CHAPTER XXXII.

Which treats of what befell Don Quixote
and all his company at the inn.



HAVING had a good meal, they saddled their animals and set out
once more, and nothing worthy of note happened until the following
day, when they arrived at the inn, the place that Sancho Panza so feared
and dreaded. He did not wish to enter, but there was no escape for him.
When they saw Don Quixote and his squire approaching, the innkeeper
and his wife, their daughter, and Maritornes came out to receive them
most cordially. As for the knight, he greeted his hosts with great dignity
and condescension, remarking to them that they should prepare him a
better bed than the one he had had the last time. To this the landlady re-
plied that if he paid better than he did the other time, she would give him
one fit for a prince. He assured her that he would, and so they made a
fairly comfortable pallet for him in the same garret where he had slept
before; and as he was very much shaken up and weary in mind as well
as body, he went to bed at once.

No sooner had the door closed upon him than the landlady fell upon
the barber and seized him by the beard.

By the sign of the holy cross! she cried, "you are not going to make
use of my tail as a beard any longer. Give it back to me at once. It is a
shame the way that thing of my husband's is all the time on the floor-
I mean the comb that I used to stick into that pretty tail of mine."

She tugged and tugged, but the barber would not give up until the
licentiate told him to let her have it, as there was no further need to make
use of that device. Instead, he should show himself in his own person
end tell Don Quixote that after the galley-slave robbers had despoiled
him, he had fled to this inn; and should the knight inquire after the
princess's squire, they would tell him that she had sent the man on ahead
to advise her subjects that she was on the way and was bringing with her
one who would liberate them all. Upon hearing this, the barber readily
enough let the landlady have her tail, and at the same time they returned
all the other objects they had borrowed in connection with their scheme
to rescue Don Quixote. All those of the inn were very much struck with
Dorotea's beauty and the shepherd Cardenio's fine figure; and the curate
then directed them to lay out whatever they had to eat, and the landlord,
hoping to be better paid this time, set before them a very decent meal.
Don Quixote all this while was still asleep, and they deemed it best not
to awaken him, as slumber would do him more good than food just now.

At the dinner table, at which were present the landlord, his wife, his
daughter, Maritornes, and all the guests, the subject of discussion was
Don Quixote's strange madness and the state in which they had found
him. The landlady told them of the incident between the knight and the
carter, and then, looking around to see if Sancho was there and perceiv-
ing that he was not, she went on to describe for them the blanketing
that the squire had received, a story that afforded them no little amuse-
ment. When the curate made the observation that it was books of chivalry
that had unbalanced Don Quixote's mind, the innkeeper took exception
to this statement.

"I do not know," he said, "how that can be; for, to tell the truth, so far
as I can see, there is no better reading in the world. I myself have two or
three of them along with some manuscripts, and they have been the very
breath of life not only to me, but to many others as well. For in harvest
time the reapers gather here in large numbers on feast days, and there are
always some among them who can read. One of them will take a book in
his hands and thirty or more of us will crowd around and listen to him
with so much pleasure that we lose a thousand gray hairs. For my own
part at least, I can say that when I hear of the terrible and furious blows
the knights exchange with one another, I feel like dealing a few myself,
and could sit there hearing of them day and night."

"That," said the landlady, "suits me well enough; for I never have a
moment's peace in the house except when you are listening to them. Then
you are so absorbed that you forget for once to scold."

"That is the truth," said Maritornes; "and I give you my word, I also
like to hear about those things, for they are very pretty, especially when
they tell about some lady or other being embraced by her knight under
the orange trees while a duenna keeps watch over them, and she herself
is dying of envy and fright. I say that all that is better than honey."

"And what do you think, young lady?" said the curate, addressing the
innkeeper's daughter.

"I really cannot tell you, sir, " she replied. " Although I do not under-
stand them, I get a great deal of pleasure out of listening to them. The
only thing is, I do not like those blows that my father speaks of; I prefer
the laments which the knights utter when absent from their lady loves
and which sometimes make me weep from sympathy."

"Well, young lady," said Dorotea, "would you console them if it was
for you that they wept?"

"I do not know what I should do," the girl answered. "All I know
is that some of those ladies are so cruel that they call their knights tigers
and lions and a thousand other nasty things like that. Good Lord! I don't
know what kind of creatures they can be, without soul or conscience, if
they cannot give a decent man so much as a glance but leave him to die
or go mad. I don't see how they can be such prudes. If it is their honor
they are thinking about, let them marry, for that is all the poor knights
desire."

"Be quiet, child!" said the landlady. "You appear to know too much
about such things, and it is not good for young girls to know or talk so
much."

This gentleman asked me," said the lass, "and I could not refuse to
answer him."

"That will do," said the curate. "And now, mine host, if you will bring
out those books of yours, I should like to have a look at them."

With pleasure, replied the innkeeper. And, going into his room, he
came back with an old valise held closed by a small chain. When it was
opened it was found to contain three large books and a number of manu-
scripts in a very good hand. The first book that the curate inspected was
Don Cirongilio of Thrace. Another was Felixmarte of Hircania, and
there was also the History of the Great Captain Gonzalo Hernandez de
Cdxdoba y with the Life of Diego Garcia de Paredes.289 As soon as he had
read the first two titles, the priest turned to the barber and said, "What
we need here now is our friend's housekeeper and niece."

"No, we do not need them," said the barber. "I am quite capable of
carrying these books out into the stable yard or over to the hearth, for,
in truth, there is a very good fire burning there."

What! said the innkeeper; "is your Grace going to burn more books?"290

"No more," said the curate, "than these two: the Don Cirongilio and
the Felixmarte

"Are these books of mine, then, heretics or phlegmatics that you should
wish to burn them?" the landlord wanted to know.

"Schismatics, you mean, friend," the barber corrected him, "not phleg-
matics."

"Be that as it may," said their host, "but if you are bent on burning
any, let it be this one about the Great Captain and this other about Diego
Garcia, for I would rather see my own child sent to the flames than any
of the rest of them."

"But, my brother," the curate remonstrated with him, "those two
books are full of lies, foolishness, and nonsense, whereas this one about
the Great Captain is a true history and has the deeds of Gonzalo Hernan-
dez de Cordoba, who by his many and mighty exploits deserves to be
known as the Great Captain to all the world. And this Diego Garcia de
Paredes was a leading knight, a native of the city of Trujillo in Estrema-
dura, a most valiant soldier and one endowed with such natural strength
that with the finger of one hand he could stop a mill wheel turning at full
speed. On one occasion, armed with a large two-handed broadsword,291 he
took up his post at the entrance to a bridge and prevented a large army
from crossing. These and other feats he performed, and he writes of them
with the modesty of a knight who is his own chronicler; but if some
other free and dispassionate author had recorded them, they would
have cast into oblivion the deeds of all the Hectors, Achilles', and Ro-
lands "

"Go tell that to my father!" exclaimed the innkeeper. "What is there
so astonishing about stopping a mill wheel--By God, your Grace should
read what Felixmarte of Hircania did,292 who with a single backward stroke
cut five giants in two around the middle, as if they had been made of
horse beans like the little friars that children fashion for themselves. An-
other time he attacked a huge and powerful army, with more than one
million six hundred thousand soldiers all armed from head to foot, and
he put them to rout like a flock of sheep.

"And then, what have you to say of the worthy Don Cirongilio of
Thrace, a sturdy and courageous knight as you will see from that book.
For it tells there how, as he was sailing on a river, a fiery serpent arose
from the water, and as soon as he saw it he fell upon it, straddled its scaly
back, and, grasping its throat in both his hands, choked it with such force
that the serpent, perceiving that it was being throttled, had no choice
but to sink to the bottom of the river, carrying with it the knight, who
would not let go his hold--And, down there, he found himself among
palaces and gardens so pretty that they were a marvel to behold; and then
the snake turned into an old man who told hm, such things as were never
heard before. Ah, sir, say no more! If you were to hear tha one you
would be beside yourself with joy. And a couple of figs for that Great
Captain and for that Diego Garcia that you talk about!"

As she listened to this, Dorotea whispered to Cardenio, "Our host could
almost play a second to Don Quixote ."

"Yes, it would seem so," replied Cardenio, "for, according to all indica-
tions, he holds it as certain that everything happened exactly as it is set
down in those books, and the barefooted friars themselves would never
convince him of the contrary."

"See here, brother," the curate went on, "there never was in this world
a Felixmarte of Hircania or a Don Cirongilio of Thrace, nor any such
knights as those mentioned in the books of chivalry. It is all a fiction, a
story made up by idle minds for the purpose you speak of: whiling the
time away, which is what those reapers of yours do when they read them;
for I swear to you once more, there never were such knights, such ex-
ploits, or such nonsensical happenings."

"Give that bone to another dog!" said the innkeeper. "As if I didn't
know how much is five and where the shoe pinches me! And do not
think you can feed me pap, for, by God, I am nobody's fool. A fine thing,
your Grace's trying to make me believe that all these good books say is
nothing but lies and foolishness, when they are printed with the license
of the Royal Council! Do you mean to tell me they are the kind of folk
who would consent to the printing of a lot of stories that are not true,
with all those battles and enchantments and other things that are enough
to drive a person crazy?"

"I have told you, my friend," the curate replied, "that this is done
simply to amuse your idle hours. Just as in well-ordered states there are
games of chess, handball, and billiards to amuse those that do not desire,
are not obliged, or are unable to work, so do they consent to the printing
and distribution of such books as these, in the belief--and they are right in
so believing--that there is no one so ignorant that he would take any of
them to be a veracious history. If this were the proper occasion and my
listeners so desired, I might say something about the qualities which books
of chivalry should possess in order to be good ones and such as would be
to the profit of certain readers and would please their taste as well. How-
ever, I trust the time will come when I shall be able to communicate my
ideas to someone who is in a position to remedy the situation. In the mean-
while, mine host, remember what I say. And now, take your books and
make up your mind as to whether they are true or false. Much good may
they do you, and, please God you do not go lame on the same foot as
your guest Don Quixote."

"That I shall not," replied the innkeeper. "I could never be so mad as
to turn knight-errant, for I am aware that the customs of those days when
famous knights roamed the world no longer prevail today."

In the midst of this conversation Sancho Panza had entered the room.
He was very downcast and bewildered when he heard them say that there
were no more knights-errant and that the books of chivalry were full of
lies and nonsense, and he secretly made up his mind that he would wait
and see how this expedition of his master's turned out; if the result did
not come up to expectations, he would part company with the knight
and return to his wife and young ones and his accustomed toil.

The landlord was about to remove the valise with the books it con-
tained when the curate stopped him. "Wait," said the latter, "I want to
see what papers those are that are written in so fine a hand."

Their host then took out the manuscript and gave it to them to read,
whereupon they saw that it was on eight sheets, with a title in large letters
at the top of the first one which read: Story of the One Who Was Too
Curious for His Own Good. Having glanced over three or four lines, the
curate remarked, "The title of this certainly impresses me as being an
excellent one, and I should very much like to read the tale itself."

"Very well," replied the innkeeper, "your Reverence may do so; for
I may tell you that certain of my guests who have read it have greatly en-
joyed it and have earnestly begged me to let them have it, but I would
not give it to them, thinking that I would return it to the one who forget-
fully went away and left the valise here with these books and papers in
it; for its owner may well come back for it sometime, and although I
should not like to part with them, upon my word, I shall restore them to
him, for although I am an innkeeper, I am also a Christian."

"You are quite right in that, my friend," said the curate, However,
if the story pleases me, you must let me copy it."

"I shall be glad to do so," the landlord assured him.

While the two were conversing, Cardenio had picked up the story and
begun reading it. He liked it as well as had the curate, whom he now
begged to read it aloud in order that all might hear it.

"I should not mind reading it," said the priest, "if it were not that it
would be better to spend our time sleeping."

"I shall have my fill of rest," said Dorotea, "in passing the time away by
listening to some story; for my mind is not as yet sufficiently calm to per-
mit me to sleep when I ought to do so."

"In that case," said the curate, "I will read it, if only out of curiosity,
and we may find some enjoyment in it. ..., .,

Master Nicholas and Sancho now joined in urging him, and, seeing that
it would give so much pleasure to all of them as well as to himself, he said,
"Very well, then. Pay attention, all of you. This is the way the story
begins."



CHAPTER XXXIII.

In which is related the "Story of the One Who Was Too Curious for His
Own Good."



IN FLORENCE, a rich and famous city of Italy, in the province of
Tuscany, there lived two gentlemen named Anselmo and Lotario. They
were wealthy and of high station and were so closely bound together
in ties of friendship that all who knew them commonly referred to them
as "the two friends." They were bachelor lads of the same age and habits,
which in itself was enough to explain the bond of affection between them.
It is true that Anselmo was somewhat more inclined to amorous pastimes
than was Lotario, the latter being very fond of the hunt, but when occa-
sion offered, the one would leave off his own pursuits to devote himself
to those favored by the other, and in this manner their inclinations kept
pace better than the best-regulated clock.

Anselmo was greatly enamored of a certain beautiful and wellborn
maiden of the same city. Her parents were so worthy, and she herself so
estimable, that the youth, upon the advice of his friend, without whom
he did nothing, made up his mind to ask for her hand in marriage. This
plan he put into execution, with Lotario as his emissary, who concluded
the business so satisfactorily that the suitor soon found himself in posses-
sion of that which he desired, while Camila was so happy at having him
for a husband that she never ceased giving thanks to Heaven and to
Lotario who had been the means of bringing her so much happiness.

The first days of marriage commonly being given over to merrymak-
ing, Lotario continued to frequent his friend's house as was his wont, do-
ing all in his power to honor him and help make the occasion a joyful one.
But when the wedding days were over and congratulatory visits became
less frequent, he was careful not to go so often; for it seemed to him, as it
must to all men of good sense, that one should not continue visiting the
homes of married friends with the same frequency as in their bachelor
days. Good and true friendship neither can nor should be at all suspect;
but, nevertheless, the honor of a married man is so delicate a matter that
even blood brothers may give offense, to say nothing of those who are
no more than friends.

Anselmo noted all this and was greatly put out, telling Lotario that if
he had known that his marriage was to come between them in such a
manner, he would never have gone through with it. Seeing that when they
were single they had been so intimate as to win for themselves the pleasing
epithet of "the two friends," he would not consent to so famous and
agreeable an association as theirs being sacrificed for no other reason than
that of a conventional circumspectness. He therefore entreated him, if
such a manner of speaking was permissible between them, to resume his
old place as master of his friend's household, coming and going as he
liked. Camila, he added, had no other will or pleasure than his own, and
when she had learned how fond the two were of each other, she had not
known what to think of such coldness on Lotario's part.

To this and all the other things that Anselmo had to say in an effort
to persuade him to resume his former habits, Lotario replied so wisely
and discreetly that his friend was quite satisfied of his good intentions;
and so they made an arrangement to the effect that two days a week and
on feast days Lotario was to dine at Anselmo's house. Nevertheless, the
former was determined to observe this agreement only insofar as it did
not conflict with his friend's honor, whose reputation he valued more than
he did his own. He maintained, and rightly, that the man to whom Heaven
had given a beautiful wife should exercise as much care as to the friends
he brought home with him as he did with regard to his wife's feminine
acquaintances--for while it may be difficult to arrange a clandestine
meeting in the market place, in church, at public festivals, or in connec-
tion with private visits to religious shrines (and husbands cannot always
forbid their wives such opportunities), these things are readily managed
in the house of a trusted female friend or relative.293

Lotario was also in the habit of saying that every married man should
have some friend of his own sex who would call his attention to any
negligence on his part; for it frequently happens that a husband who is
very much in love with his wife either does not warn her or, in order not
to annoy her, says nothng to her whatever about doing or not doing cer-
tain things, although his own honor or loss of reputation depends upon
her conduct; whereas, if advised by a friend, he may easily set everything
to rights. But where is so true a friend to be found, one so loyal and dis-
creet as Lotario would have him be--I cannot tell you, certainly; for only
he was of that sort, zealously and painstakingly watching over Anselmo's
honor so that the wandering and malicious gaze of the idle throng might
not find occasion for scandal in seeing a young gentleman as rich, well-
born, and attractive as he frequenting the house of a woman as beautiful
as Camila. Even though her modesty and worth might put a bridle on every
gossiping tongue, he nonetheless did not wish to cast even the shadow
of doubt upon her good repute or that of his friend; and for this reason,
on most of the days when he was supposed to go there, he occupied him-
self with other matters which he pretended were unavoidable. As a conse-
quence, a good part of the time was spent in complaints on the one side
and excuses on the other.

And so it came about one day, as they were strolling in a meadow out-
side the city, that Anselmo said to Lotario, "You may think, my friend,
that in return for the favors God has shown me by giving me such parents
as mine and bestowing upon me with no stinting hand what are com-
monly known as the gifts of nature as well as those of fortune, I should
never be able to thank Him enough, not to speak of what He has done for
me by giving me you as a friend and Camila for my wife, two blessings
which I esteem, if not at their full worth, as much as I am able. Yet with
all these advantages, which are commonly all that men require to live
happily, I lead the most boring and fretful existence of any man in this
universe. For some time now I have been wearied and oppressed by a
desire so strange, so out of the ordinary, that I marvel at myself. I blame
and scold myself for it when I am alone and endeavor to silence it and
conceal it from my own thoughts, but I have no more succeeded in keep-
ing it a secret than if I had deliberately set out to tell everyone about it.
And since it has to come out, I would entrust it to your safekeeping; for I
am confident that by this means and through your readiness as a true
friend to do what you can to help me, the joy I derive from your kind
offices will be as intense as the unhappiness which my madness has
caused

Lotario did not know what to think of Anselmo's speech, nor did he
have any idea as to what the object of this long and ominous preamble
was, Though he did his best to imagine what the desire could be that so
harassed his friend, his guesses were far from the truth, and by way of re-
licving the anxiety which this uncertainty caused him, he remarked to
his companion that to adopt so roundabout a way of revealing one's most
secret thoughts was to commit a grievous offense against a friendship as
deep as theirs. If Anselmo would but tell him his troubles, he felt sure
that he would be able to give him some advice that would help him in
allaying them or in taking such action as was necessary to remedy mat-
ters.

"That is the truth," replied Anselmo, "and so, in all confidence, I will
inform you, friend Lotario, that the thing that so tortures me is the de-
sire to know whether or not my wife Camila is as good and perfect as I
think she is, for this is a truth that I cannot accept until the quality of her
virtue is proved to me in the same manner that fire brings out the purity
of gold. For it is my opinion, my friend, that a woman is virtuous only in
the degree to which she is tempted and resists temptation, and that she
alone is strong who does not yield to promises, gifts, tears, and the con-
stant wooing of importunate suitors. What thanks does a woman deserve
for being good if no one urges her to be bad--What wonder if she is re-
served and timid who has no opportunity to abandon herself, and who,
moreover, knows that her husband will slay her for the first false move
that he discovers on her part--Accordingly, she who is virtuous out of
fear and lack of occasion is one whom I cannot esteem as I do her who
is solicited and beset and still emerges with the crown of victory.

"For this reason," he continued, "and many others which I could give
you by way of verifying and confirming the opinion I have just ex-
pressed, I desire that my wife Camila meet this test and go through the
fire of seeing herself longed for and sought after by one who is of
sufficient worth to offer her his affections. If she comes out of this battle,
as I am convinced she will, bearing the victor's palm, I shall consider my-
self the happiest man alive. I shall be able to say that my cup runneth
over and that I have had the good fortune to come upon that virtuous
woman of whom the Wise Man has asked,'Who can find her?'294 And if
things should turn out contrary to my expectations, then I shall have the
satisfaction of knowing the truth and shall bear without complaining the
pain which so costly an experience will naturally cause me.

"Inasmuch as nothing you may say will dissuade me from carrying out
my plan, I would have you, friend Lotario, consent to be the instrument
for putting it into execution. I will provide you with the opportunity and
will see that none of the conditions are lacking for paying suit to a woman
who is respectable, honored, reserved, and without inclination to let her
fancies roam. What leads me, among other things, to entrust you with so
arduous an undertaking is the consideration that, in case Camila is over-
come, you will not carry your conquest too far, but, instead, you will
regard as done that which out of respect for me you will leave undone.
Thus I shall be offended only by her intent, and the injury that I suffer
will remain shrouded in your virtuous silence, which I know to be eternal
as that of death itself. And so, if you would have me enjoy what may
properly be called life, from now on you will enter into amorous battle,
and neither lukewarmly nor slothfully, but with all the earnestness and
diligence that I so greatly desire and with that trustworthiness of which
our friendship assures me."

Such were the words that Anselmo spoke to Lotario. The latter listened
to them all most attentively and, beyond the remarks he had already
made, did not open his lips until his friend had finished. When he per-
ceived that the speech was ended, he gazed at him for a good while as if
at some strange and amazing object that he had never seen before.

"I cannot persuade myself, friend Anselmo," he said at last, "that you
are not jesting in what you have just told me. If I were convinced that
you are in earnest, I would never have permitted you to go so far but
would have put an end to all this talk by refusing to listen to you. Surely,
either I do not know you, or you do not know me. But that cannot be;
for I am well aware that you are Anselmo, and you are conscious of the
fact that I am Lotario. Unfortunately, however, I cannot regard you as
the Anselmo that used to be, and you likewise must have thought that
I am no longer the Lotario of old. For the things that you have said to
me are not those that my friend Anselmo would say, nor are the things
you ask of me such as you would ask of the Lotario that you know. True
friends, as the poet has said, will prove and make use of each other usque
ad aras, which is to say, they will not put their friendship to the test in
a manner that is contrary to God's will. If this was the way a pagan295 felt
about it, how much stronger should be the feeling of a Christian, who
knows that divine friendship must not be sacrificed for that which exists
between human beings--And if the time does come when a man goes so
far as to lay aside the respect he owes to Heaven, it will not be for little
things of slight importance, but only those that concemfche very life
and honor of his earthly friend.

"Tell me, then, Anselmo," Lotario went on, "which of these--your
life or your honor--is now imperiled that I at risk to myself should oblige
you by doing a thing so detestable as that which you ask of me--Neither
of them, certainly. What you are demanding of me is, rather, as I under-
stand it, that I seek and endeavor to deprive you, and myself at the same
time, of both honor and life. For if I take away your honor, it goes with-
out saying that I am also robbing you of life, since the man without honor
is in worse plight than a dead man; and if I am to be the instrument, as
you would have me be, of bringing so great a misfortune upon you, shall
I not then remain a dishonored and hence a lifeless man--Hear me out,
friend Anselmo, and be so patient as not to answer me until I have finished
telling you all I think of this wish of yours. There will be time later for
me to hear what you have to say in reply."

"With pleasure," was Anselmo's response. "Say whatever you like."

"It seems to me that you are reasoning now as the Moors always do, who
cannot be brought to see the error inherent in their sect, through citations
from Holy Writ; nor are they to be moved by intellectual speculation
or arguments based upon the articles of faith, but they demand palpable
examples, readily understood and demonstrable, and such as admit of
undeniable and indubitable mathematical proof, as when they say, if
equals are subtracted from equals, the remainders are equal.'If they do
not understand this from words, as indeed they do not, it has to be
shown them with the hands and placed before their eyes, and with
all this no one could ever succeed in persuading them of the truths of
my holy religion.296 And this same mode of reasoning I am going to have
to use with you; for the desire that has been born in you is so mistaken
and utterly unreasonable a one that it appears to me a waste of time to
endeavor to bring you to an understanding of your simple-mindedness--
for the present I will call it by no other name than that. I am inclined to
leave you to your folly, as a punishment for having conceived such a
wish, but the friendship that I have for you will not permit me to deal
with you so harshly, nor will it consent to my deserting you in this im-
minent danger of self-destruction that now obviously threatens you.

"In order that you may see clearly how the matter stands, answer me
this, Anselmo. Did you not tell me that I am to pay court to a woman
of reserve, bring my persuasive wiles to bear upon a respectable matron,
make advances to one who is not looking for anything of that sort, and
offer my attentions to a lady who is noted for her prudence--Yes, that is
precisely wh^t you told me. Well, then, if you know that you have such
a wife, reserved, respected, prudent, and retiring, what is it that you
seek--And if you are convinced that she will emerge the victor from all
my assaults, as she undoubtedly will, what better titles do you think to
bestow upon her than those that she already possesses--Or is it that you
do not believe her to be what you say she is, or that you do not realize
what you are asking--If you doubt her virtue, why trouble to test it--
Why not treat her as guilty and take what action you may see fit--If, on
the other hand, she is as good as you are convinced she is, it is a futile
proceeding to put that truth to the trial since in the end you will be left
with the same opinion that you held before.

"It is therefore obvious that to undertake things from which harm
rather than good is likely to come is a senseless and foolhardy act, es-
pecially when one is not forced or compelled to do so, and when the mad-
ness that lies in such a course of conduct is evident from afar. Difficult
feats are attempted for the love of God or the world's praise or for both.
It is saints who undertake the former as they strive to live an angelic life
in human bodies, while they who seek the respect of the world are those
who traverse great bodies of water and visit many climes and strange
peoples in order to obtain what are known as fortune's favors. And,
finally, those deeds that are performed for God and man alike are the
work of valiant soldiers who, the moment they sight a breach in the op-
posite wall no bigger than a cannon ball can make, cast aside all fear and,
with no word or thought of the manifest danger that threatens them but
borne on the wings of their desire to defend their faith, their nation, and
their king, hurl themselves intrepidly into the midst of a thousand deaths
that await them at the hands of the enemy. Such are the deeds that men
commonly attempt for the reason that there are honor, glory, and profit
in them, despite the accompanying hardships and perils.

"But this undertaking of yours, as you explain it to me, has for object
neither the glory of God, fortune's favors, nor worldly fame; for, suppos-
ing that the outcome is such as you desire, you will be neither happier nor
richer nor more honored than you are at present; while if the result is
not what you hope for, you will find yourself in the greatest misery that
can be imagined, and there will be no comfort in the thought that none
knows of your misfortune, as the fact that you yourself know it will be
the greatest of afflictions.

"By way of confirming the truth of this, I should like to recite to you a
stanza by the poet Luigi Tansillo which occurs at the end of the first part
of his St. Peter's Tears 297--It runs like this:


　　　　　Then Peter's sorrow and his shame did grow
　　　　　As the day dawned and morning drew on apace,
　　　　　And although none was there to see or know y
　　　　　He was himself aware of his disgrace;
　　　　　For with the magnanimous heart 'tis ever so:
　　　　　Its own self-knowledge nothing can efface.
　　　　　Though only Heaven and, earth behold its shame )
　　　　　It still will never cease itself to blame.

"Thus, you will not be able to shun your grief by keeping it secret,
but, rather, you will weep endlessly--if not tears from the eyes, tears of
blood from the heart of the kind that simple-souled doctor wept of whom
our poet tells us, who submitted to the test of the cup,298 something that
the more prudent Rinaldo declined to do. Granted that this is poetic
fiction, it nonetheless contains certain secrets of morality that are worthy
of being noted, understood, and imitated. Moreover, by what I am about
to say you will be brought to see the great mistake that you would be
making if you carried out your plan.

"Tell me, Anselmo, supposing that Heaven or good fortune had made
you the master and lawful owner of a very fine diamond to whose quality
and purity all the lapidaries who had seen it had testified, stating in unison
their common opinion that in quality, purity, and fineness it was the best
that nature could produce in the way of such a stone; and supposing,
further, that you yourself believed all this to be true, without knowing
anything that would cause you to believe otherwise, would it be right for
you to wish to take that diamond and place it between a hammer and an
anvil and there by force of blows and strength of arm endeavor to see
whether or not it was as hard and fine as they had said it was--And sup-
posing that you went through with this and the stone withstood so foolish
a test, would you thereby be adding anything to its worth and the esteem
in which it was held--Whereas, if it should break, a thing that could hap-
pen, would not all be lost--It would indeed; for certainly its owner would
be looked upon by everyone as a man of little sense.

"Well, then, friend Anselmo, you must realize that Camila is a very
fine diamond, both in your own estimation and in that of others, and
there is no sense in placing her in a situation where she may be broken;
for even though she remain whole, she will not then be of greater worth
than she is now; and if she should weaken and not hold out, you must
take into consideration that from that time forth you would have to do
without her, and with what good reason you would reproach yourself
for having been the cause of her ruination and your own as well. Remem-
ber that there is no jewel in all this world of so great worth as a wife who
is chaste and respected, and that the honor of women lies wholly in the
good opinion which others have of them; and since you know how ex-
cellent your own wife's reputation is, why do you seek to cast doubt
upon that truth--Bear in mind, my friend, that woman is an imperfect
creature, and we should not put stumbling blocks in her way where she
may trip and fall; rather, we should remove them and clear her path of all
obstacles, so that, without any hindrances, she may run swiftly on toward
the goal of that perfection that she lacks, which lies in the attainment of
virtue.

"The naturalists tell us that the ermine is a small animal with a very
white skin and that hunters when they wish to track it down make use
of the following artifice: knowing the places where it passes, they block
them off with mud, and then, rousing the little beast, they drive it
toward those places; but the ermine, as soon as it comes to the mud,
stops and lets itself be captured rather than go through the mire
and lose or sully its whiteness, which it values more than it does
its liberty or its life. Now, the chaste and respected woman is an ermine,
and the virtue of modesty is something that is whiter and purer than
snow, but he who would not have her lose it but keep and preserve
it must adopt with her a different course than that which the ermine
hunters employ. He must not put before her the mire of presents and
the attentions of importunate suitors; for perhaps--and, indeed, there
is no perhaps about it--she will not be possessed of sufficient virtue
and native strength to enable her to tread under foot and pass over
these obstacles, for which reason it is necessary to remove them and in-
stead place before her the purity of virtue and the beauty that lies in
a woman's good name.

"The good woman is like a crystal mirror, shining and clear but likely
to be dimmed and darkened by any breath that touches her. The respect-
able woman has to be treated as one does relics: she is to be adored, not
touched. She is to be guarded and cherished, like a fine garden full of
roses and other flowers whose master permits no one to enter and handle
the blooms--it is enough to enjoy their beauty and fragrance from afar,
through an iron grating.

Finally, I should like to quote you some verses that I happen to re-
member. I heard them in a modern comedy, and they appear to me to
have a bearing on the subject we are now discussing. One wise old man
was advising another, who had a young daughter, to take the girl, shut
her up, and watch over her carefully, and among other reasons he gave
the following:

　　　　　Woman is made of glass,
　　　　　But do not the trouble take
　　　　　To see if she mil break,
　　　　　For anything may come to pass
　　　　　She is easy to shatter;
　　　　　And so, then, be not rash
　　　　　Or you the glass may smash,
　　　　　But mending's another matter.
　　　　　This truth all men will tell,
　　　　　For 'tis known everywhere :
　　　　　If in this world are Danaes fair,
　　　　　There are showers of gold as well.299

"What I have said to you so far, Anselmo, has been with reference to
yourself; it is time now that you should hear something of my part in
the matter. If I seem to you to be speaking at too great length, forgive me.
This labyrinth in which you have become involved and from which you
would" have me extricate you makes it necessary. You look upon me as
a friend, and yet you would take away my honor, which is a thing con-
trary to all friendship; and, what is more, you wish me to rob you of
yours at the same time. That you would deprive me of mine is obvious,
for when Camila sees me paying suit to her as you ask me to do, she will
certainly take me for a man without honor and of evil intentions, since
I shall be undertaking to accomplish something that is entirely out of
keeping with my character and the obligations of friendship. And that
you would have me deprive you of yours is equally clear; for when I
press my attentions upon her, she will think that I have discovered some-
thing frivolous about her that has emboldened me to reveal my evil de-
sires, and she will then look upon herself as dishonored, and inasmuch
as she belongs to you, her dishonor will be your own.

"All this explains what commonly happens with the husband of an
adulterous wife. He may be in no wise to blame for her straying from the
path of duty; indeed, he may not even be aware of it. Owing to his care-
lessness and lack of precautions, it may not have been within his power
to prevent the unfortunate occurrence; but, nevertheless, he is called
by a low, vile name, and to a certain extent those who are aware of his
wife's misbehavior look upon him with contempt rather than with pity,
even though they can see that his misfortune is not due to any fault of his
own but to the waywardness of his faithless spouse.

"But I should like to tell you why it is that the husband of an erring
wife is with good reason looked down upon even though he knows
nothing of her misdeeds and has been in no way to blame, having given
her no cause or provocation for what she did. And please do not become
bored with listening to me, for all that I say is for your own good. When
God created our first male parent in the earthly paradise, the Holy
Scripture tells us that, having put him to sleep, He took a rib from Adam's
left side and out of it fashioned our mother Eve; and when Adam awoke
and saw her, he said,'This is flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone.'And
God said,'Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and they
shall be one flesh.'300 Then it was that the holy sacrament of marriage was
instituted, with bonds that are only to be put asunder by death. And this
miraculous sacrament is possessed of such force and virtue that it does
indeed make one and the same flesh of two different persons; and it does
even more in the case of the happily married, for although they have
two separate souls, they have but a single will.

"From this it follows that, the woman's flesh being one with that of
her husband, the stains and blemishes that she incurs are reflected upon
his flesh, even though, as has been said, he has given no occasion for her
sinning. For just as a pain in the foot or in any other member is felt by
the body as a whole (being all of the same flesh), and the head feels the
pain in the ankle though it has not caused it, so the husband, by the fact
of being one with her, shares in his wife's dishonor. For, since all worldly
honors and disgraces are born of flesh and blood, and those of the erring
wife are of this sort, it is inevitable that the husband should bear his part
of them and be looked upon as dishonored whether or not he is aware
of it.

"Consider, then, Anselmo, the risk you are running in thus disturbing
that tranquillity in which your good wife spends her days. Think well
before, out of vain and ill-advised curiosity, you seek to stir up the
passions that are now slumbering in your chaste wife's bosom. Remember
that what you stand to gain is little, and that what you will lose is so much
that words fail me and I shall not even try to express it. If all that I have
said is not sufficient to dissuade you from your unworthy purpose, then
you will have to look for another to be the instrument of your dishonor
and undoing, for I have no intention of being that instrument though I
lose your friendship, which is the greatest loss that I can conceive."

With these words the virtuous and prudent Lotario fell silent. As for
Anselmo, he was confused and thoughful and for some little while did
not speak.

"Friend Lotario," he said at last, "you have seen how attentively I have
listened to all you had to say to me, and your arguments, examples, and
Comparisons have shown me how wise you are and how fine and true a
frend. I further perceive and admit that if I follow my own inclinations
instead of your advice, I shall be fleeing the good and running after the
evil. Granting this, however, you must take into consideration that I am
suffering from that infirmity which some women have who are seized
with the desire to eat earth, plaster, charcoal, and still worse things that
are disgusting enough to look at and even more so to eat. In my case, it is
necessary to employ a degree of artifice in curing me, and this can readily
be done, but only if you begin, even though lukewarmly and in a feigned
manner, to make advances to Camila, who will not be so susceptible that
her virtue will be overthrown at the first encounter. With this beginning
I will be content, and you will have done your duty by me as a friend,
not only by giving me life but by persuading me not to part with my
honor.

"This," Anselmo continued, "you are obliged to do for one reason
only. Being resolved as I am to carry out this test, you surely cannot con-
sent to my revealing my foolishness to another person, since I should
thereby be risking that honor that you would have me keep. And if your
honor does not appear in the proper light to Camila while you are press-
ing your suit, that makes little or no difference, since very soon, when
we see that she is all that we expect of her, you will be in a position to tell
her the whole truth concerning our scheme and your standing with her
will be what it was before. As you are in reality risking so little and are
offering me so much contentment by risking it, I trust you will not refuse
me even if more serious obstacles should arise; for, as I have said, when
you shall have made no more than a beginning, I will regard the point
at issue as having been conclusively settled."

Seeing Anselmo's resolute attitude and not having any more examples
to cite him or any more arguments to present as to why he should refrain
from putting his resolve into effect--especially when he heard him
threaten to confide to another his ill-omened scheme--Lotario, by way
of avoiding a greater evil, decided to give in to him and do what he asked,
with the object and intention of guiding the affair in such a manner that,
without Camila's affections being altered in the least, his friend at the
same time should be satisfied. He accordingly told him now that he should
not communicate his plan to anyone else, as he, Lotario, would take
charge of the matter and would begin to act upon this decision as soon as
was desired.

Anselmo thereupon embraced him tenderly and, affectionately, thank-
ing his friend for the offer as if it had been some great favor, and it was
agreed between them that they would begin carrying out the plan the
very next day. Anselmo was to provide the opportunity for Lotario and
Camila to be alone together, and he was also to furnish the money and
jewels that were to be offered her. He advised Lotario to arrange for
serenades and compose verses in her praise. If this was too much trouble,
he would write the verses himself. And Lotario assented to it all, but with
a different purpose in view than Anselmo thought.

Having seeded the matter, they returned to Anselmo's house, where
they found Camila dutifully and anxiously awaiting her husband, for he
was later that day than was his wont. Lotario then went to his own home,
being as troubled in mind as Anselmo was satisfied, for he did not know
just what course to follow by way of extricating himself from this un-
pleasant business. That night, however, he thought of a means by which
he could deceive Anselmo without offending Camila; and the following
day he went to dine at his friend's house and was well received by the
mistress, who entertained him most cordially since she knew the high
esteem in which her husband held him.

When dinner was over and the cloth had been removed, Anselmo re-
marked that he had some urgent business to attend to but would return
in an hour and a half, and in the meanwhile Lotario might stay with
Camila. The latter begged her husband not to go, and their guest offered
to keep him company, but he declined this offer and instead insisted that
Lotario wait for him there as he had a matter of great importance to
discuss with him, and at the same time he directed Camila not to leave
Lotario alone until he returned. In short, he feigned it all so cleverly,
making his absence appear necessary, that no one would have suspected
it was but pretense. When he had gone, Camila and Lotario were left
alone at the table, for the household servants were all engaged in having
their own meal. And so it was that the husband's friend found himself in
the amorous lists just as the husband had desired, with an enemy in front
of him who by her beauty alone well might conquer an entire company
of armed knights. Is it any wonder if Lotario was afraid--

What he now did was to lean his elbow upon the arm of his chair and
rest his cheek upon his hand; and then, begging Camila's pardon for the
discourtesy, he observed that he would like to take a little nap until
Anselmo came back. She replied that he would be more comfortable in
the drawing-room than in a chair and suggested that he go in there to
sleep, but he did not care to do this. Instead, he remained sleeping there;
and when Anselmo came in and found his friend dozing and Camila in
her room, he thought that he had been away so long as to have given
the pair time for talk and a little sleep besides, and was impatient for
Lotario to awake so that he might take him outside and question him as
to the result of his venture.

It all happened as he desired. Lotario awoke and the two then left the
house together and he was able to put the questions which he was so
anxious to ask. Lotario replied that he had not thought it a good thing
to reveal the whole of his design the first time, and so he had done no
more than praise Camila's beauty, assuring her that in all the city there
was none other so lovely and discreet. This had seemed to him a good be-
ginning, by way of winning her favor and disposing her to listen to him
with pleasure on another occasion. In this he was employing the same
stratagem that the devil makes use of when he wishes to deceive some-
one who is on the watch for him: what the Prince of Darkness does in
such a case is to transform himself into an angel of light by putting on
a good appearance; it is only at the end that he reveals himself and
achieves his purpose, providing his ruse has not been discovered in the
beginning. Anselmo was well pleased and declared that every day he
would provide the same opportunity. He would not leave the house,
however, but would find something at which to busy himself so that
Camila would not come to learn of his scheme.

Many days then went by, and Lotario, without saying a word to
Camila, kept reporting to Anselmo that he had talked with her but had
never been able to obtain from her the least show of consent to anything
that was dishonorable; she had afforded him no sign or shadow of hope,
but had threatened that if he did not abandon his evil suggestions she
would have to tell her husband about him.

"That is well," said Anselmo. "So far Camila has held out against
words; it is necessary for us to see now how well she can resist deeds.
Tomorrow I will give you two thousand gold crowns to offer or
present to her, and as many more to buy jewels with which to tempt
her; for women, particularly those that are beautiful, and however chaste
they may be, are very fond of being sprucely attired, and if she resists
this temptation, I shall be satisfied and will give you no more trouble."
Lotario replied that, having entered upon this undertaking, he meant
to go through with it, although he was certain that he would come out
of it weary and vanquished. The next day he was forced to accept the
four thousand crowns, and with them four thousand crowns'worth of
embarrassment, for he was unable to think of any fresh lie to give his
friend. Finally, he made up his mind that he would tejl him that Camila had
stood as firm against gifts and promises as she had against words, and
there was no need of going to any further trouble since all this was time
wasted. But fate, which directs things after its own fashion, was to ordain
otherwise.

Having left Lotario and Camila alone together as on other occasions,
Anselmo this time shut himself in a room and began listening and spying
through a keyhole, only to discover that in more than half an hour the
pair had not exchanged a single word, nor would they do so if they were
to remain there for a hundred years. It was then he realized that all his
friend had told him about Camila's replies was falsehood and fiction. By
way of seeing if this was so, he came out of the room and, calling Lotario
to one side, asked him what news there was and inquired as to Camila's
state of mind. Lotario replied that he did not care to go on with this
business, for she had answered him so harshly and angrily that he had not
had the courage to say anything more to her.

"Ha!" exclaimed Anselmo, "Lotario! Lotario! How ill you have re-
paid the debt of friendship that you owe me and the confidence that I
have reposed in you! I have been watching through this keyhole, and
you did not say a single word to Camila, from which I gather that you
have yet to utter your first ones. If that is the case, and it undoubtedly is,
why have you deceived me--Why have you so ingeniously sought to
deprive me of the means by which I might achieve my desire?"

Anselmo said no more, but he had already said enough to leave Lotario
feeling confused arid abashed. The latter upon being caught in a lie took
it as a point of honor and swore to his friend that from that moment he
would assume the responsibility of satisfying him and would lie to him no
more, as he would see if he chose to spy upon them again. It would not
be necessary, however, to resort to that, since what he proposed to do by
way of gratifying him would remove all suspicion of laxity on his part.
Anselmo took him at his word and, in order to afford him a safer oppor-
tunity and one less subject to surprise, he decided to absent himself from
home for a week and go visit another friend who lived in a village not
far from the city. And by way of presenting Camila with a more plausible
excuse for his departure, he arranged with the friend in question to send
him a pressing invitation.

Ah, unfortunate and ill-advised Anselmo! What is it that you are do-
ing--What is it you are plotting--What do you seek to bring about--Be-
hold what you are doing to yourself: plotting your own dishonor and
bringing about your own ruin. Your wife Camila is a good woman, and
you are in quiet and tranquil possession of her. There is none to disturb
your happiness, her thoughts do not go beyond the walls of her home,
you are her Heaven on earth, the object of her desires, the fulfillment of
aH that she could wish for, the measure of her will which she in every
respect adjusts to yours and to the will of Heaven. If, then, the mine of
her honor, beauty, modesty, and reserve yields you without any labor
on your part all the wealth that it holds and that you could want, why
do you wish to go deeper into the earth and seek out new veins of new
and unheard-of treasure at the risk of bringing everything down, since
when all is said it is supported only on the weak props of her frail nature--
Bear in mind that when a man seeks the impossible, it is only just that the
possible be denied him. But a poet has put it better when he says:

　　　　　Life in death I implore,
　　　　　In sickness health I would see,
　　　　　In prison I would be free,
　　　　　In the closed room l ask a door,
　　　　　In the traitor loyalty.
　　　　　From my fate I never should
　　　　　Hope for anything that's good ;
　　　　　And since the hnpossible I would find,
　　　　　Fate and Heaven have combined,
　　　　　And I could not have the possible if l would.

The next day Anselmo set out for the village, having told Camila that
during the time he was absent Lotario would come to look after the house
and dine with her and that she was to take care to treat him as she would
himself. She was pained at her husband's instructions as any discreet and
modest wife would have been and reminded him that it was not well that
anyone else should occupy his seat at table. If the reason for his doing
this was that he had no confidence in her ability to direct the household,
iet him try her this once and he would see from experience that she was
equal to greater tasks. Anselmo replied that he would have it so, and
there was nothing for her to do but bow her head and obey. She promised
him that she would do as he had ordered even though it was against her
wishes.

And so Anselmo departed, and the next day Lotario came to the house,
where he was received by Camila in modest and friendly fashion. But she
never permitted him to see her alone, for she was always surrounded
by her male and female servants, being closely attended, in particular,
by her maid named Leonela, of whom she was very fond for the reason
that the two of them had grown up together in the home of Camila's
parents, and when she married Anselmo, she had brought the girl with
her. During the first three days Lotario said nothing to her, although
he might have done so when the cloth was removed and the servants in
accordance with their mistress's orders went to make their own repast
with as much haste as possible. She had even ordered Leonela to eat first
in order that she might not have to leave her side but the maid had her
mind upon other things more to her taste and, needing the time and op-
portunity for her own concerns, did not always obey her mistress on this
point, with the result that the pair were left alone as if they had delib-
erately sent her out of the room.

Camila's modest appearance, it is true, the serious look on her face,
and her quiet and assured bearing, were such as to put a bridle on
Lotario's tongue, but in the end her many virtues by the silence that they
thus imposed were to prove harmful to both of them; for if his tongue
was still, his thoughts were given free play and he had a chance to observe
one by one all of her many fine qualities, her charms of mind and body,
which were enough to inspire love in a marble statue, not to speak of a
human heart. In place of conversing with her, he spent the time thinking
how worthy she was of being loved, and this consideration began little
by little to impair the respect that he had for Anselmo. A thousand times
he felt an impulse to leave the city and go where his friend would never
see him again and he would never see Camila, but the pleasure he found
in gazing upon her prevented this and kept him there. Struggling with
himself, he made an effort to reject and not to feel the happiness which
the sight of her gave him.

When alone, he would indulge in self-reproaches for his folly, calling
himself a bad friend and a bad Christian. He would argue the matter in
his mind, making comparisons between himself and Anselmo, and he
always reached the same concluson: to the effect that Anselmo's madness
and rashness outweighed his own treachery, and if he could find an excuse
before God as in the eyes of men for what he now thought of doing, then
he need fear no punishment for his offense.

The short of it is that Camila's beauty and virtue, together with the op-
portunity which the foolish husband had placed in his hands, had proved
too much for Lotario's loyalty as a friend. Unable to think of anything
but her toward whom his affections were inclined, after Anselmo had
been gone for three days, during which time he had waged a continuous
battle in an effort to hold out against his own desires, he began making
love to Camila so violently and in such amorous terms that she did not
know what to do and could only rise and go to her room without giving
him a single word in reply. This stem demeanor on her part, however,
was not enough to discourage in Lotario the hope that is always born
along with love. Instead, he was more bent than ever upon winning her.

As for Camila, this was a side of Lotario's character that she had never
glimpsed nor suspected, and she was at a loss as to what course to adopt.
It seemed to her that it was not safe nor the proper thing to give him an
opportunity to speak to her again; and, accordingly, she resolved to
send one of her menservants that very night with a note to Anselmo, a
note that read as follows.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

In which is continued the Story of the One
Who Was Too Curious for His Own Good"



It is commonly said that an army does not present a good appearance
ivithout its general nor a castle 'without its castellan, but in my opinion
the young married 'woman without her husband creates an even worse
impression unless there is a good reason for it. I find myself so badly off
without you and so incapable of enduring your absence that unless you
come quickly I shall seek refuge in my parents'house, even though I
leave your own without a guardian. For the guardian that you left me,
if he still deserves that title, I think is concerned rather with his own
pleasure than with your interests; but since you are a discerning person,
I shall say no more, nor is it fitting that l should.

