summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
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      THE HISTORY OF DON QUIXOTE, Volume I
    </title>
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    <h1>
      DON QUIXOTE
    </h1>
<pre xml:space="preserve">

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The History of Don Quixote, Vol. I, Complete
by Miguel de Cervantes

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net


Title: The History of Don Quixote, Vol. I, Complete

Author: Miguel de Cervantes

Release Date: July 19, 2004 [EBook #5921]
Last Updated: October 19, 2012

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DON QUIXOTE, VOLUME I. ***




Produced by David Widger





</pre>
    <div class="mynote">
      <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/5921/old/orig5921-h/main.htm"><i>
      LINK TO THE ORIGINAL HTMLL FILE: This Ebook Has Been Reformatted For
      Better Appearance In Mobile Viewers Such As Kindles And Others. The
      Original Format, Which The Editor Believes Has A More Attractive
      Appearance For Laptops And Other Computers, May Be Viewed By Clicking On
      This Box.</i></a>
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      DON QUIXOTE
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      by Miguel de Cervantes
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      Translated by John Ormsby
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      Volume I.
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="bookcover.jpg (230K)" src="images/bookcover.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/bookcover.jpg"><img alt="Full Size"
      src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
      <br />
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="spine.jpg (152K)" src="images/spine.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/spine.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h4>
      Ebook Editor's Note
    </h4>
    <blockquote>
      <p>
        The book cover and spine above and the images which follow were not part
        of the original Ormsby translation&mdash;they are taken from the 1880
        edition of J. W. Clark, illustrated by Gustave Dore. Clark in his
        edition states that, "The English text of 'Don Quixote' adopted in this
        edition is that of Jarvis, with occasional corrections from Motteaux."
        See in the introduction below John Ormsby's critique of both the Jarvis
        and Motteaux translations. It has been elected in the present Project
        Gutenberg edition to attach the famous engravings of Gustave Dore to the
        Ormsby translation instead of the Jarvis/Motteaux. The detail of many of
        the Dore engravings can be fully appreciated only by utilizing the "Full
        Size" button to expand them to their original dimensions. Ormsby in his
        Preface has criticized the fanciful nature of Dore's illustrations;
        others feel these woodcuts and steel engravings well match Quixote's
        dreams. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;D.W.
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p003.jpg (307K)" src="images/p003.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p003.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      CONTENTS
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><a href="#ch1">CHAPTER I</a> WHICH TREATS OF THE CHARACTER AND
      PURSUITS OF THE FAMOUS GENTLEMAN DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch2">CHAPTER II</a> WHICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY THE INGENIOUS
      DON QUIXOTE MADE FROM HOME <br /><br /><a href="#ch3">CHAPTER III</a>
      WHEREIN IS RELATED THE DROLL WAY IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE HAD HIMSELF DUBBED A
      KNIGHT <br /><br /><a href="#ch4">CHAPTER IV</a> OF WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR
      KNIGHT WHEN HE LEFT THE INN <br /><br /><a href="#ch5">CHAPTER V</a> IN
      WHICH THE NARRATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT'S MISHAP IS CONTINUED <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch6">CHAPTER VI</a> OF THE DIVERTING AND IMPORTANT SCRUTINY WHICH
      THE CURATE AND THE BARBER MADE IN THE LIBRARY OF OUR INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN
      <br /><br /><a href="#ch7">CHAPTER VII</a> OF THE SECOND SALLY OF OUR WORTHY
      KNIGHT DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA <br /><br /><a href="#ch8">CHAPTER VIII</a>
      OF THE GOOD FORTUNE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE TERRIBLE AND
      UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS, WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTHY TO
      BE FITLY RECORDED <br /><br /><a href="#ch9">CHAPTER IX</a> IN WHICH IS
      CONCLUDED AND FINISHED THE TERRIFIC BATTLE BETWEEN THE GALLANT BISCAYAN
      AND THE VALIANT MANCHEGAN <br /><br /><a href="#ch10">CHAPTER X</a> OF THE
      PLEASANT DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO
      PANZA <br /><br /><a href="#ch11">CHAPTER XI</a> OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE
      WITH CERTAIN GOATHERDS <br /><br /><a href="#ch12">CHAPTER XII</a> OF WHAT A
      GOATHERD RELATED TO THOSE WITH DON QUIXOTE <br /><br /><a href="#ch13">CHAPTER
      XIII</a> IN WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELA, WITH
      OTHER INCIDENTS <br /><br /><a href="#ch14">CHAPTER XIV</a> WHEREIN ARE
      INSERTED THE DESPAIRING VERSES OF THE DEAD SHEPHERD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
      INCIDENTS NOT LOOKED FOR <br /><br /><a href="#ch15">CHAPTER XV</a> IN WHICH
      IS RELATED THE UNFORTUNATE ADVENTURE THAT DON QUIXOTE FELL IN WITH WHEN HE
      FELL OUT WITH CERTAIN HEARTLESS YANGUESANS <br /><br /><a href="#ch16">CHAPTER
      XVI</a> OF WHAT HAPPENED TO THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN IN THE INN WHICH HE
      TOOK TO BE A CASTLE <br /><br /><a href="#ch17">CHAPTER XVII</a> IN WHICH
      ARE CONTAINED THE INNUMERABLE TROUBLES WHICH THE BRAVE DON QUIXOTE AND HIS
      GOOD SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA ENDURED IN THE INN, WHICH TO HIS MISFORTUNE HE
      TOOK TO BE A CASTLE <br /><br /><a href="#ch18">CHAPTER XVIII</a> IN WHICH
      IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS MASTER, DON QUIXOTE,
      AND OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING <br /><br /><a href="#ch19">CHAPTER XIX</a>
      OF THE SHREWD DISCOURSE WHICH SANCHO HELD WITH HIS MASTER, AND OF THE
      ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL HIM WITH A DEAD BODY, TOGETHER WITH OTHER NOTABLE
      OCCURRENCES <br /><br /><a href="#ch20">CHAPTER XX</a> OF THE UNEXAMPLED AND
      UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURE WHICH WAS ACHIEVED BY THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE OF LA
      MANCHA WITH LESS PERIL THAN ANY EVER ACHIEVED BY ANY FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE
      WORLD <br /><br /><a href="#ch21">CHAPTER XXI</a> WHICH TREATS OF THE
      EXALTED ADVENTURE AND RICH PRIZE OF MAMBRINO'S HELMET, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
      THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT <br /><br /><a href="#ch22">CHAPTER
      XXII</a> OF THE FREEDOM DON QUIXOTE CONFERRED ON SEVERAL UNFORTUNATES WHO
      AGAINST THEIR WILL WERE BEING CARRIED WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH TO GO <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch23">CHAPTER XXIII</a> OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIERRA
      MORENA, WHICH WAS ONE OF THE RAREST ADVENTURES RELATED IN THIS VERACIOUS
      HISTORY <br /><br /><a href="#ch24">CHAPTER XXIV</a> IN WHICH IS CONTINUED
      THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIERRA MORENA <br /><br /><a href="#ch25">CHAPTER XXV</a>
      WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO THE STOUT KNIGHT OF LA
      MANCHA IN THE SIERRA MORENA, AND OF HIS IMITATION OF THE PENANCE OF
      BELTENEBROS <br /><br /><a href="#ch26">CHAPTER XXVI</a> IN WHICH ARE
      CONTINUED THE REFINEMENTS WHEREWITH DON QUIXOTE PLAYED THE PART OF A LOVER
      IN THE SIERRA MORENA <br /><br /><a href="#ch27">CHAPTER XXVII</a> OF HOW
      THE CURATE AND THE BARBER PROCEEDED WITH THEIR SCHEME; TOGETHER WITH OTHER
      MATTERS WORTHY OF RECORD IN THIS GREAT HISTORY <br /><br /><a href="#ch28">CHAPTER
      XXVIII</a> WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE AND DELIGHTFUL ADVENTURE THAT
      BEFELL THE CURATE AND THE BARBER IN THE SAME SIERRA <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch29">CHAPTER XXIX</a> WHICH TREATS OF THE DROLL DEVICE AND METHOD
      ADOPTED TO EXTRICATE OUR LOVE-STRICKEN KNIGHT FROM THE SEVERE PENANCE HE
      HAD IMPOSED UPON HIMSELF <br /><br /><a href="#ch30">CHAPTER XXX</a> WHICH
      TREATS OF ADDRESS DISPLAYED BY THE FAIR DOROTHEA, WITH OTHER MATTERS
      PLEASANT AND AMUSING <br /><br /><a href="#ch31">CHAPTER XXXI</a> OF THE
      DELECTABLE DISCUSSION BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA, HIS SQUIRE,
      TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS <br /><br /><a href="#ch32">CHAPTER XXXII</a>
      WHICH TREATS OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE'S PARTY AT THE INN <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch33">CHAPTER XXXIII</a> IN WHICH IS RELATED THE NOVEL OF "THE
      ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY" <br /><br /><a href="#ch34">CHAPTER XXXIV</a> IN
      WHICH IS CONTINUED THE NOVEL OF "THE ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY" <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch35">CHAPTER XXXV</a> WHICH TREATS OF THE HEROIC AND PRODIGIOUS
      BATTLE DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH CERTAIN SKINS OF RED WINE, AND BRINGS THE
      NOVEL OF "THE ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY" TO A CLOSE <br /><br /><a href="#ch36">CHAPTER
      XXXVI</a> WHICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED AT THE INN
      <br /><br /><a href="#ch37">CHAPTER XXXVII</a> IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE
      STORY OF THE FAMOUS PRINCESS MICOMICONA, WITH OTHER DROLL ADVENTURES <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch38">CHAPTER XXXVIII</a> WHICH TREATS OF THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE DON
      QUIXOTE DELIVERED ON ARMS AND LETTERS <br /><br /><a href="#ch39">CHAPTER
      XXXIX</a> WHEREIN THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS LIFE AND ADVENTURES <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch40">CHAPTER XL</a> IN WHICH THE STORY OF THE CAPTIVE IS CONTINUED
      <br /><br /><a href="#ch41">CHAPTER XLI</a> IN WHICH THE CAPTIVE STILL
      CONTINUES HIS ADVENTURES <br /><br /><a href="#ch42">CHAPTER XLII</a> WHICH
      TREATS OF WHAT FURTHER TOOK PLACE IN THE INN, AND OF SEVERAL OTHER THINGS
      WORTH KNOWING <br /><br /><a href="#ch43">CHAPTER XLIII</a> WHEREIN IS
      RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER STRANGE
      THINGS THAT CAME TO PASS IN THE INN <br /><br /><a href="#ch44">CHAPTER XLIV</a>
      IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES OF THE INN <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch45">CHAPTER XLV</a> IN WHICH THE DOUBTFUL QUESTION OF MAMBRINO'S
      HELMET AND THE PACK-SADDLE IS FINALLY SETTLED, WITH OTHER ADVENTURES THAT
      OCCURRED IN TRUTH AND EARNEST <br /><br /><a href="#ch46">CHAPTER XLVI</a>
      OF THE END OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE OFFICERS OF THE HOLY
      BROTHERHOOD; AND OF THE GREAT FEROCITY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT, DON QUIXOTE
      <br /><br /><a href="#ch47">CHAPTER XLVII</a> OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH
      DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WAS CARRIED AWAY ENCHANTED, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
      REMARKABLE INCIDENTS <br /><br /><a href="#ch48">CHAPTER XLVIII</a> IN WHICH
      THE CANON PURSUES THE SUBJECT OF THE BOOKS OF CHIVALRY, WITH OTHER MATTERS
      WORTHY OF HIS WIT <br /><br /><a href="#ch49">CHAPTER XLIX</a> WHICH TREATS
      OF THE SHREWD CONVERSATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS MASTER DON
      QUIXOTE <br /><br /><a href="#ch50">CHAPTER L</a> OF THE SHREWD CONTROVERSY
      WHICH DON QUIXOTE AND THE CANON HELD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch51">CHAPTER LI</a> WHICH DEALS WITH WHAT THE GOATHERD TOLD THOSE
      WHO WERE CARRYING OFF DON QUIXOTE <br /><br /><a href="#ch52">CHAPTER LII</a>
      OF THE QUARREL THAT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE GOATHERD, TOGETHER WITH THE
      RARE ADVENTURE OF THE PENITENTS, WHICH WITH AN EXPENDITURE OF SWEAT HE
      BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      I: ABOUT THIS TRANSLATION
    </h3>
    <p>
      It was with considerable reluctance that I abandoned in favour of the
      present undertaking what had long been a favourite project: that of a new
      edition of Shelton's "Don Quixote," which has now become a somewhat scarce
      book. There are some&mdash;and I confess myself to be one&mdash;for whom
      Shelton's racy old version, with all its defects, has a charm that no
      modern translation, however skilful or correct, could possess. Shelton had
      the inestimable advantage of belonging to the same generation as
      Cervantes; "Don Quixote" had to him a vitality that only a contemporary
      could feel; it cost him no dramatic effort to see things as Cervantes saw
      them; there is no anachronism in his language; he put the Spanish of
      Cervantes into the English of Shakespeare. Shakespeare himself most likely
      knew the book; he may have carried it home with him in his saddle-bags to
      Stratford on one of his last journeys, and under the mulberry tree at New
      Place joined hands with a kindred genius in its pages.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was soon made plain to me that to hope for even a moderate
      popularity for Shelton was vain. His fine old crusted English would, no
      doubt, be relished by a minority, but it would be only by a minority. His
      warmest admirers must admit that he is not a satisfactory representative
      of Cervantes. His translation of the First Part was very hastily made and
      was never revised by him. It has all the freshness and vigour, but also a
      full measure of the faults, of a hasty production. It is often very
      literal&mdash;barbarously literal frequently&mdash;but just as often very
      loose. He had evidently a good colloquial knowledge of Spanish, but
      apparently not much more. It never seems to occur to him that the same
      translation of a word will not suit in every case.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is often said that we have no satisfactory translation of "Don
      Quixote." To those who are familiar with the original, it savours of
      truism or platitude to say so, for in truth there can be no thoroughly
      satisfactory translation of "Don Quixote" into English or any other
      language. It is not that the Spanish idioms are so utterly unmanageable,
      or that the untranslatable words, numerous enough no doubt, are so
      superabundant, but rather that the sententious terseness to which the
      humour of the book owes its flavour is peculiar to Spanish, and can at
      best be only distantly imitated in any other tongue.
    </p>
    <p>
      The history of our English translations of "Don Quixote" is instructive.
      Shelton's, the first in any language, was made, apparently, about 1608,
      but not published till 1612. This of course was only the First Part. It
      has been asserted that the Second, published in 1620, is not the work of
      Shelton, but there is nothing to support the assertion save the fact that
      it has less spirit, less of what we generally understand by "go," about it
      than the first, which would be only natural if the first were the work of
      a young man writing currente calamo, and the second that of a middle-aged
      man writing for a bookseller. On the other hand, it is closer and more
      literal, the style is the same, the very same translations, or
      mistranslations, occur in it, and it is extremely unlikely that a new
      translator would, by suppressing his name, have allowed Shelton to carry
      off the credit.
    </p>
    <p>
      In 1687 John Phillips, Milton's nephew, produced a "Don Quixote" "made
      English," he says, "according to the humour of our modern language." His
      "Quixote" is not so much a translation as a travesty, and a travesty that
      for coarseness, vulgarity, and buffoonery is almost unexampled even in the
      literature of that day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ned Ward's "Life and Notable Adventures of Don Quixote, merrily translated
      into Hudibrastic Verse" (1700), can scarcely be reckoned a translation,
      but it serves to show the light in which "Don Quixote" was regarded at the
      time.
    </p>
    <p>
      A further illustration may be found in the version published in 1712 by
      Peter Motteux, who had then recently combined tea-dealing with literature.
      It is described as "translated from the original by several hands," but if
      so all Spanish flavour has entirely evaporated under the manipulation of
      the several hands. The flavour that it has, on the other hand, is
      distinctly Franco-cockney. Anyone who compares it carefully with the
      original will have little doubt that it is a concoction from Shelton and
      the French of Filleau de Saint Martin, eked out by borrowings from
      Phillips, whose mode of treatment it adopts. It is, to be sure, more
      decent and decorous, but it treats "Don Quixote" in the same fashion as a
      comic book that cannot be made too comic.
    </p>
    <p>
      To attempt to improve the humour of "Don Quixote" by an infusion of
      cockney flippancy and facetiousness, as Motteux's operators did, is not
      merely an impertinence like larding a sirloin of prize beef, but an
      absolute falsification of the spirit of the book, and it is a proof of the
      uncritical way in which "Don Quixote" is generally read that this worse
      than worthless translation&mdash;worthless as failing to represent, worse
      than worthless as misrepresenting&mdash;should have been favoured as it
      has been.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had the effect, however, of bringing out a translation undertaken and
      executed in a very different spirit, that of Charles Jervas, the portrait
      painter, and friend of Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, and Gay. Jervas has been
      allowed little credit for his work, indeed it may be said none, for it is
      known to the world in general as Jarvis's. It was not published until
      after his death, and the printers gave the name according to the current
      pronunciation of the day. It has been the most freely used and the most
      freely abused of all the translations. It has seen far more editions than
      any other, it is admitted on all hands to be by far the most faithful, and
      yet nobody seems to have a good word to say for it or for its author.
      Jervas no doubt prejudiced readers against himself in his preface, where
      among many true words about Shelton, Stevens, and Motteux, he rashly and
      unjustly charges Shelton with having translated not from the Spanish, but
      from the Italian version of Franciosini, which did not appear until ten
      years after Shelton's first volume. A suspicion of incompetence, too,
      seems to have attached to him because he was by profession a painter and a
      mediocre one (though he has given us the best portrait we have of Swift),
      and this may have been strengthened by Pope's remark that he "translated
      'Don Quixote' without understanding Spanish." He has been also charged
      with borrowing from Shelton, whom he disparaged. It is true that in a few
      difficult or obscure passages he has followed Shelton, and gone astray
      with him; but for one case of this sort, there are fifty where he is right
      and Shelton wrong. As for Pope's dictum, anyone who examines Jervas's
      version carefully, side by side with the original, will see that he was a
      sound Spanish scholar, incomparably a better one than Shelton, except
      perhaps in mere colloquial Spanish. He was, in fact, an honest, faithful,
      and painstaking translator, and he has left a version which, whatever its
      shortcomings may be, is singularly free from errors and mistranslations.
    </p>
    <p>
      The charge against it is that it is stiff, dry&mdash;"wooden" in a word,&mdash;and
      no one can deny that there is a foundation for it. But it may be pleaded
      for Jervas that a good deal of this rigidity is due to his abhorrence of
      the light, flippant, jocose style of his predecessors. He was one of the
      few, very few, translators that have shown any apprehension of the
      unsmiling gravity which is the essence of Quixotic humour; it seemed to
      him a crime to bring Cervantes forward smirking and grinning at his own
      good things, and to this may be attributed in a great measure the ascetic
      abstinence from everything savouring of liveliness which is the
      characteristic of his translation. In most modern editions, it should be
      observed, his style has been smoothed and smartened, but without any
      reference to the original Spanish, so that if he has been made to read
      more agreeably he has also been robbed of his chief merit of fidelity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Smollett's version, published in 1755, may be almost counted as one of
      these. At any rate it is plain that in its construction Jervas's
      translation was very freely drawn upon, and very little or probably no
      heed given to the original Spanish.
    </p>
    <p>
      The later translations may be dismissed in a few words. George Kelly's,
      which appeared in 1769, "printed for the Translator," was an impudent
      imposture, being nothing more than Motteux's version with a few of the
      words, here and there, artfully transposed; Charles Wilmot's (1774) was
      only an abridgment like Florian's, but not so skilfully executed; and the
      version published by Miss Smirke in 1818, to accompany her brother's
      plates, was merely a patchwork production made out of former translations.
      On the latest, Mr. A. J. Duffield's, it would be in every sense of the
      word impertinent in me to offer an opinion here. I had not even seen it
      when the present undertaking was proposed to me, and since then I may say
      vidi tantum, having for obvious reasons resisted the temptation which Mr.
      Duffield's reputation and comely volumes hold out to every lover of
      Cervantes.
    </p>
    <p>
      From the foregoing history of our translations of "Don Quixote," it will
      be seen that there are a good many people who, provided they get the mere
      narrative with its full complement of facts, incidents, and adventures
      served up to them in a form that amuses them, care very little whether
      that form is the one in which Cervantes originally shaped his ideas. On
      the other hand, it is clear that there are many who desire to have not
      merely the story he tells, but the story as he tells it, so far at least
      as differences of idiom and circumstances permit, and who will give a
      preference to the conscientious translator, even though he may have
      acquitted himself somewhat awkwardly.
    </p>
    <p>
      But after all there is no real antagonism between the two classes; there
      is no reason why what pleases the one should not please the other, or why
      a translator who makes it his aim to treat "Don Quixote" with the respect
      due to a great classic, should not be as acceptable even to the careless
      reader as the one who treats it as a famous old jest-book. It is not a
      question of caviare to the general, or, if it is, the fault rests with him
      who makes so. The method by which Cervantes won the ear of the Spanish
      people ought, mutatis mutandis, to be equally effective with the great
      majority of English readers. At any rate, even if there are readers to
      whom it is a matter of indifference, fidelity to the method is as much a
      part of the translator's duty as fidelity to the matter. If he can please
      all parties, so much the better; but his first duty is to those who look
      to him for as faithful a representation of his author as it is in his
      power to give them, faithful to the letter so long as fidelity is
      practicable, faithful to the spirit so far as he can make it.
    </p>
    <p>
      My purpose here is not to dogmatise on the rules of translation, but to
      indicate those I have followed, or at least tried to the best of my
      ability to follow, in the present instance. One which, it seems to me,
      cannot be too rigidly followed in translating "Don Quixote," is to avoid
      everything that savours of affectation. The book itself is, indeed, in one
      sense a protest against it, and no man abhorred it more than Cervantes.
      For this reason, I think, any temptation to use antiquated or obsolete
      language should be resisted. It is after all an affectation, and one for
      which there is no warrant or excuse. Spanish has probably undergone less
      change since the seventeenth century than any language in Europe, and by
      far the greater and certainly the best part of "Don Quixote" differs but
      little in language from the colloquial Spanish of the present day. Except
      in the tales and Don Quixote's speeches, the translator who uses the
      simplest and plainest everyday language will almost always be the one who
      approaches nearest to the original.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeing that the story of "Don Quixote" and all its characters and
      incidents have now been for more than two centuries and a half familiar as
      household words in English mouths, it seems to me that the old familiar
      names and phrases should not be changed without good reason. Of course a
      translator who holds that "Don Quixote" should receive the treatment a
      great classic deserves, will feel himself bound by the injunction laid
      upon the Morisco in Chap. IX not to omit or add anything.
    </p>
    <p>
      II: ABOUT CERVANTES AND DON QUIXOTE
    </p>
    <p>
      Four generations had laughed over "Don Quixote" before it occurred to
      anyone to ask, who and what manner of man was this Miguel de Cervantes
      Saavedra whose name is on the title-page; and it was too late for a
      satisfactory answer to the question when it was proposed to add a life of
      the author to the London edition published at Lord Carteret's instance in
      1738. All traces of the personality of Cervantes had by that time
      disappeared. Any floating traditions that may once have existed,
      transmitted from men who had known him, had long since died out, and of
      other record there was none; for the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries
      were incurious as to "the men of the time," a reproach against which the
      nineteenth has, at any rate, secured itself, if it has produced no
      Shakespeare or Cervantes. All that Mayans y Siscar, to whom the task was
      entrusted, or any of those who followed him, Rios, Pellicer, or Navarrete,
      could do was to eke out the few allusions Cervantes makes to himself in
      his various prefaces with such pieces of documentary evidence bearing upon
      his life as they could find.
    </p>
    <p>
      This, however, has been done by the last-named biographer to such good
      purpose that he has superseded all predecessors. Thoroughness is the chief
      characteristic of Navarrete's work. Besides sifting, testing, and
      methodising with rare patience and judgment what had been previously
      brought to light, he left, as the saying is, no stone unturned under which
      anything to illustrate his subject might possibly be found. Navarrete has
      done all that industry and acumen could do, and it is no fault of his if
      he has not given us what we want. What Hallam says of Shakespeare may be
      applied to the almost parallel case of Cervantes: "It is not the register
      of his baptism, or the draft of his will, or the orthography of his name
      that we seek; no letter of his writing, no record of his conversation, no
      character of him drawn ... by a contemporary has been produced."
    </p>
    <p>
      It is only natural, therefore, that the biographers of Cervantes, forced
      to make brick without straw, should have recourse largely to conjecture,
      and that conjecture should in some instances come by degrees to take the
      place of established fact. All that I propose to do here is to separate
      what is matter of fact from what is matter of conjecture, and leave it to
      the reader's judgment to decide whether the data justify the inference or
      not.
    </p>
    <p>
      The men whose names by common consent stand in the front rank of Spanish
      literature, Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Quevedo, Calderon, Garcilaso de la
      Vega, the Mendozas, Gongora, were all men of ancient families, and,
      curiously, all, except the last, of families that traced their origin to
      the same mountain district in the North of Spain. The family of Cervantes
      is commonly said to have been of Galician origin, and unquestionably it
      was in possession of lands in Galicia at a very early date; but I think
      the balance of the evidence tends to show that the "solar," the original
      site of the family, was at Cervatos in the north-west corner of Old
      Castile, close to the junction of Castile, Leon, and the Asturias. As it
      happens, there is a complete history of the Cervantes family from the
      tenth century down to the seventeenth extant under the title of
      "Illustrious Ancestry, Glorious Deeds, and Noble Posterity of the Famous
      Nuno Alfonso, Alcaide of Toledo," written in 1648 by the industrious
      genealogist Rodrigo Mendez Silva, who availed himself of a manuscript
      genealogy by Juan de Mena, the poet laureate and historiographer of John
      II.
    </p>
    <p>
      The origin of the name Cervantes is curious. Nuno Alfonso was almost as
      distinguished in the struggle against the Moors in the reign of Alfonso
      VII as the Cid had been half a century before in that of Alfonso VI, and
      was rewarded by divers grants of land in the neighbourhood of Toledo. On
      one of his acquisitions, about two leagues from the city, he built himself
      a castle which he called Cervatos, because "he was lord of the solar of
      Cervatos in the Montana," as the mountain region extending from the Basque
      Provinces to Leon was always called. At his death in battle in 1143, the
      castle passed by his will to his son Alfonso Munio, who, as territorial or
      local surnames were then coming into vogue in place of the simple
      patronymic, took the additional name of Cervatos. His eldest son Pedro
      succeeded him in the possession of the castle, and followed his example in
      adopting the name, an assumption at which the younger son, Gonzalo, seems
      to have taken umbrage.
    </p>
    <p>
      Everyone who has paid even a flying visit to Toledo will remember the
      ruined castle that crowns the hill above the spot where the bridge of
      Alcantara spans the gorge of the Tagus, and with its broken outline and
      crumbling walls makes such an admirable pendant to the square solid
      Alcazar towering over the city roofs on the opposite side. It was built,
      or as some say restored, by Alfonso VI shortly after his occupation of
      Toledo in 1085, and called by him San Servando after a Spanish martyr, a
      name subsequently modified into San Servan (in which form it appears in
      the "Poem of the Cid"), San Servantes, and San Cervantes: with regard to
      which last the "Handbook for Spain" warns its readers against the
      supposition that it has anything to do with the author of "Don Quixote."
      Ford, as all know who have taken him for a companion and counsellor on the
      roads of Spain, is seldom wrong in matters of literature or history. In
      this instance, however, he is in error. It has everything to do with the
      author of "Don Quixote," for it is in fact these old walls that have given
      to Spain the name she is proudest of to-day. Gonzalo, above mentioned, it
      may be readily conceived, did not relish the appropriation by his brother
      of a name to which he himself had an equal right, for though nominally
      taken from the castle, it was in reality derived from the ancient
      territorial possession of the family, and as a set-off, and to distinguish
      himself (diferenciarse) from his brother, he took as a surname the name of
      the castle on the bank of the Tagus, in the building of which, according
      to a family tradition, his great-grandfather had a share.
    </p>
    <p>
      Both brothers founded families. The Cervantes branch had more tenacity; it
      sent offshoots in various directions, Andalusia, Estremadura, Galicia, and
      Portugal, and produced a goodly line of men distinguished in the service
      of Church and State. Gonzalo himself, and apparently a son of his,
      followed Ferdinand III in the great campaign of 1236-48 that gave Cordova
      and Seville to Christian Spain and penned up the Moors in the kingdom of
      Granada, and his descendants intermarried with some of the noblest
      families of the Peninsula and numbered among them soldiers, magistrates,
      and Church dignitaries, including at least two cardinal-archbishops.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of the line that settled in Andalusia, Deigo de Cervantes, Commander of
      the Order of Santiago, married Juana Avellaneda, daughter of Juan Arias de
      Saavedra, and had several sons, of whom one was Gonzalo Gomez, Corregidor
      of Jerez and ancestor of the Mexican and Columbian branches of the family;
      and another, Juan, whose son Rodrigo married Dona Leonor de Cortinas, and
      by her had four children, Rodrigo, Andrea, Luisa, and Miguel, our author.
    </p>
    <p>
      The pedigree of Cervantes is not without its bearing on "Don Quixote." A
      man who could look back upon an ancestry of genuine knights-errant
      extending from well-nigh the time of Pelayo to the siege of Granada was
      likely to have a strong feeling on the subject of the sham chivalry of the
      romances. It gives a point, too, to what he says in more than one place
      about families that have once been great and have tapered away until they
      have come to nothing, like a pyramid. It was the case of his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was born at Alcala de Henares and baptised in the church of Santa Maria
      Mayor on the 9th of October, 1547. Of his boyhood and youth we know
      nothing, unless it be from the glimpse he gives us in the preface to his
      "Comedies" of himself as a boy looking on with delight while Lope de Rueda
      and his company set up their rude plank stage in the plaza and acted the
      rustic farces which he himself afterwards took as the model of his
      interludes. This first glimpse, however, is a significant one, for it
      shows the early development of that love of the drama which exercised such
      an influence on his life and seems to have grown stronger as he grew
      older, and of which this very preface, written only a few months before
      his death, is such a striking proof. He gives us to understand, too, that
      he was a great reader in his youth; but of this no assurance was needed,
      for the First Part of "Don Quixote" alone proves a vast amount of
      miscellaneous reading, romances of chivalry, ballads, popular poetry,
      chronicles, for which he had no time or opportunity except in the first
      twenty years of his life; and his misquotations and mistakes in matters of
      detail are always, it may be noticed, those of a man recalling the reading
      of his boyhood.
    </p>
    <p>
      Other things besides the drama were in their infancy when Cervantes was a
      boy. The period of his boyhood was in every way a transition period for
      Spain. The old chivalrous Spain had passed away. The new Spain was the
      mightiest power the world had seen since the Roman Empire and it had not
      yet been called upon to pay the price of its greatness. By the policy of
      Ferdinand and Ximenez the sovereign had been made absolute, and the Church
      and Inquisition adroitly adjusted to keep him so. The nobles, who had
      always resisted absolutism as strenuously as they had fought the Moors,
      had been divested of all political power, a like fate had befallen the
      cities, the free constitutions of Castile and Aragon had been swept away,
      and the only function that remained to the Cortes was that of granting
      money at the King's dictation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The transition extended to literature. Men who, like Garcilaso de la Vega
      and Diego Hurtado de Mendoza, followed the Italian wars, had brought back
      from Italy the products of the post-Renaissance literature, which took
      root and flourished and even threatened to extinguish the native growths.
      Damon and Thyrsis, Phyllis and Chloe had been fairly naturalised in Spain,
