grace roused his anger by insulting him so
unreasonably and calling him all those names, and since he could not
avenge himself on you, the moment we were alone the storm burst on
me,--and, as a result, I do not think I shall ever be a man again as long as
I live."

My mistake, said Don Quixote, was in going off and leaving you like
that. I should not have left until I had seen you paid; for I ought to
have known from long experience that there is no peasant who keeps his
word if he finds that it is not in his interest to do so. But you remember,
Andris, I swore that if he did not pay you I would come looking for
him, and would find him even though he were hidden in the belly of the
whale."

"That you did," said Andres, "but it was of no use."

"Well, we will see now whether it is of use or not," said Don Quixote.
And, saying this, he hastily arose and ordered Sancho to put the bridle
on Rocinante, for the hack had been grazing while they were eating.
Dorotea then asked him what he proposed to do, and he replied that he
meant to go look for the peasant and chastise him for his behavior, and he
also intended to make him pay Andres to the last maravedi, notwithstand-
ing and in spite of all the clodhoppers in the world. She thereupon re-
minded him that in accordance with his promise he could not embark
upon any enterprise until he had finished the undertaking with which she
had charged him. After all, she added, he knew this better than anyone
else and should restrain the fury in his bosom until he had returned from
her realm.

"That is true," Don Quixote agreed. "As you say, lady, Andres will
have to be patient until I come back; but I hereby swear and promise him
anew that I will not desist until I have avenged him and seen him paid."

"I do not believe in those oaths," said Andres. "What I need now is
enough to take me to Seville; I would rather have that than all the
vengeance in the world. So, if you have here anything to eat that I can
take with me, let me have it; and God be with your Grace and all knights-
errant, and may they be as errant with themselves as they have been with
me."

Sancho then produced a bit of bread and cheese and gave it to the lad.

"Take it, brother Andres," he said, "for we all have a share in your
troubles."

"Why, what share is yours?" Andres asked.

"This portion of bread and cheese. God knows whether I am going to
need it or not, for I may tell you, my friend, that the squires of knights-
errant are greatly subject to hunger and misfortune and other things that
are better felt than put into words."

Andres accepted the food and, seeing that no one offered him anything
else, lowered his head and, as the saying goes, took the road in hand. But,
before leaving, he turned to Don Quixote.

"For the love of God, Sir Knight-errant," he said, "if ever again you
meet me, even though they are hacking me to bits, do not aid or succor me
but let me bear it, for no misfortune could be so great as that which comes
of being helped by you. May God curse you and all the knights-errant
that were ever born into this world!"

Don Quixote was about to arise and follow him, but the lad started
running so swiftly that no one thought of trying to overtake him. The
knight was exceedingly crestfallen over the story Andris had told, and
the others had to do their best to keep from laughing so as not to dis-
comfit him entirely.

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