Upon receiving this letter Anselmo thought that Lotario must have
begun the undertaking and that Camila had responded as he would have
wished. Being extremely happy over this news, he wrote his wife that
she should by no means leave his house as he would return very shortly.
Camila was greatly astonished at such a reply, which threw her into
greater confusion than ever, since now she dared not remain in her own
home nor go to that of her parents; for if she remained, she would be
imperiling her virtue, and if she went, she would be disobeying her hus-
band's express command.

Finally, she chose what was for her the worse of two possible courses
by deciding to stay; and she further resolved that she would not shun
Lotario's company, since she did not wish to occasion talk among the
servants. She was sorry now that she had written her husband, for she
was afraid he would think that Lotario had perceived m her some evi-
dence of frivolity which had caused him to forget the decorum that he
should have preserved. Confident, however of her own v.rruous conduct
and good intentions, she made up her mind to put her trust m God and
to offer a silent resistance to all of Lotario's pleas. In the meanwhile, she
would say nothing more to her husband in order not to involve him in
my quarrel or unpleasantness.

She even thought of how she might be able to excuse his friend's con-
duct in explaining things to him, when he should ask what had led her
to write that letter. These thoughts of hers were honorable enough, but
they were not of much help or to the point as she sat listening to Lotario
the next day. He was now wooing her so ardently that her firmness was
already beginning to waver and her virtue had to come to the aid of her
eyes lest they give some sign of the amorous compassion that his words
and tears had awakened in her bosom. Lotario noted all this and became
more ardent than ever.

It seemed to him that he must take advantage of the opportunity
afforded him by Anselmo's absence by pressing the siege of this fortress,
and so he proceeded to attack her self-conceit with praises of her beauty;
for there is nothing that more quickly lays low and levels the castled
towers of lovely women's vanity than vanity itself on the tongue of adula-
tion. In brief, he most diligently undermined the rock of her integrity
with such devices that, even had she been made of bronze, she must have
fallen to earth. He wept, entreated, promised, flattered, importuned, and
pretended with such a show of real feeling that he ended by overcoming
Camila's reserve and winning the victory that he least expected and most
desired.

Camila surrendered, yes, Camila fell. Was it to be wondered at if
friendship in Lotario's case could not keep its footing--Here we have an
example which shows us clearly that the passion of love is to be conquered
only by fleeing it. There is none may grapple with so powerful an enemy,
for divine strength is needed to subdue its human power. Leonela alone
knew of her mistress's weakness, the two false friends and new lovers
being unable to conceal it from her. Lotario did not wish to tell Camila of
Anselmo's purpose nor how the latter had provided the opportunity for
him to reach this point, as he did not want her to underrate his love or
derive the impression that it was purely by chance and unthinkingly
that he had paid court to her.

Anselmo returned to his home a few days later but failed to perceive
what was lacking there: namely, the thing that he had treated so lightly
yet had treasured most. He then went to call upon Lotario and found
him at his house. The two embraced and Anselmo at once asked for the
news that meant life or death to him.

"The only news that I can give you, friend Anselmo," said Lotario,
"is that you have a wife who is worthy to serve as the crowning example
of all good women. The words that I spoke were borne away on the
wind, my offerings were disdained, my gifts not accepted, while the
feigned tears that I shed she regarded as a very enlivening jest. In a few
words: just as Camila is the emblem of all beauty, so is she the treasure-
house of modesty, good deportment, matronly reserve, and all the virtues
that can render a respectable woman praiseworthy and happy. So, take
your money, my friend. You see that I still have it, for I had no need of
touching it, as Camila's integrity is something that is not to be laid low by
gifts and promises.

"Be content now, Anselmo," he went on, "and do not seek for any fur-
ther proof. Having passed dryshod over the sea of those doubts and
suspicions that may be, and commonly are, held of women, do not think
of embarking once again upon an ocean of fresh troubles or seek with
another pilot to test the strength and seaworthiness of the good ship
which Heaven has given you as your lot that you may cross the waters
of this world. Rather, you should consider that you are now safely in
port and should cast out the anchor of good sense, letting things be as
they are until you are called upon to pay the debt that no human being
however noble is dispensed from paying."

Anselmo was very happy at hearing Lotario's words and believed them
as if they had been uttered by an oracle. Nevertheless, he begged him, if
only out of curiosity and for the sake of amusement, not to abandon the
undertaking, though he need not press his suit with as much fervor as
he had shown up to now. All that he asked of him was that he write some
verses in praise of Camila, alluding to her under the name of Chloris; for
he would give Camila to understand that their friend was smitten with
a lady on whom he had bestowed that name---this, in order that he might
be able to praise her with that respect that was due to her virtue. If Lotario
did not care to take the trouble to compose the verses, he himself would
do so.

"That will not be necessary," said Lotario, "for the Muses are not such
enemies of mine that they do not pay me a visit now and then in the
course of the year. So, go ahead and tell Camila that story about my
amours, and if my verses are not all that the subject deserves, they will at
least be the best that I can produce."

Such, then, was the agreement reached between the one who was too
curious and his treacherous friend; after which, returning to his own
house, Anselmo asked Camila the question which she wondered that he
had not asked before: as to what the occasion was for her having written
the letter that she had sent him. Her answer was that it had seemed to
her that Lotario was gazing at her a little more freely than when he,
Anselmo, had been at home, but in this she had found that she was mis-
taken and was convinced that it had been her imagination, for now
Lotario shunned her and avoided being alone with her. Her husband
thereupon assured her that she might feel safe so far as any suspicion of
that sort was concerned, for he happened to know that his friend was
in love with a young lady in the city of very prominent family whose
praises he was in the habit of singing under the name of Chloris; and even
if this were not the case, their great friendship and Lotario's loyalty left
nothing to fear.

Had not Camila previously been informed by her lover that his passion
for Chloris was a feigned one and that he had merely told Anselmo this
in order to be able to write an occasional poem to herself, she undoubtedly
would have been desperately jealous; but, being forewarned, she was not
taken by surprise and gave no sign of uneasiness. Another day, the three
of them being together at table, Anselmo asked Lotario to recite for
them some of the verses he had composed for his beloved Chloris; for
since Camila did not know the young lady, he might feel free to do so.

"Even if she did know her," said Lotario, "I should make no effort at
concealment; for when a poet praises his lady's beauty and calls her cruel,
he does not thereby cast any reflection upon her good name. However,
be that as it may, I will tell you that yesterday I did a sonnet on Chloris's
ingratitude, which runs like this:

　　　　　　　　　　SONNET301

　　　　　In the silence of the night when gentle sleep
　　　　　Holds all the world beneath its soothing spell,
　　　　　This then that I am ever wont to tell
　　　　　My many woes, the sorry score l keep
　　　　　For Heaven and for Chloris. When the sun doth peep
　　　　　From the rosy portals of the east, my hell
　　　　　Begins once more, the plaint l know so well y
　　　　　The broken words, the sighs--I can but weep.
　　　　　And when from his buming,star-girdled midday throne
　　　　　The sun sends down his rays to warm the earth,
　　　　　My moans are doubled 'mid a flood of tears .
　　　　　The night returns, and still the mournful drone
　　　　　Continues. Sorrow is of little worth
　　　　　When Heaven is deaf and Chloris hath no ears."

Camila was well pleased with the sonnet, but Anselmo liked it even
better. He praised it, remarking that the lady was exceedingly cruel not
to show her appreciation of so much sincerity as was there expressed.

"Does that mean," said Camila, "that all poets who are in love are sin-
cere in what they say and always speak the truth?"

"As poets," replied Lotario, "they may go beyond the truth, but as
lbvers they fall far short of it."

"That," Anselmo agreed, "is undoubtedly so." For he wished to sup-
port what his friend had to say in order to lend it weight with Camila.
She, however, was as unconcerned with her husband's design as she was
deeply in love with Lotario; and so, taking a pleasure in anything that had
to do with the latter and knowing well that she herself was the object
of his desires and poems and was the real Chloris, she asked him if he
did not have another sonnet or bit of verse that he could recite to them.

"Yes, I have," said Lotario, "but I do not think it is as good as the
other one, or perhaps I should say it is no worse. In any event, you may
judge for yourselves, for here it is:

　　　　　　　　　　SONNET302

　　　　　I'm dying, that l know--believest thou me--
　　　　　Dost not believe thou wouldst behold me dead
　　　　　Here at thy feet, cruel one, uncomforted,
　　　　　Before l should repent of loving thee--
　　　　　When I to oblivion shall go and see
　　　　　Life, fame, and fortune, all I valued, fled,
　　　　　Open then my bosom, look how I have bled,
　　　　　And find thine image carved in mimicry.
　　　　　This relic will I guard 'gainst the harsh fate
　　　　　That I to mine own obstinacy owe,
　　　　　Which thy severity doth but increase.
　　　　　The sailor on darkened seas must needs await
　　　　　His doom when no pole star there is to show
　　　　　Where lies the way unto some port's release."

Anselmo praised this sonnet as he had the preceding one, and so went
on adding link after link to the chain by which he was binding himself
and assuring his own dishonor; for the more Lotario dishonored him,
the more he held that he was being honored. As a consequence, each step
that Camila descended toward the depths of scorn she mounted one, in the
opinion of her husband, toward those heights of virtue and good repute
that he wished her to attain. On a certain occasion, finding herself alone
with her maid, Camila unburdened herself to the waiting woman.

"Friend Leonela," she said, "I am ashamed to see how cheaply I have
held myself that I did not compel Lotario to purchase by an expenditure
of time that complete possession of my will and affections that I so
quickly yielded him. I fear that he will see only haste and frivolity on
my part303 without taking into consideration the irresistible pressure that
he brought to bear upon me."

"Do not let that worry you, my lady," replied Leonela; "it does not
diminish the value of the thing given to give it at once, providing it is
a good thing and worthy of being esteemed. Indeed, there is a saying that
he who gives quickly gives twice."

"And there is also a saying," Camila reminded her, "that what costs
little is valued less."304

"That does not apply to you," observed Leonela, "for love, I have
heard it said, sometimes flies and sometimes walks; it sometimes runs and
sometimes loiters; some it chills and others it inflames; it wounds some and
slays others. The course of its desires begins and ends at one and the same
point. In the morning it lays siege to a fortress and by night the besieged
will have surrendered, for there is no force that can withstand it. And
since this is so, why then are you astonished or what do you fear upon
seeing that the same thing has happened with you and Lotario, love hav-
ing taken my master's absence as the means of overcoming us?305 For it
w as essential that love's labor be accomplished within that time, before
Anselmo should return and by his presence compel it to remain un-
completed. Love has no better minister to carry out his designs than op-
portunity, of which he makes use in all his undertakings, particularly at
the beginning. All this I know very well, and more from experience than
from hearsay. I will tell you all about it someday, my lady, for I too am
made of flesh and my blood is young.

"What is more, my lady Camila," she went on, "you did not yield and
give yourself so quickly, before you had seen in Lotario's eyes, in his
words and sighs and in his gifts and promises, his whole soul laid bare,
revealing all those virtues that render him worthy of being loved. This
being so, do not trouble your thoughts with all these finical scruples and
imaginings, but be assured that Lotario esteems you as you do him, and
be content and satisfied with knowing that if you have fallen into the
amorous net, it is one of worth and valor who has caught you in it, one
who not only has the four S's that they say all true lovers ought to have,
but a whole alphabet. If you do not believe me, just listen and I will
repeat it for you. As I see it, it goes like this: Amiable, Bountiful, Cour-
teous, Devoted, Enamored, Faithful, Gallant, Honorable, Illustrious,
Loyal, Manly, Noble, Open, Princely, Qualified, Rich, and the S's that I
have mentioned. And then, Trusty, Veracious--the X does not suit him,
being too harsh a letter. The Y has already been given, and Z is for Zealous
of your honor."306

Camila had to laugh at these ABCs and decided that her waiting woman
was more experienced in affairs of the heart than she admitted. Leonela
now confessed as much by telling of an affair she was having with a well-
born youth of that same city. Her mistress was alarmed at this, fearing
that her own honor would thus be endangered, and inquired as to whether
the matter had gone beyond mere words, to which the maid, with little
shame and much effrontery, replied that it had; for there is no doubt
that the careless conduct of ladies renders their maids shameless, and the
latter, when they see their mistresses stumble, think nothing of limping
themselves, nor do they care who knows it.

All that Camila could do was to beg the girl to say nothing to the one
who was supposed to be her lover, but to regard all such matters as
strictly private in order that they might not come to the attention of
either Anselmo or Lotario. Leonela assured her that she would do this,
but she carried out her promise in such a manner as to make certain that
Camila's fears of losing her reputation would be justified. For the brazen
and dishonorable creature, upon seeing that her lady's conduct was not
what it should be, had the audacity to bring her lover into the house,
being confident her mistress, even though she might see him, would not
dare say anything.

For one of the punishments that ladies must suffer for their sins is that
of becoming the slaves of their own servants. This was what happened
with Camila, who found herself obliged to cover up the immodesty and
baseness of her serving woman. Although she more, than once saw that
Leonela was entertaining her gallant in a room of the house, she not only
dared not reprove her, but even helped her conceal him and did all she
could to keep her husband from catching a glimpse of him. She was
unable, however, to prevent Lotario from seeing him as the man was
stealing away at daybreak one morning. Not knowing who he was,
Lotario thought at first that he must be an apparition of some sort, but
when he saw him muffling himself in his cloak and taking great pains
not to be observed, he at once had another idea which would have been
the ruination of them all if Camila had not set things to rights.

It did not occur to him that this man whom he had seen leaving An-
selmo's house at so untimely an hour had gone there to meet Leonela;
as a matter of fact, he had forgotten that such a person existed. He be-
lieved, rather, that Camila, just as she had been light and easy with him,
was now playing the same game with another. For there is yet another
penalty that the erring woman must pay for her sin, and that is, to have
her honor mistrusted even by the one to whom, upon his urgent en-
treaties and persuasions, she has given herself, for he is convinced that
she will yield all the more readily to others, and so he will give unques-
tioning credence to any suspicion of this sort that occurs to him.

For what Lotario did at this point there would seem to be no other
explanation than that he had lost his good sense entirely. He forgot all
the words of wisdom that he had spoken on the subject, nor did he pause
to consider what was proper or reasonable under the circumstances.
Moved only by a blind impatience inspired by the jealous rage that
gnawed at his entrails, he was dying to avenge himself on Camila, who
had not offended him in the slightest; and, accordingly, without more
ado, he hastened to the master of the house before the latter had risen.

"I want you to know, Anselmo," he said, "that for some time now I
have been struggling with myself, trying to force myself to tell you that
which it is neither possible nor right that I should any longer withhold
from you. And so, I will inform you that the fortress that was Camila
has already fallen and is now wholly at my disposition. If I have delayed
in telling you this truth, it was in order that I might see if it was merely
some passing whim on her part, or if, possibly, she was doing it to test
those protestations of love that, with your permission, I had begun to
offer her. I feel, moreover, that if she were all that she ought to be and
all that we both thought she was, that she would already have told you
of my advances. However, seeing that she has waited so long, I know
now that the promises she made me were true when she told me that,
the next time you were absent from home, she would talk to me in that
closet where your jewels are kept." And it was true that Camila was in
the habit of conversing with him there.

"I should not wish you," he continued, "to rush out at once and take
some vengeance or other, for as yet the sin has been committed only by
intent, and it is possible that between now and the time for carrying it
out Camila's intention will change and repentance will spring up in its
place. And as you have always wholly or in part followed my advice in
the past, so be guided by it now in order that, without any mistake but
with cautious deliberation, you may be able to decide upon the best course
to follow. Pretend that you are going away for two or three days as you
have done on other occasions, and arrange to hide in your closet, for the
tapestries and other things there will make it easy for you to conceal
yourself. You will then be able to see with your own eyes, and I with
mine, what Camila's purpose is; and if it be an evil one, which is to be
feared rather than expected, you may with silence, wisdom, and discre-
tion exact punishment for the wrong done you."

--Anselmo was amazed, bewildered, astounded at what Lotario had just
told him. The news came at a time when he least expected to hear it,
for he believed that Camila had already come out victorious in his friend's
feigned assaults and he was beginning to revel in her glorious triumph.
He was silent for some time, staring hard at the ground without batting
an eyelash.

"Lotario," he said at last, "you have acted as I expected you to, in view
of our friendship, and I will follow your advice in everything. Do as you
see fit, and guard this secret as you know it should be guarded under cir-
cumstances as unlooked for as these."

Lotario promised that he would do so, but as he left Anselmo he began
wholly to repent having said what he did, perceiving that he had been
very foolish in what he had done, since he might have avenged himself
upon Camila in some less cruel and dishonorable a fashion. He cursed
his lack of sense and condemned the hasty impulse upon which he had
acted, without knowing what means to adopt to undo the wrong or how
he could fairly find a way out of it all. He finally made up his mind to
tell Camila everything, and as it was not hard to find an opportunity for
doing so, he sought her out that very day.

She was alone when he came upon her, and as soon as she saw that she
might speak to him freely, she said, "Friend Lotario, I must tell you that
there is something that pains me until it seems my heart will burst, and it
will be a wonder if it does not. Leonela's shamelessness has reached such
a point that every night she closets herself with a gallant here in this house
and stays with him until daybreak, at great cost to my reputation, inas-
much as anyone seeing him leave my house at so unaccustomed an hour
well might form his own opinion of the matter. What annoys me most
is that I cannot punish nor scold her, for the fact that she is acquainted
with our relationship puts a bridal on my tongue by way of silencing hers,
and I very much fear that something unfortunately, but come of all this.”

When Camila first began speaking, Lotario had believed this to be an
artifice on her part with the object of making him think that the man he
had seen leaving was Leonela's lover and not her own; but her tears, her
very real suffering, and her pleas to him to help her, ended by convincing
him of the truth of what she said, and this at the same time completed
his confusion and feeling of remorse. He nonetheless told her not to
worry, that he would see to putting a stop to Leonela's insolence. At the
same time he informed her of what he had said to Anselmo in his jealous
rage and how they had arranged for her husband to hide in the closet
that he might there see plainly how disloyal she was to him. He implored
her forgiveness for this act of madness on his part and her advice as to
what he should do to get out of the intricate labyrinth in which, through
his impetuosity, he had become involved.

Camila was alarmed and very angry at what Lotario had told her and
proceeded to scold him most sensibly, reproving him for his evil thoughts
and for the wicked and foolish resolution that he had adopted. But
woman naturally has keener wits than man, for good and evil, although
they may fail her when it is a question of reasoning things out logically;
and so it was that Camila at once found the means of remedying what
appeared to be an irremediable situation, by telling Lotario he should
see to it that Anselmo hid himself in the closet the next day as he had
planned, as she meant to make good use of his presence there so that from
then on they would be able to enjoy each other's company without fear
of being taken by surprise. Without revealing to her lover all that was
in her mind, she directed him to be sure to come when Leonela called
him, after Anselmo was safely hidden away, and to reply to anything
that she said to him exactly as he would have done if he had not known
that her husband was listening. Lotario, however, insisted that she ex-
plain to him more fully just what it was that she intended to do in order
that he might be able to act with greater certainty and take such precau-
tions as were necessary.

"I assure you," said Camila, "that there are no precautions to take; all
that you have to do is to answer the questions that I put to you." She
would not give him any further account of her plan, for although it
appeared to her to be an excellent one, she feared that he might not care
to follow it and would start looking for another that would not be so
good.

Lotario then took his departure, and the next day Anselmo, acting upon
the excuse that he had to go to the village where his friend lived, left
the house and returned to take up his hiding place, which he was able
to do without any inconvenience, for Camila and Leonela made it easy
for him. His feelings as he concealed himself behind the draperies may be
imagined: they were those of a man who expected to see the entrails of
his honor laid bare before his eyes and who was about to lose that supreme
good that he had thought he possessed in his beloved Camila. Having
made certain that Anselmo was there, Camila and Leonela now entered
the closet, and no sooner had she set foot in the room than the former
gave a deep sigh.

"Ah, Leonela, my friend!" she exclaimed, "before I do something of
which I will say nothing to you lest you seek to prevent it, would it not
be better for you to take Anselmo's dagger which I asked you to procure
for me and run it through this infamous bosom of mine--But no, do not
do that; for there is no reason why I should suffer the penalty for an-
other's fault. First of all, I should like to know what it was that Lotario's
bold and shameless eyes beheld in me that caused him thus rashly to reveal
to me a passion as evil as that which he has disclosed, in contempt of his
friend's honor and my own. Go to that window, Leonela, and call down
to him; for without any doubt he is there in the street, waiting to carry
out his wicked intentions. But my own intentions, as cruel as they are
honorable, shall be carried out first."

"Ah, my lady!" replied the crafty Leonela, who had been well schooled
in her part, "what is it that you mean to do with that dagger--Are you
perchance thinking of taking your own life or Lotario's--Whatever it
is, it will result in the loss of your good name and reputation. It would
be better for you to say nothing of the wrong that has been done you;
rather, you should see to it that this evil man does not enter our house
and find us alone. Consider, my lady: we are weak women and he is a
man, strong and determined, and, coming as he does, blindly and pas-
sionately bent upon that foul design of his, he may well put it into execu-
tion before you can carry out yours, and may do that which in your
eyes would be worse than if he were to slay you. A plague on my master
for having given this shameless fellow the upper hand in his household!
But supposing, my lady, that you kill him, for such I think is your inten-
tion, what shall we do with the body?"

"What shall we do with it, my friend?" replied Camila. "Why, we shall
leave it for Anselmo to bury; for he should regard it as no task at all
to put the betrayer of his good name underground. Go, then, and call
him; for every moment that I delay taking the vengeance that is due my
wrong appears to me an offense against that loyalty that I owe to my
husband."

Anselmo was listening to all this, and at each word that Camila spoke
his thoughts underwent a change. When he heard that she was resolved
to kill Lotario, his impulse was to come out and reveal his presence and
prevent such a deed, but, wishing to see what the outcome of her noble
and virtuous determination would be, he restrained himself, thinking that
he would be able to appear in time to stop her. At this point she was
seized with a violent fainting fit and threw herself upon a near-by couch,
as Leonela began weeping bitterly. "Ah, woe is me!" she exclaimed, "how
unfortunate I am that the world's flower of virtue, the crowning example
of chastity f or all good wives, should be dying here in my arms! " She went
on uttering other similar lamentations, and anyone hearing her would
have thought that she was the most loyal and woebegone lady's maid
that ever was, while her mistress was another and persecuted Penelope.

Camila, however, was not long in recovering from her swoon. "Leo-
nela," she said, as she regained consciousness once more, "why do you
not go call that most disloyal307 friend to his friend that ever the sun shone
upon or the night covered with its darkness--Go, run, hasten, make speed,
lest the fire of my wrath burn itself out with delay and the just vengeance
that I hope for be consumed in threats and curses!"

That I will, my lady," said Leonela, "but first give me the dagger that
you may not do something while I am gone that will cause all those who
love you to weep for the rest of their lives."

"You may rest assured, friend Leonela, that I shall do nothing of the
kind; for however rash and foolish I may appear to you to be in thus de-
fending my honor, I am not like Lucretia, of whom it is said that she slew
herself without being guilty of any fault whatsoever and without first
having slain the one who was the cause of her dishonor. I shall die if
needs be, but only after I have had revenge and satisfaction from him who
is responsible for my being in this state where I must weep over audacious
proposals for which I can in no wise be held accountable."

It required much urging before Leonela could be persuaded to call
Lotario, but finally she left the room, and while she was gone Camila
went on talking to herself.

"God help me! Would it not have been better to send Lotario away as
I have done many times before than to give him the opportunity as I
am doing now to look upon me as evil and unchaste, even for the brief
space of time that it takes to undeceive him--It would have been better,
no doubt, but then I should not have had my vengeance, nor would my
husband's honor have been satisfied if Lotario had been allowed to wash
his hands of the matter and escape so easily from this situation into which
his own wicked impulses have led him. Let the traitor pay with his life
for his lewd desires. Let the world know if it must that Camila not only
preserved her loyalty to her husband, but avenged herself on the one who
had dared offend him.

"But after all, I imagine it would have been better to give Anselmo an
account of everything that has happened; yet I informed him of it in the
letter that I wrote to him while he was in the village, and it is my opinion
that if he did not at once hasten back to remedy the wrong of which I
told him, it must have been because, being so pure-minded and trusting,
he would not or could not believe that so stanch a friend could ever think
of thus,dishonoring him. Indeed, I could not believe it myself for a long
while, nor should I ever have done so if Lotario's insolence had not been
carried to the point where his open gifts and lavish promises and constant
tears made it all too plain. But why do I let myself run on like this--Does
a noble resolve, perchance, stand in need of any counsels--No, certainly
not. Away, traitorous thoughts! Come, vengeance! Let the false one ap-
proach and enter, let him die and end it all, and then come what may!
Pure I came to him whom Heaven gave me as my own, and pure I will
leave him; nay, more, I will leave him bathed in my own chaste blood and
in the impure blood of one who in all the world has been the greatest
betrayer of friendship that ever was."

As she said this, she paced up and down the room with the dagger un-
sheathed, swaying and staggering and making such wild gestures that
she appeared to be out of her mind, and one would have taken her for
some desperate ruffian rather than a woman who had been gently bred
and reared. Anselmo watched her from behind the tapestries where he
had hidden and was vastly astonished by it all. It seemed to him that what
he had seen and heard was sufficient answer to the worst suspicions he
had entertained, and he would have been well enough pleased if Lotario
had not come now, fearing as he did some sudden untoward event. He
was about to come out and embrace his wife and tell her the whole story
but stopped short when he saw Leonela returning, leading Lotario by
the hand. The moment she saw the latter, Camila took the dagger and
with it drew a long line across the floor.

"Lotario," she said, "mark well what I tell you. If by any chance you
are so bold as to cross this line that you see here, or even come up to it,
the instant I see you intend to do so I shall pierce my bosom with this
dagger that I hold in my hand. Before you utter a single word in reply,
I would have you listen to a few words that I have to say to you, and after-
ward you may make such answer as you like. In the first place, Lotano,
I would ask you if you know my husband, Anselmo, and what opinion
you hold of him. And in the second place, I would likewise inquire if
you know me. Answer me this, clearly and plainly and without stopping
to think for long what you are going to say, for the questions I have put
to you are simple enough."

Lotario was not so dull-witted but that, when Camila told him to have
Anselmo hide there, he had at once surmised what she meant to do, and
he was now so clever and prompt in helping her carry out her plan that
the lie came to seem the truest truth.

"I did not think, beauteous Camila," he answered her, "that you were
sending for me to question me about things so foreign to the purpose for
which I come here. If you are doing this merely to defer the promised
favor, you might have put it off still longer, for an ardent desire is most
painful when the hope of its being fulfilled is nearest to realization. How-
ever, in order that you may not be able to say that I have not answered
your questions, I will tell you that your husband Anselmo and I have
known each other since our tenderest years. I need not tell you further
what you already know concerning the friendship between us, merely
by way of bearing witness308 against the wrong that love compels me to
do to my friend--love, the most powerful excuse that can be offered for
greater misdeeds than this. Yes, I know you well and you are as much
mine as his; for I can assure you that, if it were not so, I would not for any
lesser reward have gone against that which I owe to myself and to the
holy laws of true friendship, now broken and violated by me through
the work of an enemy no less powerful than love itself."

"If you admit this," replied Camila, "O mortal enemy of all that justly
deserves to be loved, how then do you have the countenance to appear
before one whom you know to be the mirror in which Anselmo beholds
himself, who should be in turn the glass in which you see the unjustifi-
able injury that you have done him. But, alas, I now realize that it must
have been some frivolity on my part that caused you to show so little
self-respect. I will not call it immodesty, since it was in no way deliberate
but must have been due to that careless attitude into which women some-
times inadvertently fall when they think that there is no occasion for
reserve. If this be not so, then tell me, O traitor, when did I respond to
your entreaties with any word or sign that might have awakened in you
the shadowy hope of being able to accomplish your infamous desires--
When were your amorous pleadings not repelled and reprehended--
When did they not meet with stem, harsh words from me--When were
your many promises believed, your still more lavish gifts accepted--

"Nevertheless," she continued, "inasmuch as it seems to me that no
one could persevere for so long in a purpose of this sort if he were not
sustained by a hope of some kind, I must seek to attribute to myself the
blame for your impudence, since no doubt some careless act of mine has
all this time been giving you ground for hope. And so, it is my intention
to punish myself and assume the penalty that you deserve. And as I
would have you see that, being so cruel toward myself, I could not but
be the same toward you, I have brought you here to witness the sacrifice
that I am about to make to the offended honor of my so honored husband,
to whom you have done the greatest wrong that was in your power,
while I as well have wronged him by failing to avoid the occasion, if
any, that I have given you by appearing to encourage and sanction your
designs.

"I will say again that the suspicion I have that some bit of carelessness
on my part has engendered in you this mad passion is the thing that most
harasses me, and it is this negligence that I desire to punish with my own
hands; for if another were to be my executioner, my fault would perhaps
become more widely known. Before I do this, however, I mean to slay
even in death and take with me one who will satisfy the desire and hope
of vengeance that I cherish; for there where I go, wherever it may be,
I shall see a disinterested and unyielding justice inflicted upon him who
has placed me in my present plight."

Saying this, with incredible strength and swiftness she fell upon Lotario
with the unsheathed dagger, with so evident an intention of burying it
in his bosom that he was half in doubt as to whether it was a false show
or she really meant to do as she said. In any event, he had to employ all
his own strength and dexterity to prevent her from stabbing him; for she
was so very lifelike in acting out this strange drama of conjugal fidelity309
that, by way of lending it the color of truth, she even wished to stain it
with her own blood.

Seeing that she could not come at Lotario,'310 or pretending that she was
unable to, she said, "Since fate is unwilling to satisfy wholly my just
desire, it at least is not so powerful as to keep me from satisfying it in
part."

With a great effort she freed the hand with the dagger which Lotario
held and, directing its point to a place where it would not inflict a deep
wound, she plunged it into her left side near the shoulder and then fell
to the floor as if in a faint. Leonela and Lotario were dumbfounded by
this unexpected turn of events, and as they beheld Camila lying stretched
out there and bathed in her own blood, they were uncertain as to whether
the act was real or feigned. Terrified and breathless, Lotario ran up and
withdrew the dagger, and when he saw the small wound it had made he
was greatly relieved and once more was led to admire the sagacity,
prudence, and extreme cleverness of the beauteous Camila. By way of
carrying out his own part, he then began to lament long and loudly over
her body, as though she were already dead, heaping curses not only upon
himself but upon the one who had placed him in such a position. And
as he knew that his friend Anselmo was listening, he said things that
caused the latter to feel much more pity for him than for Camila, who
was supposed to be dead.

Leonela then took her mistress in her arms and laid her upon the couch,
begging Lotario to go seek some trustworthy person to care for her
wound. At the same time she asked his advice as to what they should
tell Anselmo if by chance he should return before it was healed. He re-
plied that they might say whatever they liked, as he was in no condition
to give advice that would be of any value. All he could tell her was to
try to stop the bleeding. As for himself, he was going where no one would
ever see him again. And then, with a great show of grief and feeling, he
left the house; and as soon as he was alone and safely out of sight, he began
crossing himself any number of times as he marveled at Camila's ingenuity
and the telling manner in which Leonela played her part. Anselmo, he
reflected, would surely be convinced that he had a second Portia for a
wife, and he was eager to be alone with him in order that they together
might celebrate this mixture of falsehood and truth dissimulated in a
fashion that never could be imagined.

Leonela stopped the flow of her mistress's blood as he had directed,
there being no more of it than was necessary to lend credence to the
fiction, and, having bathed the wound with a little wine, she bandaged
it as well as she could, meanwhile keeping up such a flow of words as
would have sufficed to convince Anselmo, if the ones already spoken had
not done so, that he had in Camila a model of virtue.

Mingled with Leonela's words were those of her mistress, who re-
proached herself for being a coward and lacking in courage, which had
failed her at the time she most needed it--the courage to take her life,
which was so abhorrent to her. She asked her waiting woman's advice
as to whether or not she should tell her beloved husband of all that had
happened, and Leonela counseled against this since it would put him
under the obligation of revenging himself upon Lotario, which he
could do only at great risk to himself. It was the duty of a good wife
not to involve her husband in quarrels over her, but rather to re-
move the occasion for such disputes. Camila replied that this advice im-
pressed her as being very good and she would follow it; but, in any case,
they must begin to think of something to tell Anselmo concerning the
cause of this wound, which he could not help seeing. To this the maid
answered that she was incapable of telling a lie even in jest.

"Well, then, my sister," said Camila, "how do you expect me to tell
one, who should not dare invent or keep up a falsehood if my life de-
pended on it--And so, the best thing will be to tell him the naked truth
in order that he may not catch us in a lie."

"Do not trouble yourself, my lady," said Leonela. "Between now and
tomorrow morning I will think up something that we can tell him; and
possibly, the wound being where it is, it may be kept covered so that he
will not see it, and Heaven will be thus pleased to favor our just and
honorable intentions. In the meantime, calm yourself and try not to ap-
pear so excited, for it is not well that my master should find you in this
state of agitation. Just leave it to my care and God's, for He always looks
after the desires of the righteous."

Anselmo had most attentively watched and listened to this tragedy
involving the death of his own honor which had been performed with
such marvelous and effective realism that the actors appeared to have
been transformed into the very parts they played. He was eager for
night to come so that he might have an opportunity to leave the house
and go see his good friend Lotario that they might rejoice together over
the precious pearl he had found in thus establishing beyond a doubt the
virtue of his wife. Mistress and maid were at pains to provide him with
an opportunity to leave, and, taking advantage of it, he went at once to
seek Lotario. It would be quite impossible to describe the affectionate
embraces that he gave him when they met, the many things he said out of
the happiness of his heart, or the praises that he bestowed on Camila.
Lotario listened to it all without being able to give any sign of joy, for
he kept remembering what a deceived man his friend was and how un-
justly he had wronged him. Although Anselmo saw that Lotario was not
in good spirits, he believed the reason was that he had left Camila
wounded and felt that he was to blame.

Anselmo accordingly told him, among other things, that he should not
worry about what had happened to her, since her wound undoubtedly
was a slight one, seeing that she and Leonela had agreed to conceal it
This being so, there was nothing to fear, but henceforth he should be glad
end rejoice with his friend, who, through his capable mediation, now
found himself raised to the greatest heights of happiness that could be
desired, with no other ambition than that of spending his time in compos-
ing verses in Camila's honor such as would preserve her name for all the
ages to come. Lotario praised this good intention and promised to do
his part in helping to erect so illustrious a monument.

Thus did Anselmo remain the most delightfully deceived man that
could possibly be found anywhere in the world. He himself led home
by the hand the one who had wrought the destruction of his good name,
in the belief that he was bringing with him one who had exalted it. As
for Camila, she received her husband's friend with a wry look but a smil-
ing heart. This deception lasted for a number of months until, at a turn
of fortune's wheel, the guilty relationship that had been so artfully con-
cealed finally became known and Anselmo paid with his life for his ill-
advised curiosity.



CHAPTER XXXV .

In which the "Story of the One Who Was Too Curious 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.



The reading of the story was nearly completed when from the garret
where Don Quixote was taking his repose Sancho Panza burst forth in
great excitement, shouting, "Come quick, sirs, and help my master, for he
is in the thick of the most stubborn and fiercest battle that ever my eyes
beheld! By the living God but he gave that giant who is the enemy of my
lady, the Princess Micomicona, such a slash that he cut his head off all
the way around as if it had been a turnip!"

‘What are you talking about, brother?" asked the curate as he paused
in his reading. "Have you gone out of your head, Sancho--How in the
devil could what you say be true when the giant is two thousand leagues
from here?"

At this point there came a loud noise from the upper room and Don
Quixote could be heard crying, "Hold, robber, scoundrel, knave! I have
you now, and your scimitar will not avail you!" And then it sounded as
if he were giving great slashes at the wall.

"Don't stop to listen," said Sancho, "but go on in and stop the fight
or else help my master; although, come to think of it, that will not be
necessary, for there is no doubt whatever that the giant is already dead
by this time and is now giving an account to God of his past life and evil
ways. I myself saw the blood running all over the floor and his head cut
off and lying to one side, and it was big as a wineskin."

"May they slay me!" cried the innkeeper at this point. "I'll bet Don
Quixote or Don Devil has been slashing at one of those skins full of
red wine that are at the head of his bed, and it must have been the wine
spilling over the floor that looked like blood to this good man."

He then made his way to the garret, followed by all the rest of them,
and there they found Don Quixote in the strangest costume imaginable.
He was clad in his shirt, which was not long enough in front to cover
his thighs completely and was about six fingers shorter behind. His legs
were very long, lean, and hairy and anything but clean. On his head he
had a little greasy red cap that belonged to the innkeeper, and around
his left arm he had rolled a red blanket--an object against which Sancho,
for reasons of his own, had a special grudge--while in his right hand he
held an unsheathed sword with which he was laying about him in every
direction, and all the time he kept talking to himself as if he were really
fighting with some giant. The best part of it was that he had his eyes shut,
for he was still asleep and dreaming that he was doing battle with the
giant, the adventure which he was about to undertake having so worked
upon his imagination that he fancied in his dream that he had already
reached the kingdom of Micomicon and was engaged in a struggle with
his enemy.

Under this illusion he had given the skins so many thrusts, believing
them to be the giant, that the entire room was filled with wine. Seeing
what his guest had done, the landlord was so angry that he fell upon Don
Quixote with clenched fists and began pommeling him so hard that if
Cardenio and the curate had not pulled him off, he would soon have
concluded the war with the giant. But in spite of it all they did not suc-
ceed in awakening the poor gentleman until the barber had brought a
large pot of cold water from the well and they had dashed its contents
over the knight, who then regained consciousness but not sufficiently
to be able to realize what had happened.

Seeing how scantily and thinly he was clad, Dorotea would not come
in to witness the encounter between her champion and his adversary'; and
Sancho, meanwhile, was looking all over the floor for the giant's head,
which he was unable to find.

"I knew all along," he said, "that everything about this house was under
a spell. The other time, in this very room where I am now, they gave me
any number of cuffs and blows without my knowing from where they
came, for I was never able to see anyone doing it; and now I can't find
that head though I saw it chopped off with my own eyes, with the blood
spurting from his body as from a fountain."

"What blood and what fountain, enemy of God and his saints?" cried
the innkeeper. "Can't you see, you brigand, that the blood and fountain
you are talking about are nothing other than these skins that have been
punctured and the red wine from them that is flowing all over the room
--and I only wish I saw the soul of him who pierced them swimming
in Hell!"

"I know nothing about that," said Sancho. "All I know is that, if I
don't find that head, it will be my bad luck to see my earldom melting
away like salt in water."

For Sancho awake was worse than his master asleep, such had been
the effect of the promises Don Quixote had made him. The innkeeper
was in despair at seeing this lack of concern on the part of the squire and
the deviltry wrought by the knight, and he swore that it was not going
to be like the last time, when they had left without paying. This time the
privileges of knighthood would not let either one or the other of them
off, but they would have to reimburse him even for the cost of the plugs
to patch up the punctured skins. The curate all this while was holding
Don Quixote's hands, and the knight, thinking that the exploit had been
accomplished and that he was now in the presence of the Princess Mi-
comicona, dropped to his knees in front of the priest.

"O exalted and famous lady," he said, "your Highness from this day
forth may live assured against any harm this lowborn creature could have
done you; and I too am now free of the promise I gave you, since with the
help of Almighty God and the favor of her in whom I live and breathe,
I have so thoroughly311 fulfilled it."

"There!" exclaimed Sancho upon hearing this, "what did I tell you--
You see I was not drunk after all. Just look how my master has salted
down that giant! You can depend on the bulls,312 and my earldom is cer-
tain."

Who would not have laughed at hearing the nonsense the two of them
talked, master and man--And laugh they all did with the exception of
mine host, who was roundly cursing himself. At last, however, with no
little effort, the barber, Cardenio, and the curate managed to get Don
Quixote back into bed, and he at once fell asleep with every appearance
of being utterly exhausted. Leaving him there, they then went down to
the gateway of the inn to console Sancho Panza for not having found the
giant's head; but they had a good deal more on their hands when it came
to placating the landlord, who was in a rage over the sudden death of
his wineskins. The landlady, for her part, was screaming and carrying
on at a great rate.

"It was an evil moment and an unlucky hour," she shouted, "when that
knight-errant entered my house. I had never laid eyes on him before, but
he cost me dearly. The last time it was the price of a lodging, a dinner, a
bed, and straw and barley, for himself, his squire, a hack, and an ass. He
said he was a knightly adventurer--may God give him and all the ad-
venturers in this world nothing but misadventures!--and for that reason
was obliged to pay nothing, since that was the way it was written down
in the tariff code of knight-errantry. And now, on account of him, this
other gentleman comes along and carries off my tail and gives it back
to me with more than two cuartillos'313 worth of damage done to it, all
stripped of its hair and of no further use for my husband's purpose. And
as the finishing touch to everything, he punctures my wineskins and spills
my wine--if I could only see his blood spilled instead! But let him not
think he'll be able to do the same thing this time! By my father's bones
and my mother's ghost, he's going to pay me every cuarto314 that he owes
me or my name is not what it is and I am not my parents'daughter!"

The innkeeper's wife had all this and many other things to say, for she
was very angry indeed, and her slavey, the worthy Maritornes, joined in
the scolding. The daughter, however, was silent and merely smiled
quietly to herself from time to time. The curate finally settled matters
by promising to make good the loss to the best of his ability. He agreed
to pay them for the wineskins and the wine and especially for the damage
done to that tail of which they were forever talking. Dorotea, meanwhile,
was comforting Sancho Panza by telling him that, the moment it was
definitely established that his master had cut off the giant's head and
she had come into peaceful possession of her kingdom, she would bestow
upon him the finest earldom that it contained. Sancho felt better upon
hearing this and assured the princess that he had seen the giant's head,
adding by way of further identification that the monster had a beard
that came all the way down to his waist, and if he was not to be seen at
the moment, it was for the reason that everything that happened in that
house was directed by an enchanter, as he himself had found to he the case
the other time that he had stopped there. Dorotea said that she believed
this to be true, but that he should not let it worry him, as things would
come out all right in the end and he would have whatever he wished.

When they had all quieted down, the curate suggested that they finish
reading the story, for there was still a little of it left. Cardenio, Dorotea,
and the others thereupon begged him to continue, and by reason of the
pleasure that he as well as they derived from it, he went on with the tale,
as follows:

As a result of it all, Anselmo was so convinced of Camila's virtue that
he went on living a happy and carefree life, while she was deliberately
cool toward Lotario in order that her husband might think her feeling
for his friend was the opposite of what it was. By way of confirming this
impression, Lotario begged permission not to come to the house, since
it was plain to be seen that his visits were an annoyance to Camila; but
Anselmo, thoroughly deluded, would by no means hear of this, and thus
in a thousand ways he became the creator of his own dishonor in place
of what he took to be his happiness.

In the meantime, Leonela was so elated at finding herself free to carry
on her amours315 that she came to think of nothing else and gave free rein
to her passion, being confident that her mistress would afford her con-
cealment and even show her how to manage the affair with little fear of
discovery. Finally, one night Anselmo heard footsteps in her room, and
when he sought to enter to find out who was there, he found the door
held against him, a circumstance that made him all the more determined
to open it. Open it he did by main force and entered just in time to see
a man leaping from the window to the street.

He was about to follow in an effort to overtake him or see if he could
recognize him but was prevented from doing either by Leonela, who
threw her arms about him as she cried, "Calm yourself, my master. Do
not excite yourself and go running after the one who just leaped from that
window, for he belongs to me; in fact, he is my husband."

Anselmo was unwilling to believe this and, blind with rage, drew a
dagger and threatened to stab Leonela, assuring her that he would kill
her if she did not tell him the truth. She was so frightened that she did not
know what she was saying and could only stammer, "Do not kill me,
master, for I can tell you things that are more important than you can
imagine."

Tell me, then, said Anselmo. "If you do not, you are a dead woman."

"It would be impossible for me to do so now," she replied. "I am so
excited that I cannot think. Give me until tomorrow morning, and then
you will learn from me something that will astonish you. Meanwhile,
you may rest assured that the one who left by way of this window is a
young man of this city who has promised to marry me."

Anselmo was mollified by this and consented to grant her the time for
which she asked. It did not occur to him that he would hear anything
against Camila, for he felt perfectly sure of her virtue; and so he went
away and left Leonela locked in the room, telling her that she would not
come out until he had heard her story. He then went to inform Camila
of all that had passed between him and her waiting woman and how the
latter had promised to reveal to him some things of very great importance.
As to whether his wife was alarmed or not by all this, there is no need of
our saying. A terrible fear came over her, for she really believed--and
she had good reason to believe it--that Leonela meant to tell Anselmo
everything that she knew concerning his wife's disloyalty.

As a result, she did not have the courage to wait and see if her suspicion
was false or not, but that very night, as soon as she thought her husband
had gone to sleep, she got together the best jewels that she had and a
little money and, slipping out unnoticed, made her way to Lotario's
house. There she told him all that had happened and begged him to put
her in hiding or go with her to some place where Anselmo would not
find them. But he was greatly confused by it all and could not give her a
single word in reply, nor was he able to make up his mind as to what
should be done.

At last he decided to take her to a convent the prioress of which was
his sister; and this he did, with her consent and with all the haste that the
situation called for, after which he at once left the city without notifying
anyone of his departure.

When dawn came, Anselmo was so eager to hear what Leonela had
to tell him that he did not even notice that Camila was missing from be-
side him, but arose and went to where he had left the maid locked in her
room. Opening the door, he went in but found no Leonela there. All that
he did find was some sheets knotted to the window, an obvious indication
that she had let herself down and made her escape. Very much disap-
pointed, he returned to tell Camila, and when he failed to discover her
in bed or anywhere in the house, he was truly dumfounded. He made in-
quiries of all the servants but none could give him any explanation.

As he was looking for her, he chanced to see her jewel boxes lying
open and noted that most of the gems were missing from them. Then
it was that he began to realize the nature of his misfortune, of which
Leonela was not the cause; and without waiting to complete his toilet,
he sadly and pensively went to seek his friend Lotario that he might tell
him of his sorrow. Lotario, however, was not at home, and his servants
said that he had not been there all night long but had left the house with
all the money that he had. At this point Anselmo began to feel as if he
were losing his mind, and to crown it all, when he returned to his own
house, he found it utterly deserted, with all the many servants, male and
female, gone. He did not know what to think or say nor what to do; his
reason seemed to be deserting him, little by little. As he contemplated
his situation, he had an instant view of himself as a man without a wife,
without a friend, without servants, left wholly unprotected as it seemed
to him by Heaven--above all, left without honor; for in the loss of Camila
he saw his own ruination.