      together with all the devices of pastoral poetry for investing with an air
      of novelty the idea of a dispairing shepherd and inflexible shepherdess.
      As a set-off against this, the old historical and traditional ballads, and
      the true pastorals, the songs and ballads of peasant life, were being
      collected assiduously and printed in the cancioneros that succeeded one
      another with increasing rapidity. But the most notable consequence,
      perhaps, of the spread of printing was the flood of romances of chivalry
      that had continued to pour from the press ever since Garci Ordonez de
      Montalvo had resuscitated "Amadis of Gaul" at the beginning of the
      century.
    </p>
    <p>
      For a youth fond of reading, solid or light, there could have been no
      better spot in Spain than Alcala de Henares in the middle of the sixteenth
      century. It was then a busy, populous university town, something more than
      the enterprising rival of Salamanca, and altogether a very different place
      from the melancholy, silent, deserted Alcala the traveller sees now as he
      goes from Madrid to Saragossa. Theology and medicine may have been the
      strong points of the university, but the town itself seems to have
      inclined rather to the humanities and light literature, and as a producer
      of books Alcala was already beginning to compete with the older presses of
      Toledo, Burgos, Salamanca and Seville.
    </p>
    <p>
      A pendant to the picture Cervantes has given us of his first playgoings
      might, no doubt, have been often seen in the streets of Alcala at that
      time; a bright, eager, tawny-haired boy peering into a book-shop where the
      latest volumes lay open to tempt the public, wondering, it may be, what
      that little book with the woodcut of the blind beggar and his boy, that
      called itself "Vida de Lazarillo de Tormes, segunda impresion," could be
      about; or with eyes brimming over with merriment gazing at one of those
      preposterous portraits of a knight-errant in outrageous panoply and plumes
      with which the publishers of chivalry romances loved to embellish the
      title-pages of their folios. If the boy was the father of the man, the
      sense of the incongruous that was strong at fifty was lively at ten, and
      some such reflections as these may have been the true genesis of "Don
      Quixote."
    </p>
    <p>
      For his more solid education, we are told, he went to Salamanca. But why
      Rodrigo de Cervantes, who was very poor, should have sent his son to a
      university a hundred and fifty miles away when he had one at his own door,
      would be a puzzle, if we had any reason for supposing that he did so. The
      only evidence is a vague statement by Professor Tomas Gonzalez, that he
      once saw an old entry of the matriculation of a Miguel de Cervantes. This
      does not appear to have been ever seen again; but even if it had, and if
      the date corresponded, it would prove nothing, as there were at least two
      other Miguels born about the middle of the century; one of them, moreover,
      a Cervantes Saavedra, a cousin, no doubt, who was a source of great
      embarrassment to the biographers.
    </p>
    <p>
      That he was a student neither at Salamanca nor at Alcala is best proved by
      his own works. No man drew more largely upon experience than he did, and
      he has nowhere left a single reminiscence of student life&mdash;for the
      "Tia Fingida," if it be his, is not one&mdash;nothing, not even "a college
      joke," to show that he remembered days that most men remember best. All
      that we know positively about his education is that Juan Lopez de Hoyos, a
      professor of humanities and belles-lettres of some eminence, calls him his
      "dear and beloved pupil." This was in a little collection of verses by
      different hands on the death of Isabel de Valois, second queen of Philip
      II, published by the professor in 1569, to which Cervantes contributed
      four pieces, including an elegy, and an epitaph in the form of a sonnet.
      It is only by a rare chance that a "Lycidas" finds its way into a volume
      of this sort, and Cervantes was no Milton. His verses are no worse than
      such things usually are; so much, at least, may be said for them.
    </p>
    <p>
      By the time the book appeared he had left Spain, and, as fate ordered it,
      for twelve years, the most eventful ones of his life. Giulio, afterwards
      Cardinal, Acquaviva had been sent at the end of 1568 to Philip II by the
      Pope on a mission, partly of condolence, partly political, and on his
      return to Rome, which was somewhat brusquely expedited by the King, he
      took Cervantes with him as his camarero (chamberlain), the office he
      himself held in the Pope's household. The post would no doubt have led to
      advancement at the Papal Court had Cervantes retained it, but in the
      summer of 1570 he resigned it and enlisted as a private soldier in Captain
      Diego Urbina's company, belonging to Don Miguel de Moncada's regiment, but
      at that time forming a part of the command of Marc Antony Colonna. What
      impelled him to this step we know not, whether it was distaste for the
      career before him, or purely military enthusiasm. It may well have been
      the latter, for it was a stirring time; the events, however, which led to
      the alliance between Spain, Venice, and the Pope, against the common
      enemy, the Porte, and to the victory of the combined fleets at Lepanto,
      belong rather to the history of Europe than to the life of Cervantes. He
      was one of those that sailed from Messina, in September 1571, under the
      command of Don John of Austria; but on the morning of the 7th of October,
      when the Turkish fleet was sighted, he was lying below ill with fever. At
      the news that the enemy was in sight he rose, and, in spite of the
      remonstrances of his comrades and superiors, insisted on taking his post,
      saying he preferred death in the service of God and the King to health.
      His galley, the Marquesa, was in the thick of the fight, and before it was
      over he had received three gunshot wounds, two in the breast and one in
      the left hand or arm. On the morning after the battle, according to
      Navarrete, he had an interview with the commander-in-chief, Don John, who
      was making a personal inspection of the wounded, one result of which was
      an addition of three crowns to his pay, and another, apparently, the
      friendship of his general.
    </p>
    <p>
      How severely Cervantes was wounded may be inferred from the fact, that
      with youth, a vigorous frame, and as cheerful and buoyant a temperament as
      ever invalid had, he was seven months in hospital at Messina before he was
      discharged. He came out with his left hand permanently disabled; he had
      lost the use of it, as Mercury told him in the "Viaje del Parnaso" for the
      greater glory of the right. This, however, did not absolutely unfit him
      for service, and in April 1572 he joined Manuel Ponce de Leon's company of
      Lope de Figueroa's regiment, in which, it seems probable, his brother
      Rodrigo was serving, and shared in the operations of the next three years,
      including the capture of the Goletta and Tunis. Taking advantage of the
      lull which followed the recapture of these places by the Turks, he
      obtained leave to return to Spain, and sailed from Naples in September
      1575 on board the Sun galley, in company with his brother Rodrigo, Pedro
      Carrillo de Quesada, late Governor of the Goletta, and some others, and
      furnished with letters from Don John of Austria and the Duke of Sesa, the
      Viceroy of Sicily, recommending him to the King for the command of a
      company, on account of his services; a dono infelice as events proved. On
      the 26th they fell in with a squadron of Algerine galleys, and after a
      stout resistance were overpowered and carried into Algiers.
    </p>
    <p>
      By means of a ransomed fellow-captive the brothers contrived to inform
      their family of their condition, and the poor people at Alcala at once
      strove to raise the ransom money, the father disposing of all he
      possessed, and the two sisters giving up their marriage portions. But Dali
      Mami had found on Cervantes the letters addressed to the King by Don John
      and the Duke of Sesa, and, concluding that his prize must be a person of
      great consequence, when the money came he refused it scornfully as being
      altogether insufficient. The owner of Rodrigo, however, was more easily
      satisfied; ransom was accepted in his case, and it was arranged between
      the brothers that he should return to Spain and procure a vessel in which
      he was to come back to Algiers and take off Miguel and as many of their
      comrades as possible. This was not the first attempt to escape that
      Cervantes had made. Soon after the commencement of his captivity he
      induced several of his companions to join him in trying to reach Oran,
      then a Spanish post, on foot; but after the first day's journey, the Moor
      who had agreed to act as their guide deserted them, and they had no choice
      but to return. The second attempt was more disastrous. In a garden outside
      the city on the sea-shore, he constructed, with the help of the gardener,
      a Spaniard, a hiding-place, to which he brought, one by one, fourteen of
      his fellow-captives, keeping them there in secrecy for several months, and
      supplying them with food through a renegade known as El Dorador, "the
      Gilder." How he, a captive himself, contrived to do all this, is one of
      the mysteries of the story. Wild as the project may appear, it was very
      nearly successful. The vessel procured by Rodrigo made its appearance off
      the coast, and under cover of night was proceeding to take off the
      refugees, when the crew were alarmed by a passing fishing boat, and beat a
      hasty retreat. On renewing the attempt shortly afterwards, they, or a
      portion of them at least, were taken prisoners, and just as the poor
      fellows in the garden were exulting in the thought that in a few moments
      more freedom would be within their grasp, they found themselves surrounded
      by Turkish troops, horse and foot. The Dorador had revealed the whole
      scheme to the Dey Hassan.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Cervantes saw what had befallen them, he charged his companions to
      lay all the blame upon him, and as they were being bound he declared aloud
      that the whole plot was of his contriving, and that nobody else had any
      share in it. Brought before the Dey, he said the same. He was threatened
      with impalement and with torture; and as cutting off ears and noses were
      playful freaks with the Algerines, it may be conceived what their tortures
      were like; but nothing could make him swerve from his original statement
      that he and he alone was responsible. The upshot was that the unhappy
      gardener was hanged by his master, and the prisoners taken possession of
      by the Dey, who, however, afterwards restored most of them to their
      masters, but kept Cervantes, paying Dali Mami 500 crowns for him. He felt,
      no doubt, that a man of such resource, energy, and daring, was too
      dangerous a piece of property to be left in private hands; and he had him
      heavily ironed and lodged in his own prison. If he thought that by these
      means he could break the spirit or shake the resolution of his prisoner,
      he was soon undeceived, for Cervantes contrived before long to despatch a
      letter to the Governor of Oran, entreating him to send him some one that
      could be trusted, to enable him and three other gentlemen, fellow-captives
      of his, to make their escape; intending evidently to renew his first
      attempt with a more trustworthy guide. Unfortunately the Moor who carried
      the letter was stopped just outside Oran, and the letter being found upon
      him, he was sent back to Algiers, where by the order of the Dey he was
      promptly impaled as a warning to others, while Cervantes was condemned to
      receive two thousand blows of the stick, a number which most likely would
      have deprived the world of "Don Quixote," had not some persons, who they
      were we know not, interceded on his behalf.
    </p>
    <p>
      After this he seems to have been kept in still closer confinement than
      before, for nearly two years passed before he made another attempt. This
      time his plan was to purchase, by the aid of a Spanish renegade and two
      Valencian merchants resident in Algiers, an armed vessel in which he and
      about sixty of the leading captives were to make their escape; but just as
      they were about to put it into execution one Doctor Juan Blanco de Paz, an
      ecclesiastic and a compatriot, informed the Dey of the plot. Cervantes by
      force of character, by his self-devotion, by his untiring energy and his
      exertions to lighten the lot of his companions in misery, had endeared
      himself to all, and become the leading spirit in the captive colony, and,
      incredible as it may seem, jealousy of his influence and the esteem in
      which he was held, moved this man to compass his destruction by a cruel
      death. The merchants finding that the Dey knew all, and fearing that
      Cervantes under torture might make disclosures that would imperil their
      own lives, tried to persuade him to slip away on board a vessel that was
      on the point of sailing for Spain; but he told them they had nothing to
      fear, for no tortures would make him compromise anybody, and he went at
      once and gave himself up to the Dey.
    </p>
    <p>
      As before, the Dey tried to force him to name his accomplices. Everything
      was made ready for his immediate execution; the halter was put round his
      neck and his hands tied behind him, but all that could be got from him was
      that he himself, with the help of four gentlemen who had since left
      Algiers, had arranged the whole, and that the sixty who were to accompany
      him were not to know anything of it until the last moment. Finding he
      could make nothing of him, the Dey sent him back to prison more heavily
      ironed than before.
    </p>
    <p>
      The poverty-stricken Cervantes family had been all this time trying once
      more to raise the ransom money, and at last a sum of three hundred ducats
      was got together and entrusted to the Redemptorist Father Juan Gil, who
      was about to sail for Algiers. The Dey, however, demanded more than double
      the sum offered, and as his term of office had expired and he was about to
      sail for Constantinople, taking all his slaves with him, the case of
      Cervantes was critical. He was already on board heavily ironed, when the
      Dey at length agreed to reduce his demand by one-half, and Father Gil by
      borrowing was able to make up the amount, and on September 19, 1580, after
      a captivity of five years all but a week, Cervantes was at last set free.
      Before long he discovered that Blanco de Paz, who claimed to be an officer
      of the Inquisition, was now concocting on false evidence a charge of
      misconduct to be brought against him on his return to Spain. To checkmate
      him Cervantes drew up a series of twenty-five questions, covering the
      whole period of his captivity, upon which he requested Father Gil to take
      the depositions of credible witnesses before a notary. Eleven witnesses
      taken from among the principal captives in Algiers deposed to all the
      facts above stated and to a great deal more besides. There is something
      touching in the admiration, love, and gratitude we see struggling to find
      expression in the formal language of the notary, as they testify one after
      another to the good deeds of Cervantes, how he comforted and helped the
      weak-hearted, how he kept up their drooping courage, how he shared his
      poor purse with this deponent, and how "in him this deponent found father
      and mother."
    </p>
    <p>
      On his return to Spain he found his old regiment about to march for
      Portugal to support Philip's claim to the crown, and utterly penniless
      now, had no choice but to rejoin it. He was in the expeditions to the
      Azores in 1582 and the following year, and on the conclusion of the war
      returned to Spain in the autumn of 1583, bringing with him the manuscript
      of his pastoral romance, the "Galatea," and probably also, to judge by
      internal evidence, that of the first portion of "Persiles and Sigismunda."
      He also brought back with him, his biographers assert, an infant daughter,
      the offspring of an amour, as some of them with great circumstantiality
      inform us, with a Lisbon lady of noble birth, whose name, however, as well
      as that of the street she lived in, they omit to mention. The sole
      foundation for all this is that in 1605 there certainly was living in the
      family of Cervantes a Dona Isabel de Saavedra, who is described in an
      official document as his natural daughter, and then twenty years of age.
    </p>
    <p>
      With his crippled left hand promotion in the army was hopeless, now that
      Don John was dead and he had no one to press his claims and services, and
      for a man drawing on to forty life in the ranks was a dismal prospect; he
      had already a certain reputation as a poet; he made up his mind,
      therefore, to cast his lot with literature, and for a first venture
      committed his "Galatea" to the press. It was published, as Salva y Mallen
      shows conclusively, at Alcala, his own birth-place, in 1585 and no doubt
      helped to make his name more widely known, but certainly did not do him
      much good in any other way.
    </p>
    <p>
      While it was going through the press, he married Dona Catalina de Palacios
      Salazar y Vozmediano, a lady of Esquivias near Madrid, and apparently a
      friend of the family, who brought him a fortune which may possibly have
      served to keep the wolf from the door, but if so, that was all. The drama
      had by this time outgrown market-place stages and strolling companies, and
      with his old love for it he naturally turned to it for a congenial
      employment. In about three years he wrote twenty or thirty plays, which he
      tells us were performed without any throwing of cucumbers or other
      missiles, and ran their course without any hisses, outcries, or
      disturbance. In other words, his plays were not bad enough to be hissed
      off the stage, but not good enough to hold their own upon it. Only two of
      them have been preserved, but as they happen to be two of the seven or
      eight he mentions with complacency, we may assume they are favourable
      specimens, and no one who reads the "Numancia" and the "Trato de Argel"
      will feel any surprise that they failed as acting dramas. Whatever merits
      they may have, whatever occasional they may show, they are, as regards
      construction, incurably clumsy. How completely they failed is manifest
      from the fact that with all his sanguine temperament and indomitable
      perseverance he was unable to maintain the struggle to gain a livelihood
      as a dramatist for more than three years; nor was the rising popularity of
      Lope the cause, as is often said, notwithstanding his own words to the
      contrary. When Lope began to write for the stage is uncertain, but it was
      certainly after Cervantes went to Seville.
    </p>
    <p>
      Among the "Nuevos Documentos" printed by Senor Asensio y Toledo is one
      dated 1592, and curiously characteristic of Cervantes. It is an agreement
      with one Rodrigo Osorio, a manager, who was to accept six comedies at
      fifty ducats (about 6l.) apiece, not to be paid in any case unless it
      appeared on representation that the said comedy was one of the best that
      had ever been represented in Spain. The test does not seem to have been
      ever applied; perhaps it was sufficiently apparent to Rodrigo Osorio that
      the comedies were not among the best that had ever been represented. Among
      the correspondence of Cervantes there might have been found, no doubt,
      more than one letter like that we see in the "Rake's Progress," "Sir, I
      have read your play, and it will not doo."
    </p>
    <p>
      He was more successful in a literary contest at Saragossa in 1595 in
      honour of the canonisation of St. Jacinto, when his composition won the
      first prize, three silver spoons. The year before this he had been
      appointed a collector of revenues for the kingdom of Granada. In order to
      remit the money he had collected more conveniently to the treasury, he
      entrusted it to a merchant, who failed and absconded; and as the
      bankrupt's assets were insufficient to cover the whole, he was sent to
      prison at Seville in September 1597. The balance against him, however, was
      a small one, about 26l., and on giving security for it he was released at
      the end of the year.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was as he journeyed from town to town collecting the king's taxes, that
      he noted down those bits of inn and wayside life and character that abound
      in the pages of "Don Quixote:" the Benedictine monks with spectacles and
      sunshades, mounted on their tall mules; the strollers in costume bound for
      the next village; the barber with his basin on his head, on his way to
      bleed a patient; the recruit with his breeches in his bundle, tramping
      along the road singing; the reapers gathered in the venta gateway
      listening to "Felixmarte of Hircania" read out to them; and those little
      Hogarthian touches that he so well knew how to bring in, the ox-tail
      hanging up with the landlord's comb stuck in it, the wine-skins at the
      bed-head, and those notable examples of hostelry art, Helen going off in
      high spirits on Paris's arm, and Dido on the tower dropping tears as big
      as walnuts. Nay, it may well be that on those journeys into remote regions
      he came across now and then a specimen of the pauper gentleman, with his
      lean hack and his greyhound and his books of chivalry, dreaming away his
      life in happy ignorance that the world had changed since his
      great-grandfather's old helmet was new. But it was in Seville that he
      found out his true vocation, though he himself would not by any means have
      admitted it to be so. It was there, in Triana, that he was first tempted
      to try his hand at drawing from life, and first brought his humour into
      play in the exquisite little sketch of "Rinconete y Cortadillo," the germ,
      in more ways than one, of "Don Quixote."
    </p>
    <p>
      Where and when that was written, we cannot tell. After his imprisonment
      all trace of Cervantes in his official capacity disappears, from which it
      may be inferred that he was not reinstated. That he was still in Seville
      in November 1598 appears from a satirical sonnet of his on the elaborate
      catafalque erected to testify the grief of the city at the death of Philip
      II, but from this up to 1603 we have no clue to his movements. The words
      in the preface to the First Part of "Don Quixote" are generally held to be
      conclusive that he conceived the idea of the book, and wrote the beginning
      of it at least, in a prison, and that he may have done so is extremely
      likely.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is a tradition that Cervantes read some portions of his work to a
      select audience at the Duke of Bejar's, which may have helped to make the
      book known; but the obvious conclusion is that the First Part of "Don
      Quixote" lay on his hands some time before he could find a publisher bold
      enough to undertake a venture of so novel a character; and so little faith
      in it had Francisco Robles of Madrid, to whom at last he sold it, that he
      did not care to incur the expense of securing the copyright for Aragon or
      Portugal, contenting himself with that for Castile. The printing was
      finished in December, and the book came out with the new year, 1605. It is
      often said that "Don Quixote" was at first received coldly. The facts show
      just the contrary. No sooner was it in the hands of the public than
      preparations were made to issue pirated editions at Lisbon and Valencia,
      and to bring out a second edition with the additional copyrights for
      Aragon and Portugal, which he secured in February.
    </p>
    <p>
      No doubt it was received with something more than coldness by certain
      sections of the community. Men of wit, taste, and discrimination among the
      aristocracy gave it a hearty welcome, but the aristocracy in general were
      not likely to relish a book that turned their favourite reading into
      ridicule and laughed at so many of their favourite ideas. The dramatists
      who gathered round Lope as their leader regarded Cervantes as their common
      enemy, and it is plain that he was equally obnoxious to the other clique,
      the culto poets who had Gongora for their chief. Navarrete, who knew
      nothing of the letter above mentioned, tries hard to show that the
      relations between Cervantes and Lope were of a very friendly sort, as
      indeed they were until "Don Quixote" was written. Cervantes, indeed, to
      the last generously and manfully declared his admiration of Lope's powers,
      his unfailing invention, and his marvellous fertility; but in the preface
      of the First Part of "Don Quixote" and in the verses of "Urganda the
      Unknown," and one or two other places, there are, if we read between the
      lines, sly hits at Lope's vanities and affectations that argue no personal
      good-will; and Lope openly sneers at "Don Quixote" and Cervantes, and
      fourteen years after his death gives him only a few lines of cold
      commonplace in the "Laurel de Apolo," that seem all the colder for the
      eulogies of a host of nonentities whose names are found nowhere else.
    </p>
    <p>
      In 1601 Valladolid was made the seat of the Court, and at the beginning of
      1603 Cervantes had been summoned thither in connection with the balance
      due by him to the Treasury, which was still outstanding. He remained at
      Valladolid, apparently supporting himself by agencies and scrivener's work
      of some sort; probably drafting petitions and drawing up statements of
      claims to be presented to the Council, and the like. So, at least, we
      gather from the depositions taken on the occasion of the death of a
      gentleman, the victim of a street brawl, who had been carried into the
      house in which he lived. In these he himself is described as a man who
      wrote and transacted business, and it appears that his household then
      consisted of his wife, the natural daughter Isabel de Saavedra already
      mentioned, his sister Andrea, now a widow, her daughter Constanza, a
      mysterious Magdalena de Sotomayor calling herself his sister, for whom his
      biographers cannot account, and a servant-maid.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile "Don Quixote" had been growing in favour, and its author's name
      was now known beyond the Pyrenees. In 1607 an edition was printed at
      Brussels. Robles, the Madrid publisher, found it necessary to meet the
      demand by a third edition, the seventh in all, in 1608. The popularity of
      the book in Italy was such that a Milan bookseller was led to bring out an
      edition in 1610; and another was called for in Brussels in 1611. It might
      naturally have been expected that, with such proofs before him that he had
      hit the taste of the public, Cervantes would have at once set about
      redeeming his rather vague promise of a second volume.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, to all appearance, nothing was farther from his thoughts. He had
      still by him one or two short tales of the same vintage as those he had
      inserted in "Don Quixote" and instead of continuing the adventures of Don
      Quixote, he set to work to write more of these "Novelas Exemplares" as he
      afterwards called them, with a view to making a book of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The novels were published in the summer of 1613, with a dedication to the
      Conde de Lemos, the Maecenas of the day, and with one of those chatty
      confidential prefaces Cervantes was so fond of. In this, eight years and a
      half after the First Part of "Don Quixote" had appeared, we get the first
      hint of a forthcoming Second Part. "You shall see shortly," he says, "the
      further exploits of Don Quixote and humours of Sancho Panza." His idea of
      "shortly" was a somewhat elastic one, for, as we know by the date to
      Sancho's letter, he had barely one-half of the book completed that time
      twelvemonth.
    </p>
    <p>
      But more than poems, or pastorals, or novels, it was his dramatic ambition
      that engrossed his thoughts. The same indomitable spirit that kept him
      from despair in the bagnios of Algiers, and prompted him to attempt the
      escape of himself and his comrades again and again, made him persevere in
      spite of failure and discouragement in his efforts to win the ear of the
      public as a dramatist. The temperament of Cervantes was essentially
      sanguine. The portrait he draws in the preface to the novels, with the
      aquiline features, chestnut hair, smooth untroubled forehead, and bright
      cheerful eyes, is the very portrait of a sanguine man. Nothing that the
      managers might say could persuade him that the merits of his plays would
      not be recognised at last if they were only given a fair chance. The old
      soldier of the Spanish Salamis was bent on being the Aeschylus of Spain.
      He was to found a great national drama, based on the true principles of
      art, that was to be the envy of all nations; he was to drive from the
      stage the silly, childish plays, the "mirrors of nonsense and models of
      folly" that were in vogue through the cupidity of the managers and
      shortsightedness of the authors; he was to correct and educate the public
      taste until it was ripe for tragedies on the model of the Greek drama&mdash;like
      the "Numancia" for instance&mdash;and comedies that would not only amuse
      but improve and instruct. All this he was to do, could he once get a
      hearing: there was the initial difficulty.
    </p>
    <p>
      He shows plainly enough, too, that "Don Quixote" and the demolition of the
      chivalry romances was not the work that lay next his heart. He was,
      indeed, as he says himself in his preface, more a stepfather than a father
      to "Don Quixote." Never was great work so neglected by its author. That it
      was written carelessly, hastily, and by fits and starts, was not always
      his fault, but it seems clear he never read what he sent to the press. He
      knew how the printers had blundered, but he never took the trouble to
      correct them when the third edition was in progress, as a man who really
      cared for the child of his brain would have done. He appears to have
      regarded the book as little more than a mere libro de entretenimiento, an
      amusing book, a thing, as he says in the "Viaje," "to divert the
      melancholy moody heart at any time or season." No doubt he had an
      affection for his hero, and was very proud of Sancho Panza. It would have
      been strange indeed if he had not been proud of the most humorous creation
      in all fiction. He was proud, too, of the popularity and success of the
      book, and beyond measure delightful is the naivete with which he shows his
      pride in a dozen passages in the Second Part. But it was not the success
      he coveted. In all probability he would have given all the success of "Don
      Quixote," nay, would have seen every copy of "Don Quixote" burned in the
      Plaza Mayor, for one such success as Lope de Vega was enjoying on an
      average once a week.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so he went on, dawdling over "Don Quixote," adding a chapter now and
      again, and putting it aside to turn to "Persiles and Sigismunda"&mdash;which,
      as we know, was to be the most entertaining book in the language, and the
      rival of "Theagenes and Chariclea"&mdash;or finishing off one of his
      darling comedies; and if Robles asked when "Don Quixote" would be ready,
      the answer no doubt was: En breve&mdash;shortly, there was time enough for
      that. At sixty-eight he was as full of life and hope and plans for the
      future as a boy of eighteen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nemesis was coming, however. He had got as far as Chapter LIX, which at
      his leisurely pace he could hardly have reached before October or November
      1614, when there was put into his hand a small octave lately printed at
      Tarragona, and calling itself "Second Volume of the Ingenious Gentleman
      Don Quixote of La Mancha: by the Licentiate Alonso Fernandez de Avellaneda
      of Tordesillas." The last half of Chapter LIX and most of the following
      chapters of the Second Part give us some idea of the effect produced upon
      him, and his irritation was not likely to be lessened by the reflection
      that he had no one to blame but himself. Had Avellaneda, in fact, been
      content with merely bringing out a continuation to "Don Quixote,"
      Cervantes would have had no reasonable grievance. His own intentions were
      expressed in the very vaguest language at the end of the book; nay, in his
      last words, "forse altro cantera con miglior plettro," he seems actually
      to invite some one else to continue the work, and he made no sign until
      eight years and a half had gone by; by which time Avellaneda's volume was
      no doubt written.
    </p>
    <p>
      In fact Cervantes had no case, or a very bad one, as far as the mere
      continuation was concerned. But Avellaneda chose to write a preface to it,
      full of such coarse personal abuse as only an ill-conditioned man could
      pour out. He taunts Cervantes with being old, with having lost his hand,
      with having been in prison, with being poor, with being friendless,
      accuses him of envy of Lope's success, of petulance and querulousness, and
      so on; and it was in this that the sting lay. Avellaneda's reason for this
      personal attack is obvious enough. Whoever he may have been, it is clear
      that he was one of the dramatists of Lope's school, for he has the
      impudence to charge Cervantes with attacking him as well as Lope in his
      criticism on the drama. His identification has exercised the best critics
      and baffled all the ingenuity and research that has been brought to bear
      on it. Navarrete and Ticknor both incline to the belief that Cervantes
      knew who he was; but I must say I think the anger he shows suggests an
      invisible assailant; it is like the irritation of a man stung by a
      mosquito in the dark. Cervantes from certain solecisms of language
      pronounces him to be an Aragonese, and Pellicer, an Aragonese himself,
      supports this view and believes him, moreover, to have been an
      ecclesiastic, a Dominican probably.
    </p>
    <p>
      Any merit Avellaneda has is reflected from Cervantes, and he is too dull
      to reflect much. "Dull and dirty" will always be, I imagine, the verdict
      of the vast majority of unprejudiced readers. He is, at best, a poor
      plagiarist; all he can do is to follow slavishly the lead given him by
      Cervantes; his only humour lies in making Don Quixote take inns for
      castles and fancy himself some legendary or historical personage, and
      Sancho mistake words, invert proverbs, and display his gluttony; all
      through he shows a proclivity to coarseness and dirt, and he has contrived
      to introduce two tales filthier than anything by the sixteenth century
      novellieri and without their sprightliness.
    </p>
    <p>
      But whatever Avellaneda and his book may be, we must not forget the debt
      we owe them. But for them, there can be no doubt, "Don Quixote" would have
      come to us a mere torso instead of a complete work. Even if Cervantes had
      finished the volume he had in hand, most assuredly he would have left off
      with a promise of a Third Part, giving the further adventures of Don
      Quixote and humours of Sancho Panza as shepherds. It is plain that he had
      at one time an intention of dealing with the pastoral romances as he had
      dealt with the books of chivalry, and but for Avellaneda he would have
      tried to carry it out. But it is more likely that, with his plans, and
      projects, and hopefulness, the volume would have remained unfinished till
      his death, and that we should have never made the acquaintance of the Duke
      and Duchess, or gone with Sancho to Barataria.
    </p>
    <p>
      From the moment the book came into his hands he seems to have been haunted
      by the fear that there might be more Avellanedas in the field, and putting
      everything else aside, he set himself to finish off his task and protect
      Don Quixote in the only way he could, by killing him. The conclusion is no
      doubt a hasty and in some places clumsy piece of work and the frequent
      repetition of the scolding administered to Avellaneda becomes in the end