Finally, after a considerable length of time, he resolved to go to the
village where his friend lived and where he himself had been while this
great misfortune was in the making. Locking the doors of his house, he
mounted his horse and with fainting heart took to the road. He had
gone barely halfway when, harassed by his thoughts, he found it neces-
sary to dismount and tie his steed to a tree, at the foot of which he threw
himself down with many piteous and mournful sighs, and there he re-
mained until nightfall, when he saw a horseman coming along the road
from the direction of the city. Having greeted the man, he inquired of
him what the news in Florence was.

"'Tis the strangest I have heard in many a day," the citizen replied;
"for they are now saying openly that Lotario, that great friend of the rich
Anselmo who lived at San Giovanni, last night carried off Camila, the
wife of Anselmo, who likewise is missing. All this was learned from a
maid of Camila's who was found by the watch last night as she was lower-
ing herself by a sheet from a window of the house. The truth is, no one
rightly knows just what did happen, but the whole city is astonished over
it, since no one would ever have expected such a thing in view of the
great and close friendship that existed between the men, a friendship
so strong that the pair were commonly called'the two friends.'"

"Is it by any chance known," asked Anselmo, "what road Lotario and
Camila took?"

"There is not so much as a trace of them," said the citizen, "although
the governor has instituted a most thorough search."

"God go with you, sir," said Anselmo.

"God be with you," responded the citizen as he rode away.

With such overwhelming news as this, Anselmo was not only near to
losing his mind but to ending his life as well. He arose and mounted his
horse as best he could and made his way to the house of his friend, who
had not yet learned of his misfortune but who, when he saw him arriving
in this state, looking so pale, haggard, and worn, realized at once that
his guest must be laboring under some deep sorrow. Anselmo at once
asked if he might go to bed and requested them to provide him with
writing materials. They did so and then left him alone, for he would
have it that way and even directed them to bar the door. When they were
gone, he began once more to think about the misfortune that had befallen
him, which weighed upon his mind to such an extent that he perceived
clearly enough that his end was drawing near.316 Desiring to leave some
record as to the cause of his strange death, he thereupon started to write,
but before he had finished setting down all that he wished to say, his
breath failed him and he died a victim of the grief which his ill-advised
curiosity had brought upon him.

When the master of the house saw that it was growing late and Anselmo
had not yet called, he decided to enter the room and see if his guest's indis-
position had grown worse. He found him there, lying on his face, half of
his body in the bed and the other half upon the writing-table over which
he had been leaning. The paper with the writing on it was spread out in
front of him, and he still held the pen in his hand. His host first called to
him, and when he did not answer, he took him by the hand and found
that it was cold, and then he knew that his friend was dead. He was
astounded and deeply dismayed by this and at once summoned the mem-
bers of his household to come and witness Anselmo's sad end. Finally he
read the paper, which he recognized as being in the dead man's hand-
writing. It contained the following words:

A foolish and ill-advised desire has robbed me of my life. If the news
of my death should reach Camila's ears, let her know that I forgive her;
for she was under no obligation to perform miracles and I had no right
to ask them of her. Thus, I was the creator of my own dishonor, and
there is no reason why

That was as far as Anselmo had gone with his last note; for it was plain
that at this point, before he had finished what he had to say, death had
overtaken him. His parents were notified the following day by the one in
whose house he had breathed his last. They already knew of their son's
misfortune, and they knew as well of the convent where Camila lay,
almost on the verge of accompanying her husband on his inevitable last
journey, owing not to grief over the news of his death but to sorrow over
the word she had received of her lover's departure. And they say that,
although she had been left a widow, she did not care to leave the monas-
tery, nor, on the other hand, to adopt the calling of a nun--at least not
until, some while afterward, news came that Lotario had been killed in
a recent battle between Monsieur de Lautrec and the Great Captain,
Gonzalo Hernandez de Cordoba in the kingdom of Naples:317 for it ap-
pears that her lover had tardily repented. Upon learning of this, Camila
forthwith took the veil and died within a short while of sorrow and
melancholy. And such was the end of all of them, the end that came of
so foolish a beginning.


"I like this tale well enough," remarked the curate, "but I cannot per-
suade myself that it is true. If it is pure invention, then the author is to
blame; for I cannot imagine a husband so foolish as to make such a costly
experiment as Anselmo did. If it were the case of a gallant and his mistress,
that might do, but as between a husband and wife it is lacking in plausi-
bility. As to the method of telling the story, I have no fault to find with
that."



CHAPTER XXXVI.

Which treats of other extraordinary events that occurred at the inn.



Just at that moment the landlord, who was standing in the gateway
of the inn, cried out, "Here comes a fine lot of guests for you; if they
stop here, we well may sing Gaudeamus."

"What kind of folk are they?" asked Cardenio.

"They are four men," replied the innkeeper, "riding high in the saddle
and short in the stirrup,318 with lances and bucklers and black masks, and
with them is a woman clad in white; she is riding on a sidesaddle and her
face, also, is veiled; and there are two servants on foot."

"Are they very near?" inquired the curate.

"So near," said the landlord, "that they are arriving now."

Upon hearing this, Dorotea covered her face and Cardenio went into
the room where Don Quixote was, and they had barely had time to do
this when all those persons whom the innkeeper had described came
trooping into the hostelry. The four on horseback, who had the look and
manner of the wellborn, at once dismounted and went over to assist the
lady to alight. One of them then took her in his arms and seated her in
the chair that stood beside the entrance to the room where Cardenio was
hidden. During all this time neither she nor her companions had removed
their masks nor had they uttered a single word. The only sound to be
heard was the deep sigh that the lady gave as she let her arms drop to her
side like one who was ill and faint. The two servants, meanwhile, had
taken the horses out to the stable.

Having watched all this, the curate, being desirous of knowing who
these people were who came in such a costume and preserved such a
silence, went over to where the servants were and asked one of them for
the information that he wished.

"Upon my word, sir, I can't tell you," the youth replied. "All I know
is that they appear to be very important people, especially the one who,
as you saw, just took the lady in his arms. My reason for saying this is
that all the others show him respect and do only what he orders and
commands."

"And the lady, who is she?"

"That also is something that I do not know; for all along the way I
did not have a glimpse of her face. It is true, I heard her sigh many times,
and once in a while she would moan as if she were about to give up the
ghost. It is no wonder, however, if we do not know any more about them
than what I have told you, for my companion and I have not been with
them more than a couple of days. We met them on the highway and
they begged and persuaded us to come with them as far as Andalusia,
promising to pay us very well."

"And have you heard any of them called by name?" the curate per-
sisted.

"No indeed," said the lad. "They all go along so silently that it is really
amazing. You can hear nothing but the sighs and sobs of the poor lady,
which make us sorry for her, and we feel quite certain that, wherever
it is she is being taken, it is against her will. So far as can be gathered
from the habit she wears, she is a nun or, what is more likely, is about to
become one; and it may be that it is against her will that she is entering
a convent, which is the reason why she seems so sad."

"That may all be true," said the curate; and, leaving the servants, he
returned to where Dorotea was. She, having heard the veiled lady sigh,
moved by a natural compassion now went up and spoke to her.

"What is it that is troubling you, my lady?" she said. "If it is anything
that women by their knowledge and experience can remedy, I herewith
gladly offer you my services."

The poor woman said nothing, and although the offer was repeated,
more earnestly than ever, she still remained silent, until the masked
gentleman whom the servant had said the rest of them obeyed came over
and addressed Dorotea.

"Do not tire yourself, lady," he said, "by making any offers of assist-
ance to this woman, for it is her custom to show no thanks for any favor
that is done her; so do not seek to get an answer from her, unless you wish
to hear some lie from her mouth."

"I have never told a lie," declared the one who up to that point had
been silent. "Rather, it is because I have been so truthful and without
any lying propensities that I am now placed in this unfortunate situation.
I call upon you yourself to be my witness, for it is the simple truth I
speak that has made you out a purveyor of falsehoods and a liar."

Cardenio heard these words as clearly and distinctly as if he had been
standing beside the one who spoke them, for there was only the door
of Don Quixote's room between them; and he at once gave a shout and
cried, "My God! What is this I hear--What voice is this that reaches
my ears?"

Very much startled, the lady turned her head, and, not seeing who it
was that had uttered this cry, she arose and was about to enter the other
room, but the gentleman stopped her, refusing to allow her to move
a step. As a result of the stir and excitement the lady's veil now fell down,
revealing a face of incomparable, truly marvelous beauty, though pale
and frightened in appearance, with a pair of eyes that kept searching all
around wherever their gaze could reach, with so much anxiety that it
seemed as if their owner were out of her senses. Dorotea and all the others
who beheld her were deeply moved by all this, though they did not
understand the reason for it. The gentleman all the while was grasping
her firmly by the shoulders and was so occupied in doing so that he was
unable to lift a hand to prevent his own mask from falling off, as it did
a moment later.

Dorotea, who was standing there with her arms about the lady, now
looked up and saw that the gentleman was none other than her own
husband, Don Fernando. No sooner was she aware of his identity than,
giving vent to a prolonged and mournful cry that appeared to come from
the very depths of her being, she fell back in a faint; and if the barber
had not been there to catch her in his arms, she would have fallen to the
floor.

The curate then came over to remove her veil and throw water on
her face, and as soon as he saw her features Don Fernando recognized her
even as he held the other woman in his arms, and at the sight of her his
own face turned deathly pale. He could not, however, release his hold
on Luscinda, who was struggling to free herself from his grasp, she and
Cardenio having recognized each other by their voices. For Cardenio
also had heard the cry that Dorotea gave as she fainted, and believing it
to be his Luscinda, he had rushed out terror-stricken. The first thing he
saw was Don Fernando with Luscinda in his arms, and Fernando now
recognized him, while the three of them--Luscinda, Cardenio, and
Dorotea--remained silent and bewildered, scarcely knowing what had
happened. They all gazed at one another without saying a word: Dorotea
at Don Fernando, Fernando at Cardenio, Cardenio at Luscinda, and
Luscinda at Cardenio. Luscinda was the first to break the silence, by ad-
dressing Fernando in the following manner:

"Let me go, Senor Don Fernando, for the sake of what you owe to
yourself, seeing that nothing else can prevail upon you to do so. Leave me
here to cling to the wall of which I am the ivy, to the support from which
neither your importunities nor your threats nor your promises nor your
gifts can separate me. Take note how Heaven, by unaccustomed paths
that are dark to us, has placed before me my true husband. You know
well, by a thousand costly experiences, that only death would ever suffice
to efface him from my memory. Let this plain declaration, then, lead you,
since you can do nothing else, to turn your love into wrath, your affection
into spite, that you may do away with my life which I will gladly render
here in the presence of my husband; and perhaps, seeing me die in this
manner, he will be satisfied that I have kept faith with him to the very
end."

Dorotea, who had by now fully recovered from her fainting fit, had
listened closely to all that Luscinda had to say, and the latter's words told
her clearly who the speaker was, Perceiving that Don Fernando would
not let his victim go nor give her any answer, she now summoned all
the strength she could and, rising, went over and dropped to her knees
at Fernando's feet.

"If, my lord," she began, "the rays of that sun in eclipse that you hold
in your arms had not blinded your eyes, you would have seen that the
unfortunate creature (so long as you will have it so) who now kneels at
your feet is none other than the ill-starred Dorotea. I am that humble
peasant girl whom you, out of graciousness or for your own pleasure,
saw fit to lift to the height where she might call herself yours. I am she
who, locked within the bounds of virtue, lived a happy life until, in re-
sponse to your importunities and what appeared to be your proper and
sincerely intended declarations of love, she opened the gates of her
modesty and delivered to you the keys of her heart, a gift so ill appreciated
that I now of necessity find myself in my present position and behold you
under such circumstances as these.

"But, nevertheless, I would not have you think that it is my shame
that has brought me here; it is only my feeling of sorrow at seeing my-
self forgotten by you. You insisted upon my being yours, and in such a
way that, though you would have it otherwise now, you still cannot
help being mine. Reflect on this, my lord: may not the incomparable
affection that I bear you compensate for the beauty and nobility of birth
for which you would leave me--You cannot belong to the lovely Luscinda
for you belong to me, and she cannot be yours for she belongs to Car-
denio. If you will think it over, you will see that it will be easier to bring
yourself to love one who adores you than to force one to love you who
nbw abhors you. You played upon my innocence and sought to under-
mine my virtue. You were not unaware of my station in life, and you
well know how I gave myself to you wholly, so that you cannot say that
you were deceived.

If all this is so, and it is, and if you are a Christian as you are a gentle-
man, then why by all these subterfuges do you delay making me happy
in the end as you did in the beginning--And if you would not have me
for what I am, which is your true and lawful wife, at least show me
enough affection to take me as your slave; for merely by being in your
possession, I shall look upon myself as happy and fortunate. Do not, by
leaving me unprotected, permit my shame to be the subject of gossip
in the street. Do not inflict so wretched an old age upon my parents, for
they do not deserve such treatment in view of the faithful services which
they as vassals have always rendered to you and yours. And if you think
your blood will be contaminated by mingling with mine, remember that
there is little or no nobility in this world that has not traveled the same
road, and that in the case of illustrious lineages it is not the woman's blood
that counts. What is more, true nobility consists in virtue, and if you
show a lack of this by denying me what is so justly my due, then I shall
have shown myself in the end to be more noble than you.

"In short, my lord, when all is said, I would have you know that I am
your wife, whether you like it or not. Your own words are my witnesses,
which cannot be lying ones if you pride yourself on that nobility for the
lack of which I am despicable in your sight. I have your signed pledge,319
and Heaven also, which you called upon to witness the vows you made,
will bear me out. Failing all this, your own conscience should raise its
voice amid your merrymaking and remind you of this truth I have just
spoken, thus disturbing your hours of greatest happiness and content-
ment.".

These and other words were spoken by the woebegone Dorotea with
such feeling and so many tears that even those who accompanied Don
Fernando and all the others present wept with her. Fernando listened
without making any reply until she had finished, whereupon she began
sighing and sobbing so passionately that it would have been a heart of
bronze that would not have melted at such a show of grief. Luscinda
gazed at her with no less sympathy for her suffering than admiration for
her wit and beauty, and she would have gone up to her and uttered a
few words of consolation if Don Fernando's arms had not restrained her,
for he still clasped her tightly. Greatly astonished and confused by it all,
he stared fixedly at Dorotea for a good while and then, opening his arms,
he let Luscinda go.

"You have conquered, O beauteous Dorotea, he said, you have con-
quered. No one could have the heart to deny so many truths as you have
uttered."

Luscinda, when Don Fernando released his hold of her, was so faint that
she would have fallen; but, as it happened, Cardenio, irt order to avoid
being recognized, was standing behind his former friend, and now, cast-
ing aside all fear and risking everything, he came forward to support the
one he loved.

"If merciful Heaven," he said, as he took her in his embrace, "is pleased
to let you have a little rest at last, O my loyal, steadfast, and beautiful
lady, I do not think you will find a safer haven than in these arms that
now receive you as they did of old, when fortune willed that I might call
you mine."

At these words, Luscinda gazed at Cardenio. She had begun to recog-
nize him by the sound of his voice, and now, being assured by the sight
of her eyes that it was indeed he, she forgot all about decorum and, fling-
ing her arms around his neck, laid her cheek against his.

"Yes, my lord," she said, "you are the true master of this your captive
one, even though an adverse fate should once more intervene and once
again threaten this life which is sustained by yours."

It was a strange sight for Don Fernando and all the bystanders as they
stood marveling at so extraordinary an occurrence. It seemed to Dorotea
that Fernando changed color and made a gesture as if he meant to avenge
himself upon Cardenio, for she saw him put a hand to his sword; and
no sooner did this thought enter her mind than she threw her arms about
his knees, kissing them and holding him fast so that he could not move
as her tears all the while continued to flow.

"What is it that you think of doing in this unforeseen situation, O
sole refuge that I have?" she cried. "Here at your feet is your own wife
and she whom you would have for wife is in her husband's arms. Do
you think that it would be well or even possible for you to undo that
which Heaven has done or seek to take as your own one who, in spite
of every obstacle, confirmed in her loyalty and stanchness of purpose,
there before your eyes is now bathing with her loving tears the face and
bosom of her cherished mate--In God's name and for your own sake I
beg and entreat you not to let this open manifestation of their love in-
crease your ire, but rather let it diminish your wrath so that these two
lovers, quietly and in peace and without any interference on your part,
may spend together the rest of the time that Heaven allots them. In this
way you will be displaying the generosity that your noble and illustrious
bosom harbors, and the world will see that reason with you is stronger
than passion."

Cardenio had stood with his arm about Luscinda all the time that
Dorotea was speaking. He did not take his eyes off Don Fernando, for
he was resolved that, if his erstwhile friend made any move in his direc-
tion, he would actively defend himself to the best of his ability against
any and all who might attack him, even though it cost him his life; but
at that moment Don Fernando's companions and the curate, the barber,
and all the others present, not forgetting the worthy Sancho Panza, came
up and surrounded the irate lover, imploring him to have regard to
Dorotea's tears, and if what she had said was true, and they believed that
it undoubtedly was, not to permit her to be cheated of what she had
every right to expect. Let him reflect that it was not by mere chance,
as it might seem, but rather by a special providence of Heaven, that they
had all been brought together in a place where they would never have
thought they would meet. Let him remember also, the curate admonished
him, that only death could part Luscinda and Cardenio, and that even
though the edge of a sword were to come between them, they still would
regard their end as a most happy one. In cases like this for which there
was no remedy, it was the part of practical wisdom, by exerting an effort
and overcoming one's inclinations, to show oneself generous-hearted;
and so he ought of his own accord to permit this pair to enjoy the bless-
ing which Heaven had conferred upon them.

Let him, moreover, but cast an eye on Dorotea's beauty and he would
see that few if any could equal, much less excel, her. And in addition to
her beauty, there was her meekness and the very great love she had for
him. Above all, let him bear in mind that if he prided himself upon being
a gentleman and a Christian, he could not do anything else but keep the
promise he had made, and, keeping it, he would at the same time be ful-
filling his duty to God and would win the approval of all right-minded
folk, who would realize and admit that it is the prerogative of beauty,
even though in humble guise, to be elevated to any height whatsoever
when accompanied by modesty, and without any hint of detriment to
the one who places it upon an equal footing with himself. What was
more, no one was to be blamed for following the strong dictates of
passion when there was no taint of sin involved.

The others then added their arguments, so many of them and such
forceful ones that Don Fernando's manly heart could not hold out against
them; for he, after all, was of noble blood. He thereupon relented and
let himself be vanquished by the truth, which he could not deny how-
ever much he might have wished to do so; and as a sign that he had sur-
rendered and yielded to their good advice, he now stooped and embraced
Dorotea.

"Rise, my lady," he said to her, "for it is not fitting that she whom I
hold in my heart should be kneeling at my feet. If up to now I have given
no evidence of the truth of what I am saying, it may be that Heaven has
ordered it so in order that, beholding the steadfast love that you have
for me, I may be able to cherish you as you deserve. All that I ask is that
you do not reprehend me for the ill I have done you and for my very
great neglect, since the same cause and force that moved me to accept
you as mine likewise impelled me to struggle against being yours. If you
would perceive the truth of this, turn your eyes and see how happy
Luscinda is, and in those eyes you will find an excuse for all my erring
ways. And since she has found and attained that which she desired, and
I have found in you all that I need, may she spend many tranquil and
happy years with her Cardenio, and I pray that Heaven grant the same
boon to Dorotea and me."

Saying this, he turned and embraced her, laying his face against hers
with so tender a display of feeling that it was all he could do to keep from
weeping as the indubitable sign of his love and repentance. The rest of
them, however, were not so successful in this regard, and Luscinda,
Cardenio, and nearly all those present began shedding so many tears, by
reason of their own happiness or that of others, that it was as if some
grave misfortune had befallen them. Even Sancho Panza wept, although,
as he said afterward, it was only at finding that Dorotea was not as he
had thought Queen Micomicona, of whom he expected so many favors.
It took them all some time to recover from their emotion and astonish-
ment, and then Cardenio and Luscinda fell on their knees before Don
Fernando, thanking him so courteously for the favor he had bestowed
upon them that he did not know what to say in reply but raised them
up and embraced them most graciously and affectionately.

He then inquired of Dorotea how she came to be in this place so far
from her home, and she very briefly and clearly related all that she had
previously told Cardenio, at which Don Fernando and his companions
were so pleased that they wished the tale had been longer, such was her
skill as a storyteller. When she had finished, Fernando informed them of
what had happened to him in the city, after he had found in Luscinda's
bodice the note in which she declared that she was Cardenio's bride and
could not be his. He stated that he would have liked to kill her, and would
have done so if her parents had not prevented him. He then had left the
house in an angry and disgruntled mood, being determined to avenge
himself as soon as he had a better opportunity. The next day he heard
that Luscinda had disappeared from her parents'home and that no one
knew where she had gone. After some months he had learned that she
was in a convent, having expressed a desire to spend the rest of her days
there if she could not be with Cardenio.

Upon receiving this news, he had chosen three gentlemen companions
and had gone to the place where she was but had not spoken with her
since he feared that, if they knew he was there, a closer watch would be
kept in the convent. He accordingly had waited for a day when the
porter's lodge was open, and then, leaving two of them to guard the gate,
he and the other one had gone in to look for Luscinda, whom they found
in a cloister, in conversation with a nun. Carrying her off without cere-
mony, they had taken her to another place where they could provide
themselves with the things they needed for carrying out their plan. All
of which they had been able to do in safety, owing to the fact that the
convent was in the open country, at some little distance from the town.

He added that as soon as Luscinda saw that she was in their power, she
had fainted away, and that all she had done after recovering from her
swoon was to weep and sigh without uttering a single word. And thus,
with silence and her tears for company, they had reached this inn, which
for him was like attaining Heaven itself, where all the misadventures of
earth are at an end.



Chapter XXXVII.

Wherein is continued the story of the famous Princess
Micomicona, along with other droll adventures.



It WAS with no little sorrow in his heart that Sancho listened to all
this, for he could see his hopes of a title going up in smoke and disappear-
ing as the lovely Princess Micomicona turned into Dorotea, and the
giant into Don Fernando, while his master was sleeping peacefully,
wholly unconcerned with what was happening. As for Dorotea, she
could not be sure that the happiness she possessed was not a dream, and
Cardenio and Luscinda felt the same way. Don Fernando, meanwhile,
was giving thanks to Heaven for having taken him out of that intricate
labyrinth in which he had been wandering at the imminent risk of losing
at once his good name and his soul. In short, all those in the inn were
quite pleased and satisfied with the fortunate outcome of so complicated
and desperate an affair.

It was the curate who, as a man of wisdom, made it all clear to them,
congratulating each in turn on the good fortune he had achieved. But
the one who was the happiest and most jubilant of all was the landlady
by reason of the promise that Cardenio and the curate had made her to
the effect that they would pay with interest for all the damage wrought
by Don Quixote. Sancho alone, as has been said, was wretched, sad, and
dejected, and it was with a melancholy air that he went in to speak to
his master, who had just awakened.

"Sir Mournful Countenance," he said, "your Grace may as well go
on sleeping. In fact, you may sleep as much as you like, without troubling
to kill any giant or restore the princess to her kingdom, for it is all done
and settled now."

"That I can well believe," replied Don Quixote, "for I have just had
the most monstrous and terrible battle with that giant that ever I hope to
have in all the days of my life; and with one back-thrust--whack!--I laid
his head on the ground, and the blood ran in rivulets, like water, all over
the earth."

"Like red wine, your Grace might better say," Sancho corrected him;
"for I would have your Grace know, if you do not know it already, that
the dead giant is a punctured wineskin and the blood was six arrobas320 of
vino tinto that it held in its belly, and the head you chopped off is the
whore who mothered me, and may the devil take it all!"

"What is this you are saying, you lunatic?" cried Don Quixote. "Are
you in your right senses?"

If your Grace will rise," said Sancho, "you will see the fine mess you
have made and what we are going to have to pay for it all. And you will
also see your queen converted into a lady in private life, by the name of
Dorotea, along with other things that will astonish you if you can get
them through your head."

"I should not wonder at anything of the sort," said Don Quixote, "for,
if you remember, the last time we were here I told you that everything
that happened in this place was the work of an enchanter, and so it would
not be surprising if this were also."

"I could believe all that," said Sancho, "if my blanketing had been like
that, but it wasn't; it was real and true. I saw the landlord, who is here
right now, holding one end of the blanket and tossing me up to the sky
as lustily and heartily as you please and laughing fit to burst all the while.
When it comes to recognizing persons, so far as I'm concerned, and I'm
only a poor sinner, there's no enchantment about it but only a lot of
bruises and bad luck."

"Well, then," said Don Quixote, "God will set everything to rights.
Come help me dress so that I can go out, for I wish to see what has hap-
pened and view these transformations that you are talking about."

Sancho helped him on with his clothes; and, in the meantime, the
curate was telling Don Fernando and the others of the knight's strange
madness and the stratagem they had employed to get him off Poor Rock,
where he imagined that he was doing penance for his lady's sake. He
repeated at the same time nearly all the adventures that Sancho had re-
lated, at which they were considerably astonished and laughed a good
deal; for this seemed to them to be, as it did to all who heard of it, the
weirdest sort of insanity that could ever lay hold of a disordered intellect.
The curate added that, inasmuch as Dorotea's good fortune prevented
their going on with their plan, they would have to find and invent another
one in order to get him back to his native heath. Cardenio then offered
to continue what they had begun, saying that Luscinda would be able
to take Dorotea's part very well.

"No," said Don Fernando, "that will not be necessary, for I wish
Dorotea to continue with it. The village where this good gentleman lives
is not far from here, and I shall be happy to see something done for his
malady."

"It is more than two days'journey," said the curate.321

"Even if it were more, I should be glad to make it in so worthy a cause."

At that moment Don Quixote came out in full panoply, with Mam-
brino's helmet, still dented, on his head and his buckler on his arm, and
with his tree bough or lance serving him as a staff. Don Fernando and
the others were amazed by his strange appearance: his lean and jaundiced-
looking face, half a league long; his fantastic assortment of arms; his dig-
nified bearing; and they all remained silent to see what he would have
to say as he, very calmly and gravely, turned to the comely Dorotea.

"I am informed by my squire, lovely lady," he said, "that your High-
ness's very being has been undone and annihilated, and that from the
queen and great dame that you used to be you have been transformed
into an ordinary damsel. If this has been done on the order of that royal
necromancer, your father, because he feared I would not give you the
aid you need and which I owe you, I will say that he did not and does
not know half the mass322 and was little versed in the annals of chivalry;
for if he had read and meditated upon them attentively, and for as long
a time as I have, he would have found that other knights less famous than
I were constantly achieving more difficult undertakings. After all, it is
no great thing to slay a little giant, however insolent he may be. As a
matter of fact, it is not many hours since I was in his presence and--I
shall say no more, lest you think I am lying. But time, which brings all
things to light, will tell the tale when least we think to hear it."

"That was a couple of wineskins you were fighting, not a giant," said
the innkeeper at this point; but Don Fernando ordered him to be still and
not interrupt Don Quixote in any way.

The knight then continued, "I was about to say, in short, highborn
and disinherited lady, that if it was for the reason I have mentioned that
your father worked this metamorphosis in your person, do not be misled
by it; for there is no peril on this earth where my sword will not open a
path; and with that sword I will shortly bring your enemy's head to
earth and place upon yours the crown of your realm."

Pausing here, Don Quixote waited for the princess to answer him, and
she, knowing Don Fernando's determination to go through with the
deception until they had the knight back in his village, now replied with
much gravity and ease of manner, "Whoever it was that told you, valiant
Knight of the Mournful Countenance, that my being had been changed
and transformed, was not speaking the truth. It is true that certain for-
tunate circumstances that have given me more than I could have wished
for have worked a change of a sort in me; but I have not for that reason
ceased to be the person that I was before, and I still have the same inten-
tion that I always did of availing myself of the might of your valiant
and invulnerable arm.323 And so, my dear sir, I beg you to be so good as to
honor once more the father who begot me, and I trust that you will look
upon him as a wise and foreseeing man, since with his science he found
so ready and reliable a means of aiding me in my trouble. For I am con-
vinced that if it had not been for you, sir, I should never have had the
good fortune that is now mine, and in this I speak the veriest truth, as
most of these worthy folk who are present can testify. It only remains
for us to set out tomorrow morning, since we could not travel far today.
As for the rest, I trust in God and in your own valiant heart for a happy
outcome."

Thus spoke the clever Dorotea. Upon hearing her words, Don Quixote
was very angry and, turning to his squire, he said, "I tell you right now,
my little Sancho, that you are the greatest little rascal in all Spain. Vaga-
bond thief, did you not inform me a moment ago that this princess had
been turned into a damsel by the name of Dorotea, and that the giant's
head which I am sure I cut off was that of the whoring mother that bore
you, along with other nonsense that threw me into the greatest confusion
I have ever known in all the days of my life--I swear"--and here he gazed
heavenward and ground his teeth--"I have a mind to do something to
you that will put salt in the pate of all the lying squires of knights-errant
that there are in this world, from this time forth!"

"Calm yourself, my master," said Sancho. "It may be that I was de-
ceived in what I took to be the transformation of my lady, the Princess
Micomicona; but as to the giant's head, or, at any rate, the puncturing
of the skins and the fact that the blood was red wine, I was not wrong
in that, by the living God! For the wounded skins are still there at the
head of your Grace's bed, and the red wine has made a lake of the room.
If you don't believe it, you will see when you go to fry the eggs.324 By that
I mean, when the landlord presents your Grace with the score for all
the damage you did. Otherwise, if my lady the queen is as she always
was, I rejoice in my heart, for it concerns me as much as any neighbor's
son.

"Once again, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "I tell you that you are a
fool, and, begging your pardon, that will do."

"That will do," said Don Fernando, "and let us hear no more of it. And
since my lady the princess has said that we travel tomorrow, seeing that
today is far gone, so be it. The evening we may spend in pleasant con-
versation as we wait for tomorrow to come, when we will all accompany
Senor Don Quixote, as we desire to be witnesses of the valorous and
unheard-of exploits that he is to perform in the course of this great enter-
prise that he has undertaken."

"It is I who will serve and accompany you," replied Don Quixote. "I
thank your Grace very much for the good opinion that you hold of me,
and I shall endeavor to live up to it or it shall cost me my life--or even
more than my life, if such a thing be possible."

Many courteous words and compliments were exchanged between the
two of them; but they all fell silent as a traveler entered the inn, one who
from his attire appeared to be a Christian recently returned from the land
of the Moors. He had on a short-skirted coat made out of blue cloth,
with half-sleeves and without a collar. His breeches were of the same
shade and material, and he had a blue cap on his head. On his feet were
date-colored buskins, and slung across his breast from a shoulder strap
was a Moorish cutlass. Behind him, mounted upon an ass, came a woman
dressed after the manner of the Moors. Her face was covered and she
wore a little brocaded cap on her head and a mantle that fell from her
shoulders to her feet. The man, who was a little more than forty years of
age, had a robust and graceful figure, a somewhat swarthy complexion,
long mustaches, and a well-tended beard. In short, if he had been well
clad, one would have said from his appearance that he was a person of
birth and breeding.

Upon entering the inn, he asked for a room and, when told that there
was none to be had, seemed to be very much put out. Going up to the
Moorish-looking woman, he took her in his arms and assisted her to
dismount, as Luscinda, Dorotea, the landlady, her daughter, and Mari-
tomes all gathered around, attracted by the novelty of her costume,
which was of a kind they had never seen before. Being always gracious,
courteous, and discerning, Dorotea perceived that the woman as well as
the man was vexed at not being able to obtain a lodging, and she accord-
ingly sought to console her.

"Do not be too much disturbed, my lady," she said, "by the lack of
accommodations that you find here, for that is the usual thing in roadside
taverns; but if you would like to share our lodgings"--and she nodded
at Luscinda--"you will perhaps say that in the course of your journey
you have found others that were not so good."

The veiled lady made no reply to this but merely rose from where
she was sitting and, crossing her hands upon her bosom, bowed her head
and bent her body from the waist down by way of thanks. From her
silence, they decided that she must undoubtedly be a Moor and unable
to speak a Christian tongue.

At that moment, the captive,325 who had been busied with other matters,
returned; and, seeing all the womenfolk gathered about his companion
while she made no reply, he said, "Ladies, this damsel understands very
little of my language, nor does she know how to speak any tongue other
than that of her native land, and it is for this reason that she does not
and cannot answer your questions."

"We have not asked her anything," said Luscinda. "We have merely
offered to share with her our company and our lodgings, where we will
provide her with all the comforts that we can; for we are under obliga-
tions to be of service to all strangers in need, especially when they happen
to be women."

"On her behalf and on mine, my lady," the captive replied, "I kiss your
hand and esteem very highly, as I ought, this proffered favor, which,
coming from persons such as your appearance shows you to be and under
such circumstances, is indeed a great one."

"Tell me, sir," said Dorotea, "is this lady a Christian or a Moor--For
her costume and her silence lead us to believe that she is what we would
rather she was not."

"A Moor she is in costume and in body, but in her soul she is thoroughly
Christian, for she has a very great desire to be one."

"Then she has not been baptized?" inquired Luscinda.

"There has been no opportunity for that," replied the captive. "Since
leaving Algiers, which is her fatherland, there has been up to now no
near peril of death such as would render it obligatory to baptize her at
once, before she had first learned all the ceremonies that our Holy Mother
Church enjoins. But God willing, the rite will soon be administered to
her with the solemnity that befits the quality of her person, which is more
than her garb or my own would indicate."

Upon hearing this, they were all eager to learn who the captive and the
Moorish damsel were, but no one cared to ask just then, as it seemed that
at that moment they ought rather to be seeking to make them comfortable
than to be questioning them about their past lives. Dorotea took the
girl by the hand and led her over to a seat beside her, requesting that
she remove her veil. The damsel looked at the captive as though inquir-
ing what they were saying and what she should do, and he thereupon
explained to her in Arabic that they wished her to uncover her counte-
nance. This she now did, revealing a face of such rare loveliness that
Dorotea and Luscinda each thought her more beautiful than the other,
while all the bystanders agreed that if there was anyone who could equal
those two, it was the Moorish lady, and there were some, even, who
maintained that she held a slight advantage. And inasmuch as it is beauty's
gracious prerogative to win the heart and arouse good will, the entire
company from then on manifested a desire to serve the lovely Moor and
do her favors.

When Don Fernando asked what her name was, the captive replied
that it was Lela Zoraida; and as soon as she heard this, having divined
what the Christian had asked, she spoke up hastily, with much vexation
and spirit.

"No, not Zoraida," she cried, "Maria, Maria!" thus giving them to
understand that her name was Maria and not Zoraida.

These words and the deep earnestness with which the Moorish damsel
had uttered them caused more than one tear to be shed by some of the
listeners, especially the women, since women by nature are tender-
hearted and sympathetic. Luscinda embraced her most affectionately.

"Yes, yes," she said, "Maria, Maria!" To which the damsel replied,
"Yes, yes, Maria; Zoraida macange"326--by which expression she meant
to say no.

Night was now coming on, and by order of Don Fernando's compan-
ions the landlord had set about preparing with all care and diligence the
best supper that he could give them. When the time came, they all sat
down at a long table of the kind to be found in servants'quarters, for
there was neither a round table nor a square one to be found in the
hostelry. They gave Don Quixote the place of honor at the head of the
table, though he was for refusing it at first; and he insisted that the
Princess Micomicona take the place by his side, as he was her protector.
Luscinda and Zoraida then seated themselves, and opposite them were
Don Fernando and Cardenio. Then came the captive and the other gentle-
men^ while the curate and the barber had places alongside the ladies. And
thus they supped in great good humor, which was increased when they
saw the knight stop eating and begin to speak; for he was now moved
by an impulse similiar to that which had led him to hold forth at such
length when he was having supper with the goatherds.

"Truly, ladies and gentlemen," he began, "when you stop to think of it,
those who follow the calling of knight-errantry behold some marvelous
and unheard-of things. By way of example, let me ask you: what living
being is there in all the world who, coming through the gateway of the
castle at this moment and seeing us as we are, would take or believe us
to be what we are--Who would say that this lady at my side is the great
queen who is known to all of us, or that I am the famous Knight of the
Mournful Countenance--No, there is no doubt that this profession and
employment excels all others that men have invented, and it is all the
more to be esteemed by reason of the greater perils to which it is subject.

"Away with those who would tell you that letters have the advantage
over arms. I will tell them, whoever they may be, they know not of what
they speak. For the reason that such persons commonly give, the one
upon which they base their arguments, is that the labors of the mind
exceed those of the body and the profession of arms is a physical one
exclusively, a common laborer's trade as it were, for which nothing more
than a sturdy frame is needed. What they fail to take into consideration
is the fact that in the profession that is known to us who follow it as that
of arms, there are included many acts of fortitude that require for their
execution a high degree of intelligence. Does not a warrior who is charged
with leading an army or defending a besieged city work with his mind as
well as his body--How otherwise, by physical strength alone, would
he be able to divine the intentions of the enemy, his plans and stratagems
and the obstacles to be overcome, since all these things call for mental
activity in which the body plays no part--

"It being true, then, that the profession of arms as well as that of letters
has need of mind, let us see whose mind does the greater amount of work,
that of the warrior or that of the man of letters.327 This may be seen from
the end and goal that each has in view; for that intention is to be most
esteemed that has for its end the noblest object. The end and goal of
letters is--I am not here speaking of divine learning whose purpose is
to lead souls heavenward, sipce with an end so endless as that no other
can be compared--what I have in mind, rather, is human knowledge,
whose object is to administer distributive justice and give to each that
which is his and see that good laws are observed--such an end and goal
is assuredly a generous and a lofty one and deserving of high praise, but
not such praise as should be bestowed upon the warrior's purpose, for
here the objective is peace, which is the greatest blessing that men can
wish for in this life.

"For the first good news that mankind and the world received was that
which the angels brought on the night that was our day:'Glory to God
in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.'328 And the
salutation which the great Master of Heaven and earth taught his chosen
disciples to use when they entered any dwelling was,'Peace be to this
house.'329 And another time he said to them, ‘Peace I leave with you, my
peace I give unto you, peace be with you.'330 It was as a jewel and a
precious gift given and left by such a hand, a jewel without which there
can be no blessing whatsoever either in Heaven or on the earth. This
peace is the true end of war, and for'war'you may substitute'arms.'Ac-
cepting, then, this truth that the end of war is peace, let us turn now to
the physical hardships of the scholar and those of the man of arms and see
which are the greater.''

This speech of Don Quixote's was delivered in such a manner and
couched in such excellent terms that it was quite impossible for the mo-
ment for any of those who heard him to take him for a madman. Indeed,
most of them being gentlemen to whom arms were a natural appurte-
nance, they listened to him with right good will as he continued speak-
ing.

"I will begin by saying that the student's chief hardship is poverty--
not that they are all poor, but by way of putting the case in the strongest
possible terms--and when the word poverty has been uttered, it seems
to me there is nothing more to be said of their misfortune. For he who
is poor has nothing that is good. He must suffer his destitution under
various forms: hunger, cold, nakedness, and all of them combined. But,
still, his poverty is not so great that he does not eat some time, even
though it be a little later than usual and even though he must feed on
the leftovers of the rich. His greatest wretchedness lies in what they call
‘going for soup,'331 but still he will not fail to find some other's brazier or
hearth which, if it does not warm him, at least will temper the cold. And,
finally, of a night, they sleep beneath a roof. I shall not go into any fur-
ther details, such as their lack of shirts and not too many shoes, their
thin and threadbare garments, or the pleasure with which they gorge
themselves when luck affords them a banquet of some sort.

"By this path, then, which I have described, a rough and difficult one,
stumbling here, falling there, raising themselves up and falling once more,
they finally obtain their degree. And then, after all this, how many of
them have we seen who, having passed through these Syrtes,332 between
these Scyllas and Chaxybdises, as if borne on the favoring wings of
fortune--how many of them, I say, have we seen later ruling and govern-
ing the world from a chair, their hunger turned into satiety, their cold
into comfort, their nakedness into courtly attire, their sleep on a mat
into repose on damask and fine linen, all of which is the justly merited
reward of their virtue. But contrasted and compared with the hardships
of the warrior, theirs fall far short of those that he endures, as I shall
now show."



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Which treats of the curious discourse that Don Quixote
delivered on the subject of arms and letters.333


Continuing his discourse, Don Quixote spoke as follows:

"Since in the case of the student we began with poverty and the
things that go with it, let us see if the soldier is any better off in
this regard. We shall find that he is the poorest of the poor, being de-
pendent upon his wretched pay, which comes late or never, or upon such
booty as he can amass with his own hands, to the grave peril of his life
and conscience. At times his nakedness is such that a slashed doublet
serves him at once as shirt and uniform; and in midwinter, in the open
country, it is his habit to protect himself against the inclemencies of the
heavens with nothing more than the breath from his mouth, which, inas-
much as it emerges from an empty place, must obviously, contrary to all
the laws of nature, come out cold. True, he looks forward to the coming
of night that he may find a respite from all these discomforts in the bed
that awaits him, which, unless it is through some fault of his own, will
never offend by being too narrow; for he may measure out upon the
earth as many feet as he likes for his couch and then may toss and turn
in it to his heart's content, without fear of the sheets slipping off.

"Comes then the day and hour when he is to take his professional de-
gree; comes then the day of battle; and then it is they place upon his head
a doctor's cap made of lint, by way of healing the wound inflicted by
some bullet that may have passed through his temple or left him mutilated
in an arm or a leg. And if this does not happen and a merciful Heaven
keeps and preserves him safe and sound, he still may be as poor as he was
before and must go through more engagements and more battles and
come out victorious from them all before he has some chance of improv-
ing his fortunes. Miracles of that sort, however, are very seldom seen.

"But tell me, gentlemen, if you have ever given it a thought, by how
far do those who have prospered in war fall short of those who have
perished in it--You undoubtedly will reply that there is no comparison,
that the dead are innumerable while those who have lived and thrived
can be represented by some number less than a thousand. All of which
is just the opposite of what happens with scholars, for, by means of
skirts, to say nothing of sleeves, the latter all find a way of supporting
themselves.334 Thus it is evident that, although the soldier's work is far
harder, his reward is far less. To this the answer may be made that it is
easier to reward two thousand scholars than thirty thousand soldiers, for
upon the former may be bestowed such posts as must of necessity be
allotted to men of their calling, whereas if the latter are to be given any
compensation at all, it can only be out of the property of the master
they serve. But this objection merely strengthens my argument.

"However, let us leave all this to one side, for it is a labyrinth from
which it is difficult to find one's way out, and, instead, let us turn to the
question of the pre-eminence of arms over letters, one that up to now
has not been settled, so many are the arguments put forth by either side.
In addition to those that I have mentioned, letters say that without their
help arms cannot support themselves, for war also has its laws to which
it is subject and which fall within the domain of scholars. To this arms
will reply that without them laws cannot be maintained, since it is by
force of arms that states are defended, kingdoms preserved, cities
guarded, highways rendered safe, and the seas rid of corsairs; and, finally,
if it were not for them, states, kingdoms, monarchies, cities, highroads
by sea and land would be subjected to the oppression and confusion that
war brings with it, so long as it lasts and is free to make use of its privi-
leges and powers. And it is a well-known fact that what costs most is
and ought to be most highly valued.

"For anyone to attain eminence in letters costs time, loss of sleep, hun-
ger, nakedness, headaches, indigestion, and other things that go with
diem, some of which I have already mentioned. But to become a good
Soldier costs all that the student has to pay and in so much higher a degree
that there is no comparison, for such a one at every step runs the risk of
losing his life. And what fear of want and poverty that can affect and
harass the student is comparable to that fear which the soldier knows
as he stands guard in some ravelin or bastion, knowing that the enemy
is running a mine toward the place where he stands, and unable under
any circumstances whatsoever to leave his post and flee the danger that
so imminently threatens him--All that he can do is to notify his captain
of what is happening in order that a countermine may be laid; and, mean-
while, he must remain there, fearing and expecting that he will suddenly
fly up to the clouds without wings or descend into the lower depths
against his will.

"And if this appears to be a small risk to run, let us see if it is equaled
or exceeded when two galleys clash and lock prows in the middle of the
ocean, leaving the soldier no more standing room than a couple of feet
on the plank of the spur-beam. In such a case, he sees in front of him
as many ministers of death as there are enemy cannon pointed at him,
at no greater distance from his body than the length of a lance, and he
further perceives that at the first false step he will go down to visit the
depths of Neptune's bosom; yet, nevertheless, with intrepid heart, sus-
tained by the sense of honor that incites him, he will make himself a tar-
get for the musketry and will endeavor to cross that narrow passageway
to the enemy's ship. And the most marvelous thing of all is that one has
no sooner fallen, never to rise again until the end of the world, than
another steps forward to take his place, and if he too falls into the sea
that hostilely awaits him, another and yet another will follow without
any pause between their deaths, the whole constituting the greatest ex-
hibition of valor and daring that is to be found in all the hazardous
annals of warfare.

"Happy were the blessed ages that were free of those devilish instru-
ments of artillery, whose inventor, I feel certain, is now in Hell paying
the penalty for his diabolic device-* device by means of which an in-
famous and cowardly arm may take the life of a valiant knight, without
his knowing how or from where the blow fell, when amid that courage
and fire that is kindled in the breasts of the brave suddenly there comes
a random bullet, fired it may be by someone who fled in terror at the
flash of his own accursed machine and who thus in an instant cuts off
and brings to an end the projects and the life of one who deserved to
live for ages to come.

"And so, from this point of view, I could almost say that it grieves my
soul that I should have taken up the profession of knight-errant in an
age so detestable as this one in which we now live.335 For, although no
danger strikes terror in my bosom, I do fear that powder and lead may
deprive me of the opportunity to make myself famous and renowned,
by the might of my arm and the edge of my sword, throughout the
whole of the known world. But Heaven's will be done. If I succeed in
carrying out my design, I shall be all the more honored for it, inasmuch
as I shall have confronted greater perils than the knights-errant of old
ever did."

All this long discourse was delivered by Don Quixote as the others
were having their supper; and he was so occupied with talking that he
forgot to raise a single bite of food to his mouth, although Sancho re-
minded him a number of times that it would be better to eat now and
say what he had to say afterward. Those who heard him were moved
to fresh pity at seeing a man, who to all appearances was perfectly sen-
sible and able to discuss any other topic quite rationally, so hopelessly
lost whenever the subject of chivalry came up, for that was his dark,
pitch-black obsession. The curate assured him there was much reason
in what he had said on the warrior's behalf, and that, although he him-
self was a man of letters and a university graduate, he was of the same
opinion.

When supper was over, they took the tablecloth away, and while the
landlady, her daughter, and Maritornes were busy preparing Don Quix-
ote's garret so that the ladies, as had been decided, might have it to
themselves for the night, Don Fernando asked the captive to tell them
the story of his life, which must be a tale quite out of the ordinary and
one well worth hearing, if they were to judge from the hints he had
dropped when he arrived with Zoraida. The captive replied that he
would be glad to do as requested, adding that he was afraid his story
would not give them the pleasure they hoped for, but in order to comply
with their wishes he would tell it anyway. The curate and all the others
thanked him for this, and they too begged him to begin. In response
to their insistence, he remarked that so much urging was unnecessary
where a mere command would suffice.