      rather wearisome; but it is, at any rate, a conclusion and for that we
      must thank Avellaneda.
    </p>
    <p>
      The new volume was ready for the press in February, but was not printed
      till the very end of 1615, and during the interval Cervantes put together
      the comedies and interludes he had written within the last few years, and,
      as he adds plaintively, found no demand for among the managers, and
      published them with a preface, worth the book it introduces tenfold, in
      which he gives an account of the early Spanish stage, and of his own
      attempts as a dramatist. It is needless to say they were put forward by
      Cervantes in all good faith and full confidence in their merits. The
      reader, however, was not to suppose they were his last word or final
      effort in the drama, for he had in hand a comedy called "Engano a los
      ojos," about which, if he mistook not, there would be no question.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of this dramatic masterpiece the world has no opportunity of judging; his
      health had been failing for some time, and he died, apparently of dropsy,
      on the 23rd of April, 1616, the day on which England lost Shakespeare,
      nominally at least, for the English calendar had not yet been reformed. He
      died as he had lived, accepting his lot bravely and cheerfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      Was it an unhappy life, that of Cervantes? His biographers all tell us
      that it was; but I must say I doubt it. It was a hard life, a life of
      poverty, of incessant struggle, of toil ill paid, of disappointment, but
      Cervantes carried within himself the antidote to all these evils. His was
      not one of those light natures that rise above adversity merely by virtue
      of their own buoyancy; it was in the fortitude of a high spirit that he
      was proof against it. It is impossible to conceive Cervantes giving way to
      despondency or prostrated by dejection. As for poverty, it was with him a
      thing to be laughed over, and the only sigh he ever allows to escape him
      is when he says, "Happy he to whom Heaven has given a piece of bread for
      which he is not bound to give thanks to any but Heaven itself." Add to all
      this his vital energy and mental activity, his restless invention and his
      sanguine temperament, and there will be reason enough to doubt whether his
      could have been a very unhappy life. He who could take Cervantes'
      distresses together with his apparatus for enduring them would not make so
      bad a bargain, perhaps, as far as happiness in life is concerned.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of his burial-place nothing is known except that he was buried, in
      accordance with his will, in the neighbouring convent of Trinitarian nuns,
      of which it is supposed his daughter, Isabel de Saavedra, was an inmate,
      and that a few years afterwards the nuns removed to another convent,
      carrying their dead with them. But whether the remains of Cervantes were
      included in the removal or not no one knows, and the clue to their
      resting-place is now lost beyond all hope. This furnishes perhaps the
      least defensible of the items in the charge of neglect brought against his
      contemporaries. In some of the others there is a good deal of
      exaggeration. To listen to most of his biographers one would suppose that
      all Spain was in league not only against the man but against his memory,
      or at least that it was insensible to his merits, and left him to live in
      misery and die of want. To talk of his hard life and unworthy employments
      in Andalusia is absurd. What had he done to distinguish him from thousands
      of other struggling men earning a precarious livelihood? True, he was a
      gallant soldier, who had been wounded and had undergone captivity and
      suffering in his country's cause, but there were hundreds of others in the
      same case. He had written a mediocre specimen of an insipid class of
      romance, and some plays which manifestly did not comply with the primary
      condition of pleasing: were the playgoers to patronise plays that did not
      amuse them, because the author was to produce "Don Quixote" twenty years
      afterwards?
    </p>
    <p>
      The scramble for copies which, as we have seen, followed immediately on
      the appearance of the book, does not look like general insensibility to
      its merits. No doubt it was received coldly by some, but if a man writes a
      book in ridicule of periwigs he must make his account with being coldly
      received by the periwig wearers and hated by the whole tribe of wigmakers.
      If Cervantes had the chivalry-romance readers, the sentimentalists, the
      dramatists, and the poets of the period all against him, it was because
      "Don Quixote" was what it was; and if the general public did not come
      forward to make him comfortable for the rest of his days, it is no more to
      be charged with neglect and ingratitude than the English-speaking public
      that did not pay off Scott's liabilities. It did the best it could; it
      read his book and liked it and bought it, and encouraged the bookseller to
      pay him well for others.
    </p>
    <p>
      It has been also made a reproach to Spain that she has erected no monument
      to the man she is proudest of; no monument, that is to say, of him; for
      the bronze statue in the little garden of the Plaza de las Cortes, a fair
      work of art no doubt, and unexceptionable had it been set up to the local
      poet in the market-place of some provincial town, is not worthy of
      Cervantes or of Madrid. But what need has Cervantes of "such weak witness
      of his name;" or what could a monument do in his case except testify to
      the self-glorification of those who had put it up? Si monumentum quoeris,
      circumspice. The nearest bookseller's shop will show what bathos there
      would be in a monument to the author of "Don Quixote."
    </p>
    <p>
      Nine editions of the First Part of "Don Quixote" had already appeared
      before Cervantes died, thirty thousand copies in all, according to his own
      estimate, and a tenth was printed at Barcelona the year after his death.
      So large a number naturally supplied the demand for some time, but by 1634
      it appears to have been exhausted; and from that time down to the present
      day the stream of editions has continued to flow rapidly and regularly.
      The translations show still more clearly in what request the book has been
      from the very outset. In seven years from the completion of the work it
      had been translated into the four leading languages of Europe. Except the
      Bible, in fact, no book has been so widely diffused as "Don Quixote." The
      "Imitatio Christi" may have been translated into as many different
      languages, and perhaps "Robinson Crusoe" and the "Vicar of Wakefield" into
      nearly as many, but in multiplicity of translations and editions "Don
      Quixote" leaves them all far behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still more remarkable is the character of this wide diffusion. "Don
      Quixote" has been thoroughly naturalised among people whose ideas about
      knight-errantry, if they had any at all, were of the vaguest, who had
      never seen or heard of a book of chivalry, who could not possibly feel the
      humour of the burlesque or sympathise with the author's purpose. Another
      curious fact is that this, the most cosmopolitan book in the world, is one
      of the most intensely national. "Manon Lescaut" is not more thoroughly
      French, "Tom Jones" not more English, "Rob Roy" not more Scotch, than "Don
      Quixote" is Spanish, in character, in ideas, in sentiment, in local
      colour, in everything. What, then, is the secret of this unparalleled
      popularity, increasing year by year for well-nigh three centuries? One
      explanation, no doubt, is that of all the books in the world, "Don
      Quixote" is the most catholic. There is something in it for every sort of
      reader, young or old, sage or simple, high or low. As Cervantes himself
      says with a touch of pride, "It is thumbed and read and got by heart by
      people of all sorts; the children turn its leaves, the young people read
      it, the grown men understand it, the old folk praise it."
    </p>
    <p>
      But it would be idle to deny that the ingredient which, more than its
      humour, or its wisdom, or the fertility of invention or knowledge of human
      nature it displays, has insured its success with the multitude, is the
      vein of farce that runs through it. It was the attack upon the sheep, the
      battle with the wine-skins, Mambrino's helmet, the balsam of Fierabras,
      Don Quixote knocked over by the sails of the windmill, Sancho tossed in
      the blanket, the mishaps and misadventures of master and man, that were
      originally the great attraction, and perhaps are so still to some extent
      with the majority of readers. It is plain that "Don Quixote" was generally
      regarded at first, and indeed in Spain for a long time, as little more
      than a queer droll book, full of laughable incidents and absurd
      situations, very amusing, but not entitled to much consideration or care.
      All the editions printed in Spain from 1637 to 1771, when the famous
      printer Ibarra took it up, were mere trade editions, badly and carelessly
      printed on vile paper and got up in the style of chap-books intended only
      for popular use, with, in most instances, uncouth illustrations and
      clap-trap additions by the publisher.
    </p>
    <p>
      To England belongs the credit of having been the first country to
      recognise the right of "Don Quixote" to better treatment than this. The
      London edition of 1738, commonly called Lord Carteret's from having been
      suggested by him, was not a mere edition de luxe. It produced "Don
      Quixote" in becoming form as regards paper and type, and embellished with
      plates which, if not particularly happy as illustrations, were at least
      well intentioned and well executed, but it also aimed at correctness of
      text, a matter to which nobody except the editors of the Valencia and
      Brussels editions had given even a passing thought; and for a first
      attempt it was fairly successful, for though some of its emendations are
      inadmissible, a good many of them have been adopted by all subsequent
      editors.
    </p>
    <p>
      The zeal of publishers, editors, and annotators brought about a remarkable
      change of sentiment with regard to "Don Quixote." A vast number of its
      admirers began to grow ashamed of laughing over it. It became almost a
      crime to treat it as a humorous book. The humour was not entirely denied,
      but, according to the new view, it was rated as an altogether secondary
      quality, a mere accessory, nothing more than the stalking-horse under the
      presentation of which Cervantes shot his philosophy or his satire, or
      whatever it was he meant to shoot; for on this point opinions varied. All
      were agreed, however, that the object he aimed at was not the books of
      chivalry. He said emphatically in the preface to the First Part and in the
      last sentence of the Second, that he had no other object in view than to
      discredit these books, and this, to advanced criticism, made it clear that
      his object must have been something else.
    </p>
    <p>
      One theory was that the book was a kind of allegory, setting forth the
      eternal struggle between the ideal and the real, between the spirit of
      poetry and the spirit of prose; and perhaps German philosophy never
      evolved a more ungainly or unlikely camel out of the depths of its inner
      consciousness. Something of the antagonism, no doubt, is to be found in
      "Don Quixote," because it is to be found everywhere in life, and Cervantes
      drew from life. It is difficult to imagine a community in which the
      never-ceasing game of cross-purposes between Sancho Panza and Don Quixote
      would not be recognized as true to nature. In the stone age, among the
      lake dwellers, among the cave men, there were Don Quixotes and Sancho
      Panzas; there must have been the troglodyte who never could see the facts
      before his eyes, and the troglodyte who could see nothing else. But to
      suppose Cervantes deliberately setting himself to expound any such idea in
      two stout quarto volumes is to suppose something not only very unlike the
      age in which he lived, but altogether unlike Cervantes himself, who would
      have been the first to laugh at an attempt of the sort made by anyone
      else.
    </p>
    <p>
      The extraordinary influence of the romances of chivalry in his day is
      quite enough to account for the genesis of the book. Some idea of the
      prodigious development of this branch of literature in the sixteenth
      century may be obtained from the scrutiny of Chapter VII, if the reader
      bears in mind that only a portion of the romances belonging to by far the
      largest group are enumerated. As to its effect upon the nation, there is
      abundant evidence. From the time when the Amadises and Palmerins began to
      grow popular down to the very end of the century, there is a steady stream
      of invective, from men whose character and position lend weight to their
      words, against the romances of chivalry and the infatuation of their
      readers. Ridicule was the only besom to sweep away that dust.
    </p>
    <p>
      That this was the task Cervantes set himself, and that he had ample
      provocation to urge him to it, will be sufficiently clear to those who
      look into the evidence; as it will be also that it was not chivalry itself
      that he attacked and swept away. Of all the absurdities that, thanks to
      poetry, will be repeated to the end of time, there is no greater one than
      saying that "Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away." In the first place
      there was no chivalry for him to smile away. Spain's chivalry had been
      dead for more than a century. Its work was done when Granada fell, and as
      chivalry was essentially republican in its nature, it could not live under
      the rule that Ferdinand substituted for the free institutions of mediaeval
      Spain. What he did smile away was not chivalry but a degrading mockery of
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The true nature of the "right arm" and the "bright array," before which,
      according to the poet, "the world gave ground," and which Cervantes'
      single laugh demolished, may be gathered from the words of one of his own
      countrymen, Don Felix Pacheco, as reported by Captain George Carleton, in
      his "Military Memoirs from 1672 to 1713." "Before the appearance in the
      world of that labour of Cervantes," he said, "it was next to an
      impossibility for a man to walk the streets with any delight or without
      danger. There were seen so many cavaliers prancing and curvetting before
      the windows of their mistresses, that a stranger would have imagined the
      whole nation to have been nothing less than a race of knight-errants. But
      after the world became a little acquainted with that notable history, the
      man that was seen in that once celebrated drapery was pointed at as a Don
      Quixote, and found himself the jest of high and low. And I verily believe
      that to this, and this only, we owe that dampness and poverty of spirit
      which has run through all our councils for a century past, so little
      agreeable to those nobler actions of our famous ancestors."
    </p>
    <p>
      To call "Don Quixote" a sad book, preaching a pessimist view of life,
      argues a total misconception of its drift. It would be so if its moral
      were that, in this world, true enthusiasm naturally leads to ridicule and
      discomfiture. But it preaches nothing of the sort; its moral, so far as it
      can be said to have one, is that the spurious enthusiasm that is born of
      vanity and self-conceit, that is made an end in itself, not a means to an
      end, that acts on mere impulse, regardless of circumstances and
      consequences, is mischievous to its owner, and a very considerable
      nuisance to the community at large. To those who cannot distinguish
      between the one kind and the other, no doubt "Don Quixote" is a sad book;
      no doubt to some minds it is very sad that a man who had just uttered so
      beautiful a sentiment as that "it is a hard case to make slaves of those
      whom God and Nature made free," should be ungratefully pelted by the
      scoundrels his crazy philanthropy had let loose on society; but to others
      of a more judicial cast it will be a matter of regret that reckless
      self-sufficient enthusiasm is not oftener requited in some such way for
      all the mischief it does in the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      A very slight examination of the structure of "Don Quixote" will suffice
      to show that Cervantes had no deep design or elaborate plan in his mind
      when he began the book. When he wrote those lines in which "with a few
      strokes of a great master he sets before us the pauper gentleman," he had
      no idea of the goal to which his imagination was leading him. There can be
      little doubt that all he contemplated was a short tale to range with those
      he had already written, a tale setting forth the ludicrous results that
      might be expected to follow the attempt of a crazy gentleman to act the
      part of a knight-errant in modern life.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is plain, for one thing, that Sancho Panza did not enter into the
      original scheme, for had Cervantes thought of him he certainly would not
      have omitted him in his hero's outfit, which he obviously meant to be
      complete. Him we owe to the landlord's chance remark in Chapter III that
      knights seldom travelled without squires. To try to think of a Don Quixote
      without Sancho Panza is like trying to think of a one-bladed pair of
      scissors.
    </p>
    <p>
      The story was written at first, like the others, without any division and
      without the intervention of Cid Hamete Benengeli; and it seems not
      unlikely that Cervantes had some intention of bringing Dulcinea, or
      Aldonza Lorenzo, on the scene in person. It was probably the ransacking of
      the Don's library and the discussion on the books of chivalry that first
      suggested it to him that his idea was capable of development. What, if
      instead of a mere string of farcical misadventures, he were to make his
      tale a burlesque of one of these books, caricaturing their style,
      incidents, and spirit?
    </p>
    <p>
      In pursuance of this change of plan, he hastily and somewhat clumsily
      divided what he had written into chapters on the model of "Amadis,"
      invented the fable of a mysterious Arabic manuscript, and set up Cid
      Hamete Benengeli in imitation of the almost invariable practice of the
      chivalry-romance authors, who were fond of tracing their books to some
      recondite source. In working out the new ideas, he soon found the value of
      Sancho Panza. Indeed, the keynote, not only to Sancho's part, but to the
      whole book, is struck in the first words Sancho utters when he announces
      his intention of taking his ass with him. "About the ass," we are told,
      "Don Quixote hesitated a little, trying whether he could call to mind any
      knight-errant taking with him an esquire mounted on ass-back; but no
      instance occurred to his memory." We can see the whole scene at a glance,
      the stolid unconsciousness of Sancho and the perplexity of his master,
      upon whose perception the incongruity has just forced itself. This is
      Sancho's mission throughout the book; he is an unconscious Mephistopheles,
      always unwittingly making mockery of his master's aspirations, always
      exposing the fallacy of his ideas by some unintentional ad absurdum,
      always bringing him back to the world of fact and commonplace by force of
      sheer stolidity.
    </p>
    <p>
      By the time Cervantes had got his volume of novels off his hands, and
      summoned up resolution enough to set about the Second Part in earnest, the
      case was very much altered. Don Quixote and Sancho Panza had not merely
      found favour, but had already become, what they have never since ceased to
      be, veritable entities to the popular imagination. There was no occasion
      for him now to interpolate extraneous matter; nay, his readers told him
      plainly that what they wanted of him was more Don Quixote and more Sancho
      Panza, and not novels, tales, or digressions. To himself, too, his
      creations had become realities, and he had become proud of them,
      especially of Sancho. He began the Second Part, therefore, under very
      different conditions, and the difference makes itself manifest at once.
      Even in translation the style will be seen to be far easier, more flowing,
      more natural, and more like that of a man sure of himself and of his
      audience. Don Quixote and Sancho undergo a change also. In the First Part,
      Don Quixote has no character or individuality whatever. He is nothing more
      than a crazy representative of the sentiments of the chivalry romances. In
      all that he says and does he is simply repeating the lesson he has learned
      from his books; and therefore, it is absurd to speak of him in the gushing
      strain of the sentimental critics when they dilate upon his nobleness,
      disinterestedness, dauntless courage, and so forth. It was the business of
      a knight-errant to right wrongs, redress injuries, and succour the
      distressed, and this, as a matter of course, he makes his business when he
      takes up the part; a knight-errant was bound to be intrepid, and so he
      feels bound to cast fear aside. Of all Byron's melodious nonsense about
      Don Quixote, the most nonsensical statement is that "'t is his virtue
      makes him mad!" The exact opposite is the truth; it is his madness makes
      him virtuous.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the Second Part, Cervantes repeatedly reminds the reader, as if it was
      a point upon which he was anxious there should be no mistake, that his
      hero's madness is strictly confined to delusions on the subject of
      chivalry, and that on every other subject he is discreto, one, in fact,
      whose faculty of discernment is in perfect order. The advantage of this is
      that he is enabled to make use of Don Quixote as a mouthpiece for his own
      reflections, and so, without seeming to digress, allow himself the relief
      of digression when he requires it, as freely as in a commonplace book.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is true the amount of individuality bestowed upon Don Quixote is not
      very great. There are some natural touches of character about him, such as
      his mixture of irascibility and placability, and his curious affection for
      Sancho together with his impatience of the squire's loquacity and
      impertinence; but in the main, apart from his craze, he is little more
      than a thoughtful, cultured gentleman, with instinctive good taste and a
      great deal of shrewdness and originality of mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to Sancho, it is plain, from the concluding words of the preface to the
      First Part, that he was a favourite with his creator even before he had
      been taken into favour by the public. An inferior genius, taking him in
      hand a second time, would very likely have tried to improve him by making
      him more comical, clever, amiable, or virtuous. But Cervantes was too true
      an artist to spoil his work in this way. Sancho, when he reappears, is the
      old Sancho with the old familiar features; but with a difference; they
      have been brought out more distinctly, but at the same time with a careful
      avoidance of anything like caricature; the outline has been filled in
      where filling in was necessary, and, vivified by a few touches of a
      master's hand, Sancho stands before us as he might in a character portrait
      by Velazquez. He is a much more important and prominent figure in the
      Second Part than in the First; indeed, it is his matchless mendacity about
      Dulcinea that to a great extent supplies the action of the story.
    </p>
    <p>
      His development in this respect is as remarkable as in any other. In the
      First Part he displays a great natural gift of lying. His lies are not of
      the highly imaginative sort that liars in fiction commonly indulge in;
      like Falstaff's, they resemble the father that begets them; they are
      simple, homely, plump lies; plain working lies, in short. But in the
      service of such a master as Don Quixote he develops rapidly, as we see
      when he comes to palm off the three country wenches as Dulcinea and her
      ladies in waiting. It is worth noticing how, flushed by his success in
      this instance, he is tempted afterwards to try a flight beyond his powers
      in his account of the journey on Clavileno.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the Second Part it is the spirit rather than the incidents of the
      chivalry romances that is the subject of the burlesque. Enchantments of
      the sort travestied in those of Dulcinea and the Trifaldi and the cave of
      Montesinos play a leading part in the later and inferior romances, and
      another distinguishing feature is caricatured in Don Quixote's blind
      adoration of Dulcinea. In the romances of chivalry love is either a mere
      animalism or a fantastic idolatry. Only a coarse-minded man would care to
      make merry with the former, but to one of Cervantes' humour the latter was
      naturally an attractive subject for ridicule. Like everything else in
      these romances, it is a gross exaggeration of the real sentiment of
      chivalry, but its peculiar extravagance is probably due to the influence
      of those masters of hyperbole, the Provencal poets. When a troubadour
      professed his readiness to obey his lady in all things, he made it
      incumbent upon the next comer, if he wished to avoid the imputation of
      tameness and commonplace, to declare himself the slave of her will, which
      the next was compelled to cap by some still stronger declaration; and so
      expressions of devotion went on rising one above the other like biddings
      at an auction, and a conventional language of gallantry and theory of love
      came into being that in time permeated the literature of Southern Europe,
      and bore fruit, in one direction in the transcendental worship of Beatrice
      and Laura, and in another in the grotesque idolatry which found exponents
      in writers like Feliciano de Silva. This is what Cervantes deals with in
      Don Quixote's passion for Dulcinea, and in no instance has he carried out
      the burlesque more happily. By keeping Dulcinea in the background, and
      making her a vague shadowy being of whose very existence we are left in
      doubt, he invests Don Quixote's worship of her virtues and charms with an
      additional extravagance, and gives still more point to the caricature of
      the sentiment and language of the romances.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the great merits of "Don Quixote," and one of the qualities that
      have secured its acceptance by all classes of readers and made it the most
      cosmopolitan of books, is its simplicity. There are, of course, points
      obvious enough to a Spanish seventeenth century audience which do not
      immediately strike a reader now-a-days, and Cervantes often takes it for
      granted that an allusion will be generally understood which is only
      intelligible to a few. For example, on many of his readers in Spain, and
      most of his readers out of it, the significance of his choice of a country
      for his hero is completely lost. It would be going too far to say that no
      one can thoroughly comprehend "Don Quixote" without having seen La Mancha,
      but undoubtedly even a glimpse of La Mancha will give an insight into the
      meaning of Cervantes such as no commentator can give. Of all the regions
      of Spain it is the last that would suggest the idea of romance. Of all the
      dull central plateau of the Peninsula it is the dullest tract. There is
      something impressive about the grim solitudes of Estremadura; and if the
      plains of Leon and Old Castile are bald and dreary, they are studded with
      old cities renowned in history and rich in relics of the past. But there
      is no redeeming feature in the Manchegan landscape; it has all the
      sameness of the desert without its dignity; the few towns and villages
      that break its monotony are mean and commonplace, there is nothing
      venerable about them, they have not even the picturesqueness of poverty;
      indeed, Don Quixote's own village, Argamasilla, has a sort of oppressive
      respectability in the prim regularity of its streets and houses;
      everything is ignoble; the very windmills are the ugliest and shabbiest of
      the windmill kind.
    </p>
    <p>
      To anyone who knew the country well, the mere style and title of "Don
      Quixote of La Mancha" gave the key to the author's meaning at once. La
      Mancha as the knight's country and scene of his chivalries is of a piece
      with the pasteboard helmet, the farm-labourer on ass-back for a squire,
      knighthood conferred by a rascally ventero, convicts taken for victims of
      oppression, and the rest of the incongruities between Don Quixote's world
      and the world he lived in, between things as he saw them and things as
      they were.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is strange that this element of incongruity, underlying the whole
      humour and purpose of the book, should have been so little heeded by the
      majority of those who have undertaken to interpret "Don Quixote." It has
      been completely overlooked, for example, by the illustrators. To be sure,
      the great majority of the artists who illustrated "Don Quixote" knew
      nothing whatever of Spain. To them a venta conveyed no idea but the
      abstract one of a roadside inn, and they could not therefore do full
      justice to the humour of Don Quixote's misconception in taking it for a
      castle, or perceive the remoteness of all its realities from his ideal.
      But even when better informed they seem to have no apprehension of the
      full force of the discrepancy. Take, for instance, Gustave Dore's drawing
      of Don Quixote watching his armour in the inn-yard. Whether or not the
      Venta de Quesada on the Seville road is, as tradition maintains, the inn
      described in "Don Quixote," beyond all question it was just such an
      inn-yard as the one behind it that Cervantes had in his mind's eye, and it
      was on just such a rude stone trough as that beside the primitive
      draw-well in the corner that he meant Don Quixote to deposit his armour.
      Gustave Dore makes it an elaborate fountain such as no arriero ever
      watered his mules at in the corral of any venta in Spain, and thereby
      entirely misses the point aimed at by Cervantes. It is the mean, prosaic,
      commonplace character of all the surroundings and circumstances that gives
      a significance to Don Quixote's vigil and the ceremony that follows.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cervantes' humour is for the most part of that broader and simpler sort,
      the strength of which lies in the perception of the incongruous. It is the
      incongruity of Sancho in all his ways, words, and works, with the ideas
      and aims of his master, quite as much as the wonderful vitality and truth
      to nature of the character, that makes him the most humorous creation in
      the whole range of fiction. That unsmiling gravity of which Cervantes was
      the first great master, "Cervantes' serious air," which sits naturally on
      Swift alone, perhaps, of later humourists, is essential to this kind of
      humour, and here again Cervantes has suffered at the hands of his
      interpreters. Nothing, unless indeed the coarse buffoonery of Phillips,
      could be more out of place in an attempt to represent Cervantes, than a
      flippant, would-be facetious style, like that of Motteux's version for
      example, or the sprightly, jaunty air, French translators sometimes adopt.
      It is the grave matter-of-factness of the narrative, and the apparent
      unconsciousness of the author that he is saying anything ludicrous,
      anything but the merest commonplace, that give its peculiar flavour to the
      humour of Cervantes. His, in fact, is the exact opposite of the humour of
      Sterne and the self-conscious humourists. Even when Uncle Toby is at his
      best, you are always aware of "the man Sterne" behind him, watching you
      over his shoulder to see what effect he is producing. Cervantes always
      leaves you alone with Don Quixote and Sancho. He and Swift and the great
      humourists always keep themselves out of sight, or, more properly
      speaking, never think about themselves at all, unlike our latter-day
      school of humourists, who seem to have revived the old horse-collar
      method, and try to raise a laugh by some grotesque assumption of
      ignorance, imbecility, or bad taste.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is true that to do full justice to Spanish humour in any other language
      is well-nigh an impossibility. There is a natural gravity and a sonorous
      stateliness about Spanish, be it ever so colloquial, that make an
      absurdity doubly absurd, and give plausibility to the most preposterous
      statement. This is what makes Sancho Panza's drollery the despair of the
      conscientious translator. Sancho's curt comments can never fall flat, but
      they lose half their flavour when transferred from their native Castilian
      into any other medium. But if foreigners have failed to do justice to the
      humour of Cervantes, they are no worse than his own countrymen. Indeed,
      were it not for the Spanish peasant's relish of "Don Quixote," one might
      be tempted to think that the great humourist was not looked upon as a
      humourist at all in his own country.
    </p>
    <p>
      The craze of Don Quixote seems, in some instances, to have communicated
      itself to his critics, making them see things that are not in the book and
      run full tilt at phantoms that have no existence save in their own
      imaginations. Like a good many critics now-a-days, they forget that
      screams are not criticism, and that it is only vulgar tastes that are
      influenced by strings of superlatives, three-piled hyperboles, and pompous
      epithets. But what strikes one as particularly strange is that while they
      deal in extravagant eulogies, and ascribe all manner of imaginary ideas
      and qualities to Cervantes, they show no perception of the quality that
      ninety-nine out of a hundred of his readers would rate highest in him, and
      hold to be the one that raises him above all rivalry.
    </p>
    <p>
      To speak of "Don Quixote" as if it were merely a humorous book would be a
      manifest misdescription. Cervantes at times makes it a kind of commonplace
      book for occasional essays and criticisms, or for the observations and
      reflections and gathered wisdom of a long and stirring life. It is a mine
      of shrewd observation on mankind and human nature. Among modern novels
      there may be, here and there, more elaborate studies of character, but
      there is no book richer in individualised character. What Coleridge said
      of Shakespeare in minimis is true of Cervantes; he never, even for the
      most temporary purpose, puts forward a lay figure. There is life and
      individuality in all his characters, however little they may have to do,
      or however short a time they may be before the reader. Samson Carrasco,
      the curate, Teresa Panza, Altisidora, even the two students met on the
      road to the cave of Montesinos, all live and move and have their being;
      and it is characteristic of the broad humanity of Cervantes that there is
      not a hateful one among them all. Even poor Maritornes, with her
      deplorable morals, has a kind heart of her own and "some faint and distant
      resemblance to a Christian about her;" and as for Sancho, though on
      dissection we fail to find a lovable trait in him, unless it be a sort of
      dog-like affection for his master, who is there that in his heart does not
      love him?
    </p>
    <p>
      But it is, after all, the humour of "Don Quixote" that distinguishes it
      from all other books of the romance kind. It is this that makes it, as one
      of the most judicial-minded of modern critics calls it, "the best novel in
      the world beyond all comparison." It is its varied humour, ranging from
      broad farce to comedy as subtle as Shakespeare's or Moliere's that has
      naturalised it in every country where there are readers, and made it a
      classic in every language that has a literature.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      SOME COMMENDATORY VERSES
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">