"And so, then, your Worships, pay attention and you shall hear a
true tale which possibly cannot be matched by those fictitious ones that
are composed with such cunning craftsmanship."

As he said this, they all settled themselves in their places and a deep
silence fell; and, seeing that they were quietly waiting to hear what he
had to say, he began speaking in a calm and pleasant voice.



CHAPTER XXXIX.

In which the captive narrates the events of his life.



IT WAS in a village in the mountains of Leon that the line of which
I come had its beginnings, a family more favored by nature than by for-
tune, although amid the poverty that prevailed in that region my father
had the reputation of being a rich man and indeed might have been one,
had he displayed the same skill in conserving his property that he did in
squandering it. His inclination to liberal spending came from his having
been a soldier in his youth, for that is a school in which the miser becomes
generous and the generous becomes prodigal; if there are some soldiers
that are parsimonious, they may be said to be freaks such as are rarely to
be met with.

"My father went beyond the bounds of liberality and came close to
prodigality, which is not a profitable thing for a married man with
children to bring up who are to succeed him and carry on his name. He
had three of them, all of them males and of an age to decide upon their
calling in life. Accordingly, when he saw that, as he put it, there was no
use in his trying to overcome his natural propensity, he made up his mind
to rid himself of the instrument and cause of his lavish spending; in other
words, he would get rid of his property, for without his fortune Alex-
ander himself would have appeared in straitened circumstances. And
so, calling the three of us together one day and closeting himself alone
with us, he proceeded to address us somewhat in the following manner:336

"'My sons, there is no need of my telling you that I have your welfare
at heart; it is enough to know and state that you are my sons. On the
other hand, the fact that I am unable to control myself when it comes
to preserving your estate may well give you a contrary impression. For
this reason, in order that you may be assured from now on that I love you
as a father should and have no desire to ruin you as a stepfather might,
I have decided to do for you something that I have long had in mind and
to which I have given the most mature consideration. You are of an age
to enter upon your professions in life, or at least to choose the ones which,
when you are older, will bring you profit and honor.

"'What I have thought of doing is to divide my estate into four parts,
three of which I will turn over to you so that each has that which is his by
right, while the fourth part I will retain for my own livelihood and sup-
port for the rest of the time that Heaven shall be pleased to grant me.
But after each of you has had his due share of the property, I would have
you follow one of the courses that I shall indicate. We have here in Spain
a proverb which to my mind is a very true one, as indeed they all are,
being wise maxims drawn from long experience. This one runs, "The
Church, the sea, or the Royal Household,"337 which in plainer language is
equivalent to saying, "He who would make the most of himself and
become a rich man, let him become a churchman, or go to sea and be a
merchant, or enter the service of kings in their palaces." For there is an-
other saying, "Better a king's crumb than a lord's favor."

"'I tell you this because it is my wish that one of you follow the profes-
sion of letters, that another go into trade, and that the third serve his king
as a soldier, seeing that it is a difficult thing to obtain service in his house-
hold; for if the military life does not bring much wealth, it does confer
fame and high esteem. Within a week, I will give you your shares in
money, without defrauding you of a single penny, as you shall see in due
course. Tell me, then, if you feel inclined to follow my advice and pre-
cepts in relation to what I have suggested.'

"He then called upon me as the eldest to answer; and after having told
him that he ought not to rid himself of his property in that manner but
should spend as much of it as he wished, since we were young and able
to make our own way, I ended by assuring him that I would do as he
desired, my own choice being to follow the profession of arms and thus
serve God and my king. My second brother, having made a similar
declaration, announced his intention of going to the Indies and investing
his share in commerce. The youngest one, and in my opinion the wisest,
said that he preferred to enter the Church or to go to Salamanca to com-
plete the course of study that he had already begun.

"When we had made our choice of callings, my father embraced us
all, and within the brief space of time mentioned he carried out his
promise by giving each of us his share, which as I remember amounted to
three thousand ducats in currency; for an uncle of ours had purchased
the estate and paid for it in cash in order to keep it in the family. On that
same day the three of us took leave of our goodhearted father; but inas-
much as it seemed to me an inhuman thing for him to be left with so little
money in his old age, I prevailed upon him to take two of my three
thousand ducats, since the remainder would be sufficient to meet my
wants as a soldier. Moved by my example, my two brothers each gave
him a thousand, so that he had in all four thousand, plus the three
thousand which, as it appeared, his share of the estate was worth; for he
did not care to dispose of his portion but preferred to keep it in land.

"And so, then, as I was saying, we took our leave of him and of our
uncle, not without much feeling and many tears on the part of all. They
charged us to let them know, whenever it was possible for us to do so, as
to how we were faring and whether we were meeting with prosperity
or adversity, and we promised them that we would. When he had em-
braced us and given us his benediction, we all departed, one setting out
for Salamanca, another for Seville, while I made for Alicante, where I
had heard there was a Genoese craft taking on a cargo of wool for that
city.

"It is now twenty-two years since I left my father's house, and although
in the course of that time I have written a number of letters, I have had
no word either of him or of my brothers. As to my own experiences dur-
ing those years, I shall relate them for you briefly. Embarking at Alicante,
I had a fair voyage to Genoa, and from there I went on to Milan, where
I fitted myself out with arms and a few accessories. For it was my inten-
tion to take service in the Piedmont, and I was already on my way to
Alessandria della Paglia when I heard that the great Duke of Alva was
starting for Flanders.338 I then changed my plan and, joining his army,
served with him in the three campaigns that he waged. I was present at
the deaths of the Counts of Egmont and Hoorne and rose to the rank
of ensign under a famous captain of Guadalajara, Diego de Urbina by
name.339 After I had been in Flanders for some while, news came of the
league which his Holiness, Pope Pius V of blessed memory, had formed
with Venice and Spain against the common enemy, the Turk, who about
that time had taken, with his fleet, the famous island of Cyprus, which
was then under the rule of the Venetians. This was a serious loss and one
truly to be deplored.

It was known for a fact that the commanding general of this league
was to be his Most Serene Highness, John of Austria, brother of our good
King Philip, and there was much talk of the great and warlike prepara-
tions that he was making. I was deeply stirred by ail this and felt a desire
to take part in the cpming campaign; and although I had prospects and
almost certain promises of being promoted to captain where I then served,
on the first occasion that offered, I chose to leave all this and return to
Italy. And as it happened, John of Austria had just arrived in Genoa on
his way to Naples to join the Venetian fleet, as he afterward did at Mes-
ina.340

"In short, I may tell you that I was soon taking part in that most for-
tunate campaign,341 having already been made a captain of infantry, an
honor that I owed to my good fortune rather than to my merits. And on
that day that was so happy a one for all Christendom, since it revealed to
all the nations of the world the error under which they had been laboring
in believing that the Turks were invincible at sea--on that day, I repeat,
in which the haughty Ottoman pride was shattered, among all the happy
ones that were there (and those Christians that died were even happier
than those that remained alive and victorious), I alone was wretched;
for in place of a naval crown such as I might have hoped for had it been
in Roman times, I found myself on the night that followed that famous
day with chains on my feet and manacles on my hands.

"The way in which it came about was this: El Uchali,342 King of Al-
giers, a bold and successful corsair, had attacked and captured the flag-
ship of Malta, on which only three knights were left alive and those
three badly wounded; whereupon the ship of Giovanni Andrea,343 on
which I and my company were stationed, came to its assistance. Doing
what was customary under the circumstances, I leaped aboard the enemy
galley, which, by veering off from the attacking vessel, prevented my
men from following me. Thus I was alone among the enemy, who so
greatly outnumbered me that any hope of resistance was vain; and the
short of it is, after I had been badly wounded, they captured me. As you
know, gentlemen, El Uchali and all his fleet made their escape, so that
I was left a prisoner in his hands; and that is the reason why it was that
only I was miserable among so many who were happy, and a captive
among so many who were free. For there were fifteen thousand Chris-
tians slaving at the oars in the Turkish fleet who that day obtained their
liberty.

"They took me to Constantinople, where the Grand Turk Selim made
my master commander at sea for having done his duty in battle so well
and displayed his bravery by carrying off the standard of the Order of
Malta. The following year, which was '72, I was in Navarino, rowing in
the flagship with the three lanterns,3" and there I saw and noted how the
opportunity was lost for capturing the entire Turkish fleet in the harbor;
for all the sailors and Janizaries were convinced that they would be at-
tacked while in port and had their clothing and their passamaques, or
shoes, in readiness in order that they might be able to flee overland with-
out waiting to give combat, so great was the fear that our fleet inspired in
them. But Heaven ordained otherwise, not because of any fault or care-
lessness on the part of our commander, but as a punishment for the sins of
Christendom, since it is God's will that we should have with us always
the agents of his wrath.

"The upshot of it was, El Uchali withdrew to Modon, which is an
island near Navarino, and there, disembarking his men, he proceeded to
fortify the mouth of the harbor, after which he waited quietly until
John retired. On this voyage one of the galleys, called the Prize, whose
captain was a son of the famous corsair Barbarossa, was captured by the
Neapolitan craft known as the She-Wolf, commanded by that thunder-
bolt of war, that father to his men, the fortunate and never-vanquished
captain, Don Alvaro de Bazan, Marquis of Santa Cruz.

"I must not omit telling you what took place in connection with this
capture. Barbarossa's son was so cruel and treated his captives so badly
that the moment the rowers saw the She-Wolf bearing down and gaining
upon them, they all at one and the same time dropped their oars and
seized the captain, who was standing upon the gangway platform, urging
them to row faster. Laying hold of him, they passed him on from bench
to bench and from poop to prow, and so bit and chewed him that before
he had gone much farther than the ship's mast his soul had already gone
to Hell. Such, as I have said, was the cruelty with which he treated them
and the hatred that they had for him.

We then returned to Constantinople, and the next year, which was
*73, we learned how John had captured Tunis, driven the Turks out of
that kingdom, and placed Muley Hamet on the throne, thus cutting short
the hopes that Muley Hamida, bravest and cruelest Moor in all the world,
had of returning to rule there. The Great Turk felt this loss very keenly
and, having resort to the cunning which all those of his line possess, he
made peace with the Venetians, who desired it much more than he did;
and the following year, in '74, he attacked the Goleta345 and the Fort
near Tunis which John had left in a state of semi-completion.

"During all this time I was at the oar, with no hope whatever of gain-
ing my freedom. At least I had no hope of ransom, for I was determined
not to write the news of my misfortune to my father. Both the Goleta
and the Fort Anally fell, for in front of them were massed seventy-five
thousand Turkish regulars, while the number of Moors and Arabs from
all over Africa was in excess of four hundred thousand; and this enormous
force was equipped with so many munitions and engines of war and ac-
companied by so many sappers that the latter might readily have buried
both their objectives under handfuls of earth.

"The Goleta, which had previously been looked upon as inexpugnable,
was the first to succumb; and if it was lost, this was not the fault of its
defenders, who did all that they should and could have done. It was
rather due to the fact that, as experience showed, it was easy to throw
up entrenchments in the desert sand; for water was commonly found
there at a depth of two palms, but the Turks went down for a depth
of two varas346 without striking any, and as a result, piling their sand-
bags one on top of another, they were able to raise ramparts so high
that they could command the walls of the fort and fire upon them as
from a bastion, so that it was impossible to make a stand or put up a
defense.

"It was the common opinion that our men did wrong in shutting them-
selves up in the Goleta instead of waiting for the enemy in the open, along
the landing place; but those who say this speak from a distance and with
little experience in such matters. If in the Goleta and the Fort there were
barely seven thousand soldiers in all, how could so small a force, no matter
how courageous, hope to sally forth onto the open plain and hold its
own against so numerous an opposing one--And how could such a force
fail to be lost unless reinforcements were sent to it, especially when sur-
rounded by enemies that were not only so many in number and so deter-
mined, but that were fighting on their own soil?

"It seemed to many, and to me as well, that Heaven was doing Spain
a special favor by mercifully permitting the destruction of that source
and lair of so many woes, that glutton, sponge, and waster responsible
for the profitless spending of an infinite amount of money which served
no other cause than that of preserving the memory of its capture by the
invincible Charles V--as if, to sustain that memory, which is and shall
be eternal, those stones were necessary. The Fort likewise fell, but the
Turks had to win it inch by inch, for the soldiers who defended it fought
so stoutly and bravely that they slew more than twenty-five thousand
of the enemy in the course of twenty-two general assaults. Of the three
hundred of them that were taken prisoners, not one was without a wound,
which is clear proof of their valor and determination and the ability with
which they had defended and held their posts.

"A small fort or tower that stood in the middle of the lagoon also con-
ditionally surrendered. It was under the command of a gentleman and
famous soldier of Valencia, Don Juan Zanoguerra. Among those cap-
tured was Don Pedro Puertocarrero, commandant of the Goleta, who had
done all that he could to defend his fort and felt the loss of it so keenly
that he died of grief on the way to Constantinople, where his captors
were taking him. Vet another was Gabriele Serbelloni, a Milanese gentle-
man, a great engineer and a very brave soldier.

"In the defense of these two strongholds there died many noteworthy
persons, among whom was Pagano Doria, a knight of the Order of St.
John, a man of generous disposition as was shown by the extreme liberal-
ity with which he treated his brother, the famous Giovanni Andrea
Doria; and the saddest part of it all was that he died at the hands of some
Arabs to whom, when he saw that the Fort was lost, he had entrusted
himself when they offered to conduct him, disguised in Moorish costume,
to Tabarca, a small coastal fort or station held by the Genoese, who there
ply the trade of coral fishing. The Arabs cut off his head and took it to
the commander of the Turkish fleet, who thereupon proved the truth
of our Castilian proverb that asserts that'although the treason may be
acceptable, the traitor is abhorred'; for it is said that the general in
question ordered those who had brought him this present to be hanged
because they had not delivered their victim alive.

Among the Christians in the Fort was one named Don Pedro de
Aguilar, a native of some village in Andalusia, I cannot tell you which
one; he had been an ensign and was looked upon as a most capable
soldier, and in addition, he was a man of rare intellectual attainments,
being especially gifted in what is known as poetry. I speak of him for the
reason that fate brought him to my galley and my bench, since we were
both slaves to the same master; and before we left port this gentleman
composed two sonnets in the manner of epitaphs, one to the Goleta and
the other to the Fort. As a matter of fact, I mean to recite them for you,
for I know them by heart, and I do not think they will bore you, but
quite the reverse."

When the captive mentioned Don Pedro de Aguilar's name, Don
Fernando glanced at his companions and all three of them smiled; and
when he came to read the sonnets, one of them interrupted him.

"Before your Grace goes any further," he said, "I beg you to tell me
what became of that Pedro de Aguilar of whom you speak."

All I know, replied the captive, is that at the end of the two years
he spent in Constantinople he disguised himself as an Albanian and made
his escape in the company of a Greek spy. I cannot tell you if he suc-
ceeded in regaining his liberty or not, but it is my belief that he did, for
a year later I saw the Greek in Constantinople but was unable to ask him
what the outcome of their journey had been."

"I can tell you that," replied the gentleman, "for this Don Pedro is my
brother and at this moment is in our village, in sound health, rich, mar-
ried, and the father of three children."347

"Thanks be to God," said the captive, "for all His mercies; for in my
opinion there is no happiness on earth that can equal that of recovering
one's lost liberty."

"What is more," the gentleman went on, "I am familiar with those
sonnets that my brother composed."

"Recite them, then, your Grace," said the captive, "for you will be able
to do so better than I."

"With pleasure," said the gentleman; and he proceeded to recite the one
on the Goleta, which was as follows:



CHAPTER XL.

In which the captive's story is continued.



SONNET

Blest souls that have been freed of mortal guise
And by reason of your good deeds here below,
The noble exploits that ye have to show,
Have gone to a better home there in the skies,
How often 'mid the heat of battle cries
Have ye spilt the blood of many a doughty foe
As, staining sand and sea, ye did overthrow
The wicked in their pride, O high emprise!
'Twos life not valor failed the weary arm,
And even as ye died ye well might claim
The victory, thus wrested from defeat.
Ye fell, 'tis true, and suffered mortal harm
Between the blade and wall, yet still your fame
Lives on and rises to the glory seat.

‘That is the way I remember it also," remarked the captive.

"And the one on the Fort," said the gentleman, "runs like this, if
I am not mistaken."


SONNET

Out of the sterile earth, this rubble heap,
These tumbled ruins that now strew the ground,
Three thousand souls a better home have found;
Three thousand soldiers that once here did sleep
Have gone above, their guerdon fair to reap.
It was in vain their valor did abound;
Few and exhausted, suffering many a wound,
They gave their lives their honor bright to keep.
This bit of earth has ever been the haunt
Of mournful memories beyond man's count,
Both now and in the ages long since past ;
But no more worthy souls can Heaven vaunt
Amongst the many that from this spot did mount
Than these brave ones that are Heaven's own at last.

The sonnets were not displeasing, and the captive was happy over
the news of his comrade which he had received. He then went on with
his story.

"Well, then, the Goleta and the Fort having fallen, the Turks ordered
the former stronghold dismantled, there being nothing left of the Fort
to raze; and in order to accomplish the task more speedily and with less
labor, they mined three-quarters of it, but by no device could they
succeed in blowing up what appeared to be the weakest part, namely the
old walls. On the other hand, all that remained of the new fortifications
that the Little Friar348 had built was brought to the ground with the
greatest of ease.

"Finally, the victorious fleet returned in triumph to Constantinople,
and a few months afterward my master, El Uchali, died, the one who
was known as'Uchali Fartax,'which in the Turkish tongue means
‘scurvy renegade*; for that is what he was, and it is the custom of the
Turks to bestow names that signify some fault or virtue. This is for
the reason that they have only four surnames altogether, which apply
to those descended from the Ottoman line;349 the others, as I started to
say, take their names and surnames from bodily defects or moral char-
acteristics. And this Scurvy One, being a slave of the Grand Seignior's,
had slaved at the oar for fourteen years, being then more than thirty-
four years of age when he turned renegade. The way it came about
was this: as he was rowing one day a Turk had dealt him a blow, and
in order to be revenged on the fellow he renounced his faith. After
that, his valor proved to be so outstanding that he did not have to
resort to the usual underhanded ways and means by which the Great
Turk's favorites rise at court, but was made king of Algiers and later
commander at sea, which is the office that is third in rank in that seigniory.

"El Uchali was a Calabrian by birth and a man of moral principle who
treated his captives with great humanity. He came to have three thou-
sand of them, and after his death they were divided in accordance with
the provisions of his will between the Grand Seignior (who is heir to
all who die and who shares with the offspring left by the deceased)
and his renegades. I fell to a Venetian renegade who, as a cabin boy
aboard a ship, had been captured by Uchali. His master grew so fond
of him that the youth became his prime favorite, and he also came to
be the cruelest one of his kind that was ever seen. His name was Hassan
Aga,350 and, amassing great wealth, he rose to be king of Algiers. I ac-
companied him there from Constantinople and was somewhat pleased
at being so near to Spain. Not that I intended to write to anyone there
concerning my misfortunes; but I wished to see if fortune would be
more favorable to me here than it had been in Turkey, where I had
unsuccessfully essayed a thousand different means of escape. In Algiers
I thought to find other ways of attaining what I desired; for never once
did the hope leave me of achieving my freedom; and when my plot-
tings and schemings did not come up to expectations and my attempts
were unsuccessful, I did not at once abandon myself to despair but
began to look for or invent some fresh hope to sustain me, however
faint and weak it might be.351

"In this way, I managed to keep myself alive, shut up in a prison or
house which the Turks call a bagnio, in which they confine their Chris-
tian captives, both those of the king and those belonging to certain
private individuals, and also those that are referred to as being del
Almacen, that is to say, captives that belong to the Council and serve
the city in public works and other employment. It is very difficult for
these last to obtain their freedom, for inasmuch as they are held in com-
mon and have no individual for a master, there is no one with whom to
treat regarding their ransom even where they have the means for pur-
chasing their liberation. In these bagnios, as I have said, they are accus-
tomed to place captives belonging to certain private citizens of the
town, chiefly the ones that are to be ransomed, since there they may
keep them in jafety and leisure. For the king's captives do not go out
to labor with the rest of the galley crew, unless their ransom be late
in coming, in which case, by way of inducing them to write for it more
urgently, they put them to work and send them to gather wood with
the others, which is no small task.

"I, then, was one of this group; for when they discovered that I was
a captain, although I told them that I had no fortune and few pros-
pects, they nevertheless insisted upon placing me among those gentle-
men and others who were waiting for ransom. They put a chain upon
me, but more as a mark of my status than in order to keep me from
escaping; and thus I spent my days in that bagnio along with many
important personages who had been designated and were being held
for the purpose I have mentioned. And although we were at times
harassed by hunger and the want of clothing, nothing distressed us
so much as what we almost constantly saw and heard of the cruelties,
such as never before were heard of or seen, which my master practiced
upon the Christians. Each day he hanged his man, impaled one, cut
off the ear of another; and all this with so little excuse, or with none
at all, that the Turks had to admit he did it simply to be doing it, inas-
much as their natural bent toward the entire human race is a homicidal
one.

"The only person who made out well with him was a Spanish soldier
by the name of Saavedra,352 for although this man had done things which
will remain in the memory of that people for years to come, and all
by way of obtaining his liberty, yet the Moor never dealt him a blow
nor ordered him flogged; as a matter of fact, he never even gave him
so much as a harsh word. And for the least of the many things that
Saavedra did, we were all afraid that he would be impaled, and he him-
self feared it more than once. If time permitted, which unfortunately
it "does not, I could tell you here and now something of that soldier's
exploits which would interest and amaze you much more than my own
story.

"To continue: Overlooking the courtyard of our prison were the
windows of a wealthy Moor of high rank. These, as is usually the case,
more nearly resembled peepholes and were, moreover, covered with
very thick and tightly drawn blinds. It happened, then, that one day I
and three companions were on the prison terrace, amusing ourselves
by Seeing how far we could leap with our chains on; and, since we
were alone, all the rest of the Christians having gone out to labor, I
chanced to raise my eyes, when through one of those closed windows
I saw a reed appear with a piece of linen cloth attached to the end of
it, and it was moving and waving as if signaling for us to come and
take it. As we stood gazing up at it, one of those who was with me went
over and placed himself directly beneath the reed to see if it would be
released or what would happen; but the moment he did so, it was raised
and moved from side to side as if someone were saying no by shaking
the head. The Christian then came back, and at once it was lowered
again and the person above began making exactly the same motions with
it as before. Another of my companions repeated the performance, and
the same thing happened with him. And a third man had a similar ex-
perience.

"Seeing this, I could not resist the temptation to try my luck, and
as soon as I was beneath the reed, it was dropped. It fell at my feet there
in the bagnio, and I immediately hastened to untie the linen cloth,
whereupon I found knotted in it ten cianis, which are gold coins of
base alloy in use among the Moors, each being worth ten reales in our
money.353 I need not tell you how happy I was over this windfall, and
my happiness was equaled by my wonder as to how it had come to us,
and to me in particular, since the unwillingness of the donor to release
the reed to anyone other than me showed clearly that I was the one
for whom the favor was intended. Taking the welcome money, I broke
the reed and went back to the terrace, where I once more gazed up at
the window. Then it was I saw a very white hand emerge, which
opened and closed very quickly; and by this we understood or were
led to imagine that it was some woman who lived in that house who
had shown us this act of kindness. By way of thanking her, we salaamed
after the fashion of the Moors, which is done by bowing the head,
bending the body at the waist, and crossing the arms upon the bosom.

"Shortly afterward, through the same window, there came a little
cross made of reeds, only to be at once withdrawn. This strengthened
us in the belief that some Christian woman must be a captive in that
house, and that it was she who had done us the favor; but the whiteness
of the hand and the Moorish bracelets of which we had caught a glimpse
inclined us to think otherwise, although we fancied that it might be
some fair renegade, for such women are commonly taken as lawful
wives by their masters, who are glad to do this, since they esteem them
more highly than those of their own race.

"In all our discussions about the matter, however, we were very far
from the truth; but from that time forth we were solely concerned
with looking up at that window from which the reed had appeared,
if if it had been our north star. Two weeks went by in which we had
no further sight of it, nor of the hand, nor any signal whatsoever. And
although during that time we did our best to find out who lived in
the house and if there was any renegade Christian woman in it, we
found no one who could tell us any more about the matter than that
the house belonged to a rich and prominent Moor by the name of Hadji
Morato, a former alcaide of La Pata, which is a very important office
with them.

"But just as we had given up hope of a second rain of cianis, we un-
expectedly saw the reed appear again with another knotted cloth on
the end of it, a thicker one this time. This happened at an hour when
the bagnio was all but deserted, as it had been on the previous occa-
sion, and we made the same test, each of the others in turn going to stand
beneath the window before I did, but it was only when I came up that
the reed was released and dropped. I undid the knot and found forty
Spanish gold crowns and a message written in Arabic with the sign of
the cross beneath it. I kissed the cross, took the crowns, and returned
to the terrace, where we all again salaamed. Then the hand appeared
once more, and I made signs that we would read the message, after
which the window was closed. We were at once pleased and bewildered
by what had occurred, and as none of us understood Arabic, great was
our curiosity to know what the message contained, and greater still our
difficulty in finding someone who could read it for us.

"Finally, I decided to take a certain renegade into my confidence. He
was a native of Murcia who professed to be a good friend of mine and
who had promised to keep any secret that I might entrust to him; for
it is the custom of some renegades, when they intend to return to Chris-
tian territory, to carry about with them testimonials of one sort or an-
other from important captives to the effect that So-and-So is a good
man, has always shown kindness to Christians, and is anxious to flee at
the first opportunity that offers. There are those who procure these
certificates with a proper object in mind, and there are others who
cunningly misemploy them in case of need. The latter, when they go
to commit depredations on Christian soil, if perchance they are lost
or captured, will produce their affidavits as evidence of the purpose
for which they came: namely, that of remaining in a Christian land;
and they will assert that it was for this reason they joined the Turks,
lit such a manner they escape the immediate consequences of their
act and are reconciled with the Church before it can punish them; and
then, as soon as they are able to do so, they return to Barbary to be-
come what they were before. But, as has been said, there are others
who make honest use of these certificates and actually do remain with
their coreligionists.

"It was one of these renegades who was my friend. He had testi-
monials from all of us in which we expressed our confidence in him as
forcefully as we could, and if the Moors had found him with these
papers on his person, they would have burned him alive. He was known
to be well versed in Arabic, being able not only to speak it but to write
it as well. And so, before I unbosomed myself to him, I asked him to
read the message for me, telling him that I had accidentally come upon
it in a hole in my cell. He opened it and studied it for some little time,
muttering to himself all the while. I asked him if he understood it, and
he assured me that he did, very well, and that if I wished him to give
it to me word for word, I should provide him with pen and ink, as he
could do it better that way. We gave him what he asked for, and he
translated the message little by little. When he had finished he said, 'You
will find set down here in Spanish absolutely everything that is written
on this paper; and you are to remember that where it says Lela Marien,
that means Our Lady the Virgin Mary.'

"Following is the message as he had transcribed it:


"When I was young, my father had a slave girl who taught me the
Christian zala 354 in my language, and she also told me many things about
Lela Marien. The Christian woman died, and l know that she did not
go to the fire but is with Allah, for twice afterward I saw her and she
told me to make my way to the land of the Christians to see Lela
Marien, who loved me a great deal. I do not know how to do so. I have
seen many Christians from this window, and only you have seemed to
me to be a gentleman. I am very young and beautiful and have much
money to take with me. See if you can arrange for us to go, and there
you may be my husband if you wish. If you do not wish it so, it will
not matter to me, for Lela Marien will provide someone to marry me.
I myself have written this; have a care as to whom you give it to read;
do not trust any Moor, for they are all treacherous. I am deeply con-
cerned lest you show this to someone, for if my father knew of it, he
would cast me into a well and cover me with stones. On the reed l
shall put a thread. Attach your reply to it, and in case you have no
one who can write Arabic for you, tell me by means of signs and Lela
Men will make me understand. May She and Allah and this cross
protect you. The cross I kiss many times, as the Christian slave woman
hade me.


"You can imagine, gentle folk, how astonished and pleased we were
by the contents of this message. Indeed, we showed our feelings so
openly that the renegade realized it was not by chance that this paper
had been found but that it was in reality addressed to one of our num-
ber. He accordingly now asked us if his suspicions were true, telling us
that we should confide everything to him, as he would be willing to
risk his life for our freedom. Saying this, he brought forth from his
bosom a metal crucifix and with many tears swore by the God whom
that image represented and in whom he, though a wicked sinner, still
fully and faithfully believed, that he would loyally guard all the se-
crets we might see fit to reveal to him; for he felt--indeed, he was
almost certain--that through the one who had written that message
he and all of us would be able to gain our freedom and it would be
possible for him to fulfill his dearest wish, that of returning to the
bosom of Holy Mother Church, from which like a rotten limb he had
been severed and separated through ignorance and sin.

"So many tears did the renegade shed, and so many signs of re-
pentance did he show, that we all of us unanimously consented and
agreed to tell him the truth of the matter; and so we proceeded to give
him an account of everything, keeping nothing hidden. We pointed out
to him the little window through which the reed had appeared, and
he then and there made note of the house and announced his in-
tention of taking special pains to find out who lived in it. We also de-
cided that it would be well to reply to the Moorish damsel's note, and,
seeing that we had someone there who was capable of doing this, the
renegade at once wrote out the words that I dictated to him, which were
exactly as I shall give them to you; for nothing of any importance that
happened to me in the course of this adventure has slipped my memory,
nor shall it escape me as long as I live. This was the reply that we sent
to the Moorish lady;


"May the true Allah protect you, my lady, and that blessed Mary who
is the true Mother of God and who has put it in your heart to go to
the land of the Christians, because she loves you well. Pray to her to
show you how you may carry out her command, for she is well dis-
posed and will assuredly do so. Do not fail to write and advise me of
your plans } and I will always let you have an answer . The great Allah
has given us a Christian captive who knows how to read and write youf
language, as you can plainly see from this message . Thus, with nothing
to fear, we shall he able to know your wishes. You say that if you go
to the land of the Christians, you will be my wife, and l as a good
Christian promise you that you shall be, and you know that Christians
keep their promises better than Moors. May Allah and Mary His Mother
watch over you, my lady.


"Having written and sealed this message, I waited two days until the
bagnio was deserted as usual, and then I went out to my accustomed
place on the terrace to see if the reed would appear, which it did very
shortly. As soon as I caught sight of it, although I could not see who
was letting it down, I held up the paper as a sign the person above
should attach the thread. This had already been done, however, and I
now fastened the paper to it, and shortly thereafter our star once
more made its appearance with the white banner of peace in the form
of a little bundle. It fell at my feet, and, upon picking it up, I found
in the cloth all sorts of gold and silver coins, more than fifty crowns,
which more than fifty times doubled our happiness and strengthened
our hope of obtaining our liberty.

"That same night our renegade came back and told us what he had
learned. The one who lived in that house was the same Moor whose
name, Hadji Morato, had been mentioned to us. He was enormously
rich and had one daughter, the only heir to all his wealth; and it was
the general opinion in the city that she was the most beautiful woman
in Barbary. Many of the viceroys who came there had sought her hand
in marriage, but she had been unwilling to wed; and it was also known
that she had had a female slave who was a Christian and who was now
dead. All of which bore out what was said in the note. We then took
counsel with the renegade as to what we should do in order to rescue
the Moorish damsel and make our escape to the land of Christians, and
it was finally agreed that we should wait until we had further word from
Zoraida, which was the name of the one who now wishes to be known
as Maria. For we saw plainly enough that she and no other would be
able to provide a way out of all these difficulties. When we had reached
this decision, the renegade told us not to worry, that he would set us
at liberty or lose his life in the attempt.

"For four days the bagnio was full of people, and as a result the reed
did not appear, but at the end of that period, when the place was once
more empty, the bundle was again let down, so pregnant-looking as to
promise a very happy birth. The reed and the cloth descended to me,
and I found in the latter a message and a hundred gold crowns, with
no other money whatsoever. The renegade being present, we gave him
the note to read inside our cell, and he translated it for us as follows:


"Sir, I do not know how to arrange for us to go to Spain, nor has Lela
Marien told me, although I have asked it of her . The thing that can be
done is for me to give you for this venture much money in gold. Ransom
yourself and your friends with it, and let one of you go ahead to the land
of the Christians, purchase a boat there, and return for the others. He
will find me in my father's garden, which is at the Babazon gate,355 near
the seashore. I expect to be there all this summer with my father and
my servants. You will be able to take me away from there by night and
carry me to the boat with nothing to fear. And remember that you are
to be my husband, or I shall ask Mary to punish you. If you can trust no
one to go for the boat, ransom yourself and go; for I know that you are
more trustworthy than any other, being a gentleman and a Christian.
Make it a point to become familiar with the garden; and, meanwhile,
when I see you out for a stroll, I shall know that the bagnio is empty and
will give you much money. Allah protect you, my lord.


"Such were the contents of the second note; and when all had heard
it read, each offered to be the ransomed one, promising to go and return
with all haste; and I myself made the same offer. But the renegade
opposed all this, saying he would by no means consent for anyone to go
free until we all went together; for experience had taught him that men
when freed were lax about keeping the word they had given in captivity.
He added that many times certain important captives had had recourse
to this expedient and had ransomed one of their number to go to Valencia
or Majorca, providing him with sufficient money to fit out a boat and
return for them, but he had never come back. For, the renegade observed,
liberty recovered and the dread of losing it again would erase from their
memories all the obligations that there are. By way of showing us the
truth of this statement, he briefly related for us what had recently hap-
pened to some Christian gentlemen, one of the strangest cases that had
ever been heard of in those parts where the most astonishing and terrify-
ing things are all the time occurring.

"In short, he told us that what we could and should do was to give
him the ransom money intended for one of us Christians, and he would
buy a boat there in Algiers under pretext of turning merchant and trad-
ing with Tetuan and along the coast in that region. Being a ship's mas-
ter, it would be easy for him to hit upon a way of rescuing us from the
bagnio and putting us all aboard, especially if the Moorish lady, as she
said, was to provide the money for ransoming the entire lot of us. As
free men, it would be the easiest thing in the world to embark, even
at midday. The greatest obstacle lay in the fact that the Moors would
not permit any renegade to buy or own a boat, unless it was a vessel
to go on pillaging expeditions; for they feared that if he purchased
a small one, especially if he was a Spaniard, he merely wanted it for
the purpose of escaping to Christian territory. He, our friend, could
readily overcome this difficulty, however, by taking a Tagarin Moor356
into partnership with him in the purchase of the boat and the profits
to be derived from it, and under cover of this arrangement he could
become master of the craft; and with that he regarded the rest of it
as something already accomplished.

"Although it seemed to me and to my comrades that it would have
been better to send to Majorca for the boat as the Moorish lady had
suggested, we did not dare oppose him, being fearful that if we did not
do as he said he would reveal our plans and put us in danger of losing
our lives when our dealings with Zoraida were discovered, for whose
life we would all have given our own. We accordingly determined to
leave the matter in the hands of God and in those of the renegade, and
we therewith replied to Zoraida that we would do all that she had
counseled us, since the advice she had given us was as good as if it had
come from Lela Marien herself, adding that it remained for her to
decide as to whether the project was to be postponed or put into exe-
cution at once. I also, once more, made an offer to marry her. And
so it came about that the next day, when there was no one in the
bagnio, she on various occasions by means of the reed and the cloth
conveyed to us two thousand gold crowns and a message in which she
informed us that on the next Juma, that is to say, Friday, she was leav-
ing for her father's summer place and that before she left she would give
us more money. In case this was not enough, we were to let her know
and we might have anything we asked for; for her father had so much
that he would never miss it, and, what was more, she held the keys to
everything.

"We at once gave the renegade fifteen hundred crowns with which
to buy the boat, while I took eight hundred to procure my own ransom,
giving the money to a merchant of Valencia who was in Algiers at the
time and who had the king release me on the promise that, when the
next boat arrived from home, he would pay the ransom fee; for if he
peie to pay it at once, the king might suspect that the funds had been
n Algiers for some time and that the merchant for his own profit had
ccpt the matter secret Moreover, my master was so captious that I
m no account dared pay him immediately. And so, on the Thursday be-
fore the Friday that the beauteous Zoraida had fixed as the day for going
to her father's summer place, she gave us another thousand crowns,
at the same time advising us of her departure and requesting me, in case
I was ransomed, to make myself acquainted with the site or, in any
event, to seek to procure an opportunity for going there to see her. I
replied in a few words that I would do this, urging her to be sure and
commend us to Lela Marien by making use of all those prayers that
the slave woman had taught her.

"When this had been done, it was arranged that my three companions
likewise should be ransomed, so that they would be able to leave the
bagnio; since if they saw me set at liberty while they remained behind,
despite the fact that there was sufficient money to ransom them, they
might create a disturbance and the devil might put it into their heads
to do something that would injure Zoraida. It was true that, in view of
their rank, I could feel reasonably safe in this regard, but, nevertheless,
I did not wish to imperil the undertaking, and so I had them released
at the same time as myself, paying over all the money to the merchant in
order that he might with confidence and security pledge his word,
although we never once divulged to him our secret plan, as there would
have been too much danger in doing so."




CHAPTER XLI.

In which the captive's story is still farther continued.



A FORTNIGHT had not gone by before our renegade had bought a
boat capable of carrying more than thirty persons; and by way of
rendering the project safer and allaying suspicion, he made a voy-
age, as he had suggested, to a place called Shershel which is thirty
leagues from Algiers in the direction of Oran357 and which does a large
trade in dried figs. Two or three times he did this in the company of
the Tagarin Moor I have mentioned; for Tagarinos is the name given
in Barbary to the Moors of Aragon, while those of Granada are called
Mudejares; but in the kingdom of Fez the Mudejares are termed Elches,
and they are the ones whom that king chiefly employs in war.

"To go on with my story, then: Each time that he passed with his
boat he anchored in a cove that was not two crossbow shots from
the house where Zoraida was waiting, and there, with the two little
Moors that served him as oarsmen, he would deliberately station him-
self, either to say his prayers or by way of acting out the part he was
later to perform in earnest. Thus, he would go to Zoraida's garden and
beg fruit, and her father would give it to him without recognizing
him. As he told me afterward, he would have liked to have a word
with Zoraida herself so he could tell her he was there on my orders
to bear her off to the land of the Christians and at the same time urge
her to feel safe and happy.

"This, however, was impossible, for Moorish ladies do not permit
themselves to be seen by any of their own race or by any Turk unless
their husband or father so commands them. With Christian captives,
on the other hand, they are allowed to converse and have dealings to
a rather surprising extent. For my part, I was just as glad that he had
not spoken to her, for she might have been disturbed to find her plan
being discussed by renegades.

"But God in any case had ordained otherwise, and our renegade did
not have an opportunity of gratifying his laudable desire. Seeing how
safely he was able to go to Shershel and return and anchor where he
chose, and perceiving that the Tagarin, his companion, was wholly
compliant with his wishes and that all that was needed now was a few
Christians to man the oars, he told me to look about for some that I
might take with me in addition to those that were being ransomed and
to engage them for the following Friday, which was the date he had
set for our departure. I accordingly spoke to a dozen Spaniards, all of
them powerful rowers. They were chosen from among those that were
best in a position to leave the city, and it was no small task finding so
many of them at that particular moment, since there were then twenty
ships at sea and they had taken all the available oarsmen.

"I should not have been able to find them if it had not been that their
master that summer was not going on a cruise but was occupied with
completing the construction of a galiot which he had on the stocks. All
that I told these men was that the next Friday afternoon they should
steal out one by one and wait for me in the vicinity of Hadji Morato's
garden. I gave these directions to each one separately, instructing them
that if they saw any other Christians in the neighborhood, all they were
to say to them was that I had ordered them to stay there until I came.

"Having attended to this, I had something else to do that was still
more important, and that was to let Zoraida know how far our plans
had progressed in order that she might be forewarned and not be caught
off guard if we suddenly decided to abduct her before, as she would
think, the Christian's boat would have had time to return. I therefore
resolved to go to the garden and see if I could speak with her; so on a
day before my departure I went there under pretense of gathering a
few herbs, and the first person I encountered was her father, who
addressed me in the language that throughout Barbary and even in Con-
stantinople is in use between captives and Moors, and which is neither
Moorish nor Castilian nor the tongue of any other nation, but a mixture
of all of them by means of which we manage to understand one an-
other. It was in this language that he asked me who I was and what
I was doing in his garden. I replied that I was Arnaut Mami's358 slave--
because I knew for a certainty that Arnaut Mami was a very great
friend of his--and that I was looking for herbs to make him a salad. He
then inquired as to whether I was a ransomed man or not and what
price my master wanted for me.

"As I was thus engaged in answering his questionings, the lovely
Zoraida came out of the garden house. She had caught sight of me
some while before; and since Moorish women, as I have said, are not at
all prudish about showing themselves to Christians and do not avoid
their company, she thought nothing of coming up to where her father
stood conversing with me. In fact, when her father saw her slowly
approaching, he called to her to come. It would be too much for me
to undertake to describe for you now the great beauty, the air of
gentle breeding, the rich and elegant attire with which my beloved
Zoraida presented herself to my gaze. I shall merely tell you that more
pearls hung from her comely throat, her ears, her hair than she has
hairs on her head. On her feet, which, as is the custom, were bare,
she wore two carcajes--for that is what they call bracelets for the
ankles in the Moorish tongue--made of purest gold and set with many
diamonds whose value, as she told me afterward, her father esti-
mated at ten thousand doblas,359 while those upon her wrist were worth
fully as much as the others.

"The pearls also were numerous, for the way that Moorish women
have of displaying their magnificence is by decking themselves out in
this manner.360 And so it is you find more pearls of one kind or another
among the Moors than all the other nations combined have to show, and
Zoraida's father was reputed to have an abundance of them and the
best that there were in Algiers. In addition, he had more than two hun-
dred thousand Spanish crowns, and the fair one I now call mine was
mistress of all this wealth.

"If you would form an idea of how beautiful she was in her pros-
perous days and when so adorned, you have but to observe how much
of beauty is left her now after all that she has suffered. For it is a
well-known fact that the beauty of some women has its day and sea-
son and is diminished or heightened by accidental causes. It is, more-
over, a natural thing that the passions of the mind should add to or
detract from it, and most often they destroy it utterly. What I am
trying to say is that, as she came toward me that day, she impressed me
as being, both in herself and in her adornments, the most dazzling
creature that I had ever seen, and when I thought of all that I owed
to her, it seemed to me that I had before me a goddess from Heaven
who had come to earth for my delight and comfort.

"As she came up, her father told her in their language that I was the
captive of his friend, Arnaut Mami, and that I had come to look for a
salad. She gave me her hand and, in that admixture of tongues that I
have described, asked me if I was a gentleman and why it was I had
not been ransomed. I replied that I already had been, and that from
the price paid she could see the esteem in which my master held me,
for the sum of one thousand five hundred soltanis361 had been put up for
me. To which she answered,' In truth, had you been my father's
slave, I would not have permitted him to let you go for twice as much,
for you Christians always lie in everything you say and make your-
selves out to be poor in order to cheat the Moors.'

"'That may be, lady,' I said,'but I dealt truthfully with my master,
as I do and shall do with everybody in this world.'

"'And when are you going?'Zoraida asked.

"'Tomorrow, I expect; for there is a vessel here from France that
sets sail then and I intend to go on it.'

"'Would it not be better,' said Zoraida, 'to wait for one from Spain,
seeing that the French are not your friends?'"

"'No,' I told her 'although if I were certain that a ship from Spain
was on the way, I would wait for it. It is more likely, however, that I
shall go tomorrow, for the desire I have to see my native land and my
loved ones is such that I cannot bear to wait for another opportunity,
mil though a better one, if it be late in coming.'^

"'You no doubt have a wife in your own country, she said, and I
suppose you are anxious to see her.'"

"'No,' I assured her,' I am not married, but I have promised to wed
as soon as I return.'

"'And is the lady to whom you have given this promise beautiful?'

"'She is so beautiful,' I replied,'that by way of praising her and tell-
ing the simple truth, I will say that she very much resembles you.'

"Her father laughed heartily at this. 'In Allah's name, Christian,' he
said,' she must be beautiful indeed if she is like my daughter, who is
the most beautiful in all this realm. If you do not believe me, look at her
well and tell me if I do not speak the truth.'

"Throughout the greater part of this conversation, Zoraida's father
acted as our interpreter, being the more adept at languages; for while
she spoke the bastard tongue that, as I have said, is in use there, she
expressed her meaning by signs rather than by words.

"As we were discussing these and other subjects, a Moor came run-
ning up, crying in a loud voice that four Turks had leaped the garden
railing or wall and were picking the fruit although it was not yet ripe.
Both the old man and Zoraida were alarmed at this; for the fear that
the Moors have of the Turks is a common and, so to speak, an in-
stinctive thing. They are especially afraid of Turkish soldiers, who
treat their Moorish subjects more haughtily, insolently, and cruelly
than if the latter were their slaves.

"Zoraida's father then said to her,'Daughter, retire to the house and
shut yourself in while I speak to these dogs. As for you, Christian, gather
your herbs and go in peace, and may Allah bring you safely to your
own country.'

"I bowed, and he went away to look for the Turks, leaving me alone
with Zoraida, who made as if to go back into the house as her father
had commanded her. He had no sooner disappeared among the garden
trees, however, than she, her eyes brimming with tears, turned to me
and said, 'Tameji, Christian, tameji?'362 Which means,'Are you going,
Christian, are you going?'

"And I answered her, 'Yes, lady, but under no condition without you.
Wait for me next Jumd, and do not be frightened when you see us, for
we are surely going to the land of the Christians.'

"I said this in such a way that she understood everything very well;
and, throwing her arm about my neck, she began with faltering step
to walk toward the house. But as luck would have it--and it would
have been very unlucky indeed for us if Heaven had not ordered it
otherwise--as we were going along in this manner, her father, who
was coming back from his encounter with the Turks, caught sight of
us, and we knew that he had seen us and had seen her arm about me.
But Zoraida, cleverly on her guard, did not remove her arm; instead,
she clung to me more than ever and laid her head upon my bosom,
swaying at the knees a little and giving every evidence of having fainted,
while I pretended to be supporting her against my will. The old man
ran up to us and, seeing his daughter in this condition, asked her what
the matter was.

"'Undoubtedly,' he said, when he received no reply,' It was those
dogs coming into the garden that did this to her.' And, taking her off
my bosom, he pressed her to his own, as she, her eyes not yet dry from
her tears, sighed deeply and said, 'Ameji, Christian, amej!'"363

"'It is not necessary, my daughter, for the Christian to go,' her
father said.'He has done you no harm, and the Turks have left. There
is no cause for you to be frightened, for nothing is going to hurt you,
since the Turks at my request have gone back to where they belong.'

"'It is true, sir, as you have said,' I told him,'that they have given
her a fright; but since she says for me to go, I would not cause her any
annoyance; and so, peace be with you, and with your permission I will
return to this garden for herbs, if I find it necessary, for my master
says there are no better ones for salad than those that grow here.'

"'Come back for all that you need,' replied Hadji Morato. 'My daugh-
ter does not say this because you or any of the other Christians annoy
her. She either meant that the Turks should go, not you, or else that it
was time you were looking for your herbs.'

"With this, I at once took my leave of both of them, and Zoraida,
who appeared to be suffering deeply, went away with her father, while
I, under pretense of gathering my salad, was able to roam the garden
at will. I carefully noted the entrances and exits, the means they used
to secure the house, and everything that might facilitate our plan; after
which, I went to give an account of what had happened to the rene-
gade and my companions. In the meanwhile, I looked forward to the
time when I should be able to enjoy undisturbed the boon which fate
had bestowed upon me in the person of the beauteous and charming
Zoraida.

"Time went by, and at length the day came that meant so much to
us. With all of us following the plan which, after many long discus*
sions and the most careful consideration, we had decided upon, we met
with the success that we longed for. On the next Friday after the
day on which I had spoken to Zoraida in the garden, our renegade at
nightfall anchored his boat almost directly opposite the house where
she was, the Christians who were to man the oars having been notified
in advance that they might hide themselves in various places round
about. As they waited for me, they were all of them anxious and elated,
eager to board the vessel on which their gaze was fixed; for they were
unaware of the arrangement with the renegade and thought that they
would have to gain their freedom by force of arm, through slaying the
Moors who were on the boat.

"Accordingly, as soon as I and my companions showed ourselves, those
who were in hiding sighted us and came up. This was at an hour when
the gates of the city were closed, and in the whole of the country-
side not a soul was to be seen. When we were all together, we discussed
the question as to whether it would be better to go first for Zoraida or
to make prisoners of the Moorish oarsmen. Before we had reached a
decision, our renegade arrived and asked us what was the cause of our
delay, for it was now time, all the Moors being off guard and most of
them asleep. I told him why we were hesitating, and he replied that the
most important thing was to capture the vessel first of all, which could
be done very easily and with no danger whatever, and after that we
could go for Zoraida. We all agreed with him, and so, without waiting
any longer and with him as our guide, we went to the vessel, where
he was the first to leap aboard. Laying a hand on his cutlass, he cried
in the Moorish tongue,'None of you stir from here or it will cost
you your lives!'

"By this time nearly all the Christians were aboard; and the Moors,
who were possessed of little courage, upon hearing their captain ad-
dress them in this manner, were thoroughly terrified. None of them
dared reach for his weapons, and for that matter, they had few if any;
and so, without saying a word, they let themselves be shackled by the
Christians, who accomplished this very quickly, threatening them that
if they raised any kind of outcry they would all die by the knife.

"When this had been achieved, with half our number remaining be-
hind to guard the prisoners, the rest of us, again with the renegade as
our guide, made our way to Hadji Morato's garden; and it was our good
fortune that, as we went to try the gate, it swung open as readily as if
it had not been locked. We then, very quietly and saying nothing, went
on to the house without our presence being discovered by anyone.
Zoraida, fairest of the fair, was waiting for us at a window, and as soon
as she heard the sound of people below, she asked in a low voice if wc
were Nizarani, that is to say, Christians. I answered in the affirmative,
saying that she should come down. Recognizing me, she did not hesi-
tate for a moment, but without a word she came down instantly and,
opening the door, appeared there in the sight of all, so beautiful and so
richly clad that I cannot possibly tell you how she looked.

"As soon as I saw her, I took one of her hands and began kissing
it, and the renegade and my two comrades did the same, while the
others, being unacquainted with the circumstances, followed our exam-
ple, since it seemed to them that we were merely recognizing and thank-
ing her as the lady who was responsible for our going free. The rene-
gade asked in Moorish if her father was in the house, and she replied
that he was sleeping.

"'Then it will be necessary to wake him,' he said,'for we must take
him with us and everything of value that there is in this beautiful sum-
mer place.'

"'No,' she answered,' you must by no means lay hands on my father.
In this house there is nothing for you save that which I bring with me,
and it is enough to make you all rich and happy. Wait a moment and
you will see.'

"She then went back into the house, saying she would return at
once and bidding us meanwhile not to make any noise. I took this op-
portunity of asking the renegade what had passed between them, and
when he told me, I made it clear to him that under no condition was
he to go beyond Zoraida's wishes. She now reappeared with a small
trunk filled with gold crowns, so heavy that she could hardly carry it.
At that instant, unfortunately, her father awoke and, hearing a noise
in the garden, came to the window and looked out. Recognizing us all
as Christians, he began bawling at the top of his lungs in Arabic,'Chris-
tians! Christians! Thieves! Thieves!' This frightened us very much and
threw us into confusion; but the renegade, perceiving the danger we
were in and how important it was to go through with our undertaking
before being detected, ran up as fast as he could to where Hadji Morato
was, being accompanied by some of the rest of us. As for myself I did
not dare leave Zoraida unprotected, for she, half fainting, had fallen in
my arms.

"In brief, those who went up handled the matter so expeditiously
that in a moment they were back, bringing with them Hadji Morato,
his hands bound and with a napkin over his mouth so that he could
not speak a word--and they threatened him that if he tried to speak it
would cost him his life. When his daughter saw him, she put her hands
over her eyes, and her father in turn was horrified at sight of her, not
knowing that she had placed herself in our hands of her own free
will. But it was essential now for us to be on our way, and so we
hastily but with due care boarded the ship, where those that we had
left behind were waiting for us, fearful that some untoward accident
had befallen us.

"It was a little after two in the morning by the time we were all on
the vessel. They then untied Hadji Morato's hands and removed the
napkin from his mouth, but the renegade again warned him not to say
anything or they would kill him. As the old man looked at his daugh-
ter, he began sighing mournfully, especially when he saw her held
tightly in my embrace, and when he observed that she did not struggle,
protect, or attempt to escape me; but he nonetheless remained silent
lest they carry out the renegade's threat.

"Finding herself on the boat now and perceiving that we were about
to row away while her father and the other Moors remained bound,
Zoraida spoke to the renegade, requesting him to do her the favor of
releasing the prisoners, particularly her father, as she would rather cast
herself into the sea than have a parent who loved her so dearly carried
away captive in front of her eyes and through her fault. The renegade
repeated to me what she had said, and, for my part, I was quite willing.
He, however, replied that this was not the wise thing to do, for the
reason that, if they were left behind, they would alarm the entire city
and countryside, whereupon some fast-sailing craft would put out in
pursuit of us and so comb the sea and land that there would be no pos-
sibility of our escaping. What we might do, he added, was to give
them their freedom as soon as we set foot on Christian soil. We all
agreed to this, and when the matter was explained to Zoraida, along
with the reasons why we could not comply with her wishes, she also
was satisfied. And then, gladly and silently, cheerfully and with alacrity,
each one of our powerful rowers took up his oar, as, commending our-
selves with all our hearts to God, we set out on our voyage to the
island of Majorca, which is the nearest Christian territory.

"However, inasmuch as the tramontane wind364 was blowing a little
and the sea was a bit rough, it was impossible for us to follow the route
to Majorca, and we were compelled to hug the coast in the direction
of Oran. This worried us considerably, for we feared that we would
be discovered from the town of Shershel, which is about seventy miles
from Algiers. And we also were afraid that we might encounter in those
waters one of the galiots that commonly ply the coast with merchandise
of Tetuan, although each of us secretly felt that if we did meet with
a merchant vessel of that sort, providing it was not a cruiser, we not
only should not be captured but, rather, should be able to come into
possession of a craft in which we could more safely complete our voy-
age. In the meantime, as we were sailing along, Zoraida buried her face
in my hands in order not to see her father, and I could hear her calling
on Lela Marien to come to our aid.

"We must have gone a good thirty miles when dawn came, and we
found ourselves at a distance of something like three musket shots off
land. The shore was deserted, and we saw no one who might descry
us, but, nevertheless, by rowing as hard as we could we put out a little
more to the open sea, which was now somewhat calmer. When we were
about two leagues from the coast, the order was given to row by turns
so that we could have a bite to eat, the ship being well stocked with
food; but those at the oars said it was not yet time for them to take a
rest--the others might eat, but they themselves did not wish on any
account to relax their efforts. We were starting to do as they had sug-
gested when a strong wind came up, which obliged us to leave off row-
ing and set sail at once for Oran, that being the only course left us. All
this was done very quickly, and with the sail we made more than eight
miles an hour, with no fear other than that of falling in with a vessel
that was out cruising.

"We gave the Moorish rowers some food, and the renegade consoled
them by telling them they were not captives but would be given their
freedom at the first opportunity. He said the same to Zoraida's father,
who replied,' If you promised me anything else, O Christian, I might
believe it and hope for it by reason of the generous treatment you have
accorded me, but when it comes to setting me free, do not think that
I am so simple-minded as to put any credence in that; for you would
never have incurred the risk of depriving me of my liberty only to
restore it to me so freely, especially since you know who I am and
the profit you may derive from releasing me. Indeed, if you wish to
name the sum, I hereby offer you whatever you ask for me and for this
unfortunate daughter of mine, or for her alone, for she is the greater
and better part of my soul.'

"As he said this, he began weeping so bitterly that we were all moved
to compassion, and Zoraida could not resist stealing a glance at him.
When she saw him weeping, she was so touched that she rose from my
feet end went over to embrace him, and as she laid her cheek against
hie the two of them shed so many tears that a number of us could not
but join them in their weeping. But when her father perceived that she
was in festive attire and decked out in all her jewels, he spoke to her
in their own language.

"'How does it come, my daughter,' he said,'that last night, at dusk,
before this terrible thing happened to us, I saw you clad in ordinary
household garb; and now, without your having had time to dress, and
without my having brought you any good news to celebrate by thus
adorning and bedecking your person, I nonetheless behold you wearing
the best garments with which I was able to provide you when fortune
smiled upon us--Answer me this, for I am even more astonished and
bewildered by it than I am by this misfortune that has come to us.'

The renegade informed us of all that the Moor had said to his daugh-
ter, who did not utter a word in reply. And when the old man saw, over
at one side of the boat, the small trunk in which she was in the habit
of keeping her jewels, he was more bewildered than ever; for he knew
very well that he had not brought it to the summer place but had left
it in Algiers. He thereupon asked her how the trunk had come into our
hands and what was inside it; and then the renegade, without giving
Zoraida time to answer, spoke up.

'You need not trouble, sir, to ask your daughter Zoraida so many
questions, for I can give you one answer that will serve for all. I would
have you know that she is a Christian, and that it is she who has filed
our chains for us and set us free from our captivity. She goes of her
own free will and, I fancy, is as happy about it as one who emerges
from darkness into light, from death into life, or from the pains of hell
into glory everlasting.'

"'Is it true, my daughter, what this man says?' asked the Moor.

"'It is,' said Zoraida.

"'So you are a Christian,' said the old man, 'and it is you who have
placed your father in the hands of his enemies?'

"'As to my being a Christian,' she told him,'that is true enough, but
it is not true that I am responsible for your being in this situation; for
I never had any desire to leave you or to do you harm, but only to do
good to myself.'

"'And what good have you done yourself, daughter?'

"'Put that question,' she said,'to Lela Marien, for she can tell you
better than I.'

"No sooner had he heard this than the Moor, with an incredibly
swift movement, hurled himself head foremost into the sea; and he
would undoubtedly have drowned if the long and cumbersome robe
that he wore had not tended to bear him up. Zoraida screamed for some-
one to rescue him, whereupon we all ran forward and, seizing him by
his robe, hauled him in, half drowned and unconscious, at which his
daughter was so distressed that she wept over him as bitterly and mourn-
fully as if he were already dead. We turned him face downward and
he disgorged much water, and after a couple of hours he was himself
once more.

"Meanwhile, the wind had changed and we had to make for land,
exerting all our strength at the oars in order not to be driven ashore.
Luck was with us, and we were able to put into a cove alongside a
promontory or cape which the Moors call Cava Rumia,365 signifying in
our language'the wicked Christian woman'; for it is a tradition among
them that La Cava, through whom Spain was lost, is buried in that
spot, 'cava' in their tongue meaning 'bad woman,' while 'rumia' is 'Chris-
tian.' They regard it as bad luck to be compelled to drop anchor there,
and they never do so unless it is absolutely necessary. But for us it was
not the 'bad woman's' shelter; rather, it was a haven in distress, as the
sea was now raging.

"Stationing our sentinels on land and never once relinquishing the
oars, we ate what the renegade had provided and prayed to God and
Our Lady with all our hearts that they would favor and aid us in order
that we might bring to a happy conclusion an undertaking that had be-
gun so propitiously. Upon Zoraida's request, the order was given to set
her father and all the other Moors ashore, for her tender heart could
not bear to see her father thus bound and her fellow countrymen held
prisoners in front of her very eyes. We promised her that this should
be done as soon as it came time for us to depart; for we ran no risk by
leaving them in this deserted place. Our prayers were not in vain; for,
Heaven favoring us, the wind changed and the sea grew calm, inviting
us to resume with cheerful hearts the voyage that we had begun.

"We then unbound the Moors and, one by one, set them on land,
at which they were greatly astonished; but when it came to disembark-
ing Zoraida's father, who had by now completely recovered his senses,
he gave us a piece of his mind.

"'Why do you think, Christians,' he said,'that this wicked female
is happy at your giving me my liberty--Do you imagine that it is out
of filial affection--Assuredly not. It is only because my presence is an
impediment to the carrying out of her base designs. And do not think
that what has led her to change her religion is a belief that yours is
better than ours; it is because she knows that in your country im-
modesty is more freely practiced than in ours.'

"As her father spoke, another Christian and I held Zoraida's arms
that she might not be tempted to some foolish act. The old man now
turned upon her.

"'O infamous and ill-advised maiden! Where do you think you are
going, so blindly and foolishly, with these dogs, our natural enemies--
Cursed be the hour in which I begot you, and cursed all the luxury
in which I have reared you!'

"Seeing that he was likely to go on in this way for some while, I
hastened to put him ashore; and from there he kept on shouting at us,
pursuing us with his curses and lamentations as he implored Mohammed
to pray to Allah that we be destroyed, confounded, and brought to an
end. And when, having set sail, we could no longer hear his words, we
could still see his gestures, could see him plucking out his beard, tear-
ing his hair, and rolling on the ground. At one point he raised his voice
to such a pitch that we could make out what he said.

"'Return, my beloved daughter, return to land, and I will forgive you
everything. Give those men the money that is yours and come back
to comfort your brokenhearted father, who, if you leave him now, will
leave his bones on these deserted sands.'

"Zoraida heard all this and was deeply grieved by it. Weeping, she
could only say to him in reply, 'O my father, may it please Allah that
Lela Marien, who has been the cause of my turning Christian, console
you in your sorrow! Allah well knows that I could have done nothing
other than what I did. These Christians are in no wise to blame, for
even had I not wished to come with them, even had I chosen to remain
at home, it would have been impossible, so eagerly did my soul urge me
to do that which to me seems as good, my dear father, as it seems evil
to you.'

"When she said this, her father could no longer hear her, for we
had lost him from view; and so, while I comforted Zoraida, we all of
us turned our attention to the voyage, as we now had a wind so favor-
able that we firmly expected to be off the coast of Spain by dawn the
next day.

"Blessings, however, are almost never unmixed with some evil that,
without our having foreseen it, comes to disturb them. It may have
been simply our misfortune, or it may have been those curses that the
Moor had heaped upon his daughter (for a curse of that kind is always
to be dreaded, whatever the father may be like), but, in any event, our
luck now changed. We were on the high seas, and the night was a little
more than three hours gone. We were proceeding at full sail with the
oars lashed, since the wind had relieved us of the necessity of using
them, when by the light of the moon, which was shining brightly,
we sighted alongside us a square-rigged vessel with all sails set that was
luffing a little and standing across our course.366 It was so close upon us
that we had to strike sail in order not to run foul of her, while they
swung their prow about to give us room to pass.

"They now came to the ship's rail to ask us who we were, from
where we came, and where we were going. When these questions were
put to us in French, our renegade said, 'Let no one answer, for they
are undoubtedly French pirates who plunder everything in sight.'As
a result of this warning, no one said a word in reply. We were a little
ahead, and the other vessel was lying to leeward, when suddenly they
fired two pieces of artillery, both of them, as it seemed, loaded with
chain-shot; for with one they cut our mast in half and brought both
mast and sail down into the sea, while the other cannon, discharged
at the same moment, sent a shot into the middle of our craft, laying it
wide open but doing no further damage to it. As we saw ourselves
sinking, we began crying out for help, imploring those on the other
ship to come to our aid as we were filling with water. They then struck
their own sails, and, lowering a skiff or boat, as many as a dozen French-
men, all well armed, with matchlocks and matches lighted, came along-
side us. When they saw how few we were and how our craft was going
down, they took us in, telling us that this had come about through our
discourtesy in not answering them.

"Our renegade, then, without anyone's seeing what he did, took the
trunk containing Zoraida's wealth and dumped it into the sea. To make
a long story short, we all went aboard with the Frenchmen, who, after
they had learned everything they wished to know about us, proceeded
to despoil us of all that we possessed as if we had been their deadly
enemies. They even took Zoraida's anklets, but this did not grieve me
as much as it did her. What I feared more was that, having deprived
her of her exceedingly rich and precious gems, they would go on to
steal that jewel that was worth more than all the others and which she
most esteemed. Their desires, however, did not go beyond money, in
which regard they were insatiable in their covetousness. They would
even have taken the garments their captives wore if these had been of
any use to them. Some of them were for wrapping us all in a sail and
tossing us into the sea; for it was their intention, by passing themselves
off as Bretons, to put in at certain Spanish ports, and if they brought
us in alive they would be punished when the theft was discovered.

"But the captain, who was the one who had despoiled my beloved
Zoraida, said that he was content with the prize that he had and did not
wish to stop at any port in Spain. Instead, he preferred to slip through
the Strait of Gibraltar at night, or any way he could, and go on to La
Rochelle, the port from which he had put out. Accordingly, they agreed
to let us take their small boat and all that we needed for the brief voyage
that remained for us. This they did the next day, within sight of the
Spanish coast, a sight that caused us wholly to forget all our sufferings
and hardships, which were as if they had never been, so great is the
joy that comes from recovering one's lost freedom.

"It may have been around midday when they put us in the boat,
giving us two kegs of water and some biscuit. And as the lovely
Zoraida went to embark, the captain, moved by some sympathetic im-
pulse or other, gave her as many as twenty gold crowns and would not
permit his men to take from her those same garments that she is now
wearing. As we entered the small boat, we thanked them for their kind-
ness, our manner being one of gratitude rather than indignation, and
they then put out to sea, making for the Strait, while we, needing no
other compass than the land that lay ahead of us, bent to the oars so
lustily that by sundown we were, as we thought, near enough to be
able to reach it before the night was far gone.

"But as there was no moon and the sky was darkened over and we
were ignorant of our exact whereabouts, it did not seem wise to at-
tempt a landing, although many of us thought that we should do so,
saying that it would be better to run ashore even if it were on some
rocks, far from any inhabited place, since in that way we would assure
ourselves against the very likely danger of Tetuan corsairs, who at night
are in Barbary and by morning off the coast of Spain, where they
commonly take some prize and then return to sleep in their own houses.
There were a number of conflicting suggestions, but the one that was
finally adopted was that we should gradually draw near the shore and,
if the sea was calm enough to permit it, land wherever we were able.

"This was the plan followed, and shortly before midnight we came
to the foot of an enormous and very high mountain that was not so
near the sea but that it afforded a convenient space for a landing. We
ran up on the sand and leaped ashore, kissing the ground on which we
stood and shedding many joyful tears as we gave thanks to God, Our
Lord, for the incomparable blessing that He had conferred upon us.
Removing the provisions from the boat, we drew it ashore and then
went a long way up the mountain; for even here we could not feel
in our hearts or bring ourselves to believe that the land beneath our feet
was Christian soil. The sun, it seemed to me, came up more slowly than
we could have wished, and in the meanwhile we had climbed the entire
mountainside in an effort to see if we could discover any village or
even a few shepherds'huts; but however much we strained our eyes,
we were able to descry no village, no human being, no path, no road.

"Nevertheless, we determined to keep on and go farther inland, since
surely we could not fail to come upon someone who could give us our
bearings. What distressed me more than anything else was seeing Zoraida
go on foot over this rough country; for though I once tried carrying her
on my shoulders, my weariness wearied her more than she was rested
by her repose, and so she would not again consent to my making the
exertion but went along very cheerfully and patiently, her hand in
mine. We had gone, I imagine, a little less than a quarter of a league
when there reached our ears the sound of a little bell, which showed
plainly that we must be near some flock or herd, and as we all gazed
about us attentively to see if we could discern any, we saw at the foot
of a cork tree a young shepherd who very calmly and unconcernedly
was engaged in whittling a stick with his knife.

"We called to him, and he, raising his head, got to his feet very
nimbly. As we afterward learned, the first persons that he caught sight
of among us were the renegade and Zoraida, and seeing them in Moor-
ish costume, he thought that all Barbary must have descended upon
him. Dashing with amazing swiftness into a near-by wood, he began
raising a terrible din as he shouted,'Moors! Moors! The Moors have
landed! Moors! Moors! To arms! To arms!'

"We were quite perplexed by all this, not knowing what to do; but,
reflecting that the shepherd's cries would arouse the countryside and
that the mounted coast guard would soon be along to find out what
the trouble was, we decided that the renegade should take off his Turk-
ish clothes and put on a captive's jacket, which one of us now gave him
though he himself was left with only his shirt. And then, commending
ourselves to God, we proceeded along the same path that the shepherd
had taken, expecting that the guard would be upon us at any mo-
ment. In this we were not wrong, for two hours had not gone by when,
as we were coming out of a thicket onto a plain, we caught sight of all
of fifty horsemen coming toward us at top speed.

"As soon as we saw them, we stopped and watched them, and they,
when they came up and found, in place of the Moors they were seek-
ing, a handful of poor Christians, were very much surprised. One of
them asked if it was we who had caused the shepherd to sound the call
to arms. 'Yes,' I replied, and was about to go on and tell him our story,
who we were and from whence we came, when one of our number
happened to recognize the horseman who had put the question and,
without giving me a chance to reply, spoke up and said, 'Thanks be to
God, sirs, for having brought us into such good hands; for unless I am
mistaken, this region where we now are is in the neighborhood of
Velez Malaga--unless all the years of my captivity have so deprived
me of my memory that I cannot recall that you, sir, who have just
asked us our names, are Pedro de Bustamente, my uncle.'

"The Christian captive had no sooner said this than the horseman
dismounted and came up to embrace the young fellow.'My dearest
nephew!' he cried. 'I recognize you now. I and my sister--your mother
--and all your relatives who are still alive have wept for you as dead,
and now it appears that God has been pleased to prolong their lives
that they might have the pleasure of seeing you again. We had heard
that you were in Algiers, but from the look of your garments and those
of all this company I realize that you have been miraculously liberated.'

"'That,'replied the young man,' Is the truth, and there will be time
to tell you all about it.'

"As soon as the guardsmen realized that we were Christian captives,
they dismounted, and each then offered us his own horse to carry us
to the city of Velez Malaga, which was a league and a half from there.
We told them where we had left the boat, and some of them went back
to get it and take it to the town. Others mounted behind us on the
cruppers, Zoraida going with the young man's uncle.

"The entire town came out to receive us, for someone had ridden
ahead and told them of our coming. They were not the kind of folk
to be astonished at seeing captives free or Moors held prisoner, being
quite accustomed to such a sight. What they rather marveled at was
Zoraida's beauty. Despite the fact that she was weary from the journey,
she looked her loveliest at that moment, so joyful was she at finding
herself on Christian soil with nothing to fear any longer. Happiness had
put so much color into her face that--unless it can be that my love for
her deceived me--I shall venture to say that there never was a more
beautiful creature in all this world, none that I have ever seen, at any
rate.

"We went directly to the church to thank God for his mercy; and as
soon as Zoraida entered the portals, she remarked that there were faces
there that resembled that of Lela Marien. We informed her that these
were images of the Virgin, and the renegade to the best of his ability then
went on to explain what their meaning was and how she might worship
them as if each were the same Lela Marien who had spoken to her. Being
possessed of a good, clear mind, she understood all this very readily.
After that, they took us to various houses in the town, and the Chris-
tian who had come with us brought the renegade, Zoraida, and me to
the home of his parents, who were people in moderately comfortable
circumstances and who entertained us with as great a show of affection
as they did their own son.

"We were in Velez for six days, at the end of which time the rene-
gade, having ascertained what he had to do, departed for Granada in
order that, through the mediation of the Holy Inquisition, he might
be restored to the sacred bosom of the Church. Each of the other
liberated Christians went his own way, Zoraida and I being left with
no other means than the crowns which the French captain had courte-
ously given her. With them I purchased the beast on which she now
rides; and with me serving her up to now as father and squire, not as
husband, we are at present on our way to see if my own father is still
alive or if one of my brothers has prospered to a greater extent than I.

"Seeing that Heaven has seen fit to give her to me as my com-
panion, I can imagine no other fortune, however good, that might come
to me which I should hold to be of greater worth. The patience with
which she endures the hardships that poverty brings with it, and her
desire to become a Christian, are such as to fill me with admiration
and induce me to serve her all my life long. My happiness, however, at
knowing that I am hers and she is mine is marred by the fact that I am
at a loss where to find a nook in my own country in which to shelter
her. For it may be that time and death have wrought such changes in
the life and fortunes of my father and my brothers that, if they should
not be there, I shall hardly find anyone who is acquainted with me.

"Gentle folk, that is all there is to my story. As to whether it be a
pleasing and a curious one, that is for you in your good judgment to
decide. For my own part, I may say that I should like to have told it
more briefly, although, as it is, the fear of tiring you has led me to omit
a number of incidents."



CHAPTER XLII.

Which treats of further happenings at the inn and
other things worthy of being known.



Wth these words the captive was silent, whereupon Don Fernando
addressed him.

"Most assuredly, Captain," he said, "your manner of relating this
extraordinary adventure has been equal to the novelty and unusual char-
acter of the subject matter. Your story is a strange one indeed, filled
with incidents such as cause those who hear it to marvel greatly. We
have enjoyed listening to it so much that we should be glad if you were
to begin it all over again, even though tomorrow should find us still
taken up with the same tale."

Cardenio and all the others then spoke in turn, offering to serve the
captain in any way that they possibly could, and their words were so
warm and sincere that he was quite touched by these expressions of
good will. Don Fernando in particular told him that if he wished to
come back with him, he would have the marquis, his brother, act as
godfather at Zoraida's baptism, while on his own part he would be glad
to fit him out so that he would be able to return to his own province
with the dignity and outward appearance that befitted his rank. For all
these generous offers the captain thanked them most courteously,
although he would not accept any of them.

Night was now coming on, and just as darkness fell a coach accom-
panied by a number of men on horseback drew up at the inn; but when
. the newcomers asked for a lodging, the innkeeper's wife replied that
there was not a hand's breadth of space in the hostelry that was not
occupied.

"That being the case," said one of the mounted attendants who had
ridden into the courtyard, "room must be found for his Lordship the
judge."

Upon hearing this, the landlady was all aflutter. "Sir," she said, "the
truth of the matter is that I have no beds; but if his Lordship carries one
with him, as I have no doubt he does, let him come in, and welcome,
for my husband and I will be glad to give up our room to accommodate
him."

"That will do very well," said the squire.

At that moment there descended from the coach an individual whose
garb plainly indicated the office and rank he held; for his long robe
with the ruffled sleeves showed him to be a judge, as his servant had said.
By his hand he led a damsel who looked to be around sixteen years of
age. She was in traveling attire and was so beautiful, well bred, and ele-
gant in appearance that all who beheld her were struck with admiration.
Indeed, had they not seen Dorotea and Luscinda and Zoraida, who were
now inside the inn, they would have regarded this maiden's loveliness
as being of a sort that was hard to find.

Don Quixote was there when the judge and the young lady came
in, and as soon as he saw them, he said to his Lordship, "Your Grace
may enter and take your ease in this castle; for though it is but poor
and lacking in conveniences, there is no poverty or inconvenience in
the world that cannot provide accommodation for arms and letters, espe-
cially when arms and letters have beauty for their guide and leader,
as letters, represented by your Grace, have in this charming damsel, for
whom not only should castle gates be thrown wide open, but cliffs
should rend themselves and mountains divide and bow low to give her
welcome. Enter, your Grace, I say again, into this paradise; for here
will be found stars and suns to keep company with the Heaven that
your Grace brings with you. Here you will find the bravest of the
brave and the fairest of the fair, both arms and beauty at their highest
point of excellence."

The judge was astonished by this speech of Don Quixote's and stared
at him very hard, being no less amazed by the knight's appearance than
by his words; and he was still further surprised when he beheld Luscinda,
Dorotea, and Zoraida, who, having heard of the arrival of the new guests
and having been told by the landlady how beautiful the damsel was,
had come out to see and welcome the young lady. Don Fernando, Car-
denio, and the curate greeted the judge in a manner that was at once
more intelligible and more urbane, while the beautiful ladies of the inn
were doing the honors to his fair companion; but with it all, his Lord-
ship was not a little bewildered as he made his entrance.

He could see that they were all persons of quality, but he was wholly
at a loss to account for the figure, face, and bearing of Don Quixote.
When the polite exchange of greetings was over and the question of
accommodations had been discussed, it was finally decided that the
previous arrangement was to stand and that all the women should
sleep together in the garret already mentioned, while the men should
remain outside as a kind of guard for them. The judge was well pleased
that the damsel who accompanied him and who was his daughter was to
be lodged with the other ladies, and she accepted with right good
grace. And so, sharing between them what the landlord could provide
and his Lordship had brought with him in the way of beds, they made
out that night better than they expected.

The moment he laid eyes upon the judge, the captive's367 heart had
given a bound, for something told him that this was his own brother.
He accordingly now inquired of one of the attendants what his Lord-
ship's name was and from what province he came. The servant replied
that his master was the licentiate Juan Perez de Viedma and that he had
heard it said that he was from a village in the mountains of Leon. This
information together with what he had seen of the man was enough to
convince the captive that the new arrival was indeed his brother, the one
who upon their father's urging had chosen the profession of letters.368
Very happy and excited, he called Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the
curate to one side and explained the situation to them, assuring them that
he was certain he was right.

The attendant had further stated that his Lordship was on his way
to the Indies, having been appointed a judge of the High Tribunal369 of
Mexico. The damsel accompanying him was his daughter, whose mother
had died in childbirth, leaving her husband very rich through the dowry
that came to him with the girl. And the captive was now asking advice
as to the best way in which to reveal his identity and how he might first
find out if his brother, seeing him poor like this, would be ashamed of
him or would receive him warmly and affectionately.

"Leave that to me," said the curate; "although, Senor Capitan, there is
no reason to think that you will not be well received, as the worth
and wisdom of which your brother's bearing shows him to be pos-
sessed do not indicate that he would be arrogant or unfeeling or would
be incapable of making due allowance for the reverses of fortune."

"Nevertheless," said the captain, "I should like to make myself known
to him, not suddenly, but in a roundabout way."

"You may take my word for it," said the curate, "that I shall handle
it in such a manner that we shall all be satisfied."

At this point supper was served370 and the entire company sat down
at table, with the exception of the captive, and the ladies, who were
supping by themselves in the other room. It was in the middle of the
meal that the curate spoke to the judge.

Your Lordship,' he began, "I had a comrade in Constantinople, where
I was a captive for a number of years, who bore the same name that
your Grace does. He was one of the bravest soldiers and captains to be
found in the whole of the Spanish infantry. But he was quite as un-
fortunate as he was valiant and daring."

"And what, sir, was the name of this captain?" the judge asked.

"His name," replied the curate, "was Ruy Perez de Viedma, and he
was a native of some village in the mountains of Leon. He told me a
story about his father and his brothers which, if I had not known him to
be so truthful a man, I should have taken to be one of those tales that
old women tell by the fireside in wintertime. According to what he said,
his father had divided his property among his three sons and had given
them a certain piece of advice that was better than any Cato ever gave.371
And I may say that the choice my comrade made of going to the wars
proved to be so fortunate a one that within a few years, by reason of
his worth and courage and with nothing to aid him save his own merits,
he rose to be an infantry captain and was well on his way to becoming
a corps commander. Fortune, however, did not favor him; for just as
it appeared to smile upon him, he lost everything by losing his liberty on
that glorious day when so many recovered their freedom, at the battle
of Lepanto. I lost mine at the Goleta, and after each of us had gone
through a series of adventures, we met in Constantinople. From there
he went to Algiers, where one of the strangest things in the world hap-
pened to him."

The curate then went on and briefly related the story of Zoraida and
the captive, to all of which the judge gave such a "hearing" as he never
before had accorded to any case before him.372 The narrator did not go
beyond the point where the French had despoiled the Christians on the
boat, but he dwelt upon the poverty and extreme want in which his
comrade and the lovely Moor had found themselves, adding that he had
not been able to learn how they had come out, whether they had
reached Spain or had been carried off to France.373

The captain, who was standing a little to one side, was listening
to all the curate said and at the same time was watching his brother's
every movement. Perceiving that the story was ended, his Lordship
heaved a deep sigh and his eyes filled with tears as he said, "O sir, if
you only realized what news you have brought me and what it means
to me. It means so much that, in spite of all my reasoned efforts at self-
control, the tears start from my eyes! This brave captain of whom you
speak is my elder brother, who, being hardier and endowed with loftier
ambitions than those that I and my younger brother cherished, chose
the honorable and worthy calling of arms, which was one of the three
paths in life that our father pointed out to us, as your comrade told
you in relating what seemed to you to be a fairy tale. I chose the pro-
fession of law, and God and my own faithful application have brought
me to the position in which you see me now. My younger brother is
in Peru and is so rich that, with what he has sent back to my father and
to me, he has well repaid the portion of the estate that he took with
him and in addition has furnished my father with the means of gratify-
ing fully his generous inclinations, while I too have been enabled to
pursue my studies, lead a more self-respecting life, and attain my present
station.

"My father is still living, though he is dying374 to hear from his eldest
son and prays God unceasingly not to close his eyes in death until in
life they have rested on him once again. At all of this I cannot but won-
der, for my brother is extremely sensible and I cannot understand why,
in all his troubles and afflictions or in prosperity, he should have neg-
lected to let his father have some word of him; for if any of us had
known where he was and the straits he was in, it would not have been
necessary to wait for the miracle of the reed in order to obtain his
ransom. But what distresses me now is the uncertainty as to whether
those Frenchmen will have let him go free or whether they may have
murdered him by way of covering up their robbery.

"As a result of it all, I shall continue my journey, not with that satis-
faction with which I began it, but filled with melancholy and sadness.
O my dear brother, if I but knew where you are now, I would go
seek you and free you of your sufferings, however much of suffering it
meant for me! Oh, to bring word to our aged father that you are still
alive, even though you might be in the most deeply hidden dungeon of
Barbary! For my father's riches, my own, and those of my brother
would speedily get you out! O beauteous and generous-hearted Zoraida,
if I could but repay you for what you have done for my brother! If I
could but be present at the rebirth of your soul, and at your wedding,
which would give us all so much pleasure!"

The judge went on talking in this manner, for he was deeply moved
by the news of his brother which he had received, and all the listeners
joined in showing the sympathy that they had for him in his sorrow.

And then the curate, seeing that he had achieved his purpose and fulfilled
the captains wish, arose from the table and went to the room where
Zoraida was; for he had no desire to prolong their mood of sadness.
Taking her by the hand, he came back, followed by Luscinda, Dorotea,
and the judge's daughter. The captain was waiting to see what he was
going to do, when the priest came over and with his other hand took
that of Zoraida's husband-to-be; after which, with one of them on either
side of him, he walked over to where the judge and the other gentle-
men were.

"Dry your tears, my lord," he said, "and let your heart's desire be
gratified; for you have here in front of you your worthy brother and
your equally worthy sister-in-law. He whom you see here is Captain
Viedma, and this is the lovely Moor who was so kind to him. The French-
men of whom I told you are responsible for their being in this poverty-
stricken state, which will afford you an opportunity of exercising the
generosity of heart that we know is yours."

The captain then ran over to embrace his brother, who placed both
hands upon his chest and held him off in order that he might have a
good look at him; but when he finally recognized him, he clasped him
so tightly and shed so many tears of joy and affection that most of
those present also wept. The words which the two brothers exchanged,
the feelings they displayed, were such, I think, as could hardly be imag-
ined, much less described. There and then, each gave the other an
account of his life during the past years, providing the best of examples
of what good friends two brothers can be. The judge embraced Zoraida,
putting all that he had at her disposal, after which he had his daughter
embrace her, and the beautiful Christian and the loveliest of Moors
once more brought tears to the eyes of all.

Don Quixote stood there all the while observing these happenings
most attentively but saying not a word, for he associated them all with
his chimerical fancies that had to do with knight-errantry. It was agreed
that the captain and Zoraida should return with his brother to Seville,
where they would advise his father that he had been set free and found,
so that the old man might be able to come to the wedding and baptism,
since it was not possible for the judge to defer his journey, as he had just
heard that within a month a fleet was leaving Seville for New Spain and
it would be a very great inconvenience if he missed sailing with it.

In short, they were all happy and joyful over the fortunate outcome
of the captive's adventure; and as the night was now nearly two-thirds
gone, they decided to retire and get what rest they could. Don Quixote
offered to stand guard over the castle lest they be attacked by some
giant or wandering rogue of evil intent who might be covetous of the
great treasure of feminine beauty within these walls. Those who knew
him thanked him for this and gave the judge an account of the knight's
strange fancies, which afforded him considerable amusement.

Sancho Panza alone was fretting over their delay in retiring, but he
was the one that ended by making himself the most comfortable of all,
for he simply threw himself down on the trappings of his ass, though
he was to pay for this dearly a little later, as will be told further on.

The ladies, then, having retired to their room while the others ac-
commodated themselves as best they could, Don Quixote left the inn
and went outside to stand sentinel as he had promised to do. And so it
was that, shortly before daylight, the womenfolk heard a voice so
sweet and musical that they were compelled to pay heed to it, espe-
cially Dorotea, who was lying there awake while Dona Clara de
Viedma, the judge's daughter, slumbered by her side. None of them
could imagine who the person was who sang so well without the ac-
companiment of any instrument. At times the singing appeared to come
from the courtyard, at other times from the stable; and as they were
straining their, ears and wondering about it, Cardenio came to the door
of their room.

"Those of you who are not asleep," he said, "should listen, and you
will hear the voice of a mule driver who sings most charmingly."

"We hear it, sir," replied Dorotea. And with this Cardenio went
away. She then gave all her attention to the song, the words of which
were the following.



CHAPTER XLIII.

In which is related the pleasing story of the muleteer,
with other strange events that took place at the inn.



"Love's mariner am I,
Sailing Love's oven deep sea y
Bereft of hope, forlorn;
No haven 'waits for me.

And yet, my course l steer
By a bright and gleaming star
Palinurus 375 never sighted--
I behold its light afar.

I know not whither it leads ;
No other thought have I
Than to fix my soul's gaze upon it,
Let all the rest go by.

A maiden reserve uncalled for,
An unheard of modesty:
These the dark clouds that cover
My star of ecstasy.

O star so bright and gleaming y
I tell thee with bated breath :
To lose forever the sight of thee
Would surely be my death."376


As the singer reached this point, it occurred to Dorotea that it would
not be right to let Clara sleep through it all and miss hearing so fine
a voice, and so, shaking her from side to side, she roused her from
her slumbers.

"Forgive me for waking you, my child," she said. "I do it because I
wish you to hear the best singing that you have ever heard in all your
life, it may be."

Clara awoke, sleepy-eyed, without understanding at first what Doro-
tea was saying to her. She accordingly asked her to repeat what she had
said, which Dorotea did, and she was then all ears. She had barely heard
couple of lines, however, as the singer went on with his ballad, when
she was seized with a strange trembling, as if she were suffering from
a sudden and severe attack of quartan fever.

"Ah, my dearest lady!" she exclaimed as she clung to Dorotea, "why
did you wake me--The greatest boon that fortune could bestow upon
me would be to keep my eyes and ears closed so that I might not see nor
hear that hapless musician! "

"What are you saying, child--Why, they tell me that the one who
is doing that singing is a mule driver."

"No," replied Clara, "that is not so. He is lord of many places,377 and
the place that he so securely holds in my heart shall never be taken
from him for all eternity, unless he would have it so."

Dorotea was greatly surprised at hearing the girl express such senti-
ments as these, which so belied her years.

"You speak, Senora Clara," she said, "in such a way that I cannot
understand you. Tell me more, and explain what you mean by the
places which that musician, whose voice so disturbs you, holds, includ-
ing the place in your heart. But do not tell me anything just now; for I
would not forego, by listening to you, the pleasure I derive from that
song. I think he is beginning again, with new words and a new air."

"Let him, in Heaven's name," said Clara. And in order not to hear
him, she put both hands to her ears, at which Dorotea was more aston-
ished than ever. The latter, meanwhile, was listening closely as the
singer continued:

"Thou sweetest hope I know,
Through impassable thickets thou dost wend thy way,
Straight on dost go
To the end thou hast set thyself. Let not dismay
Come near when thou dost see
How Death walks every step along with thee.
The faint of heart ne'er gain
The hard won victory, the triumph dear;
The slothful ne'er attain
That happiness they seek, nor those who fear
To come to grips with Chance
That they their fortune may thereby enhance.
Love sells his favors high,
But that is only just. What better gold
Could anyone supply
Than that 'which bears his stamp of worth untold--
For it would surely seem t
What costs but little is of small esteem .
A lover's persistency
At times achieves the impossible, and thus
In all consistency
I take Love's way, of all most arduous.
But still my heart is stout:
That l shall win my Heaven, I do not doubt."378

With this the song stopped and the girl once more began sobbing,
all of which kindled her companion's desire to know what lay behind
a song so sweet and tears so bitter. Dorotea thereupon asked her what
it was she had been going to tell her a while ago. Being afraid that
Luscinda would hear what she had to say, Clara then threw her arms
about the older woman and clasped her tightly, putting her mouth close
to the other's ear to avoid being overheard.

"That singer, dear lady," she began, "is a gentleman's son, a native
of the kingdom of Aragon. His father, who is lord of two villages, has
a house opposite my father's in the capital. And although we had cur-
tains to our windows in winter and blinds in summer, this gentleman,
who was engaged in pursuing his studies, in some way or other had a
glimpse of me, whether it was in church or somewhere else I cannot
say. The short of it is, he fell in love with me, and gave me to under-
stand as much from the windows of his own house, with so many tears
and gestures that I could not but believe him. I even fell in love with
him, without knowing what it was he wanted of me. Among the signs
that he made to me was one that consisted in clasping one of his hands
in the other, thus indicating that he wished to marry me; and while I
was very happy over this, being alone and motherless I had no one
with whom to talk it over, and the result was, I let matters stand as they
were and gave him but small encouragement. The most that I did, when
my father and his were away from home, was to raise the curtain or
the blind a little so that he might have a good look at me, which made
him so happy that he acted as if he were going mad.

"The time came for my father to leave, and the young man learned
of it, though not from me, since I had had no opportunity to tell him.
He then fell ill, and I believe that it was due to grief; and so it was
that, on the day we left, I was not even able to see him from afar and
say good-by to him with my eyes. But after we had traveled for a
coupleof days, as we were entering a wayside tavern one days journey
from hcrc t I saw him standing at the gateway of the inn clad as a
muleteer and looking the part so thoroughly that, had I not carried
an image of him in my heart, it would have been impossible to recognize
him. But I did recognize him and was at once astonished and overjoyed,
and he would occasionally steal a glance at me; but he always keeps out
of my father's way when he crosses my path on the road or at the inns
where we stop. Since I know who he is, I feel very bad when I reflect
that for love of me he has come all this way on foot, and wherever he
goes my eyes follow him.

"I do not know what his purpose is in coming, nor how he has
been able to slip away from his father, who is extremely fond of him,
since he has no other heir and his son is fully deserving of his affec-
tion, as your Grace will perceive when you have had a sight of him.
Another thing I can tell you is that he himself makes up those songs
that he sings, for I have heard it said that he is a very fine student and
also a poet. What is more, every time that I see him and hear him
sing, I tremble all over and am terribly upset, for I am afraid that my
father will recognize him and learn of our love. I have never spoken
a word to him in my life, yet I love him so dearly that I cannot live
without him. And that, my dear lady, is all that I can tell you about this
musician whose voice has given you so much pleasure, and which alone
should be enough to assure you that he is no muleteer as you say, but
the lord of hearts and towns, as I have told you."

"Say no more, Dona Clara." For Dorotea had interrupted her; and,
giving her a thousand kisses, she repeated, "Say no more, but wait un-
til tomorrow comes, when I hope to God I shall be able to arrange this
affair of yours so that it may have the happy ending that so innocent a
beginning deserves."

"Ah, Senora!" cried Dona Clara, "what end can I hope for when his
father is so rich and important a personage that it would seem I could
not even be a servant much less a wife to his son--And as to marrying
without my own father's knowledge, I would not do that for anything
in the world. All I ask is that this young man leave me and return
home, and perhaps with not seeing him and the great distance between
us, my pain will be somewhat alleviated, although I dare say this remedy
that I suggest would not do me much good. I do not know how in
the name of Satan this came about or how this love found its way into
our hearts, seeing that we are both so young; for we are really about
the same age, and I am not yet sixteen but shall be on next St MichaePs
day, my father tells me."

Dorotea could not help smiling as she heard Doha Clara talking so
much like a child.

Let us get some rest, Senora," she said, "for if I am not mistaken,
morning will soon be here, and then everything will be all right or I
shall be greatly disappointed."

With this they settled down for what remained of the night, and all
the inn was wrapped in silence, the only ones not asleep being the inn-
keeper's daughter and Maritornes the slavey, who, familiar with Don
Quixote's whimsies and knowing that he was outside clad in his armor
and on horseback, standing guard, decided to play some kind of prac-
tical joke on him, or at least to have a little amusement by listening to his
nonsense. Now, as it happened, there was not a window in the house
that looked out over the fields, but only an opening in a straw-loft
through which they used to throw out the straw. At this opening the
two demi-damsels now stationed themselves. They could see Don
Quixote in the saddle and leaning on his pike as he every now and then
heaved such deep and mournful sighs that it seemed each one would
tear his heart out; and they could also hear him talking to himself in
a gentle, soft, and loving tone of voice.