URGANDA THE UNKNOWN

To the book of Don Quixote of la Mancha

 If to be welcomed by the good,
   O Book! thou make thy steady aim,
 No empty chatterer will dare
   To question or dispute thy claim.
 But if perchance thou hast a mind
   To win of idiots approbation,
 Lost labour will be thy reward,
   Though they'll pretend appreciation.

 They say a goodly shade he finds
   Who shelters 'neath a goodly tree;
 And such a one thy kindly star
   In Bejar bath provided thee:
 A royal tree whose spreading boughs
   A show of princely fruit display;
 A tree that bears a noble Duke,
   The Alexander of his day.

 Of a Manchegan gentleman
   Thy purpose is to tell the story,
 Relating how he lost his wits
   O'er idle tales of love and glory,
 Of "ladies, arms, and cavaliers:"
   A new Orlando Furioso&mdash;
 Innamorato, rather&mdash;who
   Won Dulcinea del Toboso.

 Put no vain emblems on thy shield;
   All figures&mdash;that is bragging play.
 A modest dedication make,
   And give no scoffer room to say,
 "What! Alvaro de Luna here?
   Or is it Hannibal again?
 Or does King Francis at Madrid
   Once more of destiny complain?"

 Since Heaven it hath not pleased on thee
   Deep erudition to bestow,
 Or black Latino's gift of tongues,
   No Latin let thy pages show.
 Ape not philosophy or wit,
   Lest one who cannot comprehend,
 Make a wry face at thee and ask,
   "Why offer flowers to me, my friend?"

 Be not a meddler; no affair
   Of thine the life thy neighbours lead:
 Be prudent; oft the random jest
   Recoils upon the jester's head.
 Thy constant labour let it be
   To earn thyself an honest name,
 For fooleries preserved in print
   Are perpetuity of shame.

 A further counsel bear in mind:
   If that thy roof be made of glass,
 It shows small wit to pick up stones
   To pelt the people as they pass.
 Win the attention of the wise,
   And give the thinker food for thought;
 Whoso indites frivolities,
   Will but by simpletons be sought.




             AMADIS OF GAUL
       To Don Quixote of la Mancha

SONNET

 Thou that didst imitate that life of mine
   When I in lonely sadness on the great
   Rock Pena Pobre sat disconsolate,
 In self-imposed penance there to pine;
 Thou, whose sole beverage was the bitter brine
   Of thine own tears, and who withouten plate
   Of silver, copper, tin, in lowly state
 Off the bare earth and on earth's fruits didst dine;
 Live thou, of thine eternal glory sure.
   So long as on the round of the fourth sphere
   The bright Apollo shall his coursers steer,
 In thy renown thou shalt remain secure,
 Thy country's name in story shall endure,
   And thy sage author stand without a peer.




DON BELIANIS OF GREECE
To Don Quixote of la Mancha

SONNET

 In slashing, hewing, cleaving, word and deed,
   I was the foremost knight of chivalry,
   Stout, bold, expert, as e'er the world did see;
 Thousands from the oppressor's wrong I freed;
 Great were my feats, eternal fame their meed;
   In love I proved my truth and loyalty;
   The hugest giant was a dwarf for me;
 Ever to knighthood's laws gave I good heed.
 My mastery the Fickle Goddess owned,
   And even Chance, submitting to control,
     Grasped by the forelock, yielded to my will.
 Yet&mdash;though above yon horned moon enthroned
     My fortune seems to sit&mdash;great Quixote, still
   Envy of thy achievements fills my soul.




THE LADY OF ORIANA
To Dulcinea del Toboso

SONNET

 Oh, fairest Dulcinea, could it be!
   It were a pleasant fancy to suppose so&mdash;
   Could Miraflores change to El Toboso,
 And London's town to that which shelters thee!
 Oh, could mine but acquire that livery
   Of countless charms thy mind and body show so!
   Or him, now famous grown&mdash;thou mad'st him grow so&mdash;
 Thy knight, in some dread combat could I see!
 Oh, could I be released from Amadis
   By exercise of such coy chastity
 As led thee gentle Quixote to dismiss!
     Then would my heavy sorrow turn to joy;
   None would I envy, all would envy me,
     And happiness be mine without alloy.




GANDALIN, SQUIRE OF AMADIS OF GAUL,
To Sancho Panza, squire of Don Quixote

SONNET

 All hail, illustrious man! Fortune, when she
   Bound thee apprentice to the esquire trade,
   Her care and tenderness of thee displayed,
 Shaping thy course from misadventure free.
 No longer now doth proud knight-errantry
   Regard with scorn the sickle and the spade;
   Of towering arrogance less count is made
 Than of plain esquire-like simplicity.
 I envy thee thy Dapple, and thy name,
   And those alforjas thou wast wont to stuff
 With comforts that thy providence proclaim.
     Excellent Sancho! hail to thee again!
     To thee alone the Ovid of our Spain
   Does homage with the rustic kiss and cuff.




   FROM EL DONOSO, THE MOTLEY POET,

On Sancho Panza and Rocinante

ON SANCHO

I am the esquire Sancho Pan&mdash;
Who served Don Quixote of La Man&mdash;;
But from his service I retreat&mdash;,
Resolved to pass my life discreet&mdash;;
For Villadiego, called the Si&mdash;,
Maintained that only in reti&mdash;
Was found the secret of well-be&mdash;,
According to the "Celesti&mdash;:"
A book divine, except for sin&mdash;
By speech too plain, in my opin&mdash;




ON ROCINANTE

I am that Rocinante fa&mdash;,
Great-grandson of great Babie&mdash;,
Who, all for being lean and bon&mdash;,
Had one Don Quixote for an own&mdash;;
But if I matched him well in weak&mdash;,
I never took short commons meek&mdash;,
But kept myself in corn by steal&mdash;,
A trick I learned from Lazaril&mdash;,
When with a piece of straw so neat&mdash;
The blind man of his wine he cheat&mdash;.




ORLANDO FURIOSO
To Don Quixote of La Mancha

SONNET

 If thou art not a Peer, peer thou hast none;
   Among a thousand Peers thou art a peer;
   Nor is there room for one when thou art near,
 Unvanquished victor, great unconquered one!
 Orlando, by Angelica undone,
   Am I; o'er distant seas condemned to steer,
   And to Fame's altars as an offering bear
 Valour respected by Oblivion.
 I cannot be thy rival, for thy fame
   And prowess rise above all rivalry,
     Albeit both bereft of wits we go.
 But, though the Scythian or the Moor to tame
   Was not thy lot, still thou dost rival me:
    Love binds us in a fellowship of woe.




THE KNIGHT OF PHOEBUS

To Don Quixote of La Mancha

 My sword was not to be compared with thine
   Phoebus of Spain, marvel of courtesy,
 Nor with thy famous arm this hand of mine
   That smote from east to west as lightnings fly.
   I scorned all empire, and that monarchy
 The rosy east held out did I resign
   For one glance of Claridiana's eye,
 The bright Aurora for whose love I pine.
 A miracle of constancy my love;
   And banished by her ruthless cruelty,
     This arm had might the rage of Hell to tame.
 But, Gothic Quixote, happier thou dost prove,
     For thou dost live in Dulcinea's name,
   And famous, honoured, wise, she lives in thee.




FROM SOLISDAN
To Don Quixote of La Mancha

SONNET

 Your fantasies, Sir Quixote, it is true,
   That crazy brain of yours have quite upset,
   But aught of base or mean hath never yet
 Been charged by any in reproach to you.
 Your deeds are open proof in all men's view;
   For you went forth injustice to abate,
   And for your pains sore drubbings did you get
 From many a rascally and ruffian crew.
 If the fair Dulcinea, your heart's queen,
   Be unrelenting in her cruelty,
     If still your woe be powerless to move her,
   In such hard case your comfort let it be
 That Sancho was a sorry go-between:
     A booby he, hard-hearted she, and you no lover.




DIALOGUE
Between Babieca and Rocinante

SONNET

B.  "How comes it, Rocinante, you're so lean?"
R.  "I'm underfed, with overwork I'm worn."
B.  "But what becomes of all the hay and corn?"
R.  "My master gives me none; he's much too mean."
B.  "Come, come, you show ill-breeding, sir, I ween;
  'T is like an ass your master thus to scorn."
R.  He is an ass, will die an ass, an ass was born;
  Why, he's in love; what's what's plainer to be seen?"
B.  "To be in love is folly?"&mdash;R. "No great sense."
B.  "You're metaphysical."&mdash;R. "From want of food."
B.  "Rail at the squire, then."&mdash;R. "Why, what's the good?
    I might indeed complain of him, I grant ye,
  But, squire or master, where's the difference?
    They're both as sorry hacks as Rocinante."

</pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p005" id="p005"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p005.jpg (171K)" src="images/p005.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p005.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Idle reader: thou mayest believe me without any oath that I would this
      book, as it is the child of my brain, were the fairest, gayest, and
      cleverest that could be imagined. But I could not counteract Nature's law
      that everything shall beget its like; and what, then, could this sterile,
      illtilled wit of mine beget but the story of a dry, shrivelled, whimsical
      offspring, full of thoughts of all sorts and such as never came into any
      other imagination&mdash;just what might be begotten in a prison, where
      every misery is lodged and every doleful sound makes its dwelling?
      Tranquillity, a cheerful retreat, pleasant fields, bright skies, murmuring
      brooks, peace of mind, these are the things that go far to make even the
      most barren muses fertile, and bring into the world births that fill it
      with wonder and delight. Sometimes when a father has an ugly, loutish son,
      the love he bears him so blindfolds his eyes that he does not see his
      defects, or, rather, takes them for gifts and charms of mind and body, and
      talks of them to his friends as wit and grace. I, however&mdash;for though
      I pass for the father, I am but the stepfather to "Don Quixote"&mdash;have
      no desire to go with the current of custom, or to implore thee, dearest
      reader, almost with tears in my eyes, as others do, to pardon or excuse
      the defects thou wilt perceive in this child of mine. Thou art neither its
      kinsman nor its friend, thy soul is thine own and thy will as free as any
      man's, whate'er he be, thou art in thine own house and master of it as
      much as the king of his taxes and thou knowest the common saying, "Under
      my cloak I kill the king;" all which exempts and frees thee from every
      consideration and obligation, and thou canst say what thou wilt of the
      story without fear of being abused for any ill or rewarded for any good
      thou mayest say of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      My wish would be simply to present it to thee plain and unadorned, without
      any embellishment of preface or uncountable muster of customary sonnets,
      epigrams, and eulogies, such as are commonly put at the beginning of
      books. For I can tell thee, though composing it cost me some labour, I
      found none greater than the making of this Preface thou art now reading.
      Many times did I take up my pen to write it, and many did I lay it down
      again, not knowing what to write. One of these times, as I was pondering
      with the paper before me, a pen in my ear, my elbow on the desk, and my
      cheek in my hand, thinking of what I should say, there came in
      unexpectedly a certain lively, clever friend of mine, who, seeing me so
      deep in thought, asked the reason; to which I, making no mystery of it,
      answered that I was thinking of the Preface I had to make for the story of
      "Don Quixote," which so troubled me that I had a mind not to make any at
      all, nor even publish the achievements of so noble a knight.
    </p>
    <p>
      "For, how could you expect me not to feel uneasy about what that ancient
      lawgiver they call the Public will say when it sees me, after slumbering
      so many years in the silence of oblivion, coming out now with all my years
      upon my back, and with a book as dry as a rush, devoid of invention,
      meagre in style, poor in thoughts, wholly wanting in learning and wisdom,
      without quotations in the margin or annotations at the end, after the
      fashion of other books I see, which, though all fables and profanity, are
      so full of maxims from Aristotle, and Plato, and the whole herd of
      philosophers, that they fill the readers with amazement and convince them
      that the authors are men of learning, erudition, and eloquence. And then,
      when they quote the Holy Scriptures!&mdash;anyone would say they are St.
      Thomases or other doctors of the Church, observing as they do a decorum so
      ingenious that in one sentence they describe a distracted lover and in the
      next deliver a devout little sermon that it is a pleasure and a treat to
      hear and read. Of all this there will be nothing in my book, for I have
      nothing to quote in the margin or to note at the end, and still less do I
      know what authors I follow in it, to place them at the beginning, as all
      do, under the letters A, B, C, beginning with Aristotle and ending with
      Xenophon, or Zoilus, or Zeuxis, though one was a slanderer and the other a
      painter. Also my book must do without sonnets at the beginning, at least
      sonnets whose authors are dukes, marquises, counts, bishops, ladies, or
      famous poets. Though if I were to ask two or three obliging friends, I
      know they would give me them, and such as the productions of those that
      have the highest reputation in our Spain could not equal.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In short, my friend," I continued, "I am determined that Senor Don
      Quixote shall remain buried in the archives of his own La Mancha until
      Heaven provide some one to garnish him with all those things he stands in
      need of; because I find myself, through my shallowness and want of
      learning, unequal to supplying them, and because I am by nature shy and
      careless about hunting for authors to say what I myself can say without
      them. Hence the cogitation and abstraction you found me in, and reason
      enough, what you have heard from me."
    </p>
    <p>
      Hearing this, my friend, giving himself a slap on the forehead and
      breaking into a hearty laugh, exclaimed, "Before God, Brother, now am I
      disabused of an error in which I have been living all this long time I
      have known you, all through which I have taken you to be shrewd and
      sensible in all you do; but now I see you are as far from that as the
      heaven is from the earth. It is possible that things of so little moment
      and so easy to set right can occupy and perplex a ripe wit like yours, fit
      to break through and crush far greater obstacles? By my faith, this comes,
      not of any want of ability, but of too much indolence and too little
      knowledge of life. Do you want to know if I am telling the truth? Well,
      then, attend to me, and you will see how, in the opening and shutting of
      an eye, I sweep away all your difficulties, and supply all those
      deficiencies which you say check and discourage you from bringing before
      the world the story of your famous Don Quixote, the light and mirror of
      all knight-errantry."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Say on," said I, listening to his talk; "how do you propose to make up
      for my diffidence, and reduce to order this chaos of perplexity I am in?"
    </p>
    <p>
      To which he made answer, "Your first difficulty about the sonnets,
      epigrams, or complimentary verses which you want for the beginning, and
      which ought to be by persons of importance and rank, can be removed if you
      yourself take a little trouble to make them; you can afterwards baptise
      them, and put any name you like to them, fathering them on Prester John of
      the Indies or the Emperor of Trebizond, who, to my knowledge, were said to
      have been famous poets: and even if they were not, and any pedants or
      bachelors should attack you and question the fact, never care two
      maravedis for that, for even if they prove a lie against you they cannot
      cut off the hand you wrote it with.
    </p>
    <p>
      "As to references in the margin to the books and authors from whom you
      take the aphorisms and sayings you put into your story, it is only
      contriving to fit in nicely any sentences or scraps of Latin you may
      happen to have by heart, or at any rate that will not give you much
      trouble to look up; so as, when you speak of freedom and captivity, to
      insert
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p>
        <i>Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro;</i>
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      and then refer in the margin to Horace, or whoever said it; or, if you
      allude to the power of death, to come in with&mdash;
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p>
        <i>Pallida mors Aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas,<br /> Regumque
        turres.</i>
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      "If it be friendship and the love God bids us bear to our enemy, go at
      once to the Holy Scriptures, which you can do with a very small amount of
      research, and quote no less than the words of God himself: Ego autem dico
      vobis: diligite inimicos vestros. If you speak of evil thoughts, turn to
      the Gospel: De corde exeunt cogitationes malae. If of the fickleness of
      friends, there is Cato, who will give you his distich:
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p>
        <i>Donec eris felix multos numerabis amicos,<br /> Tempora si fuerint
        nubila, solus eris.</i>
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      "With these and such like bits of Latin they will take you for a
      grammarian at all events, and that now-a-days is no small honour and
      profit.
    </p>
    <p>
      "With regard to adding annotations at the end of the book, you may safely
      do it in this way. If you mention any giant in your book contrive that it
      shall be the giant Goliath, and with this alone, which will cost you
      almost nothing, you have a grand note, for you can put&mdash;The giant
      Golias or Goliath was a Philistine whom the shepherd David slew by a
      mighty stone-cast in the Terebinth valley, as is related in the Book of
      Kings&mdash;in the chapter where you find it written.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Next, to prove yourself a man of erudition in polite literature and
      cosmography, manage that the river Tagus shall be named in your story, and
      there you are at once with another famous annotation, setting forth&mdash;The
      river Tagus was so called after a King of Spain: it has its source in such
      and such a place and falls into the ocean, kissing the walls of the famous
      city of Lisbon, and it is a common belief that it has golden sands, etc.
      If you should have anything to do with robbers, I will give you the story
      of Cacus, for I have it by heart; if with loose women, there is the Bishop
      of Mondonedo, who will give you the loan of Lamia, Laida, and Flora, any
      reference to whom will bring you great credit; if with hard-hearted ones,
      Ovid will furnish you with Medea; if with witches or enchantresses, Homer
      has Calypso, and Virgil Circe; if with valiant captains, Julius Caesar
      himself will lend you himself in his own 'Commentaries,' and Plutarch will
      give you a thousand Alexanders. If you should deal with love, with two
      ounces you may know of Tuscan you can go to Leon the Hebrew, who will
      supply you to your heart's content; or if you should not care to go to
      foreign countries you have at home Fonseca's 'Of the Love of God,' in
      which is condensed all that you or the most imaginative mind can want on
      the subject. In short, all you have to do is to manage to quote these
      names, or refer to these stories I have mentioned, and leave it to me to
      insert the annotations and quotations, and I swear by all that's good to
      fill your margins and use up four sheets at the end of the book.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now let us come to those references to authors which other books have,
      and you want for yours. The remedy for this is very simple: You have only
      to look out for some book that quotes them all, from A to Z as you say
      yourself, and then insert the very same alphabet in your book, and though
      the imposition may be plain to see, because you have so little need to
      borrow from them, that is no matter; there will probably be some simple
      enough to believe that you have made use of them all in this plain,
      artless story of yours. At any rate, if it answers no other purpose, this
      long catalogue of authors will serve to give a surprising look of
      authority to your book. Besides, no one will trouble himself to verify
      whether you have followed them or whether you have not, being no way
      concerned in it; especially as, if I mistake not, this book of yours has
      no need of any one of those things you say it wants, for it is, from
      beginning to end, an attack upon the books of chivalry, of which Aristotle
      never dreamt, nor St. Basil said a word, nor Cicero had any knowledge; nor
      do the niceties of truth nor the observations of astrology come within the
      range of its fanciful vagaries; nor have geometrical measurements or
      refutations of the arguments used in rhetoric anything to do with it; nor
      does it mean to preach to anybody, mixing up things human and divine, a
      sort of motley in which no Christian understanding should dress itself. It
      has only to avail itself of truth to nature in its composition, and the
      more perfect the imitation the better the work will be. And as this piece
      of yours aims at nothing more than to destroy the authority and influence
      which books of chivalry have in the world and with the public, there is no
      need for you to go a-begging for aphorisms from philosophers, precepts
      from Holy Scripture, fables from poets, speeches from orators, or miracles
      from saints; but merely to take care that your style and diction run
      musically, pleasantly, and plainly, with clear, proper, and well-placed
      words, setting forth your purpose to the best of your power, and putting
      your ideas intelligibly, without confusion or obscurity. Strive, too, that
      in reading your story the melancholy may be moved to laughter, and the
      merry made merrier still; that the simple shall not be wearied, that the
      judicious shall admire the invention, that the grave shall not despise it,
      nor the wise fail to praise it. Finally, keep your aim fixed on the
      destruction of that ill-founded edifice of the books of chivalry, hated by
      some and praised by many more; for if you succeed in this you will have
      achieved no small success."
    </p>
    <p>
      In profound silence I listened to what my friend said, and his
      observations made such an impression on me that, without attempting to
      question them, I admitted their soundness, and out of them I determined to
      make this Preface; wherein, gentle reader, thou wilt perceive my friend's
      good sense, my good fortune in finding such an adviser in such a time of
      need, and what thou hast gained in receiving, without addition or
      alteration, the story of the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, who is held
      by all the inhabitants of the district of the Campo de Montiel to have
      been the chastest lover and the bravest knight that has for many years
      been seen in that neighbourhood. I have no desire to magnify the service I
      render thee in making thee acquainted with so renowned and honoured a
      knight, but I do desire thy thanks for the acquaintance thou wilt make
      with the famous Sancho Panza, his squire, in whom, to my thinking, I have
      given thee condensed all the squirely drolleries that are scattered
      through the swarm of the vain books of chivalry. And so&mdash;may God give
      thee health, and not forget me. Vale.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      DEDICATION OF PART I
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      TO THE DUKE OF BEJAR, MARQUIS OF GIBRALEON, COUNT OF BENALCAZAR AND
      BANARES, VICECOUNT OF THE PUEBLA DE ALCOCER, MASTER OF THE TOWNS OF
      CAPILLA, CURIEL AND BURGUILLOS
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      In belief of the good reception and honours that Your Excellency bestows
      on all sort of books, as prince so inclined to favor good arts, chiefly
      those who by their nobleness do not submit to the service and bribery of
      the vulgar, I have determined bringing to light The Ingenious Gentleman
      Don Quixote of la Mancha, in shelter of Your Excellency's glamorous name,
      to whom, with the obeisance I owe to such grandeur, I pray to receive it
      agreeably under his protection, so that in this shadow, though deprived of
      that precious ornament of elegance and erudition that clothe the works
      composed in the houses of those who know, it dares appear with assurance
      in the judgment of some who, trespassing the bounds of their own
      ignorance, use to condemn with more rigour and less justice the writings
      of others. It is my earnest hope that Your Excellency's good counsel in
      regard to my honourable purpose, will not disdain the littleness of so
      humble a service.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miguel de Cervantes
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="e00.jpg (24K)" src="images/e00.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch1" id="ch1"></a>CHAPTER I.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TREATS OF THE CHARACTER AND PURSUITS OF THE FAMOUS GENTLEMAN DON
      QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p007" id="p007"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p007.jpg (150K)" src="images/p007.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p007.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a>
    </p>
    <p>
      In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call to
      mind, there lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a lance
      in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for
      coursing. An olla of rather more beef than mutton, a salad on most nights,
      scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a pigeon or so extra on
      Sundays, made away with three-quarters of his income. The rest of it went
      in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches and shoes to match for
      holidays, while on week-days he made a brave figure in his best homespun.
      He had in his house a housekeeper past forty, a niece under twenty, and a
      lad for the field and market-place, who used to saddle the hack as well as
      handle the bill-hook. The age of this gentleman of ours was bordering on
      fifty; he was of a hardy habit, spare, gaunt-featured, a very early riser
      and a great sportsman. They will have it his surname was Quixada or
      Quesada (for here there is some difference of opinion among the authors
      who write on the subject), although from reasonable conjectures it seems
      plain that he was called Quexana. This, however, is of but little
      importance to our tale; it will be enough not to stray a hair's breadth
      from the truth in the telling of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      You must know, then, that the above-named gentleman whenever he was at
      leisure (which was mostly all the year round) gave himself up to reading
      books of chivalry with such ardour and avidity that he almost entirely
      neglected the pursuit of his field-sports, and even the management of his
      property; and to such a pitch did his eagerness and infatuation go that he
      sold many an acre of tillageland to buy books of chivalry to read, and
      brought home as many of them as he could get. But of all there were none
      he liked so well as those of the famous Feliciano de Silva's composition,
      for their lucidity of style and complicated conceits were as pearls in his
      sight, particularly when in his reading he came upon courtships and
      cartels, where he often found passages like "the reason of the unreason
      with which my reason is afflicted so weakens my reason that with reason I
      murmur at your beauty;" or again, "the high heavens, that of your divinity
      divinely fortify you with the stars, render you deserving of the desert
      your greatness deserves." Over conceits of this sort the poor gentleman
      lost his wits, and used to lie awake striving to understand them and worm
      the meaning out of them; what Aristotle himself could not have made out or
      extracted had he come to life again for that special purpose. He was not
      at all easy about the wounds which Don Belianis gave and took, because it
      seemed to him that, great as were the surgeons who had cured him, he must
      have had his face and body covered all over with seams and scars. He
      commended, however, the author's way of ending his book with the promise
      of that interminable adventure, and many a time was he tempted to take up
      his pen and finish it properly as is there proposed, which no doubt he
      would have done, and made a successful piece of work of it too, had not
      greater and more absorbing thoughts prevented him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Many an argument did he have with the curate of his village (a learned
      man, and a graduate of Siguenza) as to which had been the better knight,
      Palmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul. Master Nicholas, the village
      barber, however, used to say that neither of them came up to the Knight of
      Phoebus, and that if there was any that could compare with him it was Don
      Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul, because he had a spirit that was
      equal to every occasion, and was no finikin knight, nor lachrymose like
      his brother, while in the matter of valour he was not a whit behind him.
      In short, he became so absorbed in his books that he spent his nights from
      sunset to sunrise, and his days from dawn to dark, poring over them; and
      what with little sleep and much reading his brains got so dry that he lost
      his wits. His fancy grew full of what he used to read about in his books,
      enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, wooings, loves,
      agonies, and all sorts of impossible nonsense; and it so possessed his
      mind that the whole fabric of invention and fancy he read of was true,
      that to him no history in the world had more reality in it. He used to say
      the Cid Ruy Diaz was a very good knight, but that he was not to be
      compared with the Knight of the Burning Sword who with one back-stroke cut
      in half two fierce and monstrous giants. He thought more of Bernardo del
      Carpio because at Roncesvalles he slew Roland in spite of enchantments,
      availing himself of the artifice of Hercules when he strangled Antaeus the
      son of Terra in his arms. He approved highly of the giant Morgante,
      because, although of the giant breed which is always arrogant and
      ill-conditioned, he alone was affable and well-bred. But above all he
      admired Reinaldos of Montalban, especially when he saw him sallying forth
      from his castle and robbing everyone he met, and when beyond the seas he
      stole that image of Mahomet which, as his history says, was entirely of
      gold. To have a bout of kicking at that traitor of a Ganelon he would have
      given his housekeeper, and his niece into the bargain.
    </p>
    <p>
      In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest notion that
      ever madman in this world hit upon, and that was that he fancied it was
      right and requisite, as well for the support of his own honour as for the
      service of his country, that he should make a knight-errant of himself,
      roaming the world over in full armour and on horseback in quest of
      adventures, and putting in practice himself all that he had read of as
      being the usual practices of knights-errant; righting every kind of wrong,
      and exposing himself to peril and danger from which, in the issue, he was
      to reap eternal renown and fame. Already the poor man saw himself crowned
      by the might of his arm Emperor of Trebizond at least; and so, led away by
      the intense enjoyment he found in these pleasant fancies, he set himself
      forthwith to put his scheme into execution.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first thing he did was to clean up some armour that had belonged to
      his great-grandfather, and had been for ages lying forgotten in a corner
      eaten with rust and covered with mildew. He scoured and polished it as
      best he could, but he perceived one great defect in it, that it had no
      closed helmet, nothing but a simple morion. This deficiency, however, his
      ingenuity supplied, for he contrived a kind of half-helmet of pasteboard
      which, fitted on to the morion, looked like a whole one. It is true that,
      in order to see if it was strong and fit to stand a cut, he drew his sword
      and gave it a couple of slashes, the first of which undid in an instant
      what had taken him a week to do. The ease with which he had knocked it to
      pieces disconcerted him somewhat, and to guard against that danger he set
      to work again, fixing bars of iron on the inside until he was satisfied
      with its strength; and then, not caring to try any more experiments with
      it, he passed it and adopted it as a helmet of the most perfect
      construction.
    </p>
    <p>
      He next proceeded to inspect his hack, which, with more quartos than a
      real and more blemishes than the steed of Gonela, that "tantum pellis et
      ossa fuit," surpassed in his eyes the Bucephalus of Alexander or the
      Babieca of the Cid. Four days were spent in thinking what name to give
      him, because (as he said to himself) it was not right that a horse
      belonging to a knight so famous, and one with such merits of his own,
      should be without some distinctive name, and he strove to adapt it so as
      to indicate what he had been before belonging to a knight-errant, and what
      he then was; for it was only reasonable that, his master taking a new
      character, he should take a new name, and that it should be a
      distinguished and full-sounding one, befitting the new order and calling
      he was about to follow. And so, after having composed, struck out,
      rejected, added to, unmade, and remade a multitude of names out of his
      memory and fancy, he decided upon calling him Rocinante, a name, to his
      thinking, lofty, sonorous, and significant of his condition as a hack
      before he became what he now was, the first and foremost of all the hacks
      in the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he was anxious to
      get one for himself, and he was eight days more pondering over this point,
      till at last he made up his mind to call himself "Don Quixote," whence, as
      has been already said, the authors of this veracious history have inferred
      that his name must have been beyond a doubt Quixada, and not Quesada as
      others would have it. Recollecting, however, that the valiant Amadis was
      not content to call himself curtly Amadis and nothing more, but added the
      name of his kingdom and country to make it famous, and called himself
      Amadis of Gaul, he, like a good knight, resolved to add on the name of
      his, and to style himself Don Quixote of La Mancha, whereby, he
      considered, he described accurately his origin and country, and did honour
      to it in taking his surname from it.
    </p>
    <p>
      So then, his armour being furbished, his morion turned into a helmet, his
      hack christened, and he himself confirmed, he came to the conclusion that
      nothing more was needed now but to look out for a lady to be in love with;
      for a knight-errant without love was like a tree without leaves or fruit,
      or a body without a soul. As he said to himself, "If, for my sins, or by
      my good fortune, I come across some giant hereabouts, a common occurrence
      with knights-errant, and overthrow him in one onslaught, or cleave him
      asunder to the waist, or, in short, vanquish and subdue him, will it not
      be well to have some one I may send him to as a present, that he may come
      in and fall on his knees before my sweet lady, and in a humble, submissive
      voice say, 'I am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of
      Malindrania, vanquished in single combat by the never sufficiently
      extolled knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, who has commanded me to present
      myself before your Grace, that your Highness dispose of me at your
      pleasure'?" Oh, how our good gentleman enjoyed the delivery of this
      speech, especially when he had thought of some one to call his Lady! There
      was, so the story goes, in a village near his own a very good-looking
      farm-girl with whom he had been at one time in love, though, so far as is
      known, she never knew it nor gave a thought to the matter. Her name was
      Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her he thought fit to confer the title of Lady
      of his Thoughts; and after some search for a name which should not be out
      of harmony with her own, and should suggest and indicate that of a
      princess and great lady, he decided upon calling her Dulcinea del Toboso&mdash;she
      being of El Toboso&mdash;a name, to his mind, musical, uncommon, and
      significant, like all those he had already bestowed upon himself and the
      things belonging to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p007b" id="p007b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p007b.jpg (61K)" src="images/p007b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch2" id="ch2"></a>CHAPTER II.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TREATS OF THE FIRST SALLY THE INGENIOUS DON QUIXOTE MADE FROM HOME
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p007c" id="p007c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p007c.jpg (97K)" src="images/p007c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p007c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      These preliminaries settled, he did not care to put off any longer the
      execution of his design, urged on to it by the thought of all the world
      was losing by his delay, seeing what wrongs he intended to right,
      grievances to redress, injustices to repair, abuses to remove, and duties
      to discharge. So, without giving notice of his intention to anyone, and
      without anybody seeing him, one morning before the dawning of the day
      (which was one of the hottest of the month of July) he donned his suit of
      armour, mounted Rocinante with his patched-up helmet on, braced his
      buckler, took his lance, and by the back door of the yard sallied forth
      upon the plain in the highest contentment and satisfaction at seeing with
      what ease he had made a beginning with his grand purpose. But scarcely did
      he find himself upon the open plain, when a terrible thought struck him,
      one all but enough to make him abandon the enterprise at the very outset.
      It occurred to him that he had not been dubbed a knight, and that
      according to the law of chivalry he neither could nor ought to bear arms
      against any knight; and that even if he had been, still he ought, as a
      novice knight, to wear white armour, without a device upon the shield
      until by his prowess he had earned one. These reflections made him waver
      in his purpose, but his craze being stronger than any reasoning, he made
      up his mind to have himself dubbed a knight by the first one he came
      across, following the example of others in the same case, as he had read
      in the books that brought him to this pass. As for white armour, he
      resolved, on the first opportunity, to scour his until it was whiter than
      an ermine; and so comforting himself he pursued his way, taking that which
      his horse chose, for in this he believed lay the essence of adventures.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus setting out, our new-fledged adventurer paced along, talking to
      himself and saying, "Who knows but that in time to come, when the
      veracious history of my famous deeds is made known, the sage who writes
      it, when he has to set forth my first sally in the early morning, will do
      it after this fashion? 'Scarce had the rubicund Apollo spread o'er the
      face of the broad spacious earth the golden threads of his bright hair,
      scarce had the little birds of painted plumage attuned their notes to hail
      with dulcet and mellifluous harmony the coming of the rosy Dawn, that,
      deserting the soft couch of her jealous spouse, was appearing to mortals
      at the gates and balconies of the Manchegan horizon, when the renowned
      knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, quitting the lazy down, mounted his
      celebrated steed Rocinante and began to traverse the ancient and famous
      Campo de Montiel;'" which in fact he was actually traversing. "Happy the
      age, happy the time," he continued, "in which shall be made known my deeds
      of fame, worthy to be moulded in brass, carved in marble, limned in
      pictures, for a memorial for ever. And thou, O sage magician, whoever thou
      art, to whom it shall fall to be the chronicler of this wondrous history,
      forget not, I entreat thee, my good Rocinante, the constant companion of
      my ways and wanderings." Presently he broke out again, as if he were
      love-stricken in earnest, "O Princess Dulcinea, lady of this captive
      heart, a grievous wrong hast thou done me to drive me forth with scorn,
      and with inexorable obduracy banish me from the presence of thy beauty. O
      lady, deign to hold in remembrance this heart, thy vassal, that thus in
      anguish pines for love of thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      So he went on stringing together these and other absurdities, all in the
      style of those his books had taught him, imitating their language as well
      as he could; and all the while he rode so slowly and the sun mounted so
      rapidly and with such fervour that it was enough to melt his brains if he
      had any. Nearly all day he travelled without anything remarkable happening
      to him, at which he was in despair, for he was anxious to encounter some
      one at once upon whom to try the might of his strong arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p008" id="p008"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p008.jpg (289K)" src="images/p008.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p008.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Writers there are who say the first adventure he met with was that of
      Puerto Lapice; others say it was that of the windmills; but what I have
      ascertained on this point, and what I have found written in the annals of
      La Mancha, is that he was on the road all day, and towards nightfall his
      hack and he found themselves dead tired and hungry, when, looking all
      around to see if he could discover any castle or shepherd's shanty where
      he might refresh himself and relieve his sore wants, he perceived not far
      out of his road an inn, which was as welcome as a star guiding him to the
      portals, if not the palaces, of his redemption; and quickening his pace he
      reached it just as night was setting in. At the door were standing two
      young women, girls of the district as they call them, on their way to
      Seville with some carriers who had chanced to halt that night at the inn;
      and as, happen what might to our adventurer, everything he saw or imaged
      seemed to him to be and to happen after the fashion of what he read of,
      the moment he saw the inn he pictured it to himself as a castle with its
      four turrets and pinnacles of shining silver, not forgetting the
      drawbridge and moat and all the belongings usually ascribed to castles of
      the sort. To this inn, which to him seemed a castle, he advanced, and at a
      short distance from it he checked Rocinante, hoping that some dwarf would
      show himself upon the battlements, and by sound of trumpet give notice
      that a knight was approaching the castle. But seeing that they were slow
      about it, and that Rocinante was in a hurry to reach the stable, he made
      for the inn door, and perceived the two gay damsels who were standing
      there, and who seemed to him to be two fair maidens or lovely ladies
      taking their ease at the castle gate.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment it so happened that a swineherd who was going through the
      stubbles collecting a drove of pigs (for, without any apology, that is
      what they are called) gave a blast of his horn to bring them together, and
      forthwith it seemed to Don Quixote to be what he was expecting, the signal
      of some dwarf announcing his arrival; and so with prodigious satisfaction
      he rode up to the inn and to the ladies, who, seeing a man of this sort
      approaching in full armour and with lance and buckler, were turning in
      dismay into the inn, when Don Quixote, guessing their fear by their