"O my lady Dulcinea del Toboso," he was saying, "supreme model
and ultimate goal of all beauty and discretion, treasury of grace, de-
pository of virtue; in short, the ideal of all that is worth while, honor-
able, and delectable in this world! And what would thy Grace be doing
now--Art thou perchance thinking of thy captive knight who, merely
to serve thee and carry out thy wishes, hath seen fit to expose himself
to all these perils--Give me some word of her, O luminary of the three
faces!379 It may be that out of envy of her face thou lookest upon her
even now as she paces some gallery of her sumptuous palace, or as, lean-
ing from a balcony, she considers how, without detriment to her
modesty and exalted rank, she may assuage the torment that this griev-
ing heart of mine endures for her sake. Does she think of the glory that
should compensate me for my sufferings, the repose that should be
mine after all my exertions, or, in brief, what life should be bestowed
upon this my death, what reward I should have for my services--

"And thou, O Sun, who must even now be harnessing thy steeds
that dawn may soon come and thou mayesr emerge to behold my mis-
tress, I beg thee when thou dost see her to greet her for me. But have a
care that, when thou dost see and greet her, thou dost not kiss her face;
for I shall be more jealous of thee than wast thou of that swift-footed
and ungrateful one that caused thee so to run and sweat over the
plains of Thessaly and the banks of the Peneus--I do not rightly recall
just where it was that thou didst run in thine amorous and jealous rage
on that occasion."380

Don Quixote had gone as far as this with his lugubrious monologue
when the innkeeper's daughter began signaling to him.381 "Good sir,"
she called to him softly, "come over here, if your Grace is pleased
to do so."

At this signal and the sound of her voice, Don Quixote raised his head,
and by the light of the moon, which was then shining in all its bright-
ness, he perceived that someone was summoning him from the opening
in the loft, which to him appeared to be a window--a window with a
gilded grating of the kind that a magnificent castle ought to have, for
such he took the inn to be. And then, instantly, it occurred to his insane
imagination that, as on a previous occasion, the daughter of the lord of
this castle, overcome with love of him, was seeking to make a conquest.
With this thought in mind and desiring not to be discourteous or un-
feeling, he turned Rocinante and rode up to the opening where the two
lasses were.

"It is a pity, lovely lady," he said as soon as he caught sight of them,
"that thou shouldst have let thy affections roam where they can never
be requited in a manner that befits thy great worth and high estate; but
for this thou shouldst not blame this wretched knight-errant, for love
hath rendered it impossible for him to yield his will to any other than
her whom, the moment he beheld her, he made the absolute mistress of
his heart. Forgive me, then, good lady, and withdraw into thy cham-
ber, and do not display thy feeling for me any further, that I may not
once more have to show myself ungrateful. If there is any other way,
outside of love itself, in which I may gratify that love thou hast for
me, thou hast but to ask it and I swear to thee by that sweet and absent
enemy of mine that I will incontinently do thy bidding, even though
the boon thou seekest be a lock of Medusa's serpent hair or the rays
of the sun itself stoppered in a vial."

"My mistress has need of nothing of that sort," said Maritomes at
this point.

"Then, discreet matron," replied Don Quixote, "what is it that she
needs?"

"Merely one of your shapely hands," said Maritomes, "that she may
vent upon it the consuming passion that has brought her to this loop-
hole, at so great a risk to her honor that, if her father were to hear of
it, the least slice of her that he would take would be her ear."

"I should like to see him do that!" said the knight. "Let him beware
if he does not want to meet the most disastrous end of any father in this
world for having laid hands upon the delicate members of his lovesick
daughter."

Having no doubt that Don Quixote would offer his hand as she had
asked of him, Maritornes at once began thinking what she would do
now; and, climbing down from the opening, she went out to the
stable and took the halter of Sancho Panza's ass, returning with it quickly
just as the knight was getting to his feet on Rocinante's saddle in order
to be able to reach the gilded window-rail where, so he imagined, the
brokenhearted damsel was.

"Lady," he was saying, "take this hand, or better, this avenger of the
world's evildoers. The hand of no other woman has ever touched it,
not even that of her who holds entire possession of my body. I extend
it to thee, not that thou shouldst kiss it, but that thou mayest study the
contexture of the sinews, the network of the muscles, the breadth and
spaciousness of the veins, from which thou canst deduce how great must
be the might of the arm that supports such a hand."

"That we shall soon see," said Maritornes. And, making a slip-knot
in the halter, she put it over his wrist; then, getting down from the open-
ing, she tied the other end to the bolt on the door of the loft.

"But it seems to me," said Don Quixote, as he felt the rope grating on
his wrist, "that thy Grace is scraping rather than caressing my hand.
Do not treat it so harshly, for it is not to blame for my unresponsive
will. It is not right that thou shouldst wreak all thy vengeance upon so
small a part, for remember that one who loves well should not avenge
herself in a manner so ill."

But there was no one to hear these words; for as soon as Maritornes
had attached the halter, she and the other girl left, fit to burst with
laughing, and they left Don Quixote tied in such a way that it was
impossible for him to free himself. As has been said, he was standing on
Rocinante's back and his entire arm was through the opening while
his wrist was fastened to the bolt on the door; and he was very much
afraid that if Rocinante should swerve to one side or the other, he
would remain hanging there. For this reason, he dared not make the
slightest movement, although Rocinante stood so quietly and patiently
that he might have been expected not to stir for a century to come.

Finally, seeing that he was caught in this manner and the ladies
had departed, the knight began imagining that all this was a kind of en-
chantment, like the last time when, in this very castle, that enchanted
Moor of a carter had given him such a mauling. He now cursed him-
self for his lack of judgment and sound sense in having ventured to set
foot there a second time after having fared so badly before; for it was
generally accepted by knights-errant that, when they had essayed an
adventure and had not succeeded in it, this meant that it was not for
them but for others, and there was no necessity of trying again. Mean-
while, he kept pulling on his arm to see if he could loosen it, but it was
well tied and all his efforts were in vain. It is true, he pulled very
gently, lest Rocinante should move; but, in any event, he was unable
to seat himself in the saddle, and there was nothing for it but to remain
standing or wrench his hand off.

Then it was that he longed for the sword of Amadis, against which
no enchantment whatever could prevail. Then it was that he cursed
his ill fortune, exaggerating the loss which the world would suffer while
he was held there under a spell, for he had no doubt that this was the
case. Then he remembered once again his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso,
and then too it was that he called for his good squire, Sancho Panza,
who, lying stretched out on the packsaddle of his ass and dead to the
world, was unmindful even of the mother who bore him. Then it was
that he called upon the wise Lirgandeo and Alquife382 to aid him, be-
seeching also his good friend Urganda to succor him. And then,
at last, morning found him so despairing and bewildered that he brayed
like a bull; for he had no hope that with the coming of day his suffer-
ings would be ended; rather, he believed that, as a result of the magi-
cian's spell, they would be eternal. This belief was strengthened in him
when he observed that Rocinante never so much as stirred. And so he
was convinced that he and his steed would have to remain there in
that condition, without eating, drinking, or sleeping, until the evil in-
fluence of the stars had waned or until another, more skillful enchanter
came to disenchant him.

In this, however, he was greatly deceived; for it was no sooner
daylight than four fully accoutered horsemen, their firelocks across
their saddlebows, drew up at the inn. Finding the gateway closed, they
pounded lustily upon it; and when he saw and heard this, even in his
present position, Don Quixote did not fail to play the sentinel.

"Knights," he said to them, "or squires, or whoever you may be,
you have no right to knock at the gates of this castle; for you should
know that at such an hour those inside are asleep, or are not in the
habit of throwing open the fortress until the sun is fully up. Withdraw,
then, and wait for day, and we shall then see whether or not it is fit-
ting that they open for you."

"What the devil kind of fortress or castle is this," asked one of them,
"that we are obliged to stand on such ceremony--If you are the inn-
keeper, have them open the gate for us. We are travelers who de-
sire no more than to give some barley to our horses and go on, for we
are in a hurry."

"Do I impress you, gentlemen, as having the appearance of an inn-
keeper?" was Don Quixote's answer.

"I do not know what appearance you have," replied the man. "But I
know that you are talking nonsense when you refer to this inn as a
castle."

"A castle it is," Don Quixote insisted, "and one of the best in all this
province. And there are those within who have held a scepter in their
hands and have worn a crown upon their heads."

"It would have been better the other way around," said the traveler:
"the scepter on the head and the crown in the hand; but it may be
there is some company of actors inside, for they very often have
those crowns and scepters that you are talking about, and I cannot be-
lieve that in a small tavern like this, where you cannot hear a sound,
any persons would be lodged who are entitled to them in real life."

"You know little of the ways of the world," replied Don Quixote,
"seeing that you are ignorant of the things that happen in connection
with knight-errantry."

The companions of the one who asked the questions were by this
time tired of the conversation between him and the knight, and they
again began pounding so furiously that the innkeeper and all the others
awoke and the landlord arose to inquire who was knocking. At that mo-
ment one of the horsemen's mounts came up to smell Rocinante as the
hack, sad and melancholy, with his ears drooping, stood there motion-
less, supporting his well-stretched master's weight; and being, when
all is said, only flesh and blood though he appeared to be of wood,
Rocinante could not but weaken and in turn smell the one that had
come to court him. In doing this, he moved ever so little, and at once
Don Quixote's feet slipped from the saddle and he would have fallen
to the ground if his arm had not been held fast, a circumstance which
caused him so much pain that he thought his wrist would be cut off or
his arm torn from his body. For he was left hanging so near the ground
that he could touch the earth with the tips of his toes, which was all
the worse for him since, being conscious of how little he lacked of being
able to plant his feet firmly, he wore himself out by stretching himself
as far as he could in an attempt to accomplish this. He was like those who,
suffering the strappado and placed in the position of touch-without-
touching, merely add to their pain by the effort they make to stretch
their bodies, in the vain hope that with a little more straining they will
be able to find solid footing.383



Chapter XLIV.

In which are continued the unheard-of adventures at the inn.



Don QUIXOTE by now was bawling so loudly that the landlord,
very much alarmed, ran out and threw open the gate to see what the
matter was, while those outside were equally curious. Maritornes also
had been awakened by the shouts, and, suspecting what the cause of
it all was, she hastened to the straw-loft without anyone's seeing her
and unfastened the halter by which Don Quixote was supported, where-
upon he at once dropped to the ground as the innkeeper and the travel-
ers looked on. Coming up to him, they asked why he was shouting in
that manner; but he without saying a word removed the rope from his
wrist, rose to his feet, mounted Rocinante, braced his buckler on his
arm, fixed his lance, and, retiring down the field for some little distance,
came back at a half-gallop.

"If there be anyone," he cried, "who says that I deserved to have this
spell put upon me, providing the Princess Micomicona grant me per-
mission to do so, I hereby give him the lie; I defy him and challenge him
to single combat."

The new arrivals were amazed by Don Quixote's words, but the
landlord explained matters to them by telling them who the knight was,
adding that they were to pay no attention to him as he was out of his
mind. They then inquired of him if a lad about fifteen years of age and
dressed as a muleteer had stopped at the inn, the description they gave
being one that fitted Dona Clara's lover; to which he replied that there
were so many guests that he had not noticed the lad they mentioned.
One of the travelers, however, had caught sight of the judge's equi-
page.

"He is undoubtedly here," he said, "for this is the coach that he is
following. One of us will stay at the gate and the others will go in and
look for him; and it would be well, also, to ride around the side of
the inn to make sure he does not get away over the stable-yard wall."

"We will see to that," was the reply.

Two of them then went in while one remained at the gate and a
fourth man rode to the back. The landlord, meanwhile, was unable
to guess why they were making so thorough a search, although he be-
lieved they must be after that youth whose description they had given
him. The sun was now up, and for this reason as well as on account
of the uproar that Don Quixote had created, they were all awake and
stirring, especially Doha Clara and Dorotea, neither of whom had slept
much that night, the one being too excited by the near-presence of her
lover, while the other was eager to see what he looked like.

When he perceived that none of the four travelers was paying the
slightest attention to him nor would answer his challenge, Don Quixote
was ready to die with rage and spite; and had he found by the ordi-
nances of chivalry that a knight-errant could lawfully assume and un-
dertake any other enterprise than the one for which he had given his
word of honor, until his pledge had been fulfilled, he would have
attacked them all and compelled them to answer him whether they
wished to or not. As it was, he felt that he could not do this until he
should have restored Micomicona's kingdom to her. In the meanwhile,
he must keep silent, remain quietly where he was, and wait to see what
the result of the horsemen's search would be.

One of them had by this time come upon the youth sleeping beside a
mule driver, not dreaming that anyone was looking for him, much less
that his whereabouts had been discovered.

"Well, Don Luis," said the man, taking him by the arm, "that garb you
wear is certainly becoming to you, and the bed in which you sleep
goes well with the luxury in which your mother reared you."

Rubbing his sleep-filled eyes, the youth stared for a moment at the
one who had hold of him. Then he recognized him as a servant of his
father's, which gave him such a shock that for some while he was not
able to say a word.

"There is nothing for you to do now, Don Luis," the man went
on, "but to come along quietly and return home, unless your Grace
desires to be the death of your father and my lord, for no less than that
is to be expected as a result of his grief over your absence."

"But," said Don Luis, "how did my father know that I had taken this
road and in this disguise?"

"It was a student," the servant replied, "to whom you had revealed
your plans who told him of them, for he was moved to pity when he
saw how your father was suffering. And so, my lord dispatched four
of us to look for you, and we are all here now at your service, happier
than you can imagine at the thought that we shall speedily return and
restore you to the gaze of him who so longs to see you."

"That," said Don Luis, "shall be as I decide or as Heaven may ordain."

"What is there for Heaven to ordain or you to decide, beyond your
consenting to come with us, since there is no other possible course?"

This entire conversation was heard by the mule driver at Don Luis'
side; and, rising from where he lay, he went to inform Don Fernando,
Cardenio, and the others of what had happened, for they were by now
up and fully clothed. The muleteer told them how the man had addressed
the lad as "Don" and what they had said to each other, with the servant
urging the youth to return home while the latter was unwilling to do so.
When they learned of this and recalled what a fine voice Heaven had
bestowed upon the young fellow, they were all of them eager to know
more about him, and even to help him should an attempt be made to
use force with him. They accordingly hastened out to where the two
stood talking and arguing.

Dorotea at this point came out of her room, followed by Doha Clara,
who was trembling all over. Calling Cardenio to one side, she related to
him briefly the story of the musician and his love, and he in turn de-
scribed how the father's servants had come looking for the lad. He
kept his voice low, but not so low that Clara failed to hear what he said,
and she was so beside herself that she would have fallen in a faint had
not her friend supported her. Cardenio then advised Dorotea to go
back to the room, saying that he would take care of everything, and
this they now did.

All four of the servants were inside the inn, standing around Don Luis
and endeavoring to persuade him that, without a moment's hesitation,
he should return to console his father. His answer was that he could by
no means do this until he had settled a matter on which his life, his
honor, and his soul depended. The servants thereupon grew more in-
sistent, impressing upon him that on no account would they go back
without him, and that they meant to take him whether he liked it or not.

"That you will not do," said Don Luis, "unless you take me back
dead; although whatever way you took me, there would be no life
in me."

By this time all those in the hostelry were gathered around listening
to the argument, including Cardenio, Don Fernando and his com-
panions, the judge, the curate, the barber, and Don Quixote; for the
knight deemed there was no further necessity of his guarding the castle.
Knowing the youth's story, Cardenio asked the men why it was they
wished to take this boy away against his will.

"Because," one of them said, "we wish to restore life to his father
who, on account of this young gentleman's absence, is on the verge
of losing it."

At this Don Luis spoke up for himself. "There is no necessity," he
told them, "of going into my affairs here. I am a free being and shall
return if it pleases me; if it does not, none of you is going to compel me."

"Reason should compel your Grace," the man went on, "and if rea-
son does not suffice to persuade you, it is sufficient to persuade us to do
what we came to do and what it is our duty to do."

It was now the judge's turn. "Let us hear what is at the bottom of all
this," he said.

"Sir," replied the man, who recognized him as a neighbor, "does not
your Lordship recognize this young gentleman, your neighbor's son,
who has thus run away from his father's house in a guise that so ill be-
fits his station, as your Grace may see for yourself?"

The judge studied the youth more attentively and, when he saw
who it was, gave him an embrace. "What child's play is this, Don Luis,"
he asked him. "What motive could have been powerful enough to pre-
vail upon you to come clad in this manner that is so unbecoming to
you?"

At this the lad's eyes filled with tears and he was unable to make
any reply. The judge then requested the four servants to be calm, assur-
ing them that it would all be settled properly; after which, taking Don
Luis by the hand, he led him off to one side and inquired of him what
the reason was for his presence there.

While these and other questions were being asked and answered, a
loud shouting was heard at the gateway of the inn. What had happened
was this: two guests who had been lodged there that night, observing
that everyone was occupied with questioning the four travelers, had
attempted to leave without paying what they owed; but the innkeeper,
who was more attentive to his own business than to that of others, had
waylaid them as they went out the gate and was demanding that they
pay the score. His language to them was such that they were led to
reply to him with their fists, and they were laying it on so heavily that
the poor landlord had to cry out for help. His wife and daughter looked
about for someone to aid him, but the only person whose attention
was not taken up was Don Quixote ; so the innkeeper's daughter ad-
dressed herself to him.

"Sir Knight," she said, "by the power that God has reposed in you, I
beg you to succor my poor father. There are two wicked men out there
who are beating him to a pulp."

"Lovely damsel," was the knight's measured and phlegmatic response,
"your request is at this moment out of place, for I am prevented from
entering upon any other adventure until I shall have fulfilled my word
and brought to a conclusion the one upon which I am at present em-
barked. What I may do, however, in order to serve you is this: run and
tell your father to sustain this combat as best he may and in no wise
to allow himself to be vanquished while I go beg permission of the
Princess Micomicona to succor him in his distress. If she but grant me
that permission, you may rest assured that I will rescue him."

"Sinner that I am!" exclaimed Maritornes when she heard this, "be-
fore your Grace obtains the permission you speak of, my master will
be in the other world."

"I beg you, lady," replied Don Quixote, "to give me leave to obtain
it. Once I have the princess's consent, it will make little difference if
your father is in the other world, for I will have him out of it in spite of
all that the world in question can do; or, at the least, I will take such
vengeance on those who have sent him there that you will be more
than moderately satisfied."

Saying no more, he went over and dropped to his knees in front of
Dorotea, imploring her in the language of knight-errantry that her High-
ness be pleased to grant him permission to aid and succor the castellan
of that castle, who was in grave peril. The princess gave her consent
readily enough, and he then, bracing his buckler and grasping his sword,
ran out to the gate of the inn, where the two guests were still mistreat-
ing the landlord. But as he came up, he stopped short as if perplexed,
although Maritornes and the landlady kept urging him to help their
master and husband, asking him why he hesitated.

"If I hesitate," said Don Quixote, "it is for the reason that it is not
permitted me to lay hand to sword against those of the rank of squire;
but go call my own squire, Sancho, for me, for it appertains to him to
undertake this defense and vengeance."

All this took place at the gateway of the inn, where many most
effective blows and punches were being exchanged to the great detri-
ment of the landlord as the wrath of Maritomes and of the landlady
and her daughter increased; for they were now in despair over Don
Quixote's cowardice and the beating that was being administered to
their master, husband, and father.

But let us leave him there; for there will surely be someone to succor
him; or, if not, let him bear it and hold his peace who is rash enough to
attempt more than his strength will warrant. Let us, rather, fall back
some fifty paces and see what was Don Luis'reply to the judge. It will
be recalled that we left them conversing to one side, with his Lord-
ship inquiring of the lad why he had come on foot and so vilely clad.
At this, the youth wrung his hands, indicating that some great sorrow
lay upon his heart.

"My dear sir," he said, his tears flowing freely. "I can tell you no
more than this: that from the moment Heaven willed, through our be-
ing neighbors, that I should lay eyes upon Dona Clara, your daughter
and my lady, I have made her the mistress of my will, and if your will,
O true father of mine, is no obstacle, I would make her my wife this
very day. For her sake it was that I left my father's house, and for
her I donned this attire in order to be able to follow her wherever she
went, even as the arrow seeks the target or the mariner the north star.
She knows nothing more of my desires than what she may have learned
from seeing me, on a number of occasions and from afar, weeping for
love of her. You, sir, are acquainted with the wealth and noble lineage
of my parents, and you also know that I am their only heir. If these be
sufficient qualifications to lead you to risk making me perfectly happy,
then accept me at once as your son; for if my father, having other plans
of his own, should not approve of this blessing I have sought out for
myself, time still is more potent than the human will when it comes to
undoing and altering things."

Having said this, the lovelorn boy was silent, and the judge upon
hearing it was at once astonished, agreeably surprised, and filled with
uncertainty. He was surprised by the skillful manner in which Don
Luis had declared himself, and uncertain as to the course that he as a
father should pursue in so sudden and unlooked-for a situation. The
only answer he could make was that the young man should put his
mind at rest for the present and meanwhile arrange with his servants
not to take him back that day, in order that there might be time to
consider what was the best for all concerned. Don Luis insisted upon
kissing h is hands and even bathed them with his tears, a sight that
might have melted a heart of marble, to say nothing of that of the
judge, whose worldly wisdom told him how advantageous such a mar-
riage would be to his daughter, although, if it were possible, he pre-
ferred to see It consummated with the consent of Don Luis' father,
who, as he knew, was looking for a titled match for his son .

By this time the two guests out at the gate had made their peace
with the innkeeper and, owing to Don Quixote's mild and persuasive
reasoning rather than to any threats on his part, they had paid all that
was asked of them. As for Don Luis'servants, they were waiting for
him to finish his conversation with the judge and make up his mind
what he was going to do, when at that moment--so the devil, who never
sleeps, would have it--the very same barber from whom Don Quixote
had taken Mambrino's helmet and Sancho the trappings for his ass, came
up to the inn. The said barber, as he was leading his beast out to the
stable, chanced to catch sight of Sancho Panza, who was engaged in
tinkering with his packsaddle, and the instant that he saw him he
recognized him.

"Hah! Sir Thief," he cried, "I have you now! Give me back my
basin and my packsaddle and all the other things you stole from me."

Sancho, being unexpectedly assailed in this manner and hearing him-
self called such names, with one hand laid hold of the packsaddle and
with the other dealt the barber such a blow that he drenched his teeth
in blood. The barber, however, did not for this reason let go his prize
in the form of the packsaddle, but began shouting so loud that every-
body in the place came running out to see what was the cause of all
the uproar and the fighting.

"Here, in the name of the king's justice!" he screamed. "Not satis-
fied with taking my property, he wants to kill me, this robber, this high-
way bandit!"

"You lie," said Sancho. "I am not a bandit. My master Don Quixote
won those spoils in honorable warfare."

The knight was standing by while this was going on and was greatly
pleased to see how well his squire could both defend himself and take
the offensive. From that time forth, he was to look upon him as a man
of mettle, and he resolved in his heart that upon the first occasion that
offered he would have him dubbed a knight, for he felt sure that the
order of knighthood might worthily be bestowed upon him. The barber,
meanwhile, was running on.

"Gentlemen," he was saying, "this packsaddle is mine, as surely as
I owe it to God to die someday. I know it as well as if I had given birth
to it. And there is my donkey in the stable; he will not let me lie. If you
don't believe me, try it on him, and if it doesn't fit him perfectly, then
I'm a rogue. What is more, the same day that he took the packsaddle
he also robbed me of a brass basin which I had not yet broken in and
which was worth all of a crown.''

At this point Don Quixote, unable to contain himself any longer,
stepped between the two and parted them, and then, picking up the
packsaddle, he placed it upon the ground where all could see it that it
might lie there until the truth was established.

"In order," he said, "that your Worships may behold plainly and
dearly the error into which this worthy squire has fallen, you have
but to observe that he calls a basin that which was, is, and shall be
Mambrino's helmet, a trophy won by me in honorable warfare and of
which I took lawful and rightful possession! As for the packsaddle, I
have nothing to do with that. All I can say is that my squire, Sancho,
begged permission of me to strip the mount belonging to this conquered
coward of its trappings. To this I consented, and he did so. As to how
those trappings came to be converted into a packsaddle, I can give no
explanation other than the usual one: namely, that such transformations
frequently occur in connection with the practice of chivalry. And by
way of confirming all this, run, Sancho my lad, and bring me that helmet
which this good man says is a basin."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Sancho, "if that is all the proof we have
that what your Grace says is true, then that basin is just as much
Malino's384 helmet as this good man's trappings are a packsaddle."

"Do what I command you," said Don Quixote; "for surely every-
thing in this castle cannot be controlled by enchantments."

Sancho went for the basin and returned with it, and as soon as Don
Quixote saw it he took it up in his hands.

"Your Worships," he said, "can see what cheek this squire has to say
that this is a basin and not the helmet of which I have told you. I swear
by the calling of knighthood which I follow that this is the same one I
took from him and that I have neither added anything to nor subtracted
anything from it."

"There can be no doubt of that," remarked Sancho at this point;
"for from the time my master won it until the present he has fought but
one battle in it, and that was when he freed those poor unfortunate ones
that were going along in chains; and if it had not been for this basin-
helmet, it would have gone hard with him that time, for there were
certainly enough stones thrown."



CHAPTER XLV.

In which the dispute over Mambrino's helmet and the packsaddle
is finally settled, wirfe events that in all truth occurred.



"Well, gentlemen," said the barber, "and what do your Worships
think of that which these fine fellows have to say, who still insist that
this is not a basin but a helmet?"

"And if anyone states the contrary," maintained Don Quixote, "I will
have him know that he lies, if he be a knight, and if he be a squire, that
he lies a thousand times."

Our own barber, who had witnessed all this and who was well ac-
quainted with Don Quixote's fancies, now decided to fall in with them
and carry the joke a little further so that they might all have a good
laugh.

"Master barber," he said, addressing the other one, "or whoever you
may be, I may inform you that I also am of your profession and have
held a license for more than twenty years, being quite familiar with
each and every tool that a barber uses. And in my youth I was a soldier
for some little while, and I likewise know what a helmet is, and a morion,
and a closed helmet, along with other things having to do with a sol-
dier's life. And I can tell you--standing always to be corrected by those
of better judgment--that the piece we have before us here, which that
worthy gentleman holds in his hands, is as far from being a barber's
basin as white is from black or truth from falsehood; and I further assert
that it is a helmet, though not a whole one."

"No, certainly not," agreed Don Quixote, "for half of it is missing,
that is to say, the beaver."

"That is right," said the curate, who had already divined the inten-
tions of his friend the barber.

Cardenio and Don Fernando and his companions confirmed this; and
even the judge, had he not been so preoccupied with Don Luis'affair,
would have helped carry on the jest, but, as it was, the weighty matters
that he had on his mind prevented him from giving his attention to
such trifles.

"God help me!" cried the barber of whom they were making sport.
"Is it possible that so many worthy folk can say that this is not a basin
but a helmet--It is enough to astonish an entire university, however
learned it may be. But enough; if this basin is a helmet, then this saddle-
bag must be a horse's trappings, as this gentleman has just stated."

"It looks to me like a saddlebag," Don Quixote admitted, "but as I
have said, it is something that does not concern me."

, "As to whether it be a saddlebag or a horse's trappings," said the
curate, "Don Quixote has but to give us his opinion, for in matters per-
taining to chivalry, I and all these gentlemen bow to him."

"In God's name, my good folk," said Don Quixote, "so many strange
things have happened in this castle on the two occasions that I have tar-
ried here that I should not venture to give a positive reply to a ques-
tion regarding anything that is in it, for it is my belief that all that takes
place within its confines is the result of magic. The first time that I
was here, there was an enchanted Moor who gave me a great deal of
trouble, while Sancho did not make out any too well with some of his
followers. And then, last night, I was strung up by this arm for nearly
two hours without knowing how or why I came to be in such straits.
And so, in a matter as far from clear as the present one, if I were to
undertake to give an opinion, I should run the risk of rendering a rash
decision. As to the charge that this is a basin and not a helmet, I have
already answered that, but when it comes to declaring whether that
is a saddlebag or a horse's trappings, I shall not venture to make any
definite statement but shall leave it to your Worships'own good judg-
ment. It may be that, inasmuch as you have not been dubbed knights
as I have been, your Worships will not be subject to the enchantments
of this place and, accordingly, your judgment being unimpaired, will
be able to form an impression of things in this castle as they really
and truly are and not as they appear to me to be."

"There is no doubt," said Don Fernando in reply to this, "that Don
Quixote has put the case very well and that the decision rests with us;
and in order that we may proceed upon firm ground, I will take the
secret votes of these gentlemen and will announce the result plainly
and fully."

To those acquainted with Don Quixote's mad whims, all this was very
amusing indeed, but to the rest it seemed utter nonsense. This was espe-
cially true of Don Luis'four servants, and of their master as well, so
far as that was concerned; besides whom there were three other travel-
ers who had just arrived at the inn and who had the appearance of being
patrolmen of the Holy Brotherhood, as in fact they were. The one,
however, who was the most desperately bewildered of all was the bar-
ber, whose basin, there in front of his eyes, had turned into Mambrino's
helmet, and whose packsaddle, also, he had not the slightest doubt, was
due to turn into the rich caparison of a steed. The others, meanwhile,
were laughing heartily as Don Fernando went around collecting the
votes, whispering in the ear of each and asking him to give his private
opinion as to whether the treasure over which there was so much dis-
pute was a packsaddle or equine trappings.

Having obtained the votes of all those who knew Don Quixote, he
turned to the barber and said, "The truth of the matter is, my good
man, I am tired of gathering all these opinions; for there is not a one
to whom I have put the question who has not assured me that it is non-
sense to say. that this is the packsaddle of an ass, when it is plain to be
seen that it is the caparison of a horse and of a thoroughbred horse at
that. And so there is nothing for you to do but yield, since in spite of
you and your ass it is in fact a horse's trappings, and you have presented
and proved your case very badly."

"May I forfeit my interest in Heaven!" cried the poor barber,385 "if
your Worships are not all mistaken. As my soul must appear before
God, so does this appear to me to be a saddlebag; but 'laws go--'386 I
say no more; and I am not drunk, for I am fasting this morning--unless
it be from sin."

These stupid remarks on the part of the barber aroused no less laugh-
ter than did Don Quixote's foolish talk; and it was now the knight's turn.

"There is nothing more to be done here," he announced, "except for
each to take that which is his, and may St. Peter bless him to whom
God has given it "

One of Don Luis'servants was the next to speak. "Unless this is a
deliberate joke," he said, "I cannot believe that men of such good sense
as all of those present are, or appear to be, would be so bold as to state
and maintain that this is not a basin nor that a packsaddle; but inasmuch
as I perceive that they do state and maintain it, I cannot but believe
that there is some mystery behind their insistence upon something that
is so contrary to what truth and experience teaches. For I swear"--and
swear he did, a good round oath--"that all the people now living in
the world will never convince me that this is not a barber's basin, and
that, the packsaddle of an ass."

"It might be a she-ass," remarked the curate.

"It's all the same," said the servant. "That's not the point. The point
is whether this is or, as your Graces say, is not a packsaddle."

Hearing this, one of the troopers who had come in and had been
listening to the argument cried out angrily, "That is as much a pack-
saddle as my father is my father, and he who says anything else must
be drunk."

"You lie like a peasant knave!" replied Don Quixote. And, raising his
pike, which he never let out of his hands, he aimed such a blow at the
trooper's head that if the officer had not dodged, it would have left
him stretched out on the ground. The pike as it struck the ground was
shattered to bits; whereupon the other officers, seeing their companion
assaulted in this manner, cried out for help in the name of the Holy
Brotherhood. The innkeeper, who was one of the band, at once ran
to get his staff of office and his sword and, returning, took his place
alongside his comrades. Don Luis' servants surrounded their master that
he might not escape amid the excitement; and the barber, perceiving that
the household was turned upside down, once more seized his pack-
saddle as Sancho did the same.

Drawing his sword, Don Quixote attacked the officers, while Don
Luis cried to his servants to release him and go to the aid of the knight
and of Cardenio and Don Fernando, both of whom were lending their
support. The curate shouted, the landlady screamed, her daughter
wailed, Maritornes wept, Dorotea was dumfounded, Luscinda terrified,
and Dona Clara ready to faint. The barber cudgeled Sancho, and Sancho
mauled the barber. Don Luis, when one of his servants seized his arm
to keep him from running away, gave the fellow a punch that bloodied
his mouth, and the judge came to the lad's defense. Don Fernando had
a trooper down and was kicking him vigorously, and the innkeeper
was again raising his voice to call for help for the Holy Brotherhood.
In short, the entire hostelry was filled with shouts, cries, screams, with
tumult, terror, and confusion, with sword slashes, fisticuffs, cudgelings,
kickings, bloodshed, and mishaps of every sort. And in the midst of all
this hubbub and labyrinthine chaos, Don Quixote came to imagine that
he had been plunged headlong into the discord of Agramante's camp.387

"Hold, all of you!" he suddenly cried in a voice that rocked the inn
like thunder. "Sheathe your swords, be calm, and hear me as you value
your lives!"

At this mighty sound they all stopped short.

"Did I not tell you, gentlemen he went on, "that this castle was en-
chanted and that it must be inhabited by some legion of devils--In
confirmation of which, I would have you note how the strife that
marked the camp of Agramante has been transferred and repeated here
in front of your very eyes. Look you how here they fight for the sword,
there for the horse, over there for the eagle, and there for the helmet.
We are all engaged in fighting one another without knowing why. Come,
then, your Lordship the judge and your Reverence the curate; let one
of you take the part of King Agramante and the other that of King
Sobrino, and make peace between us. For it is a very great shame for
so many persons of high rank as are gathered here to be killing one an-
other over causes so trifling."

The officers of the Brotherhood, who did not understand what Don
Quixote was talking about, but who did know that they were being
mishandled by Don Fernando, Cardenio, and their companions, were of
no mind to calm themselves. The barber, however, was; for in the course
of the fray both his beard and his packsaddle had suffered considerably.
As for Sancho, he obeyed, as a good servant does, his master's slightest
command, while Don Luis'four, men likewise were quiet, seeing how
little they had gained by not being so. The innkeeper alone was insist-
ing that he had to punish the insolence of that madman who was all the
time throwing his place into an uproar. But at last the tumult died down,
the packsaddle remained a caparison and the basin a helmet until the
Day of Judgment, and the inn was still a castle in Don Quixote's imag-
ination.

When order had finally been restored and all of them, upon the per-
suasion of the curate and the judge, had become friends once more,
Don Luis'servants began insisting that he go with them at once. While
the lad went off to one side to discuss the matter with them, the judge
took counsel with Fernando, Cardenio, and the curate as to what was
to be done in the case, informing them of what Don Luis had told him.

In the end, it was agreed that Fernando should reveal his identity to
the men and say that it was his pleasure that their master should come
with him to Andalusia, where his brother the marquis would show
him the honor that was due to one of his rank; for it was plain to be
seen that Don Luis had no intention of returning to his father just
now, even though they hacked him to bits. Accordingly, when the
four of them learned who Don Fernando was and saw how their mas-
ter felt about it, they decided that three of their number should go back
to inform the lad's father of how matters stood, while the fourth should
remain to wait upon Don Luis, with the understanding that he was not
to leave him until they returned or until it was known what the father's
orders were.

In this manner, then, through the prestige of Agramante and the
wisdom of King Sobrino, all the fighting at cross-purposes was finally
quelled; but with this, the enemy of peace and concord, seeing himself
thus despised and made sport of, and perceiving how little he had
gained by setting them all against one another, resolved to try his hand
once again by stirring up more strife and tumult.

As it happened, the officers of the Brotherhood had quieted down
upon learning the rank of those with whom they were fighting and
had been glad enough to retire from the fray, since it seemed to them
that, whatever the outcome, they were bound to get the worst of it.
One of them, however, the one who had been beaten and trampled by
Don Fernando, chanced to remember that among the warrants he car-
ried for the arrest of certain offenders was a writ for Don Quixote,
whom the Holy Brotherhood had been instructed to apprehend on the
charge of having freed the galley slaves, just as Sancho had rightly
feared. An idea having come to him now, he wished to satisfy himself
as to whether the knight answered the description that he had of him;
and, taking a parchment out of his bosom, he found the document he
was looking for and then began reading it slowly (for he was not a good
reader), glancing up at every word to see if Don Quixote's features cor-
responded with those set down in the writ. Deciding that this was un-
doubtedly his man, he then took the parchment in his left hand and with
his right seized Don Quixote by the collar so forcefully that he nearly
choked him.

"Help for the Holy Brotherhood!" he cried in a loud voice. "And
in order that you may see that I ask it in earnest, you have but to read
this warrant where it is set forth that this highwayman is to be arrested."

The curate took the warrant and saw that what the officer said was
true and that the description did indeed fit Don Quixote. But the
knight, finding himself thus manhandled by this knavish boor, grew
exceedingly angry and, with every bone in his body creaking, he seized
the officer's throat with all the strength he could muster and would have
choked the life out of him if the other troopers had not come to their
comrade's rescue. The landlord, who was bound to render help to other
members of the fraternity, now came running up, while his wife, be-
lieving her husband was again about to become involved in a fight,
raised her voice and began screaming, in which she was at once joined
by Maritornes and her daughter as all three of them called on Heaven
and the others present to lend their aid.

"Good Lord!" cried Sancho, when he saw what was happening, "it
is true what my master says about this castle being enchanted, for it is
impossible to live an hour in peace here."

Don Fernando then separated the patrolman and Don Quixote, each
of them being glad enough to have the other's firm grip released, on his
jacket collar in the one case and on his throat in the other instance. The
officers did not, however, for this reason give up their demand for the
knight's arrest but insisted that the others help bind and deliver him
into the hands of the law and thereby render a service to their king and
to the Holy Brotherhood, in whose name they once more sought aid and
assistance in effecting the capture of this highway bandit.

Don Quixote smiled as he heard these words. When he spoke, it was
very calmly. "Come, now," he said, "you vile and lowborn wretches, do
you call him a highwayman who gives freedom to those in chains, suc-
cors those who are in distress, lifts up the fallen, and brings aid to
the needy--Ah, infamous rabble, by reason of your low and filthy minds
you do not deserve that Heaven should reveal to you the true worth
of knight-errantry and your own sin and ignorance when you fail to
reverence the shadow, not to speak of the presence, of any knight-
errant whatsoever! Come, come, you are a band of robbers, not of
officers, footpads of the highway with the license of the Holy Brother-
hood. Tell me, who was the ignorant one who signed that warrant for
the arrest of such a knight as I am--Who is so ignorant as not to know
that knights-errant are beyond all jurisdiction, their only law their
swords, while their charter is their mettle and their will is their
decrees--

"Who, I ask it again, is the stupid one who does not know that
there are no letters-patent of nobility that confer such privileges and
exemptions as those that a knight-errant acquires the day he is dubbed a
knight and devotes himself to the rigorous duties of his calling--When
did such a knight ever pay poll-tax, excise, queen's pattens, king's levies,
toll, or ferry--What tailor ever took payment for the clothes he made
for him--What castellan who received him in his castle ever made him
pay his score--What king would not seat him at his board--What damsel
but did love him, being ready to yield herself wholly to his will and
pleasure--And, finally, what knight-errant was there ever, or ever will
be in this world, without the mettle to deal singlehanded four hundred
sturdy blows to any four hundred officers of the Holy Brotherhood that
come his way?"



CHAPTER XLVI.

Wherein is concluded the notable adventure of the troopers, together
with an account of the great ferocity of our good knight, Don Quixote.



Even as Don Quixote spoke, the curate was endeavoring to con-
vince the officers that the knight was not in his right mind, as they should
be able to see from what he said and did, and that, accordingly, they
ought to let the matter drop, since even though they did arrest him
and take him away, they would only have to turn him loose again as
being a madman. To which the one who held the warrant replied that
it was not for him to judge Don Quixote's sanity but rather to carry
out the orders of his superior, adding that once he had made the arrest,
they might let him go three hundred times over if they chose.

"Nevertheless," said the curate, "for this once you are not going to
take him,, nor will he permit himself to be taken unless I miss my guess."

The short of it is, the curate was so very persuasive, and Don Quixote
so very mad in his actions, that the troopers would have been even
madder than he was had they not recognized his want of wit. And so
they thought it best to allow themselves to be pacified and even to act
as peacemakers between the barber and Sane ho Partza, who were still
engaged in a heated quarrel. As the representatives of the law they pro-
ceeded to arbitrate the dispute and did it in such a manner that both
parties were, if not wholly, at least somewhat satisfied; for they ex-
changed the packsaddles but not the girths nor the headstalls. As for
Mambrino's helmet, the curate quietly, and without Don Quixote's
knowledge, gave the barber eight reales for it, obtaining from him a
receipt with the understanding that he was to make no more mistaken
demands, for the present or for all time to come, Amen.

These two disputes, which were the most important ones, having
been settled, it remained for the three of Don Luis 'servants to consent
to take their departure while the fourth remained to accompany his
master wherever Don Fernando might conduct him. And now that good
luck and better fortune had begun to shatter lances and remove obstacles
in favor of the lovers and the brave ones of the inn, fate appeared bent
upon bringing everything to a happy conclusion; for the servants proved
amenable to all that Don Luis asked of them, which gave Dona Clara
so much satisfaction that none could look upon her face without being
aware of the joy that was in her heart.

As for Zoraida, although she did not thoroughly comprehend all the
happenings she witnessed, she nonetheless became sad or joyful to fit
the mood of each of the others, and especially that of her beloved Span-
iard on whom her eyes and heart were ever fixed. The landlord, in the
meanwhile, had not failed to observe388 the gift which the curate had
made to the barber by way of recompense, and he now asked Don
Quixote to pay for his lodging and also to reimburse him for the wine
skins and the wine that had been spilled, swearing that neither Rocinante
nor Sancho's ass389 would leave the place until he had had the last penny
that was due him. The curate, however, set everything to rights, and
Don Fernando paid what was owing, with the judge very kindly offer-
ing to do the same. In this fashion peace was made between them all
and quiet reigned, the inn no longer presenting the discordant aspect
of Agramante's camp, as Don Quixote had put it, but rather suggesting
the calm and tranquillity of the time of Octavianus.390 And for this, all
were agreed that thanks were to be given to the curate for his great
eloquence and good will and to Don Fernando for his incomparable
liberality.

Finding himself at last free and disembarrassed of all these disputes,
those of his squire as well as his own, Don Quixote reflected that it
would be a good thing to continue with the journey he had begun and
bring to a conclusion the great adventure for which he had been called
and chosen. With this firm resolve, he went and knelt before Dorotea,
who would not permit him to say a word until he had risen, which he,
to comply with her wishes, then did.

"Lovely lady," he said, "it is a common proverb that diligence is the
mother of good fortune, and experience has shown in many and grave
instances how the faithful application of the one engaged in it may
bring to a successful close a doubtful undertaking. But in no case is this
truth more apparent than in war, where swiftness and decision fore-
stall the plans of the enemy and carry off the victory before he has
had a chance to put himself upon the defensive. All this I say to you,
O highborn and highly esteemed lady, for the reason that our stay in
this castle appears to me to be a profitless one and may even result in
very great harm to us as we shall someday discover. For who knows
but that your enemy, the giant, through hidden spies who are ever at
work, has already learned that I am coming to destroy him and is already
fortifying himself in some inexpugnable castle or fortress against which
all my efforts and the might of my tireless arm will avail me little--
And so, my lady, let us with a show of diligence on our own part an-
ticipate his designs by setting out at once in quest of that good fortune
which your Highness desires and is only prevented from enjoying by
my delay in confronting your foe."

The knight said no more but waited very composedly for the beaute-
ous infanta's response; and she, with highbred manner that suited Don
Quixote's own speech and bearing, thereupon spoke as follows:

"I thank you, Sir Knight, for the eagerness you have shown to aid
me in my distress, as appertains to the calling of one whose duty it is to
succor the orphan and the needy; and I pray to Heaven that your and
my desire be fulfilled, so that you may see that there are women in this
world who are capable of gratitude. As to what you say concerning
our departure, let it be at once, for I have no will other than yours.
Dispose of me as you may wish and deem best; for she who once has
placed in your hands the defense of her person and the restoration of
her royal holdings should not desire anything that is contrary to what
you in your wisdom may ordain.'

"Then let it be in the hands of God," said Don Quixote; "for when a
lady391 humbles herself to me, I would not lose the opportunity to raise
her up and set her on her ancestral throne. Let us depart at once; the
danger that lies in delay lends spurs to my eagerness to take the road.
And seeing that Heaven hath not created nor Hell seen anyone who
could frighten or make a coward of me, saddle Rocinante, Sancho, an
harness your ass and the queen's palfrey, and let us bid farewell to the
castellan and these gentlefolk and go hence immediately.

Sancho, who was taking all this in, wagged his head from side to side.
"Ah, master, master," he said, "there's more mischief m the little village
than you hear talked of,392 begging the pardon of all good folks.

"What mischief could there be, you bumpkin, in any village or in all
the cities of the world that could possibly harm my good name?"

"If your Grace is going to be angry," replied Sancho, "I shall keep
still and leave unsaid that which I feel obliged to say and which a good
servant ought to say to his master."

"Say whatever you like," Don Quixote told him, "for your words do
not frighten me. When you are afraid, you are being yourself, and when
I am not afraid, I am being the person that I am."

"That," said Sancho, "is not what I am talking about. I merely
meant to tell you that I know it to be a fact that this lady who claims
to be queen of the great kingdom of Micomicon is no more a queen
than my mother is; for if she was what she says, she would not be rub-
bing noses with a certain one who is here, every time you turn your
head, and behind every door."

Dorotea's face turned red at Sancho's words; for it was true that her
husband, Don Fernando, when the others were not looking, had claimed
with his lips a part of the reward that his affection merited, and Sancho,
happening to espy them, had thought that such free and easy manners
were more becoming in a courtesan than in a great and mighty queen.
As a result, she did not know what reply to make, but let him run on.

"I tell you this, my master," he was saying, "for a very good reason.
If after we have roamed the highways and the byways and spent bad
days and worse nights, the one who is having his sport here in this inn
is to come and gather the fruit of our labors, then I do not see why I
should be in any hurry to saddle Rocinante, put the packsaddle on the
ass, and get the palfrey ready; for it would be better if we stayed here
and let every wench mind her spinning393 while we go to dinner."

Heaven help me, what a rage was Don Quixote's when he heard these
disrespectful words from his squire! So great was it that his eyes darted
fire, as with stuttering, stammering tongue he turned on Sancho.

"O knavish lout!" he cried, "O villainous, insolent, ignorant, foul-
mouthed, loose-tongued backbiter and slanderer! How dare you utter
such words in my presence and that of these ladies--How dare you
let such immodest and shameless thoughts enter that muddled head of
yours--Go from my presence, O monstrous deformity of nature, de-
pository of lies, storehouse of deceits, granary of villainies, inventor
of iniquities, publisher of absurdities, and enemy of that respect that is
due to royal personages! Begone and do not appear before me again
under pain of my wrath!"

As he said this, Don Quixote arched his brows, puffed out his cheeks,
glared all around him, and stamped on the ground with his right foot
as hard as he could as a manifestation of the pent-up rage within him.
Sancho was so intimidated and terrified by the knight's furious words
and bearing that he would have been glad if at that instant the earth
had opened beneath his feet and swallowed him up. He did not know
what to do and was about to turn his back and leave the presence of his
irate master when the clever-minded Dorotea, who by this time under-
stood very well Don Quixote's whims, took a hand in the matter.

"Sir Knight of the Mournful Countenance,'' she began by way of
appeasing his anger, "be not wroth at the foolish things your squire has
just said. It may be that he has some reason for saying them, for his good
sense and Christian conscience are such that he is not to be suspected
of bearing false witness against anyone. And hence we are to believe,
and indeed there is no doubt about it, since everything in this castle
happens by way of enchantment as you yourself have stated, Sir Knight
--we are to believe that Sancho must have been led by diabolic means
to see that which he says he beheld and which is so great an offense to
my honor."