      flight, raising his pasteboard visor, disclosed his dry dusty visage, and
      with courteous bearing and gentle voice addressed them, "Your ladyships
      need not fly or fear any rudeness, for that it belongs not to the order of
      knighthood which I profess to offer to anyone, much less to highborn
      maidens as your appearance proclaims you to be." The girls were looking at
      him and straining their eyes to make out the features which the clumsy
      visor obscured, but when they heard themselves called maidens, a thing so
      much out of their line, they could not restrain their laughter, which made
      Don Quixote wax indignant, and say, "Modesty becomes the fair, and
      moreover laughter that has little cause is great silliness; this, however,
      I say not to pain or anger you, for my desire is none other than to serve
      you."
    </p>
    <p>
      The incomprehensible language and the unpromising looks of our cavalier
      only increased the ladies' laughter, and that increased his irritation,
      and matters might have gone farther if at that moment the landlord had not
      come out, who, being a very fat man, was a very peaceful one. He, seeing
      this grotesque figure clad in armour that did not match any more than his
      saddle, bridle, lance, buckler, or corselet, was not at all indisposed to
      join the damsels in their manifestations of amusement; but, in truth,
      standing in awe of such a complicated armament, he thought it best to
      speak him fairly, so he said, "Senor Caballero, if your worship wants
      lodging, bating the bed (for there is not one in the inn) there is plenty
      of everything else here." Don Quixote, observing the respectful bearing of
      the Alcaide of the fortress (for so innkeeper and inn seemed in his eyes),
      made answer, "Sir Castellan, for me anything will suffice, for
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
'My armour is my only wear,
My only rest the fray.'"
</pre>
    <p>
      The host fancied he called him Castellan because he took him for a "worthy
      of Castile," though he was in fact an Andalusian, and one from the strand
      of San Lucar, as crafty a thief as Cacus and as full of tricks as a
      student or a page. "In that case," said he,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
"'Your bed is on the flinty rock,
Your sleep to watch alway;'
</pre>
    <p>
      and if so, you may dismount and safely reckon upon any quantity of
      sleeplessness under this roof for a twelvemonth, not to say for a single
      night." So saying, he advanced to hold the stirrup for Don Quixote, who
      got down with great difficulty and exertion (for he had not broken his
      fast all day), and then charged the host to take great care of his horse,
      as he was the best bit of flesh that ever ate bread in this world. The
      landlord eyed him over but did not find him as good as Don Quixote said,
      nor even half as good; and putting him up in the stable, he returned to
      see what might be wanted by his guest, whom the damsels, who had by this
      time made their peace with him, were now relieving of his armour. They had
      taken off his breastplate and backpiece, but they neither knew nor saw how
      to open his gorget or remove his make-shift helmet, for he had fastened it
      with green ribbons, which, as there was no untying the knots, required to
      be cut. This, however, he would not by any means consent to, so he
      remained all the evening with his helmet on, the drollest and oddest
      figure that can be imagined; and while they were removing his armour,
      taking the baggages who were about it for ladies of high degree belonging
      to the castle, he said to them with great sprightliness:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
"Oh, never, surely, was there knight
  So served by hand of dame,
As served was he, Don Quixote hight,
  When from his town he came;
With maidens waiting on himself,
  Princesses on his hack&mdash;
</pre>
    <p>
      &mdash;or Rocinante, for that, ladies mine, is my horse's name, and Don
      Quixote of La Mancha is my own; for though I had no intention of declaring
      myself until my achievements in your service and honour had made me known,
      the necessity of adapting that old ballad of Lancelot to the present
      occasion has given you the knowledge of my name altogether prematurely. A
      time, however, will come for your ladyships to command and me to obey, and
      then the might of my arm will show my desire to serve you."
    </p>
    <p>
      The girls, who were not used to hearing rhetoric of this sort, had nothing
      to say in reply; they only asked him if he wanted anything to eat. "I
      would gladly eat a bit of something," said Don Quixote, "for I feel it
      would come very seasonably." The day happened to be a Friday, and in the
      whole inn there was nothing but some pieces of the fish they call in
      Castile "abadejo," in Andalusia "bacallao," and in some places
      "curadillo," and in others "troutlet;" so they asked him if he thought he
      could eat troutlet, for there was no other fish to give him. "If there be
      troutlets enough," said Don Quixote, "they will be the same thing as a
      trout; for it is all one to me whether I am given eight reals in small
      change or a piece of eight; moreover, it may be that these troutlets are
      like veal, which is better than beef, or kid, which is better than goat.
      But whatever it be let it come quickly, for the burden and pressure of
      arms cannot be borne without support to the inside." They laid a table for
      him at the door of the inn for the sake of the air, and the host brought
      him a portion of ill-soaked and worse cooked stockfish, and a piece of
      bread as black and mouldy as his own armour; but a laughable sight it was
      to see him eating, for having his helmet on and the beaver up, he could
      not with his own hands put anything into his mouth unless some one else
      placed it there, and this service one of the ladies rendered him. But to
      give him anything to drink was impossible, or would have been so had not
      the landlord bored a reed, and putting one end in his mouth poured the
      wine into him through the other; all which he bore with patience rather
      than sever the ribbons of his helmet.
    </p>
    <p>
      While this was going on there came up to the inn a sowgelder, who, as he
      approached, sounded his reed pipe four or five times, and thereby
      completely convinced Don Quixote that he was in some famous castle, and
      that they were regaling him with music, and that the stockfish was trout,
      the bread the whitest, the wenches ladies, and the landlord the castellan
      of the castle; and consequently he held that his enterprise and sally had
      been to some purpose. But still it distressed him to think he had not been
      dubbed a knight, for it was plain to him he could not lawfully engage in
      any adventure without receiving the order of knighthood.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="e02.jpg (39K)" src="images/e02.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch3" id="ch3"></a>CHAPTER III.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS RELATED THE DROLL WAY IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE HAD HIMSELF DUBBED A
      KNIGHT
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p009" id="p009"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p009.jpg (164K)" src="images/p009.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p009.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Harassed by this reflection, he made haste with his scanty pothouse
      supper, and having finished it called the landlord, and shutting himself
      into the stable with him, fell on his knees before him, saying, "From this
      spot I rise not, valiant knight, until your courtesy grants me the boon I
      seek, one that will redound to your praise and the benefit of the human
      race." The landlord, seeing his guest at his feet and hearing a speech of
      this kind, stood staring at him in bewilderment, not knowing what to do or
      say, and entreating him to rise, but all to no purpose until he had agreed
      to grant the boon demanded of him. "I looked for no less, my lord, from
      your High Magnificence," replied Don Quixote, "and I have to tell you that
      the boon I have asked and your liberality has granted is that you shall
      dub me knight to-morrow morning, and that to-night I shall watch my arms
      in the chapel of this your castle; thus tomorrow, as I have said, will be
      accomplished what I so much desire, enabling me lawfully to roam through
      all the four quarters of the world seeking adventures on behalf of those
      in distress, as is the duty of chivalry and of knights-errant like myself,
      whose ambition is directed to such deeds."
    </p>
    <p>
      The landlord, who, as has been mentioned, was something of a wag, and had
      already some suspicion of his guest's want of wits, was quite convinced of
      it on hearing talk of this kind from him, and to make sport for the night
      he determined to fall in with his humour. So he told him he was quite
      right in pursuing the object he had in view, and that such a motive was
      natural and becoming in cavaliers as distinguished as he seemed and his
      gallant bearing showed him to be; and that he himself in his younger days
      had followed the same honourable calling, roaming in quest of adventures
      in various parts of the world, among others the Curing-grounds of Malaga,
      the Isles of Riaran, the Precinct of Seville, the Little Market of
      Segovia, the Olivera of Valencia, the Rondilla of Granada, the Strand of
      San Lucar, the Colt of Cordova, the Taverns of Toledo, and divers other
      quarters, where he had proved the nimbleness of his feet and the lightness
      of his fingers, doing many wrongs, cheating many widows, ruining maids and
      swindling minors, and, in short, bringing himself under the notice of
      almost every tribunal and court of justice in Spain; until at last he had
      retired to this castle of his, where he was living upon his property and
      upon that of others; and where he received all knights-errant of whatever
      rank or condition they might be, all for the great love he bore them and
      that they might share their substance with him in return for his
      benevolence. He told him, moreover, that in this castle of his there was
      no chapel in which he could watch his armour, as it had been pulled down
      in order to be rebuilt, but that in a case of necessity it might, he knew,
      be watched anywhere, and he might watch it that night in a courtyard of
      the castle, and in the morning, God willing, the requisite ceremonies
      might be performed so as to have him dubbed a knight, and so thoroughly
      dubbed that nobody could be more so. He asked if he had any money with
      him, to which Don Quixote replied that he had not a farthing, as in the
      histories of knights-errant he had never read of any of them carrying any.
      On this point the landlord told him he was mistaken; for, though not
      recorded in the histories, because in the author's opinion there was no
      need to mention anything so obvious and necessary as money and clean
      shirts, it was not to be supposed therefore that they did not carry them,
      and he might regard it as certain and established that all knights-errant
      (about whom there were so many full and unimpeachable books) carried
      well-furnished purses in case of emergency, and likewise carried shirts
      and a little box of ointment to cure the wounds they received. For in
      those plains and deserts where they engaged in combat and came out
      wounded, it was not always that there was some one to cure them, unless
      indeed they had for a friend some sage magician to succour them at once by
      fetching through the air upon a cloud some damsel or dwarf with a vial of
      water of such virtue that by tasting one drop of it they were cured of
      their hurts and wounds in an instant and left as sound as if they had not
      received any damage whatever. But in case this should not occur, the
      knights of old took care to see that their squires were provided with
      money and other requisites, such as lint and ointments for healing
      purposes; and when it happened that knights had no squires (which was
      rarely and seldom the case) they themselves carried everything in cunning
      saddle-bags that were hardly seen on the horse's croup, as if it were
      something else of more importance, because, unless for some such reason,
      carrying saddle-bags was not very favourably regarded among
      knights-errant. He therefore advised him (and, as his godson so soon to
      be, he might even command him) never from that time forth to travel
      without money and the usual requirements, and he would find the advantage
      of them when he least expected it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote promised to follow his advice scrupulously, and it was
      arranged forthwith that he should watch his armour in a large yard at one
      side of the inn; so, collecting it all together, Don Quixote placed it on
      a trough that stood by the side of a well, and bracing his buckler on his
      arm he grasped his lance and began with a stately air to march up and down
      in front of the trough, and as he began his march night began to fall.
    </p>
    <p>
      The landlord told all the people who were in the inn about the craze of
      his guest, the watching of the armour, and the dubbing ceremony he
      contemplated. Full of wonder at so strange a form of madness, they flocked
      to see it from a distance, and observed with what composure he sometimes
      paced up and down, or sometimes, leaning on his lance, gazed on his armour
      without taking his eyes off it for ever so long; and as the night closed
      in with a light from the moon so brilliant that it might vie with his that
      lent it, everything the novice knight did was plainly seen by all.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile one of the carriers who were in the inn thought fit to water his
      team, and it was necessary to remove Don Quixote's armour as it lay on the
      trough; but he seeing the other approach hailed him in a loud voice, "O
      thou, whoever thou art, rash knight that comest to lay hands on the armour
      of the most valorous errant that ever girt on sword, have a care what thou
      dost; touch it not unless thou wouldst lay down thy life as the penalty of
      thy rashness." The carrier gave no heed to these words (and he would have
      done better to heed them if he had been heedful of his health), but
      seizing it by the straps flung the armour some distance from him. Seeing
      this, Don Quixote raised his eyes to heaven, and fixing his thoughts,
      apparently, upon his lady Dulcinea, exclaimed, "Aid me, lady mine, in this
      the first encounter that presents itself to this breast which thou holdest
      in subjection; let not thy favour and protection fail me in this first
      jeopardy;" and, with these words and others to the same purpose, dropping
      his buckler he lifted his lance with both hands and with it smote such a
      blow on the carrier's head that he stretched him on the ground, so stunned
      that had he followed it up with a second there would have been no need of
      a surgeon to cure him. This done, he picked up his armour and returned to
      his beat with the same serenity as before.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p010" id="p010"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p010.jpg (261K)" src="images/p010.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p010.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Shortly after this, another, not knowing what had happened (for the
      carrier still lay senseless), came with the same object of giving water to
      his mules, and was proceeding to remove the armour in order to clear the
      trough, when Don Quixote, without uttering a word or imploring aid from
      anyone, once more dropped his buckler and once more lifted his lance, and
      without actually breaking the second carrier's head into pieces, made more
      than three of it, for he laid it open in four. At the noise all the people
      of the inn ran to the spot, and among them the landlord. Seeing this, Don
      Quixote braced his buckler on his arm, and with his hand on his sword
      exclaimed, "O Lady of Beauty, strength and support of my faint heart, it
      is time for thee to turn the eyes of thy greatness on this thy captive
      knight on the brink of so mighty an adventure." By this he felt himself so
      inspired that he would not have flinched if all the carriers in the world
      had assailed him. The comrades of the wounded perceiving the plight they
      were in began from a distance to shower stones on Don Quixote, who
      screened himself as best he could with his buckler, not daring to quit the
      trough and leave his armour unprotected. The landlord shouted to them to
      leave him alone, for he had already told them that he was mad, and as a
      madman he would not be accountable even if he killed them all. Still
      louder shouted Don Quixote, calling them knaves and traitors, and the lord
      of the castle, who allowed knights-errant to be treated in this fashion, a
      villain and a low-born knight whom, had he received the order of
      knighthood, he would call to account for his treachery. "But of you," he
      cried, "base and vile rabble, I make no account; fling, strike, come on,
      do all ye can against me, ye shall see what the reward of your folly and
      insolence will be." This he uttered with so much spirit and boldness that
      he filled his assailants with a terrible fear, and as much for this reason
      as at the persuasion of the landlord they left off stoning him, and he
      allowed them to carry off the wounded, and with the same calmness and
      composure as before resumed the watch over his armour.
    </p>
    <p>
      But these freaks of his guest were not much to the liking of the landlord,
      so he determined to cut matters short and confer upon him at once the
      unlucky order of knighthood before any further misadventure could occur;
      so, going up to him, he apologised for the rudeness which, without his
      knowledge, had been offered to him by these low people, who, however, had
      been well punished for their audacity. As he had already told him, he
      said, there was no chapel in the castle, nor was it needed for what
      remained to be done, for, as he understood the ceremonial of the order,
      the whole point of being dubbed a knight lay in the accolade and in the
      slap on the shoulder, and that could be administered in the middle of a
      field; and that he had now done all that was needful as to watching the
      armour, for all requirements were satisfied by a watch of two hours only,
      while he had been more than four about it. Don Quixote believed it all,
      and told him he stood there ready to obey him, and to make an end of it
      with as much despatch as possible; for, if he were again attacked, and
      felt himself to be dubbed knight, he would not, he thought, leave a soul
      alive in the castle, except such as out of respect he might spare at his
      bidding.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus warned and menaced, the castellan forthwith brought out a book in
      which he used to enter the straw and barley he served out to the carriers,
      and, with a lad carrying a candle-end, and the two damsels already
      mentioned, he returned to where Don Quixote stood, and bade him kneel
      down. Then, reading from his account-book as if he were repeating some
      devout prayer, in the middle of his delivery he raised his hand and gave
      him a sturdy blow on the neck, and then, with his own sword, a smart slap
      on the shoulder, all the while muttering between his teeth as if he was
      saying his prayers. Having done this, he directed one of the ladies to
      gird on his sword, which she did with great self-possession and gravity,
      and not a little was required to prevent a burst of laughter at each stage
      of the ceremony; but what they had already seen of the novice knight's
      prowess kept their laughter within bounds. On girding him with the sword
      the worthy lady said to him, "May God make your worship a very fortunate
      knight, and grant you success in battle." Don Quixote asked her name in
      order that he might from that time forward know to whom he was beholden
      for the favour he had received, as he meant to confer upon her some
      portion of the honour he acquired by the might of his arm. She answered
      with great humility that she was called La Tolosa, and that she was the
      daughter of a cobbler of Toledo who lived in the stalls of Sanchobienaya,
      and that wherever she might be she would serve and esteem him as her lord.
      Don Quixote said in reply that she would do him a favour if thenceforward
      she assumed the "Don" and called herself Dona Tolosa. She promised she
      would, and then the other buckled on his spur, and with her followed
      almost the same conversation as with the lady of the sword. He asked her
      name, and she said it was La Molinera, and that she was the daughter of a
      respectable miller of Antequera; and of her likewise Don Quixote requested
      that she would adopt the "Don" and call herself Dona Molinera, making
      offers to her further services and favours.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having thus, with hot haste and speed, brought to a conclusion these
      never-till-now-seen ceremonies, Don Quixote was on thorns until he saw
      himself on horseback sallying forth in quest of adventures; and saddling
      Rocinante at once he mounted, and embracing his host, as he returned
      thanks for his kindness in knighting him, he addressed him in language so
      extraordinary that it is impossible to convey an idea of it or report it.
      The landlord, to get him out of the inn, replied with no less rhetoric
      though with shorter words, and without calling upon him to pay the
      reckoning let him go with a Godspeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p017" id="p017"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p017.jpg (54K)" src="images/p017.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p017.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch4" id="ch4"></a>CHAPTER IV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF WHAT HAPPENED TO OUR KNIGHT WHEN HE LEFT THE INN
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p018" id="p018"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p018.jpg (94K)" src="images/p018.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p018.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Day was dawning when Don Quixote quitted the inn, so happy, so gay, so
      exhilarated at finding himself now dubbed a knight, that his joy was like
      to burst his horse-girths. However, recalling the advice of his host as to
      the requisites he ought to carry with him, especially that referring to
      money and shirts, he determined to go home and provide himself with all,
      and also with a squire, for he reckoned upon securing a farm-labourer, a
      neighbour of his, a poor man with a family, but very well qualified for
      the office of squire to a knight. With this object he turned his horse's
      head towards his village, and Rocinante, thus reminded of his old
      quarters, stepped out so briskly that he hardly seemed to tread the earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had not gone far, when out of a thicket on his right there seemed to
      come feeble cries as of some one in distress, and the instant he heard
      them he exclaimed, "Thanks be to heaven for the favour it accords me, that
      it so soon offers me an opportunity of fulfilling the obligation I have
      undertaken, and gathering the fruit of my ambition. These cries, no doubt,
      come from some man or woman in want of help, and needing my aid and
      protection;" and wheeling, he turned Rocinante in the direction whence the
      cries seemed to proceed. He had gone but a few paces into the wood, when
      he saw a mare tied to an oak, and tied to another, and stripped from the
      waist upwards, a youth of about fifteen years of age, from whom the cries
      came. Nor were they without cause, for a lusty farmer was flogging him
      with a belt and following up every blow with scoldings and commands,
      repeating, "Your mouth shut and your eyes open!" while the youth made
      answer, "I won't do it again, master mine; by God's passion I won't do it
      again, and I'll take more care of the flock another time."
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeing what was going on, Don Quixote said in an angry voice,
      "Discourteous knight, it ill becomes you to assail one who cannot defend
      himself; mount your steed and take your lance" (for there was a lance
      leaning against the oak to which the mare was tied), "and I will make you
      know that you are behaving as a coward." The farmer, seeing before him
      this figure in full armour brandishing a lance over his head, gave himself
      up for dead, and made answer meekly, "Sir Knight, this youth that I am
      chastising is my servant, employed by me to watch a flock of sheep that I
      have hard by, and he is so careless that I lose one every day, and when I
      punish him for his carelessness and knavery he says I do it out of
      niggardliness, to escape paying him the wages I owe him, and before God,
      and on my soul, he lies."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lies before me, base clown!" said Don Quixote. "By the sun that shines on
      us I have a mind to run you through with this lance. Pay him at once
      without another word; if not, by the God that rules us I will make an end
      of you, and annihilate you on the spot; release him instantly."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p019" id="p019"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p019.jpg (339K)" src="images/p019.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p019.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The farmer hung his head, and without a word untied his servant, of whom
      Don Quixote asked how much his master owed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He replied, nine months at seven reals a month. Don Quixote added it up,
      found that it came to sixty-three reals, and told the farmer to pay it
      down immediately, if he did not want to die for it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The trembling clown replied that as he lived and by the oath he had sworn
      (though he had not sworn any) it was not so much; for there were to be
      taken into account and deducted three pairs of shoes he had given him, and
      a real for two blood-lettings when he was sick.
    </p>
    <p>
      "All that is very well," said Don Quixote; "but let the shoes and the
      blood-lettings stand as a setoff against the blows you have given him
      without any cause; for if he spoiled the leather of the shoes you paid
      for, you have damaged that of his body, and if the barber took blood from
      him when he was sick, you have drawn it when he was sound; so on that
      score he owes you nothing."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The difficulty is, Sir Knight, that I have no money here; let Andres come
      home with me, and I will pay him all, real by real."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I go with him!" said the youth. "Nay, God forbid! No, senor, not for the
      world; for once alone with me, he would ray me like a Saint Bartholomew."
    </p>
    <p>
      "He will do nothing of the kind," said Don Quixote; "I have only to
      command, and he will obey me; and as he has sworn to me by the order of
      knighthood which he has received, I leave him free, and I guarantee the
      payment."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Consider what you are saying, senor," said the youth; "this master of
      mine is not a knight, nor has he received any order of knighthood; for he
      is Juan Haldudo the Rich, of Quintanar."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That matters little," replied Don Quixote; "there may be Haldudos
      knights; moreover, everyone is the son of his works."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said Andres; "but this master of mine&mdash;of what works
      is he the son, when he refuses me the wages of my sweat and labour?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not refuse, brother Andres," said the farmer, "be good enough to
      come along with me, and I swear by all the orders of knighthood there are
      in the world to pay you as I have agreed, real by real, and perfumed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For the perfumery I excuse you," said Don Quixote; "give it to him in
      reals, and I shall be satisfied; and see that you do as you have sworn; if
      not, by the same oath I swear to come back and hunt you out and punish
      you; and I shall find you though you should lie closer than a lizard. And
      if you desire to know who it is lays this command upon you, that you be
      more firmly bound to obey it, know that I am the valorous Don Quixote of
      La Mancha, the undoer of wrongs and injustices; and so, God be with you,
      and keep in mind what you have promised and sworn under those penalties
      that have been already declared to you."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he gave Rocinante the spur and was soon out of reach. The
      farmer followed him with his eyes, and when he saw that he had cleared the
      wood and was no longer in sight, he turned to his boy Andres, and said,
      "Come here, my son, I want to pay you what I owe you, as that undoer of
      wrongs has commanded me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My oath on it," said Andres, "your worship will be well advised to obey
      the command of that good knight&mdash;may he live a thousand years&mdash;for,
      as he is a valiant and just judge, by Roque, if you do not pay me, he will
      come back and do as he said."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My oath on it, too," said the farmer; "but as I have a strong affection
      for you, I want to add to the debt in order to add to the payment;" and
      seizing him by the arm, he tied him up again, and gave him such a flogging
      that he left him for dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, Master Andres," said the farmer, "call on the undoer of wrongs; you
      will find he won't undo that, though I am not sure that I have quite done
      with you, for I have a good mind to flay you alive." But at last he untied
      him, and gave him leave to go look for his judge in order to put the
      sentence pronounced into execution.
    </p>
    <p>
      Andres went off rather down in the mouth, swearing he would go to look for
      the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha and tell him exactly what had
      happened, and that all would have to be repaid him sevenfold; but for all
      that, he went off weeping, while his master stood laughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus did the valiant Don Quixote right that wrong, and, thoroughly
      satisfied with what had taken place, as he considered he had made a very
      happy and noble beginning with his knighthood, he took the road towards
      his village in perfect self-content, saying in a low voice, "Well mayest
      thou this day call thyself fortunate above all on earth, O Dulcinea del
      Toboso, fairest of the fair! since it has fallen to thy lot to hold
      subject and submissive to thy full will and pleasure a knight so renowned
      as is and will be Don Quixote of La Mancha, who, as all the world knows,
      yesterday received the order of knighthood, and hath to-day righted the
      greatest wrong and grievance that ever injustice conceived and cruelty
      perpetrated: who hath to-day plucked the rod from the hand of yonder
      ruthless oppressor so wantonly lashing that tender child."
    </p>
    <p>
      He now came to a road branching in four directions, and immediately he was
      reminded of those cross-roads where knights-errant used to stop to
      consider which road they should take. In imitation of them he halted for a
      while, and after having deeply considered it, he gave Rocinante his head,
      submitting his own will to that of his hack, who followed out his first
      intention, which was to make straight for his own stable. After he had
      gone about two miles Don Quixote perceived a large party of people, who,
      as afterwards appeared, were some Toledo traders, on their way to buy silk
      at Murcia. There were six of them coming along under their sunshades, with
      four servants mounted, and three muleteers on foot. Scarcely had Don
      Quixote descried them when the fancy possessed him that this must be some
      new adventure; and to help him to imitate as far as he could those
      passages he had read of in his books, here seemed to come one made on
      purpose, which he resolved to attempt. So with a lofty bearing and
      determination he fixed himself firmly in his stirrups, got his lance
      ready, brought his buckler before his breast, and planting himself in the
      middle of the road, stood waiting the approach of these knights-errant,
      for such he now considered and held them to be; and when they had come
      near enough to see and hear, he exclaimed with a haughty gesture, "All the
      world stand, unless all the world confess that in all the world there is
      no maiden fairer than the Empress of La Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea del
      Toboso."
    </p>
    <p>
      The traders halted at the sound of this language and the sight of the
      strange figure that uttered it, and from both figure and language at once
      guessed the craze of their owner; they wished, however, to learn quietly
      what was the object of this confession that was demanded of them, and one
      of them, who was rather fond of a joke and was very sharp-witted, said to
      him, "Sir Knight, we do not know who this good lady is that you speak of;
      show her to us, for, if she be of such beauty as you suggest, with all our
      hearts and without any pressure we will confess the truth that is on your
      part required of us."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If I were to show her to you," replied Don Quixote, "what merit would you
      have in confessing a truth so manifest? The essential point is that
      without seeing her you must believe, confess, affirm, swear, and defend
      it; else ye have to do with me in battle, ill-conditioned, arrogant rabble
      that ye are; and come ye on, one by one as the order of knighthood
      requires, or all together as is the custom and vile usage of your breed,
      here do I bide and await you relying on the justice of the cause I
      maintain."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sir Knight," replied the trader, "I entreat your worship in the name of
      this present company of princes, that, to save us from charging our
      consciences with the confession of a thing we have never seen or heard of,
      and one moreover so much to the prejudice of the Empresses and Queens of
      the Alcarria and Estremadura, your worship will be pleased to show us some
      portrait of this lady, though it be no bigger than a grain of wheat; for
      by the thread one gets at the ball, and in this way we shall be satisfied
      and easy, and you will be content and pleased; nay, I believe we are
      already so far agreed with you that even though her portrait should show
      her blind of one eye, and distilling vermilion and sulphur from the other,
      we would nevertheless, to gratify your worship, say all in her favour that
      you desire."
    </p>
    <p>
      "She distils nothing of the kind, vile rabble," said Don Quixote, burning
      with rage, "nothing of the kind, I say, only ambergris and civet in
      cotton; nor is she one-eyed or humpbacked, but straighter than a
      Guadarrama spindle: but ye must pay for the blasphemy ye have uttered
      against beauty like that of my lady."
    </p>
    <p>
      And so saying, he charged with levelled lance against the one who had
      spoken, with such fury and fierceness that, if luck had not contrived that
      Rocinante should stumble midway and come down, it would have gone hard
      with the rash trader. Down went Rocinante, and over went his master,
      rolling along the ground for some distance; and when he tried to rise he
      was unable, so encumbered was he with lance, buckler, spurs, helmet, and
      the weight of his old armour; and all the while he was struggling to get
      up he kept saying, "Fly not, cowards and caitiffs! stay, for not by my
      fault, but my horse's, am I stretched here."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p020" id="p020"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p020.jpg (352K)" src="images/p020.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p020.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the muleteers in attendance, who could not have had much good
      nature in him, hearing the poor prostrate man blustering in this style,
      was unable to refrain from giving him an answer on his ribs; and coming up
      to him he seized his lance, and having broken it in pieces, with one of
      them he began so to belabour our Don Quixote that, notwithstanding and in
      spite of his armour, he milled him like a measure of wheat. His masters
      called out not to lay on so hard and to leave him alone, but the muleteers
      blood was up, and he did not care to drop the game until he had vented the
      rest of his wrath, and gathering up the remaining fragments of the lance
      he finished with a discharge upon the unhappy victim, who all through the
      storm of sticks that rained on him never ceased threatening heaven, and
      earth, and the brigands, for such they seemed to him. At last the muleteer
      was tired, and the traders continued their journey, taking with them
      matter for talk about the poor fellow who had been cudgelled. He when he
      found himself alone made another effort to rise; but if he was unable when
      whole and sound, how was he to rise after having been thrashed and
      well-nigh knocked to pieces? And yet he esteemed himself fortunate, as it
      seemed to him that this was a regular knight-errant's mishap, and
      entirely, he considered, the fault of his horse. However, battered in body
      as he was, to rise was beyond his power.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="e04" id="e04"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="e04.jpg (28K)" src="images/e04.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch5" id="ch5"></a>CHAPTER V.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE OF OUR KNIGHT'S MISHAP IS CONTINUED
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p022" id="p022"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p022.jpg (123K)" src="images/p022.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p022.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Finding, then, that, in fact he could not move, he thought himself of
      having recourse to his usual remedy, which was to think of some passage in
      his books, and his craze brought to his mind that about Baldwin and the
      Marquis of Mantua, when Carloto left him wounded on the mountain side, a
      story known by heart by the children, not forgotten by the young men, and
      lauded and even believed by the old folk; and for all that not a whit
      truer than the miracles of Mahomet. This seemed to him to fit exactly the
      case in which he found himself, so, making a show of severe suffering, he
      began to roll on the ground and with feeble breath repeat the very words
      which the wounded knight of the wood is said to have uttered:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Where art thou, lady mine, that thou
  My sorrow dost not rue?
Thou canst not know it, lady mine,
  Or else thou art untrue.
</pre>
    <p>
      And so he went on with the ballad as far as the lines:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
O noble Marquis of Mantua,
  My Uncle and liege lord!
</pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p026" id="p026"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p026.jpg (316K)" src="images/p026.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p026.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      As chance would have it, when he had got to this line there happened to
      come by a peasant from his own village, a neighbour of his, who had been
      with a load of wheat to the mill, and he, seeing the man stretched there,
      came up to him and asked him who he was and what was the matter with him
      that he complained so dolefully.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote was firmly persuaded that this was the Marquis of Mantua, his
      uncle, so the only answer he made was to go on with his ballad, in which
      he told the tale of his misfortune, and of the loves of the Emperor's son
      and his wife all exactly as the ballad sings it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The peasant stood amazed at hearing such nonsense, and relieving him of
      the visor, already battered to pieces by blows, he wiped his face, which
      was covered with dust, and as soon as he had done so he recognised him and
      said, "Senor Quixada" (for so he appears to have been called when he was
      in his senses and had not yet changed from a quiet country gentleman into
      a knight-errant), "who has brought your worship to this pass?" But to all
      questions the other only went on with his ballad.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeing this, the good man removed as well as he could his breastplate and
      backpiece to see if he had any wound, but he could perceive no blood nor
      any mark whatever. He then contrived to raise him from the ground, and
      with no little difficulty hoisted him upon his ass, which seemed to him to
      be the easiest mount for him; and collecting the arms, even to the
      splinters of the lance, he tied them on Rocinante, and leading him by the
      bridle and the ass by the halter he took the road for the village, very
      sad to hear what absurd stuff Don Quixote was talking.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p029" id="p029"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p029.jpg (285K)" src="images/p029.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p029.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor was Don Quixote less so, for what with blows and bruises he could not
      sit upright on the ass, and from time to time he sent up sighs to heaven,
      so that once more he drove the peasant to ask what ailed him. And it could
      have been only the devil himself that put into his head tales to match his
      own adventures, for now, forgetting Baldwin, he bethought himself of the
      Moor Abindarraez, when the Alcaide of Antequera, Rodrigo de Narvaez, took
      him prisoner and carried him away to his castle; so that when the peasant
      again asked him how he was and what ailed him, he gave him for reply the
      same words and phrases that the captive Abindarraez gave to Rodrigo de
      Narvaez, just as he had read the story in the "Diana" of Jorge de
      Montemayor where it is written, applying it to his own case so aptly that
      the peasant went along cursing his fate that he had to listen to such a
      lot of nonsense; from which, however, he came to the conclusion that his
      neighbour was mad, and so made all haste to reach the village to escape
      the wearisomeness of this harangue of Don Quixote's; who, at the end of
      it, said, "Senor Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, your worship must know that this
      fair Xarifa I have mentioned is now the lovely Dulcinea del Toboso, for
      whom I have done, am doing, and will do the most famous deeds of chivalry
      that in this world have been seen, are to be seen, or ever shall be seen."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this the peasant answered, "Senor&mdash;sinner that I am!&mdash;cannot
      your worship see that I am not Don Rodrigo de Narvaez nor the Marquis of
      Mantua, but Pedro Alonso your neighbour, and that your worship is neither
      Baldwin nor Abindarraez, but the worthy gentleman Senor Quixada?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know who I am," replied Don Quixote, "and I know that I may be not only
      those I have named, but all the Twelve Peers of France and even all the
      Nine Worthies, since my achievements surpass all that they have done all
      together and each of them on his own account."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this talk and more of the same kind they reached the village just as
      night was beginning to fall, but the peasant waited until it was a little
      later that the belaboured gentleman might not be seen riding in such a
      miserable trim. When it was what seemed to him the proper time he entered
      the village and went to Don Quixote's house, which he found all in
      confusion, and there were the curate and the village barber, who were
      great friends of Don Quixote, and his housekeeper was saying to them in a
      loud voice, "What does your worship think can have befallen my master,
      Senor Licentiate Pero Perez?" for so the curate was called; "it is three
      days now since anything has been seen of him, or the hack, or the buckler,
      lance, or armour. Miserable me! I am certain of it, and it is as true as
      that I was born to die, that these accursed books of chivalry he has, and
      has got into the way of reading so constantly, have upset his reason; for
      now I remember having often heard him saying to himself that he would turn
      knight-errant and go all over the world in quest of adventures. To the
      devil and Barabbas with such books, that have brought to ruin in this way
      the finest understanding there was in all La Mancha!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The niece said the same, and, more: "You must know, Master Nicholas"&mdash;for
      that was the name of the barber&mdash;"it was often my uncle's way to stay
      two days and nights together poring over these unholy books of
      misventures, after which he would fling the book away and snatch up his
      sword and fall to slashing the walls; and when he was tired out he would
      say he had killed four giants like four towers; and the sweat that flowed
      from him when he was weary he said was the blood of the wounds he had
      received in battle; and then he would drink a great jug of cold water and
      become calm and quiet, saying that this water was a most precious potion
      which the sage Esquife, a great magician and friend of his, had brought
      him. But I take all the blame upon myself for never having told your
      worships of my uncle's vagaries, that you might put a stop to them before
      things had come to this pass, and burn all these accursed books&mdash;for
      he has a great number&mdash;that richly deserve to be burned like
      heretics."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So say I too," said the curate, "and by my faith to-morrow shall not pass
      without public judgment upon them, and may they be condemned to the flames
      lest they lead those that read to behave as my good friend seems to have
      behaved."
    </p>
    <p>
      All this the peasant heard, and from it he understood at last what was the
      matter with his neighbour, so he began calling aloud, "Open, your
      worships, to Senor Baldwin and to Senor the Marquis of Mantua, who comes
      badly wounded, and to Senor Abindarraez, the Moor, whom the valiant
      Rodrigo de Narvaez, the Alcaide of Antequera, brings captive."
    </p>
    <p>
      At these words they all hurried out, and when they recognised their
      friend, master, and uncle, who had not yet dismounted from the ass because
      he could not, they ran to embrace him.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hold!" said he, "for I am badly wounded through my horse's fault; carry
      me to bed, and if possible send for the wise Urganda to cure and see to my
      wounds."
    </p>
    <p>
      "See there! plague on it!" cried the housekeeper at this: "did not my
      heart tell the truth as to which foot my master went lame of? To bed with
      your worship at once, and we will contrive to cure you here without
      fetching that Hurgada. A curse I say once more, and a hundred times more,
      on those books of chivalry that have brought your worship to such a pass."
    </p>
    <p>
      They carried him to bed at once, and after searching for his wounds could
      find none, but he said they were all bruises from having had a severe fall
      with his horse Rocinante when in combat with ten giants, the biggest and
      the boldest to be found on earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So, so!" said the curate, "are there giants in the dance? By the sign of
      the Cross I will burn them to-morrow before the day over."
    </p>
    <p>
      They put a host of questions to Don Quixote, but his only answer to all
      was&mdash;give him something to eat, and leave him to sleep, for that was
      what he needed most. They did so, and the curate questioned the peasant at
      great length as to how he had found Don Quixote. He told him, and the
      nonsense he had talked when found and on the way home, all which made the
      licentiate the more eager to do what he did the next day, which was to
      summon his friend the barber, Master Nicholas, and go with him to Don
      Quixote's house.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p031" id="p031"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p031.jpg (31K)" src="images/p031.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch6" id="ch6"></a>CHAPTER VI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE DIVERTING AND IMPORTANT SCRUTINY WHICH THE CURATE AND THE BARBER
      MADE IN THE LIBRARY OF OUR INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c06a" id="c06a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c06a.jpg (92K)" src="images/c06a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c06a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      He was still sleeping; so the curate asked the niece for the keys of the
      room where the books, the authors of all the mischief, were, and right
      willingly she gave them. They all went in, the housekeeper with them, and
      found more than a hundred volumes of big books very well bound, and some
      other small ones. The moment the housekeeper saw them she turned about and
      ran out of the room, and came back immediately with a saucer of holy water
      and a sprinkler, saying, "Here, your worship, senor licentiate, sprinkle
      this room; don't leave any magician of the many there are in these books
      to bewitch us in revenge for our design of banishing them from the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      The simplicity of the housekeeper made the licentiate laugh, and he
      directed the barber to give him the books one by one to see what they were
      about, as there might be some to be found among them that did not deserve
      the penalty of fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No," said the niece, "there is no reason for showing mercy to any of
      them; they have every one of them done mischief; better fling them out of
      the window into the court and make a pile of them and set fire to them; or
      else carry them into the yard, and there a bonfire can be made without the
      smoke giving any annoyance." The housekeeper said the same, so eager were
      they both for the slaughter of those innocents, but the curate would not
      agree to it without first reading at any rate the titles.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first that Master Nicholas put into his hand was "The four books of
      Amadis of Gaul." "This seems a mysterious thing," said the curate, "for,
      as I have heard say, this was the first book of chivalry printed in Spain,
      and from this all the others derive their birth and origin; so it seems to
      me that we ought inexorably to condemn it to the flames as the founder of
      so vile a sect."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, sir," said the barber, "I too, have heard say that this is the best
      of all the books of this kind that have been written, and so, as something
      singular in its line, it ought to be pardoned."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True," said the curate; "and for that reason let its life be spared for
      the present. Let us see that other which is next to it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is," said the barber, "the 'Sergas de Esplandian,' the lawful son of
      Amadis of Gaul."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then verily," said the curate, "the merit of the father must not be put
      down to the account of the son. Take it, mistress housekeeper; open the
      window and fling it into the yard and lay the foundation of the pile for
      the bonfire we are to make."
    </p>
    <p>
      The housekeeper obeyed with great satisfaction, and the worthy
      "Esplandian" went flying into the yard to await with all patience the fire
      that was in store for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Proceed," said the curate.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This that comes next," said the barber, "is 'Amadis of Greece,' and,
      indeed, I believe all those on this side are of the same Amadis lineage."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then to the yard with the whole of them," said the curate; "for to have
      the burning of Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the shepherd Darinel and his
      eclogues, and the bedevilled and involved discourses of his author, I
      would burn with them the father who begot me if he were going about in the
      guise of a knight-errant."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am of the same mind," said the barber.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And so am I," added the niece.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In that case," said the housekeeper, "here, into the yard with them!"
    </p>
    <p>
      They were handed to her, and as there were many of them, she spared
      herself the staircase, and flung them down out of the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who is that tub there?" said the curate.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This," said the barber, "is 'Don Olivante de Laura.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The author of that book," said the curate, "was the same that wrote 'The
      Garden of Flowers,' and truly there is no deciding which of the two books
      is the more truthful, or, to put it better, the less lying; all I can say
      is, send this one into the yard for a swaggering fool."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This that follows is 'Florismarte of Hircania,'" said the barber.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor Florismarte here?" said the curate; "then by my faith he must take
      up his quarters in the yard, in spite of his marvellous birth and
      visionary adventures, for the stiffness and dryness of his style deserve
      nothing else; into the yard with him and the other, mistress housekeeper."
    </p>
    <p>
      "With all my heart, senor," said she, and executed the order with great
      delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This," said the barber, "is The Knight Platir.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "An old book that," said the curate, "but I find no reason for clemency in
      it; send it after the others without appeal;" which was done.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another book was opened, and they saw it was entitled, "The Knight of the
      Cross."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For the sake of the holy name this book has," said the curate, "its
      ignorance might be excused; but then, they say, 'behind the cross there's
      the devil; to the fire with it."
    </p>
    <p>
      Taking down another book, the barber said, "This is 'The Mirror of
      Chivalry.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know his worship," said the curate; "that is where Senor Reinaldos of
      Montalvan figures with his friends and comrades, greater thieves than
      Cacus, and the Twelve Peers of France with the veracious historian Turpin;
      however, I am not for condemning them to more than perpetual banishment,
      because, at any rate, they have some share in the invention of the famous
      Matteo Boiardo, whence too the Christian poet Ludovico Ariosto wove his
      web, to whom, if I find him here, and speaking any language but his own, I
      shall show no respect whatever; but if he speaks his own tongue I will put
      him upon my head."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, I have him in Italian," said the barber, "but I do not understand
      him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nor would it be well that you should understand him," said the curate,
      "and on that score we might have excused the Captain if he had not brought
      him into Spain and turned him into Castilian. He robbed him of a great
      deal of his natural force, and so do all those who try to turn books
      written in verse into another language, for, with all the pains they take
      and all the cleverness they show, they never can reach the level of the
      originals as they were first produced. In short, I say that this book, and
      all that may be found treating of those French affairs, should be thrown
      into or deposited in some dry well, until after more consideration it is
      settled what is to be done with them; excepting always one 'Bernardo del
      Carpio' that is going about, and another called 'Roncesvalles;' for these,
      if they come into my hands, shall pass at once into those of the
      housekeeper, and from hers into the fire without any reprieve."
    </p>
    <p>
      To all this the barber gave his assent, and looked upon it as right and
      proper, being persuaded that the curate was so staunch to the Faith and
      loyal to the Truth that he would not for the world say anything opposed to
      them. Opening another book he saw it was "Palmerin de Oliva," and beside
      it was another called "Palmerin of England," seeing which the licentiate
      said, "Let the Olive be made firewood of at once and burned until no ashes
      even are left; and let that Palm of England be kept and preserved as a
      thing that stands alone, and let such another case be made for it as that
      which Alexander found among the spoils of Darius and set aside for the
      safe keeping of the works of the poet Homer. This book, gossip, is of
      authority for two reasons, first because it is very good, and secondly
      because it is said to have been written by a wise and witty king of
      Portugal. All the adventures at the Castle of Miraguarda are excellent and
      of admirable contrivance, and the language is polished and clear, studying
      and observing the style befitting the speaker with propriety and judgment.
      So then, provided it seems good to you, Master Nicholas, I say let this
      and 'Amadis of Gaul' be remitted the penalty of fire, and as for all the
      rest, let them perish without further question or query."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, gossip," said the barber, "for this that I have here is the famous
      'Don Belianis.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well," said the curate, "that and the second, third, and fourth parts all
      stand in need of a little rhubarb to purge their excess of bile, and they
      must be cleared of all that stuff about the Castle of Fame and other
      greater affectations, to which end let them be allowed the over-seas term,
      and, according as they mend, so shall mercy or justice be meted out to
      them; and in the mean time, gossip, do you keep them in your house and let
      no one read them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "With all my heart," said the barber; and not caring to tire himself with
      reading more books of chivalry, he told the housekeeper to take all the
      big ones and throw them into the yard. It was not said to one dull or
      deaf, but to one who enjoyed burning them more than weaving the broadest
      and finest web that could be; and seizing about eight at a time, she flung
      them out of the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      In carrying so many together she let one fall at the feet of the barber,
      who took it up, curious to know whose it was, and found it said, "History
      of the Famous Knight, Tirante el Blanco."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God bless me!" said the curate with a shout, "'Tirante el Blanco' here!
      Hand it over, gossip, for in it I reckon I have found a treasury of
      enjoyment and a mine of recreation. Here is Don Kyrieleison of Montalvan,
      a valiant knight, and his brother Thomas of Montalvan, and the knight
      Fonseca, with the battle the bold Tirante fought with the mastiff, and the
      witticisms of the damsel Placerdemivida, and the loves and wiles of the
      widow Reposada, and the empress in love with the squire Hipolito&mdash;in
      truth, gossip, by right of its style it is the best book in the world.
      Here knights eat and sleep, and die in their beds, and make their wills
      before dying, and a great deal more of which there is nothing in all the
      other books. Nevertheless, I say he who wrote it, for deliberately
      composing such fooleries, deserves to be sent to the galleys for life.
      Take it home with you and read it, and you will see that what I have said
      is true."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As you will," said the barber; "but what are we to do with these little
      books that are left?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "These must be, not chivalry, but poetry," said the curate; and opening
      one he saw it was the "Diana" of Jorge de Montemayor, and, supposing all
      the others to be of the same sort, "these," he said, "do not deserve to be
      burned like the others, for they neither do nor can do the mischief the
      books of chivalry have done, being books of entertainment that can hurt no
      one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, senor!" said the niece, "your worship had better order these to be
      burned as well as the others; for it would be no wonder if, after being
      cured of his chivalry disorder, my uncle, by reading these, took a fancy
      to turn shepherd and range the woods and fields singing and piping; or,
      what would be still worse, to turn poet, which they say is an incurable
      and infectious malady."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The damsel is right," said the curate, "and it will be well to put this
      stumbling-block and temptation out of our friend's way. To begin, then,
      with the 'Diana' of Montemayor. I am of opinion it should not be burned,
      but that it should be cleared of all that about the sage Felicia and the
      magic water, and of almost all the longer pieces of verse: let it keep,
      and welcome, its prose and the honour of being the first of books of the
      kind."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This that comes next," said the barber, "is the 'Diana,' entitled the
      'Second Part, by the Salamancan,' and this other has the same title, and
      its author is Gil Polo."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As for that of the Salamancan," replied the curate, "let it go to swell
      the number of the condemned in the yard, and let Gil Polo's be preserved
      as if it came from Apollo himself: but get on, gossip, and make haste, for
      it is growing late."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This book," said the barber, opening another, "is the ten books of the
      'Fortune of Love,' written by Antonio de Lofraso, a Sardinian poet."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By the orders I have received," said the curate, "since Apollo has been
      Apollo, and the Muses have been Muses, and poets have been poets, so droll
      and absurd a book as this has never been written, and in its way it is the
      best and the most singular of all of this species that have as yet
      appeared, and he who has not read it may be sure he has never read what is
      delightful. Give it here, gossip, for I make more account of having found
      it than if they had given me a cassock of Florence stuff."
    </p>
    <p>
      He put it aside with extreme satisfaction, and the barber went on, "These
      that come next are 'The Shepherd of Iberia,' 'Nymphs of Henares,' and 'The
      Enlightenment of Jealousy.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then all we have to do," said the curate, "is to hand them over to the
      secular arm of the housekeeper, and ask me not why, or we shall never have
      done."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This next is the 'Pastor de Filida.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No Pastor that," said the curate, "but a highly polished courtier; let it
      be preserved as a precious jewel."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This large one here," said the barber, "is called 'The Treasury of
      various Poems.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "If there were not so many of them," said the curate, "they would be more
      relished: this book must be weeded and cleansed of certain vulgarities
      which it has with its excellences; let it be preserved because the author
      is a friend of mine, and out of respect for other more heroic and loftier
      works that he has written."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This," continued the barber, "is the 'Cancionero' of Lopez de Maldonado."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The author of that book, too," said the curate, "is a great friend of
      mine, and his verses from his own mouth are the admiration of all who hear
      them, for such is the sweetness of his voice that he enchants when he
      chants them: it gives rather too much of its eclogues, but what is good
      was never yet plentiful: let it be kept with those that have been set
      apart. But what book is that next it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The 'Galatea' of Miguel de Cervantes," said the barber.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That Cervantes has been for many years a great friend of mine, and to my
      knowledge he has had more experience in reverses than in verses. His book
      has some good invention in it, it presents us with something but brings
      nothing to a conclusion: we must wait for the Second Part it promises:
      perhaps with amendment it may succeed in winning the full measure of grace
      that is now denied it; and in the mean time do you, senor gossip, keep it
      shut up in your own quarters."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very good," said the barber; "and here come three together, the
      'Araucana' of Don Alonso de Ercilla, the 'Austriada' of Juan Rufo, Justice
      of Cordova, and the 'Montserrate' of Christobal de Virues, the Valencian
      poet."
    </p>
    <p>
      "These three books," said the curate, "are the best that have been written
      in Castilian in heroic verse, and they may compare with the most famous of
      Italy; let them be preserved as the richest treasures of poetry that Spain
      possesses."
    </p>
    <p>
      The curate was tired and would not look into any more books, and so he
      decided that, "contents uncertified," all the rest should be burned; but
      just then the barber held open one, called "The Tears of Angelica."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I should have shed tears myself," said the curate when he heard the
      title, "had I ordered that book to be burned, for its author was one of
      the famous poets of the world, not to say of Spain, and was very happy in
      the translation of some of Ovid's fables."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c06e" id="c06e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c06e.jpg (30K)" src="images/c06e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch7" id="ch7"></a>CHAPTER VII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE SECOND SALLY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c07a" id="c07a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c07a.jpg (151K)" src="images/c07a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c07a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      At this instant Don Quixote began shouting out, "Here, here, valiant
      knights! here is need for you to put forth the might of your strong arms,
      for they of the Court are gaining the mastery in the tourney!" Called away
      by this noise and outcry, they proceeded no farther with the scrutiny of
      the remaining books, and so it is thought that "The Carolea," "The Lion of
      Spain," and "The Deeds of the Emperor," written by Don Luis de Avila, went
      to the fire unseen and unheard; for no doubt they were among those that
      remained, and perhaps if the curate had seen them they would not have
      undergone so severe a sentence.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they reached Don Quixote he was already out of bed, and was still
      shouting and raving, and slashing and cutting all round, as wide awake as
      if he had never slept.
    </p>
    <p>
      They closed with him and by force got him back to bed, and when he had
      become a little calm, addressing the curate, he said to him, "Of a truth,
      Senor Archbishop Turpin, it is a great disgrace for us who call ourselves
      the Twelve Peers, so carelessly to allow the knights of the Court to gain
      the victory in this tourney, we the adventurers having carried off the
      honour on the three former days."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hush, gossip," said the curate; "please God, the luck may turn, and what
      is lost to-day may be won to-morrow; for the present let your worship have
      a care of your health, for it seems to me that you are over-fatigued, if
      not badly wounded."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Wounded no," said Don Quixote, "but bruised and battered no doubt, for
      that bastard Don Roland has cudgelled me with the trunk of an oak tree,
      and all for envy, because he sees that I alone rival him in his
      achievements. But I should not call myself Reinaldos of Montalvan did he
      not pay me for it in spite of all his enchantments as soon as I rise from
      this bed. For the present let them bring me something to eat, for that, I
      feel, is what will be more to my purpose, and leave it to me to avenge
      myself."
    </p>
    <p>
      They did as he wished; they gave him something to eat, and once more he
      fell asleep, leaving them marvelling at his madness.
    </p>
    <p>
      That night the housekeeper burned to ashes all the books that were in the
      yard and in the whole house; and some must have been consumed that
      deserved preservation in everlasting archives, but their fate and the
      laziness of the examiner did not permit it, and so in them was verified
      the proverb that the innocent suffer for the guilty.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the remedies which the curate and the barber immediately applied to
      their friend's disorder was to wall up and plaster the room where the
      books were, so that when he got up he should not find them (possibly the
      cause being removed the effect might cease), and they might say that a
      magician had carried them off, room and all; and this was done with all
      despatch. Two days later Don Quixote got up, and the first thing he did
      was to go and look at his books, and not finding the room where he had
      left it, he wandered from side to side looking for it. He came to the
      place where the door used to be, and tried it with his hands, and turned
      and twisted his eyes in every direction without saying a word; but after a
      good while he asked his housekeeper whereabouts was the room that held his
      books.
    </p>
    <p>
      The housekeeper, who had been already well instructed in what she was to
      answer, said, "What room or what nothing is it that your worship is
      looking for? There are neither room nor books in this house now, for the
      devil himself has carried all away."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was not the devil," said the niece, "but a magician who came on a
      cloud one night after the day your worship left this, and dismounting from
      a serpent that he rode he entered the room, and what he did there I know
      not, but after a little while he made off, flying through the roof, and
      left the house full of smoke; and when we went to see what he had done we
      saw neither book nor room: but we remember very well, the housekeeper and
      I, that on leaving, the old villain said in a loud voice that, for a
      private grudge he owed the owner of the books and the room, he had done
      mischief in that house that would be discovered by-and-by: he said too
      that his name was the Sage Munaton."
    </p>
    <p>
      "He must have said Friston," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know whether he called himself Friston or Friton," said the
      housekeeper, "I only know that his name ended with 'ton.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "So it does," said Don Quixote, "and he is a sage magician, a great enemy
      of mine, who has a spite against me because he knows by his arts and lore