"I swear by almighty God!" exclaimed Don Quixote at this point,
"that your Highness has hit upon it, and that some evil vision must have
appeared before this sinner of a Sancho that caused him to see what it
would have been impossible to behold through any other means than
those of magic; for I am well acquainted with the poor fellow's sim-
plicity and goodheartedness, and I know that he would not willingly
be guilty of slander."

"So it is and so it shall be," said Don Fernando; "and for that reason,
Sir Don Quixote, your Grace ought to pardon him and restore him to
the bosom of your favor, sicut erat in principio--as he was before such
visions as these had deprived him of his senses."

The knight agreed to this, and the curate went in search of Sancho,
who came back very humbly and, falling on his knees, asked for his
master's hand to kiss, a request that was granted him.

"And now, Sancho my son," said Don Quixote as he gave him his
blessing, "you will realize that it is true what I have told you so many
times, that everything in this castle is under a magic spell."

"I can well believe it," said Sancho, "that is, everything except that
business with the blanket, which happened in the ordinary way.

"Do not think that," said Don Quixote, "for if such were the case,
l should have avenged you, and should do so even now; but it was not
possible then, and it is not possible now, to exact any vengeance for
the wrong that was done you."

They all immediately wanted to know what this affair of the blanket
was, and the innkeeper gave them the story in all its details, describing
how Sancho had gone flying up in the air, at which they laughed not a
little. The victim of the blanketing would have been quite as angry
as they were amused, if Don Quixote had not once more assured him
that it was all magic. His simple-mindedness, however, never reached
the point where he could be brought to believe that it was not an estab-
lished fact and the purest, unadulterated truth that he had indeed been
tossed in a blanket by flesh-and-blood beings rather than by phantoms
that he had dreamed or conjured up in his imagination as his master be-
lieved and maintained.

Two days had now gone by since all this illustrious company was
gathered in the inn, and it seemed to them all that it was high time
to be on their way. It was accordingly agreed that, without putting
Dorotea and Don Fernando to the trouble of accompanying Don
Quixote to his native village, under pretext of liberating the Queen
Micomicona, the curate and the barber instead should take the knight
with them as they had suggested, and once they had got him safely
home, they would see what could be done about curing his madness.
With this object in view, they proceeded to arrange with an ox-cart
driver who chanced to be passing that way to bear their friend off in
the following manner: first, they constructed a kind of cage with
Wooden bars, capable of holding him comfortably; after which, Don
Fernando and his companions, along with Don Luis'servants, the troop-
ers, and the landlord, all of them acting under the curate's direction,
covered their faces and disguised themselves in one fashion or another
so that Don Quixote would not recognize them as his acquaintances
of the inn.

Having done this, they very quietly entered the room where he lay
sleeping and resting from his recent frays, wholly unsuspecting of any-
thing of this sort. Going up to him, they seized him firmly and bound
him hand and foot, so that when he awoke with a start, he was unable
to move or do anything except marvel at finding himself surrounded by
so many strange faces. As a result, his disordered mind at once began
to fancy that all these figures were phantoms of that enchanted castle and
that he himself, without a doubt, was under a magic spell, seeing that
ic could not move nor defend himself. All of which was just as the
:urate, the originator of this scheme, had planned it.

Sancho alone of all those present was at once in his right mind and
Droper character, and while he was near to being as mad as his master,
le did not fail to recognize these disguised figures; but he did not dare
open his mouth until he saw what the outcome of this assault and cap-
ture would be. As for Don Quixote, he said not a word, for he too was
waiting to see what was going to happen to him further. What hap-
pened was: they took him to the cage and shut him in it, nailing the bars
so firmly that they could not easily be broken down.

As they lifted him on their shoulders and bore him from the room,
there was heard an awe-inspiring voice--as much so as the barber (not
he of the packsaddle but the other one) could make it.

"O Knight of the Mournful Countenance, be not grieved by the
prison in which thou goest, for it is a fitting thing in order that thou
mayest the sooner bring to a conclusion the adventure to which thy
great courage hath impelled thee. That shall be when the raging
Manchegan lion394 and the white Tobosan dove shall have been made
one, after they shall have bowed their proud necks to the gentle yoke of
matrimony. And from this mating, of a kind that never was before,
shall come forth into the light of this world brave whelps which shall
emulate the ravening claws of their valiant sire. And this shall be ere
the pursuer of the fleeing nymph in his swift and natural course shall
twice have visited the luminous signs.

"And thou, O noblest and most obedient squire that ever girded on
a sword, wore a beard on his face, or had a nose to smell with! be thou
not dismayed nor unhappy at thus beholding the flower of knight-
errantry borne away in front of your very eyes; for soon, if it be
pleasing to Him who fashioned this world, thou shalt see thyself raised
to so sublime a height that thou shalt not know thyself, nor shalt thou
be defrauded of all the promises which thy good master hath made
thee. And be assured on the part of the wise Mentironiana395 that thou
shalt be paid thy wages, as thou shalt see in due course. Do thou, then,
continue to follow in the footsteps of this valiant and enchanted knight;
for it behooves thee to go whither both of you are bound. It is not per-
mitted me to say more; and so, may God be with thee, for I now re-
turn to the place that I well know."

As he concluded this prophecy, the barber raised and lowered his
voice with so intense an emotional effect that even those who knew it
to be a jest almost believed that it was the truth they heard. Don Quix-
ote was greatly consoled by these predictions, for he at once grasped
their purport, to the effect that he was to be united in holy and lawful
bonds of matrimony with his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso, from whose
fortunate loins should come forth whelps that were his sons, to the
perpetual glory of La Mancha. Thoroughly imbued with this belief, he
heaved a deep sigh and, lifting up his voice, he spoke as follows:

"O thou, whoever thou art, who hast prophesied all these blessings
for me! I implore thee on my behalf to ask the wise enchanter who
hath these things in his charge not to allow me to perish in this cap-
tivity in which they now bear me away before I shall have seen ful-
filled all the joyful and incomparable promises that have just been made
me. Let this be granted me and I shall glory in the sufferings of my
prison house, my chains will be light indeed, and this bed upon which
they lay me will be, not a hard-fought battlefield, but a soft and happy
nuptial couch. As for the consolation that has been offered to Sancho
Panza, my squire, I can only say that I rely upon his goodness and in-
tegrity, trusting him never to leave me in good fortune or in bad. And
if by his or my own ill luck I should not be able to give him the island
or some equivalent fief as I have promised, at least his wages shall not
be forfeited; for in my will, which is already drawn up, I have declared
that which is to be his, not in proportion to his many and faithful serv-
ices, but in accordance with my means."

At this Sancho bowed most respectfully and kissed both his master's
hands, it being impossible for him to kiss but one of them as they were
tied together. Then those phantom figures put the cage upon their
shoulders and carried it out and placed it on the ox-cart.



CHAPTER XLVII. .

Of the strange manner in which a spell was laid on Don
Quixote de la Mancha 396 together with other remarkable occurrences.



When Don Quixote found himself caged in this manner and placed
upon the cart, he spoke as follows:

"Many very grave histories have I read of knights-errant, but never
have I read, seen, or heard of enchanted knights being borne away in
--this fashion and at the slow pace that these lazy animals seem likely to
provide; for it is the custom to spirit them through the air, with mar-
velous speed, wrapped in some dark, dense cloud or upon a chariot
of fire or some hippogriff or other similar beast. But that they should
now be taking me upon an ox-cart, Heaven help me, that is something
I cannot understand!397 However, it may be that chivalry and the art of
magic in this our time must follow another path than the one it did
in days gone by. And it may also be that, inasmuch as I am a new knight
in this world, the first to revive the forgotten calling of knightly adven-
turers, they may likewise have invented other means of enchantment
and other ways of carrying off the enchanted. What do you think of
it, Sancho, my son?"

"I don't know what I think," replied Sancho, "not being as well
read as is your Grace in the writings of errantry. But for all of that,
I'd venture to swear and affirm that those apparitions are not altogether
Catholic."398

"Catholic--My father!" said Don Quixote. "How can they be Catho-
lic if they are all demons who have assumed fantastic shapes in order
to do this thing and put me in this condition--If you would ascertain the
truth, you have but to touch and feel them and you will perceive that
they have none but an airy body and consist only of appearances."

"By God, sir," Sancho answered him, "I've already touched them,
and that devil you see bustling along there is as plump as can be and it's
real flesh that's on him; and there is something else about him that is
very different from what I have heard tell of demons, for they say that
they all stink of sulphur and other evil smells, but you can scent the
amber on this one half a league away."

He was speaking of Don Fernando, who as a gentleman must of neces-
sity give off the odor that Sancho had mentioned.

"You need not marvel at that, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote; "for
I would have you know that the devils are very wise, and while they
bear odors with them, they themselves smell of nothing, since, being
spirits, they can emit no scent whatsoever, or if they do smell, it is not
of anything pleasant but rather something evil and fetid. The reason for
this is that, wherever they may be, they bring with them Hell itself and
can receive no manner of comfort in their torments; and inasmuch as a
pleasing fragrance is something that gives delight and happiness, it is
obviously impossible for them to be possessed of such a thing. Accord-
ingly, if this devil appears to you to smell of amber, either you are mis-
taken or he is trying to deceive you so that you will not take him to be
a devil."

As this conversation occurred between master and man, Don Fernando
and Cardenio began to fear that Sancho would discover the entire plot,
for he had already gone a long way toward doing so. They therefore
decided to hasten their departure and, calling the landlord to one side,
they directed him to saddle Rocinante and put the packsaddle on
Sancho's ass, which he did very quickly. The curate, meanwhile, had
arranged with the troopers to accompany them as far as the village,
promising to pay them so much a day. Cardenio then hung the buckler
on one side of the saddletree and the basin on the other and made signs
to Sancho to mount his ass and take Rocinante's rein, while the two
troopers399 with their muskets were placed one on either side of the
cart. Before that vehicle could get under way, however, the landlady,
her daughter, and Maritornes came running out to say good-by to
Don Quixote, shedding feigned tears of sorrow over his plight.

"Do not weep, my good ladies," he now said to them, "for all these
misfortunes are such as go with the calling that I profess; indeed, if
they did not befall me, I should not look upon myself as a famous
knight-errant. Such things never happen to knights of little name and
reputation for the reason that no one in the world gives them a thought.
With the valiant ones it is otherwise, for many princes and many other
knights envy them their virtue and their valor and are bent upon de-
stroying the worthy by foul means. But in spite of all this, virtue is
omnipotent and, notwithstanding all the necromancy that Zoroaster,
first inventor of the art,400 ever knew, will emerge triumphant from every
peril and bestow light on the world as does the sun in the heavens.
Forgive me, fair ladies, if, without meaning to do so, I have given you
any offense, for I would not willingly and knowingly offend anyone.
Pray, then, to God to rescue me from this captivity in which some
enchanter of evil intent has placed me; and when I am free, I will by
no means forget the favors which you in this castle have shown me,
but will acknowledge, requite, and reward them as they deserve."

While the ladies of the castle were conversing with Don Quixote,
the curate and the barber were taking their leave of Don Fernando and
his companions, the captain and his brother, and all those happy dam-
sels, particularly Dorotea and Luscinda. They all embraced one an-
other and agreed to keep in touch by letter, Don Fernando telling the
curate where to write to inform him of the outcome of Don Quixote's
case, as nothing would give him more pleasure than this. For his part,
Fernando promised to send back any news that might be of interest
pertaining to his marriage as well as Zoraida's baptism, the upshot of
Don Luis'affair, and Luscinda's return home. The curate gave his as-
surance that he would comply most faithfully with all that was asked
of him, and then, with another exchange of embraces, they renewed
their promises all over again.

The innkeeper at this point came up to the curate and handed him
some papers, saying he had found them in the lining of the trunk where
the Story of the One Who Was Too Curious for His Own Good had
been discovered; and, seeing that their owner had not returned for
them, he told the priest to take them all, as he himself did not know
how to read and so did not care to keep them. The curate thanked him
and, opening the manuscript at once, he saw that the title was The
Story of Riconete and Cortadillo,401 a from which he gathered that it was
a work of fiction; and since The One Who Was Too Curious had
afforded such pleasant reading, he assumed that this must also be an
interesting tale, as there was a possibility that they were by the same
author, and so he kept it with the intention of reading it later when
he had an opportunity.

He then mounted his horse and the barber did the same, both wear-
ing their masks in order not to be recognized by Don Quixote; where-
upon the entire party fell in, alongside and behind the ox-cart, in the
following formation: first came the cart, driven by its owner; at the
sides were the two officers of the Holy Brotherhood with their muskets,
as has been stated; Sancho Panza then followed on his ass, leading
Rocinante; and bringing up the rear were the curate and the barber upon
their sturdy mules, their faces covered in the manner described as they
solemnly rode along, suiting their pace to that of the oxen. Seated in
the cage was Don Quixote, who with his hands bound and his feet
stretched out, leaned patiently back against the bars, preserving a si-
lence so complete that it seemed he was not a flesh-and-blood being
but rather a stone statue.

They had proceeded thus slowly and silently for a matter of two
leagues when they came to a valley which impressed the carter as
being a good place to rest and feed his oxen, and he suggested to the
curate that they halt there. The barber, however, spoke up and said
that he thought they should go a little farther because he knew of a
valley beyond a near-by slope where there was more and much better
grass than was to be found here. And so, having decided to take his
advice, they set out again.

Turning his head, the curate now saw six or seven horsemen, all
of them well equipped and accoutered, riding up behind them. The
cavalcade was soon upon them, for these men rode, not as those who
must accommodate their pace to the sluggish gait of oxen, but rather
as those do who go mounted on canons'mules, spurred by the desire
to reach the inn as soon as possible for their noontide repose, for the
hostelry was already in sight half a league away. In such manner did
the ones who made haste overtake the ones who were compelled to lag.
There was a courteous exchange of greetings, and then one of the
newcomers, who was, as a matter of fact, a canon of Toledo and the
superior of the others, upon beholding the slow and solemn ox-cart
procession--the troopers, Sancho, Rocinante, the curate and the barber,
and finally Don Quixote caged and imprisoned--could not refrain from
asking what the purpose was in transporting the man in such a fashion,
although he had already assumed from a sight of the officers'insignia
that the fellow must be some villainous highwayman or other criminal
who came under the jurisdiction of the Holy Brotherhood.

"Sir," replied one of the troopers to whom he had put the question,
"he himself will have to answer that, for we do not know."

Hearing this, Don Quixote addressed the canon's party. "Gentle-
men," he said, "are your Worships by any chance versed and skilled in
what pertains to knight-errantry--For if you are, I can tell you of my
misfortunes; but if you are not, there is no reason why I should put
myself to the trouble."

In the meantime, seeing the travelers engaged in conversation with
Don Quixote de la Mancha, the curate and the barber had come forward
that they might answer the questions in such a way that their artifice
would not be discovered.

"In truth, my brother," said the canon, for it was to him that the
knight had directed his remarks, "I know more about books of chivalry
than I do about Villalpando's Compendium;402 and so, if that is the only
thing that stands in the way, you may freely tell me anything that you
desire."

"So be it, then, in Heaven's name," replied Don Quixote. "Sir," he
went on, "I would inform you that I am being carried away enchanted
in this cage as a result of the envy and deceit of wicked magicians; for
virtue is more persecuted by the wicked than loved by the good. A
knight-errant am I, and not one of those whom fame never thought
of immortalizing in her annals. I am, rather, of that number who, in
spite of the envy of which I have spoken, in spite of all the Magi
that Persia has spawned, all the Brahmans that India has produced, all
the gymnosophists403 that have come out of Ethiopia, are destined to
leave their names in the temple of immortality that they may serve as
examples and as models for ages to come, wherein knights-errant may
behold the paths they have to follow if it be their desire to attain the
highest peak and pinnacle of honor in their pursuit of the calling of
arms."

"Don Quixote de la Mancha speaks the truth," the curate put in,
"when he tells you that he goes enchanted upon this cart, not through
any fault or sin of his own, but owing to the ill will of those whom
virtue annoys and valor angers. This, sir, is the Knight of the Mournful
Countenance, whose name you may have heard upon occasion and
whose brave deeds and great exploits shall be recorded in enduring
bronze and eternal marble, no matter how tirelessly envy may seek to
obscure them and malice endeavor to keep them hidden."

When the canon heard both the prisoner and the one who walked
free beside him speak in this manner, he was ready to cross himself
from astonishment and could not believe his own ears, while all his
companions were equally amazed. Then it was that Sancho Panza, who
had drawn near to listen to their talk, put the finishing touch on it all.

"Well, sirs," he said, "whether or not you like what I am going
to say, the fact is that my master, Don Quixote, is no more enchanted
than my mother, for he has all his senses about him and eats and drinks
and attends to his necessities like the rest of us, just as he did yesterday
before they put him in this cage. This being so, how would you have
me believe that he is enchanted--For I have heard many people say
that those that are under a magic spell neither eat nor sleep nor speak
whereas my master, if you do not take him in hand, will do more talking
than thirty lawyers."

Turning, then, to look the curate in the face, he went on, "Ah, Senor
Curate! Senor Curate! So, your Grace thought I didn't know you and
that I would not guess what the purpose of these new enchantments
is--Well, then, I can tell you that I recognize you no matter how much
you cover your face and that I know what you are up to no matter how
cleverly and deceitfully you attempt to hide it. In short, where envy
reigns virtue cannot live, nor generosity where there is miserliness.
Devil take it all, if it wasn't for your Reverence, my master would be
getting married to the Princess Micomicona right now and I would
be a count at the very least, since I could expect no less from my kind-
hearted master, him of the Mournful Countenance, after all that I have
done for him. But now I see that it is true what they say hereabouts,
that fortune's wheel turns faster than that of a mill,404 and those that
yesterday were up on top today are down on the ground.

"It grieves me to think about my wife and children, who rightly
expect to see their father and husband returning home and coming
through the door as governor or viceroy of some island or kingdom, and
instead they will see him coming in as a stable boy. All this that I am
saying to you, Senor Curate, is by way of urging your Paternity to
have a conscience and not treat my master so badly as you are doing-
for look well to it that God in the other life does not ask you to ac-
count for holding Senor Don Quixote a prisoner like this, and hold you
responsible for all the good my master might have done and the aid
he might have given others during all this time."

"Trim those lamps for me!'"405 cried the barber at this point. "So you,
Sancho, are of the same confraternity as your master, are you? Good
lord, but I''m beginning to think you ought to be in the cage here
with him, for you're as much bewitched as he is when it comes to
the subject of chivalry! It was an evil day for you when your brains
became impregnated with all those promises that he made you and you
got that island into your head that you've so set your heart on."

"I'm not pregnant by any man," declared Sancho - "nor am I the man
to let myself be put in that condition by any king that ever lived. I may
be poor but I'm an old Christian and I don't owe anyone anything. If I
want islands, there are others who want worse things. Each one is
the son of his own works, and being a man I may come to be pope,406
not to speak of being governor of an island; for my master may win so
many that there will not be people enough to give them to. Sir Barber,
you had better watch what you say, for there is some difference between
Peter and Peter.407 I say this because we all know one another and it
won't do to throw false dice with me. And as for my master's being
enchanted, God knows the truth, so leave it as it is, for it is better not
to stir it."

The barber did not care to answer Sancho for fear that the latter
in his simple-mindedness would reveal what he and the curate were
trying so hard to conceal. It was the same consideration that led the
curate to suggest to the canon that they ride on a little way ahead,
where he would explain to him the mystery of the man in the cage
along with other things that would interest him. The canon accompanied
by his servants accordingly did so and listened most attentively to all
that was told him regarding Don Quixote's life, his madness, and his
habits, along with a brief account of the beginning and cause of his de-
rangement, the course of events which had led up to his being placed
in that cage, and the plan they had for taking him back home to see if
some remedy could be found for the form of insanity from which he
suffered. Both the canon and his attendants marveled afresh at this
strange history, and when it was finished, the churchman voiced his
view of the matter.

"Truly, Senor Curate," he said, "it is my opinion that those so-called
books of chivalry are harmful to the well-being of the state. And while
it is true that, out of idle curiosity and a false sense of pleasure, I have
read the beginning of nearly all that have been printed, I have never
been able to read any of them from beginning to end, for it seems to
me that they are all more or less the same and one is worth about as
much as another. As I see it, this species of writing and composition is
in the same class with what are called Milesian fables,408 which are non-
sensical tales designed solely to amuse and not to instruct, in which
respect they are unlike those apologues which afford entertainment and
instruction at one and the same time. Granting, even, that the chief
purpose of such works is to amuse, I do not see how it can be achieved
when they are so full of monstrous nonsense.

"For that beauty which the soul conceives," he went on, "must come
from the beauty and harmony that it beholds or contemplates in those
things that are presented to it by sight or by the imagination, and noth-
ing that is ugly or inharmonious can give us any pleasure whatsoever.
Well, then, I ask you, what beauty can there be, or what proportion of
parts with the whole or of the whole with its parts, in a book or fable
in which a seventeen-year-old lad slashes a giant tall as a tower and
cuts him in half as if he were a sugar-pastry--And when they go to
depict a battle scene for us, although we may have been told that there
are a million lighting men on the enemy's side, nevertheless, let the
hero of the book be against them and of necessity, whether we like it
or not, we have to believe that the knight in question carried off the
victory single-handed, by virtue of his mighty arm.

"Then, what shall we say of the readiness with which a hereditary
queen or empress throws herself into the arms of an unknown knight-
errant--Could any person, save one with a barbarous and uncultivated
mind, find pleasure in reading that a great tower filled with knights goes
sailing over the sea like a ship with a favoring wind and is tonight in
Lombardy and tomorrow morning in the land of Prester John of the
Indies,409 or in other domains such as Ptolemy never discovered and
Marco Polo never laid eyes on--And if you should answer me by saying
that those who write such books offer them to us as fiction and hence
are not obliged to observe the fine points of the truth, I should reply
that the falsehood is all the greater when it appears in the guise of truth,
and that as fiction, the more it contains of the pleasing410 and the pos-
sible the more it delights us.

"For in works of fiction there should be a mating between the plot
and the reader's intelligence. They should be so written that the im-
possible is made to appear possible, things hard to believe being smoothed
over and the mind held in suspense in such a manner as to create sur-
prise and astonishment while at the same time they divert and entertain
so that admiration and pleasure go hand in hand. But these are things
which he cannot accomplish who flees verisimilitude and the imitation
of nature, qualities that go to constitute perfection in the art of writing.

"Never," concluded the canon, "have I seen any book of chivalry
that held the body of a story completely with all its members so that the
middle was consistent with the beginning and the end with the begin-
ning and the middle. Rather, they are made up of so many disparate
members that it would seem the author's intention was to create a chimera
or a monster rather than a well-proportioned figure. In addition to all
this, they are crude in style, unconvincing in the exploits that they relate,
lascivious in the love affairs that they portray, uncouth in their efforts at
courtliness, prolix in their descriptions of battles, absurd in their dia-
logue, nonsensical in their accounts of journey ings, and, finally, destitute
of anything that resembles art; for which reason it is they deserve to be
banished from the Christian state as not being of public utility."

The curate had listened to all this very closely, for the canon im-
pressed him as being a man of sound understanding who was right in
what he said. He now told him that he was of the same opinion and,
having a grudge against such works, had burned all those that Don
Quixote possessed, of which there were a great many. He then went on
to relate how he had gone through all the books in the knight's library,
mentioning those that he had condemned to the flames and those that he
had let live, at which the canon laughed not a little.

But for all the harsh things that he had said of such books, the canon
added, he had found one good thing about them, and that was the chance
they afforded for a good mind to display its true worth, for they offered
a broad and spacious field over which the author's pen might run without
impediment, describing shipwrecks, tempests, battles, and encounters;
depicting a valiant captain with all the qualities requisite to such a char-
acter, showing him as prudent, capable of anticipating the stratagems of
the enemy, an eloquent orator in persuading or dissuading his soldiers,
exhibiting a ripened wisdom in council, quick in making decisions, and
as brave when it came to biding his time as he was in the attack; the
author could relate now a lamentable and tragic event and now some
joyful and unexpected occurrence; he could picture here a lovely lady,
modest, discreet, and reserved, and there a Christian knight, gentle and
brave, setting a lawless, barbarous braggart over against a prince,
courtly, valorous, and benign, letting us see at once the loyalty and devo-
tion of the vassals and the greatness and generosity of their lords.

The author might further show himself to be an astrologer, an excel-
lent cosmographer, a musician, a student of statecraft, or even upon oc-
casion, if he chose, a necromancer. He might take as his theme the
astuteness of Ulysses, the filial piety of Aeneas, the bravery of Achilles,
the woes of Hector, the treasons of Sinon,411 the friendship of Euryalus,412
the liberality of Alexander, the valor of Caesar, the clemency and truth-
fulness of Trajan, the fidelity of Zopyrus,413 the prudence of Cato--in
short, all those attributes that go to make an illustrious man perfect, as
shown sometimes in a single individual and other times as shared among
many. All of which being done in an easy-flowing style, with a skilled
inventiveness that draws insofar as possible upon the truth of things, the
result would surely be a web woven of beautiful and variegated threads,414
one which when completed would exhibit such a perfected beauty of
form as to attain the most worth-while goal of all writing, which as I
have said is at once to instruct and to entertain. These books, indeed, by
their very nature, provided the author with an unlimited field in which
to try his hand at the epic, lyric, tragic, and comic genres and depict in
turn all the moods that are represented by these most sweet and pleasing
branches of poetry and oratory; for the epic may be written in prose as
well as in verse.



CHAPTER XLVIII

In which the canon continues his discourse on the subject of books
of chivalry, with other matters worthy of his intelligence.



It IS as your Grace has said, Senior Canon," remarked the curate,
"and for that reason they are all the more deserving of reprehension who
up to now have composed such books without giving any thought to
good taste or the rules of art by which they might have been guided
and thereby have rendered themselves as famous in prose as the two
princes of Greek and Latin poetry are in verse."

"However that may be," replied the canon, "I myself was once
tempted to write a book of chivalry, observing all the points that I have
mentioned; and if I am to confess the truth, I have more than a hundred
sheets already written. By way of putting them to the test and seeing
if they were as good as I thought they were, I have submitted them to
certain individuals who are passionately fond of this type of reading.
Some of these persons were wise and learned, while others were ig-
norant, being concerned solely with the pleasure they derive from listen-
ing to nonsense, but all of them were warmly appreciative of my effort.
I did not go on, however, for it seemed to me, on the one hand, that I
was engaged in doing something that was foreign to my profession, and,
on the other hand, the foolish impressed me as being more numerous
than the wise; and while the praise of the discerning few offsets415 the
scorn of the unknowing many, I still did not care to subject myself to
the confused judgment of that vapid public to which the reading of
Such works is for the most part confined.

"But what did most to stay my hand and even caused me to give up
all thought of finishing what I had begun was an argument that I put to
myself, drawn from the comedies that are now being performed. It ran
as follows: All of these pieces, or the greater part of them at any rate,
whether purely fictitious or historical in character, are obviously non-
sensical, without head or tail, yet the public takes pleasure in witnessing
them and regards them as worthy productions, though they are far
from good. And the authors who compose them and the actors who
perform them tell us that plays have to be of this sort, since the public
wants precisely that kind of thing and nothing else, whereas those pieces
that have a plot and develop the story in an artistic fashion will appeal
only to a handful of intelligent persons who are able to understand them,
while all the others will fail to perceive the art that is in them. This
being so, they--the authors and actors--prefer to gain their bread with
the many rather than subsist on the good opinion of the few. In which
case, my book, after I should have scorched my eyebrows in an at-
tempt to observe the precepts I have mentioned, would meet with the
same fate as other works of merit, and I should end up by being the
tailor of Campillo.416

"Although I have a number of times endeavored to persuade the
actors417 that they are wrong in the view they hold, and that they would
attract more people and win more fame for themselves by producing
comedies that follow the rules of art than they do by performing in
these silly ones, they are so firmly set in their opinion that no amount
of reasoning or evidence will convince them that they are wrong. I
remember saying to one of the stubborn fellows once upon a time:'Do
you not recall that, only a few years ago, there were three tragedies
put upon the boards here in Spain, written by a famous poet of this
realm, which were so pleasing as to arouse the admiration and hold the
interest of all who heard them, the simple as well as the wise, the gen-
eral public as well as the select few, and which brought in more money
to the performers--these three alone--than thirty of the best that up
to then had been produced?'

"'You mean, of course,'the author418 replied,'the Isabella, the Phyllis,
and the Alexandra?'419

"'Yes,' I said, 'those are the ones of which I am speaking; and see if
they do not well observe the rules of art, and if, superior creations that
they are, they are not still pleasing to everyone. The fault therefore lies
not with the public that asks for silly pieces, but with those who do not
know how to put on anything else. The Ingratitude Avenged was not
nonsense; neither was the Numantia, nor The Merchant Lover, and
certainly not The Fair and Favoring Enemy;420 and the same might be
said of others composed by intelligent poets, to their own fame and
renown and the profit of those who put on the plays.'

"I had other things to say along the same line, which left him, I
thought, a bit embarrassed but by no means sufficiently convinced to
give up his erroneous opinion."

"Senor Canon," said the curate, "by touching upon this subject you
have awakened an old grudge of mine against the comedies of today,
one that is equal to that which I hold against books of chivalry. For, ac-
cording to Tully, a comedy should be a mirror of human life, an ex-
ample of manners, and an image of the truth;421 yet those that we see
now are mirrors of nonsense, examples of foolishness, and images of
lasciviousness. In connection with the subject of which we are speaking,
what could be more absurd than for a character to appear as an infant
in Act I, Scene 1, and in the following scene step out as a full-bearded
man--What more out of place than to depict for us an old man parading
his valor, a youth who plays the cringing coward, an eloquent lackey,
a page wise in giving counsel, a king turned porter, or a princess serving
as a kitchen wench--

"And what shall I say of the attention that is paid to the element
of time in connection with the action that is represented--I may merely
tell you that I have witnessed a comedy in which the first act takes
place in Europe, the second in Asia, and the third in Africa--and if
there had been a fourth act, the scene would have been laid in America
and thus they would have encompassed the four quarters of the globe.
If fidelity to life be the principal object which a comedy should have
in view, how is it possible for the most mediocre intelligence to find
any satisfaction in one where the action is supposed to take place in the
time of King Pepin or Charlemagne, yet which has for its leading char-
acter the Emperor Heraclius entering Jerusalem with the Holy Cross
and recovering the Holy Sepulcher like Godefroi de Bouillon, when
there is a vast stretch of time between the two monarchs--Or in one
which, essentially fictitious, makes a pretense at historical accuracy by
mingling odds and ends of various events that happened to different
persons at different times, and this with no attempt at verisimilitude
but with obvious errors that are utterly inexcusable--And the sad part
of it is, there are ignorant ones who say that this is the perfect thing
and all the rest is affectation.

"And then, coming to religious dramas, what do we find--How many
false miracles do their authors invent, how many apocryphal and
erroneous incidents, with the wonders worked by one saint attributed
to another! And even in those comedies that deal with human themes
they dare to introduce miracles without rhyme or reason, merely be-
cause they think that such a scenic effect,422 as they term it, will fit in
well and serve to attract the ignorant, who will come to see the play
and marvel at it. All of which is prejudicial to the truth, tending to cor-
rupt history and cast opprobrium upon the Spanish genius; for those
foreigners423 that scrupulously observe the rules of comedy are led to
look upon us as unschooled barbarians by reason of the absurdity and
nonsense to be found in the productions of our theater.

"Nor is it a sufficient excuse for all this to say that the principal ob-
ject which well-ordered states have in view in permitting the public
performance of comedies is to provide the community with a little
harmless recreation now and then and thus divert those evil impulses
that idleness is wont to breed. It may be said that this end is attained
by any comedy, good or bad, and that there is no necessity of laying
down laws to govern the composition and performance of such pieces,
since, as I have said, the same object is achieved by any kind of play.
To this I would reply that it is, beyond any comparison, better achieved
by good plays than by the other kind.

"For when he has witnessed a comedy that is well and artfully con-
structed, the spectator will come out laughing at its humor, enlightened
by the truths it contained, marveling at the various incidents, rendered
wiser by the arguments, made more wary by the snares he has seen
depicted, and more prudent by the examples afforded him; he will leave
the theater hating vice and in love with virtue; such are the effects that
a good comedy has upon the mind of the listener, however boorish and
dull-witted he may be. Nothing, in short, is more impossible than that
the play that contains all these qualities should fail to provide more en-
tertainment, satisfaction, and pleasure than the one lacking in them, as
is the case with the majority of those that are at present to be viewed.

"It is not the dramatic poets who are to blame for this state of affairs;
for many of them are fully conscious of their faults and know very well
what ought to be done. But inasmuch as comedies have become salable
commodities, the poets in question will tell us, and in this they are
right, that their plays will not be bought unless they are after the ac-
cepted pattern, and, accordingly, the author seeks to adapt himself to
what the actor who is to pay him for his work requires of him. That
this is so may be seen from the countless number of comedies com-
posed by one of the most fertile minds in this realm, plays so full of
brilliancy and grace, marked by such polished versification, admirable
dialogue, and profound wisdom, and, finally, so full of eloquence and
so elevated in style, that his fame has gone out to all the world; and yet,
owing to the necessity he has been under of having to adapt them to the
taste of the players, not all his productions have attained that degree
of perfection that is to be desired.424

"Still others compose their pieces without giving a thought to what
they are doing; and, as a result, after the performance, the actors have
to take to their heels and flee for fear of being punished, as they often-
times have been, for having put something on the stage that was offensive
to a certain monarch or that cast aspersions on some noble house. But
all these improprieties would cease, and with them many others that I
do not mention, if there were at court some wise and intelligent per-
son to examine all the comedies before they are put on, not only those
that are to be performed in the capital but those that are to be produced
in other parts of Spain as well,425 and without the approval, seal, and sig-
nature of that individual no local officer of the crown should permit any
comedy to be staged. Under such a system, the performers would be
at pains to forward their plays to the capital for inspection and then
would be able to act in them with safety, while the authors, knowing
that their works would have to pass a rigorous and intelligent censor-
ship and being fearful of offending, would devote more care and at-
tention to them, and as a consequence would produce good comedies,
thus achieving in a felicitous manner the objectives for which they
strive: the entertainment of the people and, at the same time, the further-
ing of the reputation of Spanish dramatists and of the interest and se-
curity of the performers, the necessity of punishing the latter having
been removed.

And if they were to charge some other person, or this same one, with
the task of examining the newly published books of chivalry, we then
undoubtedly should have some that would be possessed of that per-
fection that your Grace has described, works that would enrich our
language with a pleasing and precious store of eloquence; and the luster
of the older books would be dimmed by the light of these newer ones,
whose purpose is to provide an innocent pastime, not for the idle alone,
but even for the busiest of men. For it is not possible for the bow to be
always bent, nor can weak human nature be sustained without legitimate
recreation of some sort."

The canon and the curate had reached this point in their colloquy
when the barber came up and spoke to the latter.

Here, Senor Licentiate, he said, "is the place of which I was tell-
ing you; it is a good spot in which to take our noontide rest, and there
is fresh and abundant pasturage for the oxen."

"It looks to me as if it would do very well," replied the curate.

When the canon was told of their intentions, he expressed a desire
to make the halt with them, being attracted by the charming prospect
which the valley afforded. He also wished to enjoy more of the curate's
conversation, for he had become quite fond of him, and to hear of
Don Quixote's exploits in greater detail. He accordingly ordered some
of his servants to go to the inn, which was not far away, and bring back
enough for them all to eat, as he meant to rest there in the valley that
afternoon; to which one of them replied that the sumpter mule, which
ought by this time to have reached the inn, carried sufficient provisions
so that they would not have to procure anything from the hostelry
except barley.

"In that case," said the canon, "lead all our mounts there and bring
back the mule."

While this was going on, Sancho decided to take advantage of the
opportunity to speak to his master without the constant presence of
the curate and the barber, whom he looked upon with suspicion.

"Master," he said, going up to the cage, "I want to get a load off
my conscience by telling you what goes on in connection with your en-
chantment. The truth of the matter is that those two with their faces
covered are the curate of our village and the barber, and it is my belief
that they have plotted to carry you off like this out of pure spite, be-
cause your Grace is so far ahead of them in famous deeds. If this is so,
then it follows that you are not under a spell at all but have been hood-
winked and made a fool of. Just to prove this, I'd like to ask you one
thing, and if you answer me as I think you will have to, then you'll be
able to lay your hand on what's wrong and will see that you are not
enchanted but simply out of your head."

"Ask me whatever you like, Sancho my son," replied Don Quixote,
"and I will give you an answer that will satisfy you on every point. As
to what you say about those who accompany us being the curate and
the barber, our fellow townsmen whom we know very well, that is
who they may appear to you to be, but you are not by any manner of
means to believe that that is what they really and truly are. What you
are rather to understand is that if they have, as you say, this appearance
in your eyes, it must be for the reason that those who have put this
spell upon me have seen fit to assume that form and likeness; for it is
easy enough for enchanters to take whatever form they like, and so
they must have assumed the appearance of our friends expressly for the
purpose of leading you to think what you do, thus involving you in a
labyrinth of fancies from which you would not succeed in extricating
yourself even though you had the cord of Theseus.

"They also doubtless had another purpose, that of causing me to waver
in my mind, so that I should not be able to form a conjecture as to the
source of this wrong that is done me. For, if on the one hand you tell
me it is the barber and the curate of our village who accompany us, and
on the other hand I find myself shut up in a cage, knowing full well
that no human but only a superhuman power could have put me behind
these bars, what would you have me say to you or what would you have
me think except that my enchantment, in view of the manner in which
it has been accomplished, is like none that I have ever read about in all
the histories that treat of knights-errant who have been laid under a
spell--And so you may set your mind at rest as to the suspicions that
you have voiced, for those two are no more what you say they are than
I am a Turk. But you said that you had something to ask me; speak,
then, and I will answer you, though you keep on asking until tomor-
row morning.''

"May Our Lady help me!" cried Sancho in a loud voice. "Is it pos-
sible your Grace is so thick-headed and so lacking in brains that you
cannot see that I am telling you the simple truth when I say that malice
has more to do than magic with your being in this plight--But since that
is the way matters stand. I'd like to prove to you beyond a doubt that
there is no magic about it. And now, tell me, as you would have God
rescue you from this torment, and as you hope to find yourself in the
arms of my lady Dulcinea when you least expect it?"

"Stop conjuring me," said Don Quixote, "and ask what you like. I have
already told you that I will answer you point by point."

"What I ask is this," Sancho went on, "and what I would have you
tell me without adding anything to it or leaving anything out, but in
all truthfulness, as you would expect it to be told, and as it is told, by
all those who like your Grace follow the calling of arms, under the title
of knights-errant--"

"I have said that I will tell you no lies," replied Don Quixote. "Go
ahead and finish your question; for in truth you weary me, Sancho, with
all these solemn oaths, adjurations, and precautions."

I am sure," said Sancho, "that my master is kindhearted and truthful-
and so, because it has a bearing on what we are talking about, I would
ask your Grace, speaking with all due respect, if by any chance, since
you have been in that cage and, as it seems to you, under a spell, you
have felt the need of doing a major or a minor,426 as the saying goes."

"I do not understand what you mean by 'doing a major or a minor,'
Sancho. Speak more plainly if you wish me to give you a direct answer

"Is it possible that your Grace doesn't know what'a major or a minor
is--Why, lads in school are weaned on it. What I mean to say is, have
you felt like doing that which can't be put off?"

"Ah, I understand you, Sancho! Yes, many times; and for that mat-
ter, right now. Get me out of this, or all will not be as clean here as it
ought to be!"



CHAPTER XLIX.

Of the shrewd conversation that Sancho Panza had
with his master, Don Quixote.



"Ha! " cried Sancho, "I have you there! That is what I wanted with
all my life and soul to know! Come now, sir, can you deny the com-
mon saying around here when a person is out of sorts:'I don't know
what's the matter with So-and-So; he neither cats nor drinks nor sleeps
nor gives you a sensible answer to any question that you ask him; he
must be bewitched?' From which we are to gather that while those that
do not do any of these things or attend to those duties of nature that I
have mentioned are under a spell, the ones like your Grace, on the other
hand, who feel a desire to do them, who cat and drink what is set before
them and answer all questions, are not enchanted.

"You speak the truth, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "but as I have
told you before there are many ways of being enchanted, and it may
be that the fashion has changed with the course of time and that today
those who are in such a plight do everything that I do, although formerly
such was not the case. So, there is no use arguing against custom or
drawing inferences as you are doing. I know for a certainty that I am the
victim of an enchanter, and that is all I need to know to set my con-
science at rest, for it would hurt me sorely if I thought that, without
being enchanted, I had slothfully and like a coward permitted myself
to be put into this cage, thus cheating the wretched and the needy who
at this very moment may be in great distress for want of my aid and
protection."

"But for all of that," said Sancho, "I still insist it would be better, in or-
der to satisfy yourself completely, if your Grace would try to get out
of that jail. I promise to do everything I can to help you out of it and
see if you can mount Rocinante once more, for he looks so sad and
melancholy, I think he must be enchanted too. When you've done that,
you can try your luck at seeking more adventures, and if they don't
turn out well, there will be plenty of time for us to come back to the
jail; in which case I promise you, as the law says a good and faithful
squire should do, that I will shut myself up with your Grace, if by
any chance your Grace should be so unlucky or I so foolish as not to be
able to go through with what I've told you."

"I am willing to do anything you say, brother Sancho," Don Quixote
assured him; "and when you find an opportunity to set me free, I will
obey you in everything; but you will see, Sancho, that you are wrong
in your explanation of my misfortune."

Conversing in this manner, knight-errant and errant squire arrived
at the place where the curate, the canon, and the barber, who had already
dismounted, were awaiting them. The carter then unyoked his oxen
to let them graze in that pleasant pasturage, whose cool green proved
alluring to persons not only as bewitched as Don Quixote but as shrewd
and wide awake as his squire. The latter now begged the curate to allow
his master to leave the cage for a little while, since otherwise it would
not remain as clean as decency required in the case of such a knight.

The curate understood what he meant and told him that he would
gladly grant his request, if it was not that he feared his master, once set
at liberty, would be up to his old tricks and go off someplace where no
one would ever see him again.

"I will answer for that," replied Sancho.

"And I for everything," said the canon, "especially if he but give
me his word as a knight that he will not leave us against our will."

"I give it," answered Don Quixote, who had been listening to it all.
"In any event, one who is enchanted as I am is not at liberty to do what
he likes with his person, for the one who put the spell upon him may very
well prevent him from stirring from a certain place for three whole
centuries, and if he were to flee, he would be brought back flying."

He went on to say that, this being so, they might as well release him,
as it was to the advantage of all of them; for, he protested, if they did
not do so, he would not be able to avoid offending their sense of smell,
unless they kept their distance from him.

The canon thereupon took the knight's hand, although it was bound
to the other one, and, upon receiving his word and solemn promise,
they let him out of the cage, which made him immeasurably happy. The
first thing he did was to stretch his entire body, and then he went over
to Rocinante and slapped him on the rump.

"O flower and mirror of steeds," he said, "I still trust in God and His
blessed Mother that we shall both soon have our desire: you with your
master on your back and I astride you, in pursuit of that calling for
which God sent me into the world."

Having said this, he went off with Sancho to a remote spot, and when
he came back he was greatly relieved and more desirous than ever of
putting his squire's scheme into execution. Gazing at him, the canon
could not but be struck by the strange nature of his madness and was
astonished at the extremely sensible manner in which the knight talked
and answered questions, losing his stirrups, so to speak, only when the
subject of chivalry was mentioned. And so, as they all sat around on
the green grass waiting for the meal which the canon had ordered,
the churchman addressed him, saying:

"Is it possible, my good sir, that those disgusting books of chivalry
which your Grace has read in your idle hours have had such an effect
upon you as to turn your head, causing you to believe that you are be-
ing carried away under a magic spell and other things of that sort that
are as far from being true as truth itself is from falsehood--How is it
possible for any human mind to believe that there ever existed in this
world all that infinite number of Amadises, or all that multitude of fa-
mous knights--all the emperors of Trebizond, all the Felixmartcs of
Hircania, all the palfreys, errant damsels, serpents, monsters, giants, all
the adventures such as never before were heard of, all the battles and
fearful encounters, all the splendid costumes, lovelorn princesses, squires
turned into counts, facetious dwarfs, gallantries, warrior ladies--in
short, all the absurdities to be found in the romances of chivalry--

"For myself, I can say that when I read such books without stopping
to think how mendacious and frivolous they are, they do give me a
certain pleasure; but when I reflect upon their real character, I fling
the best of them against the wall and would even toss them into the fire
if there happened to be one at hand; for they are deserving of the same
punishment as cheats and impostors, who are beyond the pale of human
nature, or as the founders of new sects and new ways of life, for leading
the ignorant public to believe and regard as the truth all the nonsense
that they contain.

"And these audacious works even upset the minds of intelligent and
wellborn gentlemen like your Grace, as is plainly to be seen from the
things that you have done, which have finally made it necessary to lock
you up in a cage and convey you upon an ox-cart like some lion or
tiger that is being taken from place to place to be exhibited for money.
Ah, Senor Don Quixote, have mercy upon yourself, return to the
bosom of common sense, and wisely make use of the many gifts with
which Heaven has seen fit to endow you by applying your fertile mind
to reading of another sort such as will be better for your conscience and
for your good name as well.

"If, however, carried away by your natural inclination, you feel that
you must read of knightly exploits, then turn to the Book of Judges in
the Holy Scriptures, for there you will find great deeds recorded, and
as true as they are valiant. Lusitania had a Viriatus,427 Rome a Caesar,
Carthage a Hannibal, Greece an Alexander, Castile a Count Fernan Gon-
zalez, Valencia a Cid, Andalusia a Gonzalo Hernandez, Estremadura
a Diego Garda de Paredes, Jerez a Garci Perez de Vargas, Toledo a Gar-
cilaso, Seville a Manuel de Leon;428 and in perusing the account of their
feats of valor the loftiest intellect will find instruction and entertain-
ment, diversion, and cause for wonderment. Here, my dear Senor Don
Quixote, is reading matter worthy of your intelligence and which will
leave you versed in history, in love with virtue, schooled in goodness
of heart, and improved in manners and morals; it will render you valiant
but not rash, prudent but not a coward; and all this to the honor of
God and the fame of La Mancha, which, so I am informed, is your
Grace's native province."

Don Quixote was all attention as the canon spoke, and when he saw
that he had finished, after gazing at him for some little while, he replied
as follows:

"It appears to me, my dear sir, that the purpose of your Grace's re-
marks is to lead me to believe that there have never been knights-errant
in the world and that all the books of chivalry are false, lying, harmful,
and lacking in public usefulness. You further imply that I have done
wrong in reading them, worse in believing them, and worst of all in
imitating them by setting out to follow the extremely arduous profes-
sion of errantry in accordance with the precepts to be found in such
works. You would tell me that the world has never seen an Amadis, either
of Gaul or of Greece, nor any of the other knights with whose names
those books are filled."

"You have stated the case exactly," said the canon.

"Your Grace," said Don Quixote, "also went on to assert that such
books had done me much harm, having turned my head and landed
me in a cage, and that it would be better to mend my ways, change
my reading matter, and turn my attention to other writings that are
more truthful, pleasing, and edifying."

"That is right," said the canon.

"Whereas I," continued the knight, "find that it is vour Grace who
have had your head turned and have been bewitched. For to utter such
blasphemies as your Grace has done against something that all the world
knows to be true, by denying that it exists, is an offense deserving of
the same punishment that your Grace says ought to be meted out to
those books that so annoy you when you read them. For to endeavor to
persuade anyone that Amadis never lived, nor any of the other knightly
adventurers that fill the history books, is the same as trying to make
him believe that the sun docs not shine, that ice is not cold, or that
the earth does not bear fruit. For who could ever be clever enough to
convince another person that the story of the Princess Floripes and Guy
of Burgundy is not true--And there is the story of Fierabras and the
bridge of Mantible,429 which happened in the time of Charlemagne, and
which I swear is as true as when I say it is daylight at this moment.

"But if all this is a lie, then it must be that there was no Hector nor
Achilles nor Trojan War nor Twelve Peers of France nor King Arthur
of England who to this day goes about in the form of a raven and is
expected to reappear in his kingdom at any time. Similarly, they are so
bold as to tell us that the history of Guarino Mesquino430 is false as well
as that of the quest of the Holy Grail, and that the love of Tristan and
Queen Yseult is a fabrication, as is that of Guinevere and Lancelot, even
though there are persons who can recall having seen Dame Quintanona,431
who was the best cupbearer to be met with in all Britain. So true is this
that I can remember how my grandmother on my father's side used to
say to me, when she saw a lady in a venerable hood,'That one, my
grandson, looks just like Dame Quintanona.'From which I infer that
she must have known her or at least have seen some portrait of her.

"And, then, who would deny the truth of the story of Pierres and
the beautiful Magalona, seeing that to this very day, in the royal armory,
one may behold the pin--a little bigger than a cart-pole--with which
the valiant Pierres guided his wooden horse through the air, while along-
side it is Babieca's saddle--And at Roncesvalles there is Roland's horn of
the size of a beam.432 From which it is to be inferred that the Twelve
Peers and Pierres and the Cid and other similar knights did of a truth
exist,

　　　　　　　　Of whom it is folks say
　　　　　　　　They to adventures go.

"Furthermore, let them tell me whether or not it is true that there was
a brave Lusitanian knight-errant by the name of Juan de Merlo, who
went to Burgundy and in the city of Arras fought with the famous lord
of Charny called Monsieur Pierre, and afterward in the city of Basle
with Monsieur Henri de Remestan, emerging victorious from both en-
counters, with great fame and honor.433 And what of the adventures and
challenges of those brave Spaniards, Pedro Barba and Gutierre Quijada
(from whom I am descended in the direct male line), who--likewise in
Burgundy--fought and overcame the sons of the Count of St. Paul?434
Let them tell me, also, that Don Fernando de Guevara did not go to
Germany in quest of adventures, where he engaged in combat with
Messire George, a knight of the Duke of Austria's line.435 Let them tell
me that the joustings of Suero de Quinones of the Paso were but a
hoax,436 or the emprises of Monsieur Louis de Faux against the Castilian
knight, Gonzalo de Guzman,437 along with many other exploits per-
formed by Christian knights of this and other realms, all of them so
true and authentic that, I say it once more, he who would deny them
is lacking in all reason and sound judgment."

The canon as he listened was amazed at the manner in which Don
Quixote jumbled truth and falsehood and also at the knowledge he
possessed of everything touching upon and pertaining to those feats
of knight-errantry of which he was so fond.

"Senor Don Quixote," he now answered him, "I cannot deny that
there is some truth in what your Grace has said, especially insofar
as pertains to Spanish knights-errant. I am willing to grant you that
there were Twelve Peers of France, although I cannot admit that all
the things that the Archbishop of Turpin has written of them are
true;438 for the truth of the matter is, they were knights chosen by
the king of France, being called Peers to signify that they were equal
in worth, rank, and valor (or at least they were supposed to be, whether
they were or not). They constituted something like a religious order,
resembling the present ones of Santiago and Calatrava, in which it is
presumed that all those that take the vows are gentlemen, brave, worthy,
and wellborn; and just as we speak of a Knight of St. John or a Knight
of Alcantara, so in those days they would refer to someone as being
a Knight of the Twelve Peers, for the reason that twelve equals were
chosen for that military order.439

"That there was a Cid, and a Bernardo del Carpio440 as well, there
can be no doubt, but that they performed the feats attributed to them,
I very much doubt. As to the Count Pierres' pin with which he guided
his steed and which your Grace claims to have seen alongside Babicca's
saddle in the royal armory, I must confess that I am either so stupid or
so shortsighted that, although I have seen the former I have never laid
eyes on the latter, even though it be as big as your Grace says it is."

"Yet there is not the slightest doubt that it is there, for all of that,"
replied Don Quixote, "and what is more, they say that it is encased in a
cowhide sheath to keep it from rusting."

"That may all very well be," said the canon, "but I assure you by
the holy orders which I have received that I cannot recall having seen
it. But even assuming that it is there, that is no reason why I should
believe the stories of all those Amadises and all the multitude of other
knights that we read about; nor is it any reason why a man like your
Grace, so worthy and respected and endowed with so fine a mind,
should permit himself to believe that all the mad things described in
those nonsensical books of chivalry are true."



CHAPTER L.

Of the weighty argument which took place
between Don Quixote and the canon.



"That," replied Don Quixote, "is a fine thing to say! Do you
mean to tell me that those books that have been printed with a royal
license and with the approval of the ones to whom they have been
submitted and which are read with general enjoyment and praised by
young and old alike, by rich and poor, the learned and the ignorant,
the gentry and the plain people--in brief, by all sorts of persons of every
condition and walk in life--do you mean to tell me that they are but
lies--Do they not have every appearance of being true--Do they not
tell us who the father, mother, relatives of these knights were, the name
of the country from which they came, their age, the feats that they
performed, point by point and day by day, and the places where all
these events occurred--Your Grace had best be silent and not utter such
a blasphemy; for let me give you a bit of advice, which is something
that, as a sensible man, I ought to do: if you do not believe me, read
them for yourself and you will see what pleasure you will derive from
them.


"Tell me: could there be anything more fascinating than to see be-
fore us, right here and now, so to speak, a lake of bubbling pitch, with
a host of snakes, serpents, lizards, and all sorts of fierce and terrifying
animals swimming about in it, while from the middle of it there comes
as mournful a voice as ever was heard, saying, Thou, O knight, who-
ever thou mayest be, who standest gazing upon this dreadful lake, if
thou wouldst attain the boon that lieth covered beneath these dark
waters, show then thy valor and thy stout heart by leaping into the
midst of this black and burning liquid; for if thou dost not, thou shalt
not be held worthy of looking upon the mighty marvels locked and
contained in the seven castles of the seven fays that are situated be-
neath its ebony expanse.'And no sooner does the knight hear that aw-
ful voice than, without taking any further thought or pausing to con-
sider the peril involved, he plunges into that seething lagoon, burdened
with the full weight of his armor and commending his soul to God and
Our Lady.

"And then, not knowing where he is or what the outcome is to be,
he suddenly finds himself amidst flowering meadows to which the
Elysian fields cannot compare. It seems to him that the heavens there
are more transparent, while the sun is brighter than he has ever known
it to be. His eyes behold a charming grove composed of leafy trees
whose greenery is a joy to the sight, while his ears are delighted by the
sweet and untaught song of an infinite number of little brilliant-hued
birds, flying in and out through the interweaving branches. Here he
discovers a brook whose clear-running waters, which have the appear-
ance of molten glass, glide along over a bed of fine sand and white peb-
bles, giving the impression of sifted gold and the purest of pearls. Over
there he sees an artfully wrought fountain of varicolored jasper and
smooth marble; and there another of rustic design, with tiny clam shells
and the twisted white and yellow houses of the snail arranged in a well-
ordered disorder, mingled with bits of gleaming crystal and counter-
feit emeralds, the whole forming a work in which art, imitating nature,
would seem to have outdone the latter.

"In yet another place, his gaze unexpectedly comes to rest upon a
strong-built castle or showy palace, with walls of solid gold, diamond
turrets, and gates of jacinth--in short, of such marvelous construction
that, though the materials of which it is built are nothing less than dia-
monds, carbuncles, rubies, pearls, gold, and emeralds, the workman-
ship in itself is of greater worth. But there is more to come. Having
beheld all this, he now descries, trooping out of the castle gate, a
goodly number of damsels so richly and festively attired that if I were
to undertake to describe their costumes as the histories do, I should
never be done with it.

"And the one who appears to be the leader of them all now extends
her hand to the bold knight who has cast himself into the boiling lake
and, without saying a word, conducts him into the splendid palace or
castle, where she makes him strip until he is as bare as when his mother
bore him, and then bathes him in lukewarm water, after which she
anoints him all over with sweet-smelling unguents and clothes him in
a shirt of finest scndal, all odorous and perfumed, as another maid tosses
a mantle over his shoulders, one which at the very least, so they say,
must be worth as much as a city and even more.

"And how pleasing it is when, after all this, we are told how they
take him to another chamber, a great hall, where he finds the tables
all laid in a manner that fills him with amazement. What must be his
feelings as he sees them pouring over his hands water that has been
distilled from amber and fragrant flowers--As they seat him upon a
chair of marble--As all those damsels serve him in a deep and impressive
silence--As they bring him a great variety of dishes so tastefully gar-
nished that, tempted as his appetite may be, he is at a loss as to which
he should reach for first--As he listens to the music that is played all
the while, not knowing from whence it comes or who the musician
may be--And then, when the repast is over and the tables have been
cleared, as the knight leans back in his chair, picking his teeth, it may be,
as is his custom, there enters unexpectedly through the doorway of
the great hall a damsel far more beautiful than any of the others;
and, seating herself at his side, she begins telling him to whom it is
that castle belongs and how she is being held in it under a magic spell,
along with other things that astonish him and amaze the one who reads
his history. What, I ask you again, could be more charming than all
this--

"I do not care to elaborate upon this point any further; from the ex-
amples I have cited it may be gathered that no matter what part of
what history of a knight-errant one reads, it is bound to give pleasure
and arouse wonderment. If, your Grace, you will believe me and, as
I have said, read these books for yourself, you will see how they drive
away melancholy and make you feel better in case you are out of sorts.
As for myself, I may say that, since becoming a knight-errant, I am
brave, polite, liberal, well-bred, generous, courteous, bold, gentle, pa-
tient, and long-suffering when it comes to enduring hardships, imprison-
ment, and enchantments; and although it was only a short while ago
that I was shut up in a cage as a madman, I still expect, through the
valor of my arm, with Heaven favoring and fortune not opposing, to
find myself within a few days king of some realm or other where I
may be able to display the gratitude and liberality that is in my heart.

"For take my word for it, sir, he who is poor cannot exhibit those vir-
tues to anyone, no matter in how high a degree he may be possessed of
them; and gratitude that consists only in the will to show it is a dead
thing, just as is faith without works. For this reason it is, I wish that
fortune would speedily provide me with the opportunity of becoming
an emperor in order that I might make manifest the virtues of my heart
by doing good to my friends and especially to this poor fellow, Sancho
Panza, my squire, who is the best little man in the world; I should like
to reward him by conferring upon him an earldom, which I promised
him long ago. The only thing is I do not know if he has the ability to
govern it."

These last words were no sooner out of his mouth than Sancho broke
in upon his master. "Just you see to it that I get that earldom, Senor
Don Quixote," he said, "the one you promised me and which I have
been waiting for all this time, and I give you my word that I'll be able
to govern it all right; and if I should fail, I've heard them say that there
are men in this world who rent such estates from their lords, giving
them so much a year, while they themselves take over the government,
in which case all the lord has to do is to stretch out his legs and enjoy
his income without worrying about anything else. That's what I'll do.
I'll not haggle over a penny here and a penny there. I'll get rid of all
the bother and live like a duke on what's coming to me."

"What you are speaking of, brother Sancho," said the canon, "is the
matter of revenues; but the lord of a great estate also has to administer
justice, and it is this that calls for ability and sound judgment and, above
all, a right intention on his part in ascertaining the truth; for if this be
lacking in the beginning, the middle and the end will always be wrong,
whence it is that God is inclined to favor the simple when their hearts
are in the right place and to frustrate the clever designs of the
wicked."

"1 don't understand those philosophies," replied Sancho. "All I know
is that once I have that earldom, I'll be able to rule it; for I have a soul
like anybody else and a body like the rest of them, and I'll be as much
a king in my state as the others are in theirs. And when I'm king, I'll
do as l please, and doing as I please, I'll be satisfied; and when you're
satisfied, there's nothing more to be desired, so bring it on. God be with
you and we shall see, as one blind man said to another."

"That is not a bad philosophy, as you call it, Sancho," observed the
canon, "but there still remains much to be said on this subject of earl-
doms."

"I do not know what more there is to be said," Don Quixote an-
swered him.441 "I am guided simply by the example of the great Amadis
of Gaul, who made his squire count of Firm Island;442 and so, I, without
any conscientious scruples, may make a count of Sancho Panza, who
is one of the best squires that a knight-errant ever had."

The canon was astonished at Don Quixote's well-reasoned nonsense,
at the vivid manner in which he had described the Knight of the Lake's
adventure, and at the impression which the deliberate falsehoods con-
tained in his books had made upon him; and he likewise marveled at
the simple-mindedness of Sancho, who so eagerly longed to obtain that
earldom that his master had promised him.

At this point the canon's servants, who had been to the inn for the
sumpter mule, returned; and, spreading a carpet upon the green grass
of the meadow, they sat down in the shade of some trees and made their
repast there, in order, as we have said, that the carter might take ad-
vantage of the spot. As they were engaged in eating, they suddenly
heard a loud noise and the sound of a small bell, which came from among
some brambles and dense undergrowth near by, and at the same instant
they saw coming out of the thicket a beautiful nanny-goat, its skin
all speckled with black, white, and brown spots. Behind it came a
goatherd, shouting at it, with such language as his kind customarily use
and calling upon it to stop and come back to the fold. The fugitive goat,
however, thoroughly frightened, ran up to where they were sitting,
as if asking protection of them, followed by the goatherd, who, seiz-
ing it by the horns, spoke to it as if it had been capable of understanding.

"Ah, Spotty! Spotty!" he cried, "what a wild one you are! How
comes it that you go limping around these days--What wolves have
frightened you, my daughter--Won't you tell me what it is, my
beauty--What else can it be than that you are a female and hence natu-
rally restless--What ails you, anyway, and all those that you take after--
Come back, come back, my dear; you may not be quite so happy there,
but at least you'll be safer in the fold, along with your companions. For
if you, who ought to watch over and lead them, go wandering off so
aimlessly, what is to become of them?"

They were all quite amused by the goatherd's words, especially the
canon. "As you live, brother," he said, "calm yourself a little and do
not be in such haste to return this goat to the fold; for, seeing that she
is a female, as you say, she must follow her natural bent no matter how
much you try to stop her. Have a bite with us and take a drink; that
will cool your anger and give the goat a chance to rest at the same time."

He therewith presented him with some cold loin of rabbit on the end
of a knife and handed him a glass of wine. The goatherd accepted it
with thanks, drank the wine, and grew calmer.

"I hope," he said, "that your Worships will not take me for a simple-
ton because l spoke the way I did to this animal; the truth of the mat-
ter is, there is a certain mystery behind the words I spoke. I may be a
countryman, but I know how to treat both men and beasts."

"That I can well believe," said the curate, "for I know from experi-
ence that the woods breed men of learning and that many a philosopher
is to be found in a shepherd's hut."

"At least, sir," replied the goatherd, "they shelter men who have some
knowledge of life. And in order that you may be convinced of the truth
of this and grasp it thoroughly, even though I may appear to speak
without being invited, I should like you, gentlemen, if it will not tire
you, to listen closely as I tell you a story which will confirm what this
gentleman"--pointing to the curate--"and I myself have just been say-
ing."

Don Quixote then spoke up. "Inasmuch," he said, "as this appears to
me to savor somewhat of a knightly adventure, I for my part will
gladly listen to you, brother, and so will all these other gentlemen; for
they are extremely intelligent and fond of hearing new and strange
things that astonish, divert, and entertain the mind as I am sure your
story will. Begin, then, my friend, for we are all listening."

"I take back my stakes,"443 declared Sancho. "I'm going down to that
brook that I see over there, with this pastry, and stuff myself for three
whole days. I have heard my master Don Quixote say that a knight-
errant's squire ought to eat all he can when he has the chance; for,
likely as not, they will be getting into some wood or other and will not
be able to find their way out for a week, and if his belly is not full or
his saddlebags well stocked, he may remain there, as very often hap-
pens, dead as a mummy."

"In that you are right, Sancho," said Don Quixote. "Go wherever
you like and eat as much as you like, for I have had my fill and it is
only left for me to give my soul a little reflection as I shall do by listen-
ing to this good man's story."

"And we will all do the same," said the canon.

He then requested the goatherd to begin the tale that he had prom-
ised them; whereupon the man gave the animal a couple of slaps on the
side, saying to it, "Lie down here beside me, Spotty; there will be time
later for us to return to the fold." It seemed that the goat understood,
for as soon as her master had said this she stretched out beside him
very tranquilly, gazing up into his face as if to give him to understand
that she was listening for the story he was about to tell. He then be-
gan as follows.



CHAPTER LI.

Which treats of the story the goatherd told to
all those who were bearing off Don Quixote.



Three leagues from this valley there is a village which, although
it is a small one, is one of the richest to be found in all these parts. In it
there lived a farmer who was highly respected, and while it is a com-
mon thing for the well-to-do to be treated with respect, he was held
in even greater esteem for his virtue than for the wealth that he had
acquired. But what made him happier than anything else, as he him-
self put it, was the possession of a daughter of such rare and exceeding
beauty, grace, wit, and modesty, that any who knew and looked upon
her could not but be astonished at the lavish gifts with which Heaven
and nature had endowed her .

"She had been beautiful as a small child and had grown more so with
the years until by the time she reached the age of sixteen she was the
loveliest of creatures and her fame had begun to spread to the neighbor-
ing villages--what am l saying--to the far away cities--and had even
reached the halls of royalty and the ears of persons of every class, who
came from all around to behold her as if she had been some rare and
curious thing or some miracle-working image.

"Her father watched over her and she watched over herself; for
there are no locks, guards, or bolts that afford better protection to a
maiden than does her own modesty. His wealth and her beauty led many
of the villagers and others from distant parts to seek her hand in mar-
riage, but, having so precious a jewel to dispose of, he was wholly un-
able to make up his mind as to which of her countless suitors he should
give her. I was one of the many who were in love with her, and I had
great hopes of being successful, since her father knew me as a native
of the same village and I was of pure stock and in the flower of youth
and in addition was very well off in this world's goods while my qual-
ities of mind left nothing to be desired.

"But there was another suitor of the village possessing these same
qualifications, and this caused the father to weigh his choice and hold
it in suspense, since it seemed to him that either of us would be a good
match for his daughter. By way of ridding himself of his perplexity,
he resolved to speak to Leandra, for that was the name of the wealthy
lass who had brought me to a state of misery. He accordingly told his
beloved child that, inasmuch as we were equals in what we had to offer,
he would leave the matter of choosing between us to her own good
pleasure---a procedure that deserves to be imitated by all parents with
children to whom they wish to give a start in life. I do not mean that
the latter should be permitted to choose that which is evil and vile; what
I am saying is that the good things should be set before them and from
these they should make their own choice. I do not know which of us
Leandra chose, but I do know that her father put us off with vague
words, on the ground that the girl was so young, words that neither
bound him to anything nor constituted an outright dismissal for us.

"My rival's name was Anselmo and mine is Eugenio; I tell you this
to acquaint you with the characters in this tragedy, the end of which is
not yet, although it is clearly bound to be disastrous.

"At this time there came to our village a certain Vicente de la Rosa,
son of a poor peasant who lived there. Vicente had been a soldier in
Italy and elsewhere, having been taken away when a lad of about twelve
by a captain who chanced to be passing through the place with his
company; and now, here he was back again, twelve years later, dressed
in a soldier's gaudy uniform covered with any number of glass trinkets
and fine steel chains. Today he would put on one uniform and tomor-
row another, but all of them flimsy and showy, of little weight and
less worth. The peasants, who are naturally malicious and, when time
hangs heavy on their hands, can be malice itself, were quick to ob-
serve all this. They made an inventory of his jewelry and other finery
piece by piece and discovered that he had, altogether, three uniforms
of different colors with stockings and garters to match, but with these
he effected so many combinations that, had they not counted them, they
would have sworn that he had displayed more than ten different suits
and more than a score of feathered bonnets. And do not think that,
in enumerating the garments that he wore, I am straying from the point,
for they have a considerable part to play in the story.

"He used to seat himself upon a bench that stood beneath a large
poplar tree in the public square of our village, and there he would keep
us all gaping as we listened to the story of the feats he had performed.
There was no country on earth that he had not visited, no battle in
which he had not taken part, and he had slain a greater number of
Moors than there are in Aforocco and Tunis put together. He had also
been engaged in more singlehanded combats than Garcilaso,444 Diego
Garcia de Paredes, and a thousand other knights whom he mentioned,
and had emerged victorious from all of them without having lost a
single drop of blood. What was more, he showed us the scars of wounds,
and although they were so faint that we could not make them out,
he gave us to understand that they were from gunshot and that he
had received them in various battles and skirmishes. And to cap it all,
he, with an unheard-of arrogance, addressed his equals, even those that
he knew well, with the condescendingly formal pronoun vos, remark-
ing that his father was his own good arm, his deeds his pedigree, and
that by reason of being a soldier he owed nothing to the king himself.

"In addition to these arrogant attitudes, he was something of a mu-
sician and used to strum the guitar in such a way as to make it speak,
according to some. His accomplishments did not stop here, however,
for he was also a bit of a poet and would compose a ballad a league and
a half long on any trifling event that occurred in the village.

"This soldier, then, whom I have described for you, this Vicente de
la Rosa, this braggart, this gallant, this musician, this poet, was seen
and admired by Leandra many times from the window of her house
overlooking the square. She was charmed by the tinsel and glitter of
his uniforms and by his ballads, for he gave away a score of copies of
each one that he composed, and she had heard of his exploits as he
himself had narrated them. The result was that finally--the devil must
have had a hand in it--she came to fall in love with him before he had
thought of paying court to her; and since no love affair runs more
smoothly than the one in which the lady is enamored, Leandra and
Vicente readily came to an understanding, and before any of her nu-
merous suitors so much as suspected her plan, she had carried it
through by leaving her father's house (she had no mother) and run-
ning away with the soldier, who came out of this undertaking more
triumphantly than he had out of all the others of which he boasted.

"The entire village and all those who heard the news were very
much shocked by it; I was dumfounded, Anselmo was thunderstruck,
her father was deeply grieved, her relatives angry and ashamed, the law
was invoked, and the officers of the Brotherhood held themselves in
readiness. A thorough search was made of the highways, woods, and
all the surrounding territory, and at the end of three days they found
the wayward Leandra in a mountain cave, naked save for her chemise
and without the large sum of money and extremely valuable jewels
with which she had left home. Bringing her back to her grief-stricken
father, they questioned her as to what had happened, and she freely
confessed that Vicente de la Rosa had deceived her by promising that,
if she would leave her father's house, he would marry her and take her
to the richest and most luxurious city in all the world, which was
Naples. Deluded by his words, she had foolishly believed him and, hav-
ing robbed her father, had handed everything over to her lover on the
night that she disappeared. He then had borne her away to a rugged
mountain and there had shut her up in that cave where they had
found her. She further told how the soldier, without depriving her
of her honor, had robbed her of all her other possessions, after which
he had gone off and left her alone, a circumstance that filled all who
heard it with fresh amazement.

"It was hard for us to believe in the young fellow's continence, but
she asserted it so emphatically that it did much to console the discon-
solate father, who gave no thought to his material losses, seeing that
his daughter had been left him with the one jewel which, once it is
lost, is gone beyond hope of recovery. On the very day that Leandra
returned, he removed her from our sight and took her to a convent
in a near-by city, trusting that time would repair somewhat the dam-
age to her reputation. The girl's youth served to excuse her for her fault,
at least with those who had no interest in branding her as good or bad;
but those who were aware of her excellent mind and sound judgment
did not attribute her sin to ignorance, but rather to forwardness and
the natural inclination of women, which for the most part is toward
flightiness and irresponsibility.

"With Leandra shut away, Anselmo's eyes were blind, or at least had
nothing to look upon that gave him any happiness, and my own also
were in darkness, without a ray of light to guide them to anything
that was pleasurable. With her absence our sadness grew, our patience
became exhausted, and we cursed the soldier's fancy uniforms and
railed at the carelessness of Leandra's father in not having kept a better
watch upon her. Finally, the two of us decided to leave the village and
come to this valley, and here, pasturing a large number of sheep which
are his and a numerous herd of goats which are mine, we spend our
lives amid the trees, giving vent to our sorrow as we sing together the
praises of the fair Leandra and upbraid her for her fickleness, or go
about, each by himself, sighing and sending up our complaints to
Heaven.

"Imitating our example, a number of Leandra's other suitors have
come to these inhospitable mountains, to practice the same mode of life
as we. There are so many of them, indeed, that it would seem that this
place has been converted into a pastoral Arcadia, being full of shep-
herds and shcepfolds, and there is no spot where the name of the
beauteous Leandra is not heard. One curses her, calling her capricious,
fickle, and immodest. Another condemns her as a woman of light and
easy manners. One absolves and pardons, and another judges and re-
viles her. One hymns her beauty, another dwells on her bad qualities.
In short, they all abuse her and all of them adore her, and their mad-
ness is carried to such a point that there are some even who complain
of her scorn who had never had a word with her, while others moan
and suffer all the rage and pangs of jealousy, although she never gave
anyone cause to be jealous, for, as I have said, her misstep was known
before we learned of her passion. And so, there is no cavity among
the rocks, no brookside, no leafy shade where you will not find some
shepherd lifting his voice to bewail his lot. Wherever there is an
echo, it repeats the name of Leandra. The mountains resound with
‘Leandra'; 'Leandra' murmur the brooks; and Leandra it is who holds
us all under an agonizing spell, hoping without hope and fearing with-
out knowing what it is we dread.

"Among all these foolish beings, the one who shows most and least
sense is my rival Anselmo. Having so many other things of which he
might complain, he laments only the fact that Leandra is far away, and
to the sound of a rebec, which he plays admirably well, he goes
about singing verses that display his fine abilities as a poet. As for me,
I follow an easier and, as it seems to me, a wiser course, which consists
in berating women for their frivolity, their inconstancy, their double
dealing, their unkept promises, their broken troth, and, lastly, the want
of sense they show in selecting the one upon whom they see fit to settle
their affections. And there, gentlemen, you have the explanation of
the words I used in addressing this goat as I came up to you; for, in-
asmuch as she is a female, I have little respect for her, even though she
is the best of all my flock.

"Such is the story that I promised to tell you. If I have been tedious
in the way I told it, that does not mean that I shall be slow in serving
you. My hut is near by, and in it I have fresh milk and some cheese
that you will like very much, along with ripe fruit that is no less pleas-
ing to the eye than it is to the taste."



CHAPTER LII.

Of the quarrel that Don Quixote had with the goatherd, together
with the rare adventure of the penitents, which the knight by the
sweat of his brow brought to a happy conclusion.



All those who had listened to it were greatly pleased with the
goatherd's story, especially the canon, who was more than usually in-
terested in noting the manner in which it had been told. Far from being
a mere rustic herdsman, the narrator seemed rather a cultured city
dweller; and the canon accordingly remarked that the curate had been
quite right in saying that the mountain groves bred men of learning.
They all now offered their services to Eugenio, and Don Quixote was
the most generous of any in this regard.

"Most assuredly, brother goatherd," he said, "if it were possible for
me to undertake any adventure just now, I would set out at once to
aid you and would take Leandra out of that convent, where she is un-
doubtedly being held against her will, in spite of the abbess and all the
others who might try to prevent me, after which I would place her
in your hands to do with as you liked, with due respect, however, for
the laws of chivalry, which command that no violence be offered to
any damsel. But I trust in God, Our Lord, that the power of one ma-
licious enchanter is not so great that another magician may not prove
still more powerful, and then I promise you my favor and my aid, as
my calling obliges me to do, since it is none other than that of succor-
ing the weak and those who are in distress."

The goatherd stared at him, observing in some astonishment the
knight's unprepossessing appearance.

"Sir," he said, turning to the barber who sat beside him, "who is this
man who looks so strange and talks in this way?"

"Who should it be," the barber replied, "if not the famous Don Quix-
ote de la Mancha, righter of wrongs, avenger of injustices, protector of
damsels, terror of giants, and champion of battles?"

"That," said the goatherd, "sounds to me like the sort of thing you
read of in books of chivalry, where they do all those things that your
Grace has mentioned in connection with this man. But if you ask me,
either your Grace is joking or this worthy gentleman must have a
number of rooms to let inside his head."

"You are the greatest villain that ever was!" cried Don Quixote when
he heard this. "It is you who are the empty one; I am fuller than the
bitch that bore you ever was." Saying this, he snatched up a loaf of
bread that was lying beside him and hurled it straight in the goatherd's
face with such force as to flatten the man's nose. Upon finding him-
self thus mistreated in earnest, Eugenio, who did not understand this
kind of joke, forgot all about the carpet, the tablecloth, and the other
diners and leaped upon Don Quixote. Seizing him by the throat with
both hands, he would no doubt have strangled him if Sancho Panza,
who now came running up, had not grasped him by the shoulders and
flung him backward over the table, smashing plates and cups and spill-
ing and scattering all the food and drink that was there. Thus freed
of his assailant, Don Quixote then threw himself upon the shepherd,
who, with bleeding face and very much battered by Sancho's feet, was
creeping about on his hands and knees in search of a table knife with
which to exact a sanguinary vengeance, a purpose which the canon
and the curate prevented him from carrying out. The barber, however,
so contrived it that the goatherd came down on top of his opponent,
upon whom he now showered so many blows that the poor knight's
countenance was soon as bloody as his own.

As all this went on, the canon and the curate were laughing fit to
burst, the troopers were dancing with glee, and they all hissed on the
pair as men do at a dog fight. Sancho Panza alone was in despair, being
unable to free himself of one of the canon's servants who held him
back from going to his master's aid. And then, just as they were all
enjoying themselves hugely, with the exception of the two who were
mauling each other, the note of a trumpet fell upon their ears, a sound
so mournful that it caused them all to turn their heads in the direction
from which it came. The one who was most excited by it was Don
Quixote; who, very much against his will and more than a little bruised,
was lying pinned beneath the goatherd.

"Brother Demon," he now said to the shepherd, "for you could not
possibly be anything but a demon, seeing that you have shown a
strength and valor greater than mine, I request you to call a truce for
no more than an hour; for the doleful sound of that trumpet that we
hear seems to me to be some new adventure that is calling me."

Tired of mauling and being mauled, the goatherd let him up at once.
As he rose to his feet and turned his head in the direction of the sound,
Don Quixote then saw, coming down the slope of a hill, a large num-
ber of persons clad in white after the fashion of penitents; for, as it
happened, the clouds that year had denied their moisture to the earth,
and in all the villages of that district processions for prayer and penance
were being organized with the purpose of beseeching God to have mercy
and send rain. With this object in view, the good folk from a near-by
town were making a pilgrimage to a devout hermit who dwelt on these
slopes. Upon beholding the strange costumes that the penitents wore,
without pausing to think how many times he had seen them before,
Don Quixote imagined that this must be some adventure or other, and
that it was for him alone as a knight-errant to undertake it. He was
strengthened in this belief by the sight of a covered image that they
bore, as it seemed to him this must be some highborn lady whom these
scoundrelly and discourteous brigands were forcibly carrying off; and
no sooner did this idea occur to him than he made for Rocinante, who
was grazing not far away.

Taking the bridle and his buckler from off the saddletree, he had
the bridle adjusted in no time, and then, asking Sancho for his sword,
he climbed into the saddle, braced his shield upon his arm, and cried
out to those present, "And now, valorous company, you shall see how
important it is to have in the world those who follow the profession of
knight-errantry. You have but to watch how I shall set at liberty that
worthy lady who there goes captive, and then you may tell me whether
or not such knights are to be esteemed."

As he said this, he dug his legs into Rocinante's flanks, since he had
no spurs, and at a fast trot (for nowhere in this veracious history are
we ever told that the hack ran full speed) he bore down on the peni-
tents in spite of all that the canon, the curate, and the barber could do
to restrain him--their efforts were as vain as were the pleadings of his
squire.

"Where are you bound for, Senor Don Quixote?" Sancho called after
him. "What evil spirits in your bosom spur you on to go against our
Catholic faith--Plague take me, can't you see that's a procession of peni-
tents and that lady they're carrying on the litter is the most blessed
image of the Immaculate Virgin--Look well what you're doing, my
master, for this time it may be said that you really do not know."

His exertions were in vain, however, for his master was so bent upon
having it out with the sheeted figures and freeing the lady clad in
mourning that he did not hear a word, nor would he have turned back
if he had, though the king himself might have commanded it. Having
reached the procession, he reined in Rocinante, who by this time was
wanting a little rest, and in a hoarse, excited voice he shouted, "You
who go there with your faces covered, out of shame, it may be, listen
well to what I have to say to you."

The first to come to a halt were those who carried the image; and
then one of the four clerics who were intoning the litanies, upon be-
holding Don Quixote's weird figure, his bony nag, and other amusing
appurtenances, spoke up in reply.

"Brother, if you have something to say to us, say it quickly, for these
brethren are engaged in macerating their flesh, and we cannot stop to
hear anything, nor is it fitting that we should, unless it is capable of
being said in a couple of words."

"I will say it to you in one word," Don Quixote answered, "and that
word is the following: 'Set free at once that lovely lady whose tears
and mournful countenance show plainly that you are carrying her away
against her will and that you have done her some shameful wrong. I
will not consent to your going one step farther until you shall have
given her the freedom that should be hers.'"

Hearing these words, they all thought that Don Quixote must be
some madman or other and began laughing heartily; but their laughter
proved to be gunpowder to his wrath, and without saying another
word he drew his sword and fell upon the litter. One of those who
bore the image, leaving his share of the burden to his companions, then
sallied forth to meet the knight, flourishing a forked stick that he used
to support the Virgin while he was resting; and upon this stick he now
received a mighty slash that Don Quixote dealt him, one that shattered
it in two, but with the piece about a third long that remained in his hand
he came down on the shoulder of his opponent's sword arm, left un-
protected by the buckler, with so much force that the poor fellow sank
to the ground sorely battered and bruised.

Sancho Panza, who was puffing along close behind his master, upon
seeing him fall cried out to the attacker not to deal another blow, as
this was an unfortunate knight who was under a magic spell but who
had never in all the days of his life done any harm to anyone. But the
thing that stopped the rustic was not Sancho's words; it was, rather,
the sight of Don Quixote lying there without moving hand or foot.
And so, thinking that he had killed him, he hastily girded up his tunic
and took to his heels across the countryside like a deer.

By this time all of Don Quixote's companions had come running up
to where he lay; and the penitents, when they observed this, and espe-
cially when they caught sight of the officers of the Brotherhood with
their crossbows,445 at once rallied around the image, where they raised
their hoods and grasped their whips446 as the priests raised their tapers
aloft in expectation of an assault; for they were resolved to defend
themselves and even, if possible, to take the offensive against their assail-
ants, but, as luck would have it, things turned out better than they had
hoped. Sancho, meanwhile, believing Don Quixote to be dead, had flung
himself across his master's body and was weeping and wailing in the
most lugubrious and, at the same time, the most laughable fashion that
could be imagined; and the curate had discovered among those who
marched in the procession another curate whom he knew, their recog-
nition of each other serving to allay the fears of all parties concerned.
The first curate then gave the second a very brief account of who Don
Quixote was, whereupon all the penitents came up to see if the poor
knight was dead. And as they did so, they heard Sancho Panza speak-
ing with tears in his eyes.

"O flower of chivalry," he was saying, "the course of whose well-
spent years has been brought to an end by a single blow of a club!
O honor of your line, honor and glory of all La Mancha and of all the
world, which, with you absent from it, will be full of evildoers who will
not fear being punished for their deeds! O master more generous than
all the Alexanders, who after only eight months of service presented
me with the best island that the sea washes and surrounds! Humble with
the proud, haughty with the humble, brave in facing dangers, long-
suffering under outrages, in love without reason, imitator of the good,
scourge of the wicked, enemy of the mean--in a word, a knight-errant,
which is all there is to say."447

At the sound of Sancho's cries and moans, Don Quixote revived,
and the first thing he said was, "He who lives apart from thee, O fairest
Dulcinea, is subject to greater woes than those I now endure. Friend
Sancho, help me onto that enchanted cart, as I am in no condition to sit
in Rocinante's saddle with this shoulder of mine knocked to pieces the
way it is."

"That I will gladly do, my master," replied Sancho, "and we will go
back to my village in the company of these gentlemen who are con-
cerned for your welfare, and there we will arrange for another sally
and one, let us hope, that will bring us more profit and fame than this
one has."

"Well spoken, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for it will be an act of
great prudence to wait until the present evil influence of the stars has
passed."

The canon, the curate, and the barber all assured him that he would
be wise in doing this; and so, much amused by Sancho Panza's sim-
plicity, they placed Don Quixote upon the cart as before, while the
procession of penitents re-formed and continued on its way. The goat-
herd took leave of all of them, and the curate paid the troopers what
was coming to them, since they did not wish to go any farther. The
canon requested the priest to inform him of the outcome of Don
Quixote's madness, as to whether it yielded to treatment or not; and
with this he begged permission to resume his journey. In short, the
party broke up and separated, leaving only the curate and the barber,
Don Quixote and Panza, and the good Rocinante, who looked upon
everything that he had seen with the same resignation as his master.
Yoking his oxen, the carter made the knight comfortable upon a bale
of hay, and then at his customary slow pace proceeded to follow the
road that the curate directed him to take. At the end of six days they
reached Don Quixote's village, making their entrance at noon of a Sun-
day, when the square was filled with a crowd of people through which
the cart had to pass.

They all came running to see who it was, and when they recognized
their townsman, they were vastly astonished. One lad sped to bring
the news to the knight's housekeeper and his niece, telling them that
their master had returned lean and jaundiced and lying stretched out
upon a bale of hay on an ox-cart. It was pitiful to hear the good ladies'
screams, to behold the way in which they beat their breasts, and to
listen to the curses which they once more heaped upon those damnable
books of chivalry, and this demonstration increased as they saw Don
Quixote coming through the doorway.

At news of the knight's return, Sancho Panza's wife had hurried to
the scene, for she had some while since learned that her husband had
accompanied him as his squire; and now, as soon as she laid eyes upon
her man, the first question she asked was if all was well with the ass, to
which Sancho replied that the beast was better off than his master.

"Thank God," she exclaimed, "for all his blessings! But tell me now,
my dear, what have you brought me from all your squirings--A new
cloak to wear--Or shoes for the young ones?"

"I've brought you nothing of the sort, good wife," said Sancho, "but
other things of greater value and importance."

"I'm glad to hear that," she replied. "Show me those things of greater
value and importance, my dear. I'd like a sight of them just to cheer this
heart of mine which has been so sad and unhappy all the centuries that
you've been gone."

"I will show them to you at home, wife," said Sancho. "For the present
be satisfied that if, God willing, we set out on another journey in search
of adventures, you will see me in no time a count or the governor of an
island, and not one of those around here, but the best that is to be had."

"I hope to Heaven it's true, my husband, for we certainly need it.
But tell me, what is all this about islands--I don't understand."

"Honey," replied Sancho, "is not for the mouth of an ass.448 You will
find out in good time, woman; and you're going to be surprised to hear
yourself called 'my Ladyship' by all your vassals."

"What's this you are saying, Sancho, about ladyships, islands, and
vassals?" Juana Panza insisted on knowing--for such was the name
of Sancho's wife, although they were not blood relatives, it being the
custom in La Mancha for wives to take their husbands'surnames.

"Do not be in such a hurry to know all this, Juana," he said. "It is
enough that I am telling you the truth. Sew up your mouth, then; for
all I will say, in passing, is that there is nothing in the world that is
more pleasant than being a respected man, squire to a knight-errant who
goes in search of adventures. It is true that most of the adventures you
meet with do not come out the way you'd like them to, for ninety-nine
out of a hundred will prove to be all twisted and crosswise. I know that
from experience, for I've come out of some of them blanketed and out
of others beaten to a pulp. But, all the same, it's a fine thing to go along
waiting for what will happen next, crossing mountains, making your
way through woods, climbing over cliffs, visiting castles, and putting
up at inns free of charge, and the devil take the maravedi that is to pay."

Such was the conversation that took place between Sancho Panza and
Juana Panza, his wife, as Don Quixote's housekeeper and niece were
taking him in, stripping him, and stretching him out on his old-time
bed. He gazed at them blankly, being unable to make out where he was.
The curate charged the niece to take great care to see that her uncle
was comfortable and to keep close watch over him so that he would
not slip away from them another time. He then told them of what it
had been necessary to do in order to get him home, at which they once
more screamed to Heaven and began cursing the books of chivalry all
over again, praying God to plunge the authors of such lying nonsense
into the center of the bottomless pit. In short, they scarcely knew what
to do, for they were very much afraid that their master and uncle would
give them the slip once more, the moment he was a little better, and it
turned out just the way they feared it might.

But the author of this history, although he has made a most thorough
and diligent search, has been unable to come upon any account--at least
none based on authentic sources--of the deeds performed by Don Quix-
ote on his third sally. There is only the tradition, handed down in La
Mancha, to the effect that in the course of this third expedition he went
to Saragossa, where he was present at some famous tourneys that were
held in that city and where he met with adventures such as befitted his
valor and sound judgment. As regards his last days and his death, the
present writer was unable to come upon any record whatsoever, nor
would he have known anything at all about it if it had not been for an
old physician who had in his possession a lead box which, so he said,
had been found in the crumbling foundation of a very old hermitage
that was being rebuilt. In this box were discovered certain writings on
parchment, consisting of Castilian verses in Gothic characters, which
had much to say of the beauty of Dulcinea del Toboso, of Rocinante's
figure, Sancho Panza's loyalty, and the burial of Don Quixote himself,
along with various epitaphs and elegies having to do with his life and
habits.

Those verses that could be plainly read and made out were the fol-
lowing, as set down here by the author of this new and matchless his-
tory, who, in return for all the enormous labor that it has cost him
to compile this book and all the research amid the archives of La
Mancha, only asks of his readers that they give it the same credence
that the discerning do to those books of chivalry that are so popular
in the world today. Let them but do this, and he will regard himself
as having been well repaid. And he will then endeavor to search out and
bring to light others which, if not so true, will at least be equal to the
present one in the matter of invention and the diversion they afford.

The first words written on the parchment that was found in the leaden
box were these:

The academicians of Argamasilla,449 a village of La Mancha, on the life
and death of the valorous Don Quixote de la Mancha, HOC SCRIPSERUNT.

Monicongo, 8 academician of Argamasilla, for Don Quixote's tomb:


EPITAPH

The scatterbrain who was fair La Mancha's pride
And brought her more spoils than Jason brought to Crete;
The wit like a weathercock, pointed so neat,
That would have better been on the blunter side;
The arm whose might was celebrated wide--
From Cathay to Gaeta ran its fame so fleet;
Muse most horrendous, with wisdom most replete
That e'er her verses did to bronze confide;
He who left the Amadises behind him far,
Resting upon his love and gallantry;
Who held the Galaors to be but drab;
Whose calm the Belianises could not mar;
Who on Rocinante rode for chivalry:
Such the one now lies beneath this frigid slab.

Paniaguado, 7 academician of Argamasilla, in laudem Dulcineae del
Toboso:

SONNET


She whom you here behold, with the chubby face,
With the high bosom and the vigorous mien,
Is the beauteous Dulcinea, T oboso's queen.
The great Quixote loved her regal grace,
And for her sake it was that he did trace
The slopes of the black Sierra, the famed demesne
Of Montiel's fields and the alluring green
Of Aranjuez 'plain, on foot, with weary pace.
'Twas Rocinante's fault! O unkind star
Of this Manchegan lady and this bold
Knight-errant: she in the flower of her youth
Saw her beauty fade in death as he roamed far;
And though his fame in marble has been told,
He had to flee from love, spite, man's untruth.

Caprichoso, 8 a most learned academician of Argamasilla, in praise of
Rocinante, steed of Don Quixote dc la Mancha:


SONNET 9

Upon the haughty adamantine throne, 10
Which Mars with bloody footprints doth defile,
The mad Manchegan bravely all the while
Unfurls his standard with a strength unknown,
Hangs up his arms, the steel of finest tone
That shatters, rends, and razes with his bile.
Undreamed of prowess! Art invents a style
For the new paladin she calls her own.
If Gaul of its Amadis is justly proud,
Whose brave descendants brought triumph to Greece,
A thousand triumphs and a fame widespread,
Today it is Quixote the unbowed
Whom Bellona crowns there where the wars ne'er cease;
And proudest of all, La Mancha rears its head.
His fame shall live when others long are dead;
For Baiardo, Brigliador 11 did not exceed
In valor Rocinante, that gallant steed.


Burlador, 12 academician of Argamasilla, on Sancho Panza:

SONNET

Sancho Panza is this one with body small,
But big in valor, miracle how strange!
The simplest-minded squire that e'er did range
This world of ours, believe me one and all.
He'd have been a count if this age's biting gall
Had not prevented him; he could not change
The spite of men that gnawed them like a mange,
Pursuing even a donkey to its stall.
Upon the ass he went, if I'm not wrong,
Meekest of squires behind the very meek
And faithful Rocinante, and his lord.
Oh, the vain hopes we cherish all life long!
Thinking at last to find the rest we seek,
But shadow, smoke, and dreams are our reward.

Cachidiablo, 18 academician of Argamasilla, on Don Quixote's tomb:

EPITAPH

Below there rests the knight,
Ill-errant, battered, sore,
Whom Rocinante bore
On his wanderings, left and right.
Sancho Panza, if you inquire,
Lies also within this span,
The most faithful little man
E'er followed the trade of squire.

Tiquitoc, 18 academician of Argamasilla, for Dulcinea del Toboso's
tomb:

EPITAPH

Here Dulcinea doth lie,
Who was plump and high of bust;
Now she is ashes and dust,
For horrid death passed by.
She was of noble race y
Truly a highbred dame y
The great Don Quixote's fla?ne
And the glory of this place .

Such were the verses that could be made out. The others, being
worm-eaten, were turned over to an academician that he might decipher
their meaning by conjecture. It is reported that he has done so, at the
cost of much labor and many sleepless nights, and that it is his purpose
to publish them, which leads us to hope that we may be given an ac-
count of Don Quixote's third sally.

Forse altri cantera con miglior plettro