      that in process of time I am to engage in single combat with a knight whom
      he befriends and that I am to conquer, and he will be unable to prevent
      it; and for this reason he endeavours to do me all the ill turns that he
      can; but I promise him it will be hard for him to oppose or avoid what is
      decreed by Heaven."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who doubts that?" said the niece; "but, uncle, who mixes you up in these
      quarrels? Would it not be better to remain at peace in your own house
      instead of roaming the world looking for better bread than ever came of
      wheat, never reflecting that many go for wool and come back shorn?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, niece of mine," replied Don Quixote, "how much astray art thou in thy
      reckoning: ere they shear me I shall have plucked away and stripped off
      the beards of all who dare to touch only the tip of a hair of mine."
    </p>
    <p>
      The two were unwilling to make any further answer, as they saw that his
      anger was kindling.
    </p>
    <p>
      In short, then, he remained at home fifteen days very quietly without
      showing any signs of a desire to take up with his former delusions, and
      during this time he held lively discussions with his two gossips, the
      curate and the barber, on the point he maintained, that knights-errant
      were what the world stood most in need of, and that in him was to be
      accomplished the revival of knight-errantry. The curate sometimes
      contradicted him, sometimes agreed with him, for if he had not observed
      this precaution he would have been unable to bring him to reason.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a farm labourer, a neighbour of his, an
      honest man (if indeed that title can be given to him who is poor), but
      with very little wit in his pate. In a word, he so talked him over, and
      with such persuasions and promises, that the poor clown made up his mind
      to sally forth with him and serve him as esquire. Don Quixote, among other
      things, told him he ought to be ready to go with him gladly, because any
      moment an adventure might occur that might win an island in the twinkling
      of an eye and leave him governor of it. On these and the like promises
      Sancho Panza (for so the labourer was called) left wife and children, and
      engaged himself as esquire to his neighbour.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c07b" id="c07b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c07b.jpg (322K)" src="images/c07b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c07b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote next set about getting some money; and selling one thing and
      pawning another, and making a bad bargain in every case, he got together a
      fair sum. He provided himself with a buckler, which he begged as a loan
      from a friend, and, restoring his battered helmet as best he could, he
      warned his squire Sancho of the day and hour he meant to set out, that he
      might provide himself with what he thought most needful. Above all, he
      charged him to take alforjas with him. The other said he would, and that
      he meant to take also a very good ass he had, as he was not much given to
      going on foot. About the ass, Don Quixote hesitated a little, trying
      whether he could call to mind any knight-errant taking with him an esquire
      mounted on ass-back, but no instance occurred to his memory. For all that,
      however, he determined to take him, intending to furnish him with a more
      honourable mount when a chance of it presented itself, by appropriating
      the horse of the first discourteous knight he encountered. Himself he
      provided with shirts and such other things as he could, according to the
      advice the host had given him; all which being done, without taking leave,
      Sancho Panza of his wife and children, or Don Quixote of his housekeeper
      and niece, they sallied forth unseen by anybody from the village one
      night, and made such good way in the course of it that by daylight they
      held themselves safe from discovery, even should search be made for them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho rode on his ass like a patriarch, with his alforjas and bota, and
      longing to see himself soon governor of the island his master had promised
      him. Don Quixote decided upon taking the same route and road he had taken
      on his first journey, that over the Campo de Montiel, which he travelled
      with less discomfort than on the last occasion, for, as it was early
      morning and the rays of the sun fell on them obliquely, the heat did not
      distress them.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now said Sancho Panza to his master, "Your worship will take care,
      Senor Knight-errant, not to forget about the island you have promised me,
      for be it ever so big I'll be equal to governing it."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Don Quixote replied, "Thou must know, friend Sancho Panza, that
      it was a practice very much in vogue with the knights-errant of old to
      make their squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they won, and I am
      determined that there shall be no failure on my part in so liberal a
      custom; on the contrary, I mean to improve upon it, for they sometimes,
      and perhaps most frequently, waited until their squires were old, and then
      when they had had enough of service and hard days and worse nights, they
      gave them some title or other, of count, or at the most marquis, of some
      valley or province more or less; but if thou livest and I live, it may
      well be that before six days are over, I may have won some kingdom that
      has others dependent upon it, which will be just the thing to enable thee
      to be crowned king of one of them. Nor needst thou count this wonderful,
      for things and chances fall to the lot of such knights in ways so
      unexampled and unexpected that I might easily give thee even more than I
      promise thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In that case," said Sancho Panza, "if I should become a king by one of
      those miracles your worship speaks of, even Juana Gutierrez, my old woman,
      would come to be queen and my children infantes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, who doubts it?" said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I doubt it," replied Sancho Panza, "because for my part I am persuaded
      that though God should shower down kingdoms upon earth, not one of them
      would fit the head of Mari Gutierrez. Let me tell you, senor, she is not
      worth two maravedis for a queen; countess will fit her better, and that
      only with God's help."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Leave it to God, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "for he will give her
      what suits her best; but do not undervalue thyself so much as to come to
      be content with anything less than being governor of a province."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will not, senor," answered Sancho, "specially as I have a man of such
      quality for a master in your worship, who will know how to give me all
      that will be suitable for me and that I can bear."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c07e" id="c07e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c07e.jpg (70K)" src="images/c07e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch8" id="ch8"></a>CHAPTER VIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE GOOD FORTUNE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE TERRIBLE AND
      UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS, WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTHY TO
      BE FITLY RECORDED
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c08a" id="c08a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c08a.jpg (142K)" src="images/c08a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c08a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      At this point they came in sight of thirty forty windmills that there are
      on plain, and as soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to his squire,
      "Fortune is arranging matters for us better than we could have shaped our
      desires ourselves, for look there, friend Sancho Panza, where thirty or
      more monstrous giants present themselves, all of whom I mean to engage in
      battle and slay, and with whose spoils we shall begin to make our
      fortunes; for this is righteous warfare, and it is God's good service to
      sweep so evil a breed from off the face of the earth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What giants?" said Sancho Panza.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Those thou seest there," answered his master, "with the long arms, and
      some have them nearly two leagues long."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Look, your worship," said Sancho; "what we see there are not giants but
      windmills, and what seem to be their arms are the sails that turned by the
      wind make the millstone go."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is easy to see," replied Don Quixote, "that thou art not used to this
      business of adventures; those are giants; and if thou art afraid, away
      with thee out of this and betake thyself to prayer while I engage them in
      fierce and unequal combat."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rocinante, heedless of the cries
      his squire Sancho sent after him, warning him that most certainly they
      were windmills and not giants he was going to attack. He, however, was so
      positive they were giants that he neither heard the cries of Sancho, nor
      perceived, near as he was, what they were, but made at them shouting, "Fly
      not, cowards and vile beings, for a single knight attacks you."
    </p>
    <p>
      A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great sails began to
      move, seeing which Don Quixote exclaimed, "Though ye flourish more arms
      than the giant Briareus, ye have to reckon with me."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, and commending himself with all his heart to his lady Dulcinea,
      imploring her to support him in such a peril, with lance in rest and
      covered by his buckler, he charged at Rocinante's fullest gallop and fell
      upon the first mill that stood in front of him; but as he drove his
      lance-point into the sail the wind whirled it round with such force that
      it shivered the lance to pieces, sweeping with it horse and rider, who
      went rolling over on the plain, in a sorry condition. Sancho hastened to
      his assistance as fast as his ass could go, and when he came up found him
      unable to move, with such a shock had Rocinante fallen with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c08b" id="c08b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c08b.jpg (358K)" src="images/c08b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c08b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "God bless me!" said Sancho, "did I not tell your worship to mind what you
      were about, for they were only windmills? and no one could have made any
      mistake about it but one who had something of the same kind in his head."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hush, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "the fortunes of war more than
      any other are liable to frequent fluctuations; and moreover I think, and
      it is the truth, that that same sage Friston who carried off my study and
      books, has turned these giants into mills in order to rob me of the glory
      of vanquishing them, such is the enmity he bears me; but in the end his
      wicked arts will avail but little against my good sword."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c08c" id="c08c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c08c.jpg (301K)" src="images/c08c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c08c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "God order it as he may," said Sancho Panza, and helping him to rise got
      him up again on Rocinante, whose shoulder was half out; and then,
      discussing the late adventure, they followed the road to Puerto Lapice,
      for there, said Don Quixote, they could not fail to find adventures in
      abundance and variety, as it was a great thoroughfare. For all that, he
      was much grieved at the loss of his lance, and saying so to his squire, he
      added, "I remember having read how a Spanish knight, Diego Perez de Vargas
      by name, having broken his sword in battle, tore from an oak a ponderous
      bough or branch, and with it did such things that day, and pounded so many
      Moors, that he got the surname of Machuca, and he and his descendants from
      that day forth were called Vargas y Machuca. I mention this because from
      the first oak I see I mean to rend such another branch, large and stout
      like that, with which I am determined and resolved to do such deeds that
      thou mayest deem thyself very fortunate in being found worthy to come and
      see them, and be an eyewitness of things that will with difficulty be
      believed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be that as God will," said Sancho, "I believe it all as your worship says
      it; but straighten yourself a little, for you seem all on one side, may be
      from the shaking of the fall."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is the truth," said Don Quixote, "and if I make no complaint of the
      pain it is because knights-errant are not permitted to complain of any
      wound, even though their bowels be coming out through it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If so," said Sancho, "I have nothing to say; but God knows I would rather
      your worship complained when anything ailed you. For my part, I confess I
      must complain however small the ache may be; unless this rule about not
      complaining extends to the squires of knights-errant also."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote could not help laughing at his squire's simplicity, and he
      assured him he might complain whenever and however he chose, just as he
      liked, for, so far, he had never read of anything to the contrary in the
      order of knighthood.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho bade him remember it was dinner-time, to which his master answered
      that he wanted nothing himself just then, but that he might eat when he
      had a mind. With this permission Sancho settled himself as comfortably as
      he could on his beast, and taking out of the alforjas what he had stowed
      away in them, he jogged along behind his master munching deliberately, and
      from time to time taking a pull at the bota with a relish that the
      thirstiest tapster in Malaga might have envied; and while he went on in
      this way, gulping down draught after draught, he never gave a thought to
      any of the promises his master had made him, nor did he rate it as
      hardship but rather as recreation going in quest of adventures, however
      dangerous they might be. Finally they passed the night among some trees,
      from one of which Don Quixote plucked a dry branch to serve him after a
      fashion as a lance, and fixed on it the head he had removed from the
      broken one. All that night Don Quixote lay awake thinking of his lady
      Dulcinea, in order to conform to what he had read in his books, how many a
      night in the forests and deserts knights used to lie sleepless supported
      by the memory of their mistresses. Not so did Sancho Panza spend it, for
      having his stomach full of something stronger than chicory water he made
      but one sleep of it, and, if his master had not called him, neither the
      rays of the sun beating on his face nor all the cheery notes of the birds
      welcoming the approach of day would have had power to waken him. On
      getting up he tried the bota and found it somewhat less full than the
      night before, which grieved his heart because they did not seem to be on
      the way to remedy the deficiency readily. Don Quixote did not care to
      break his fast, for, as has been already said, he confined himself to
      savoury recollections for nourishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      They returned to the road they had set out with, leading to Puerto Lapice,
      and at three in the afternoon they came in sight of it. "Here, brother
      Sancho Panza," said Don Quixote when he saw it, "we may plunge our hands
      up to the elbows in what they call adventures; but observe, even shouldst
      thou see me in the greatest danger in the world, thou must not put a hand
      to thy sword in my defence, unless indeed thou perceivest that those who
      assail me are rabble or base folk; for in that case thou mayest very
      properly aid me; but if they be knights it is on no account permitted or
      allowed thee by the laws of knighthood to help me until thou hast been
      dubbed a knight."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Most certainly, senor," replied Sancho, "your worship shall be fully
      obeyed in this matter; all the more as of myself I am peaceful and no
      friend to mixing in strife and quarrels: it is true that as regards the
      defence of my own person I shall not give much heed to those laws, for
      laws human and divine allow each one to defend himself against any
      assailant whatever."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I grant," said Don Quixote, "but in this matter of aiding me against
      knights thou must put a restraint upon thy natural impetuosity."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will do so, I promise you," answered Sancho, "and will keep this
      precept as carefully as Sunday."
    </p>
    <p>
      While they were thus talking there appeared on the road two friars of the
      order of St. Benedict, mounted on two dromedaries, for not less tall were
      the two mules they rode on. They wore travelling spectacles and carried
      sunshades; and behind them came a coach attended by four or five persons
      on horseback and two muleteers on foot. In the coach there was, as
      afterwards appeared, a Biscay lady on her way to Seville, where her
      husband was about to take passage for the Indies with an appointment of
      high honour. The friars, though going the same road, were not in her
      company; but the moment Don Quixote perceived them he said to his squire,
      "Either I am mistaken, or this is going to be the most famous adventure
      that has ever been seen, for those black bodies we see there must be, and
      doubtless are, magicians who are carrying off some stolen princess in that
      coach, and with all my might I must undo this wrong."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This will be worse than the windmills," said Sancho. "Look, senor; those
      are friars of St. Benedict, and the coach plainly belongs to some
      travellers: I tell you to mind well what you are about and don't let the
      devil mislead you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have told thee already, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that on the
      subject of adventures thou knowest little. What I say is the truth, as
      thou shalt see presently."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he advanced and posted himself in the middle of the road along
      which the friars were coming, and as soon as he thought they had come near
      enough to hear what he said, he cried aloud, "Devilish and unnatural
      beings, release instantly the highborn princesses whom you are carrying
      off by force in this coach, else prepare to meet a speedy death as the
      just punishment of your evil deeds."
    </p>
    <p>
      The friars drew rein and stood wondering at the appearance of Don Quixote
      as well as at his words, to which they replied, "Senor Caballero, we are
      not devilish or unnatural, but two brothers of St. Benedict following our
      road, nor do we know whether or not there are any captive princesses
      coming in this coach."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No soft words with me, for I know you, lying rabble," said Don Quixote,
      and without waiting for a reply he spurred Rocinante and with levelled
      lance charged the first friar with such fury and determination, that, if
      the friar had not flung himself off the mule, he would have brought him to
      the ground against his will, and sore wounded, if not killed outright. The
      second brother, seeing how his comrade was treated, drove his heels into
      his castle of a mule and made off across the country faster than the wind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho Panza, when he saw the friar on the ground, dismounting briskly
      from his ass, rushed towards him and began to strip off his gown. At that
      instant the friars muleteers came up and asked what he was stripping him
      for. Sancho answered them that this fell to him lawfully as spoil of the
      battle which his lord Don Quixote had won. The muleteers, who had no idea
      of a joke and did not understand all this about battles and spoils, seeing
      that Don Quixote was some distance off talking to the travellers in the
      coach, fell upon Sancho, knocked him down, and leaving hardly a hair in
      his beard, belaboured him with kicks and left him stretched breathless and
      senseless on the ground; and without any more delay helped the friar to
      mount, who, trembling, terrified, and pale, as soon as he found himself in
      the saddle, spurred after his companion, who was standing at a distance
      looking on, watching the result of the onslaught; then, not caring to wait
      for the end of the affair just begun, they pursued their journey making
      more crosses than if they had the devil after them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote was, as has been said, speaking to the lady in the coach:
      "Your beauty, lady mine," said he, "may now dispose of your person as may
      be most in accordance with your pleasure, for the pride of your ravishers
      lies prostrate on the ground through this strong arm of mine; and lest you
      should be pining to know the name of your deliverer, know that I am called
      Don Quixote of La Mancha, knight-errant and adventurer, and captive to the
      peerless and beautiful lady Dulcinea del Toboso: and in return for the
      service you have received of me I ask no more than that you should return
      to El Toboso, and on my behalf present yourself before that lady and tell
      her what I have done to set you free."
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the squires in attendance upon the coach, a Biscayan, was listening
      to all Don Quixote was saying, and, perceiving that he would not allow the
      coach to go on, but was saying it must return at once to El Toboso, he
      made at him, and seizing his lance addressed him in bad Castilian and
      worse Biscayan after his fashion, "Begone, caballero, and ill go with
      thee; by the God that made me, unless thou quittest coach, slayest thee as
      art here a Biscayan."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote understood him quite well, and answered him very quietly, "If
      thou wert a knight, as thou art none, I should have already chastised thy
      folly and rashness, miserable creature." To which the Biscayan returned,
      "I no gentleman!&mdash;I swear to God thou liest as I am Christian: if
      thou droppest lance and drawest sword, soon shalt thou see thou art
      carrying water to the cat: Biscayan on land, hidalgo at sea, hidalgo at
      the devil, and look, if thou sayest otherwise thou liest."
    </p>
    <p>
      "'"You will see presently," said Agrajes,'" replied Don Quixote; and
      throwing his lance on the ground he drew his sword, braced his buckler on
      his arm, and attacked the Biscayan, bent upon taking his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Biscayan, when he saw him coming on, though he wished to dismount from
      his mule, in which, being one of those sorry ones let out for hire, he had
      no confidence, had no choice but to draw his sword; it was lucky for him,
      however, that he was near the coach, from which he was able to snatch a
      cushion that served him for a shield; and they went at one another as if
      they had been two mortal enemies. The others strove to make peace between
      them, but could not, for the Biscayan declared in his disjointed phrase
      that if they did not let him finish his battle he would kill his mistress
      and everyone that strove to prevent him. The lady in the coach, amazed and
      terrified at what she saw, ordered the coachman to draw aside a little,
      and set herself to watch this severe struggle, in the course of which the
      Biscayan smote Don Quixote a mighty stroke on the shoulder over the top of
      his buckler, which, given to one without armour, would have cleft him to
      the waist. Don Quixote, feeling the weight of this prodigious blow, cried
      aloud, saying, "O lady of my soul, Dulcinea, flower of beauty, come to the
      aid of this your knight, who, in fulfilling his obligations to your
      beauty, finds himself in this extreme peril." To say this, to lift his
      sword, to shelter himself well behind his buckler, and to assail the
      Biscayan was the work of an instant, determined as he was to venture all
      upon a single blow. The Biscayan, seeing him come on in this way, was
      convinced of his courage by his spirited bearing, and resolved to follow
      his example, so he waited for him keeping well under cover of his cushion,
      being unable to execute any sort of manoeuvre with his mule, which, dead
      tired and never meant for this kind of game, could not stir a step.
    </p>
    <p>
      On, then, as aforesaid, came Don Quixote against the wary Biscayan, with
      uplifted sword and a firm intention of splitting him in half, while on his
      side the Biscayan waited for him sword in hand, and under the protection
      of his cushion; and all present stood trembling, waiting in suspense the
      result of blows such as threatened to fall, and the lady in the coach and
      the rest of her following were making a thousand vows and offerings to all
      the images and shrines of Spain, that God might deliver her squire and all
      of them from this great peril in which they found themselves. But it
      spoils all, that at this point and crisis the author of the history leaves
      this battle impending, giving as excuse that he could find nothing more
      written about these achievements of Don Quixote than what has been already
      set forth. It is true the second author of this work was unwilling to
      believe that a history so curious could have been allowed to fall under
      the sentence of oblivion, or that the wits of La Mancha could have been so
      undiscerning as not to preserve in their archives or registries some
      documents referring to this famous knight; and this being his persuasion,
      he did not despair of finding the conclusion of this pleasant history,
      which, heaven favouring him, he did find in a way that shall be related in
      the Second Part.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c08e" id="c08e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c08e.jpg (54K)" src="images/c08e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch9" id="ch9"></a>CHAPTER IX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH IS CONCLUDED AND FINISHED THE TERRIFIC BATTLE BETWEEN THE GALLANT
      BISCAYAN AND THE VALIANT MANCHEGAN
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c09a" id="c09a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c09a.jpg (142K)" src="images/c09a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c09a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      In the First Part of this history we left the valiant Biscayan and the
      renowned Don Quixote with drawn swords uplifted, ready to deliver two such
      furious slashing blows that if they had fallen full and fair they would at
      least have split and cleft them asunder from top to toe and laid them open
      like a pomegranate; and at this so critical point the delightful history
      came to a stop and stood cut short without any intimation from the author
      where what was missing was to be found.
    </p>
    <p>
      This distressed me greatly, because the pleasure derived from having read
      such a small portion turned to vexation at the thought of the poor chance
      that presented itself of finding the large part that, so it seemed to me,
      was missing of such an interesting tale. It appeared to me to be a thing
      impossible and contrary to all precedent that so good a knight should have
      been without some sage to undertake the task of writing his marvellous
      achievements; a thing that was never wanting to any of those
      knights-errant who, they say, went after adventures; for every one of them
      had one or two sages as if made on purpose, who not only recorded their
      deeds but described their most trifling thoughts and follies, however
      secret they might be; and such a good knight could not have been so
      unfortunate as not to have what Platir and others like him had in
      abundance. And so I could not bring myself to believe that such a gallant
      tale had been left maimed and mutilated, and I laid the blame on Time, the
      devourer and destroyer of all things, that had either concealed or
      consumed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the other hand, it struck me that, inasmuch as among his books there
      had been found such modern ones as "The Enlightenment of Jealousy" and the
      "Nymphs and Shepherds of Henares," his story must likewise be modern, and
      that though it might not be written, it might exist in the memory of the
      people of his village and of those in the neighbourhood. This reflection
      kept me perplexed and longing to know really and truly the whole life and
      wondrous deeds of our famous Spaniard, Don Quixote of La Mancha, light and
      mirror of Manchegan chivalry, and the first that in our age and in these
      so evil days devoted himself to the labour and exercise of the arms of
      knight-errantry, righting wrongs, succouring widows, and protecting
      damsels of that sort that used to ride about, whip in hand, on their
      palfreys, with all their virginity about them, from mountain to mountain
      and valley to valley&mdash;for, if it were not for some ruffian, or boor
      with a hood and hatchet, or monstrous giant, that forced them, there were
      in days of yore damsels that at the end of eighty years, in all which time
      they had never slept a day under a roof, went to their graves as much
      maids as the mothers that bore them. I say, then, that in these and other
      respects our gallant Don Quixote is worthy of everlasting and notable
      praise, nor should it be withheld even from me for the labour and pains
      spent in searching for the conclusion of this delightful history; though I
      know well that if Heaven, chance and good fortune had not helped me, the
      world would have remained deprived of an entertainment and pleasure that
      for a couple of hours or so may well occupy him who shall read it
      attentively. The discovery of it occurred in this way.
    </p>
    <p>
      One day, as I was in the Alcana of Toledo, a boy came up to sell some
      pamphlets and old papers to a silk mercer, and, as I am fond of reading
      even the very scraps of paper in the streets, led by this natural bent of
      mine I took up one of the pamphlets the boy had for sale, and saw that it
      was in characters which I recognised as Arabic, and as I was unable to
      read them though I could recognise them, I looked about to see if there
      were any Spanish-speaking Morisco at hand to read them for me; nor was
      there any great difficulty in finding such an interpreter, for even had I
      sought one for an older and better language I should have found him. In
      short, chance provided me with one, who when I told him what I wanted and
      put the book into his hands, opened it in the middle and after reading a
      little in it began to laugh. I asked him what he was laughing at, and he
      replied that it was at something the book had written in the margin by way
      of a note. I bade him tell it to me; and he still laughing said, "In the
      margin, as I told you, this is written: 'This Dulcinea del Toboso so often
      mentioned in this history, had, they say, the best hand of any woman in
      all La Mancha for salting pigs.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      When I heard Dulcinea del Toboso named, I was struck with surprise and
      amazement, for it occurred to me at once that these pamphlets contained
      the history of Don Quixote. With this idea I pressed him to read the
      beginning, and doing so, turning the Arabic offhand into Castilian, he
      told me it meant, "History of Don Quixote of La Mancha, written by Cid
      Hamete Benengeli, an Arab historian." It required great caution to hide
      the joy I felt when the title of the book reached my ears, and snatching
      it from the silk mercer, I bought all the papers and pamphlets from the
      boy for half a real; and if he had had his wits about him and had known
      how eager I was for them, he might have safely calculated on making more
      than six reals by the bargain. I withdrew at once with the Morisco into
      the cloister of the cathedral, and begged him to turn all these pamphlets
      that related to Don Quixote into the Castilian tongue, without omitting or
      adding anything to them, offering him whatever payment he pleased. He was
      satisfied with two arrobas of raisins and two bushels of wheat, and
      promised to translate them faithfully and with all despatch; but to make
      the matter easier, and not to let such a precious find out of my hands, I
      took him to my house, where in little more than a month and a half he
      translated the whole just as it is set down here.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the first pamphlet the battle between Don Quixote and the Biscayan was
      drawn to the very life, they planted in the same attitude as the history
      describes, their swords raised, and the one protected by his buckler, the
      other by his cushion, and the Biscayan's mule so true to nature that it
      could be seen to be a hired one a bowshot off. The Biscayan had an
      inscription under his feet which said, "Don Sancho de Azpeitia," which no
      doubt must have been his name; and at the feet of Rocinante was another
      that said, "Don Quixote." Rocinante was marvellously portrayed, so long
      and thin, so lank and lean, with so much backbone and so far gone in
      consumption, that he showed plainly with what judgment and propriety the
      name of Rocinante had been bestowed upon him. Near him was Sancho Panza
      holding the halter of his ass, at whose feet was another label that said,
      "Sancho Zancas," and according to the picture, he must have had a big
      belly, a short body, and long shanks, for which reason, no doubt, the
      names of Panza and Zancas were given him, for by these two surnames the
      history several times calls him. Some other trifling particulars might be
      mentioned, but they are all of slight importance and have nothing to do
      with the true relation of the history; and no history can be bad so long
      as it is true.
    </p>
    <p>
      If against the present one any objection be raised on the score of its
      truth, it can only be that its author was an Arab, as lying is a very
      common propensity with those of that nation; though, as they are such
      enemies of ours, it is conceivable that there were omissions rather than
      additions made in the course of it. And this is my own opinion; for, where
      he could and should give freedom to his pen in praise of so worthy a
      knight, he seems to me deliberately to pass it over in silence; which is
      ill done and worse contrived, for it is the business and duty of
      historians to be exact, truthful, and wholly free from passion, and
      neither interest nor fear, hatred nor love, should make them swerve from
      the path of truth, whose mother is history, rival of time, storehouse of
      deeds, witness for the past, example and counsel for the present, and
      warning for the future. In this I know will be found all that can be
      desired in the pleasantest, and if it be wanting in any good quality, I
      maintain it is the fault of its hound of an author and not the fault of
      the subject. To be brief, its Second Part, according to the translation,
      began in this way:
    </p>
    <p>
      With trenchant swords upraised and poised on high, it seemed as though the
      two valiant and wrathful combatants stood threatening heaven, and earth,
      and hell, with such resolution and determination did they bear themselves.
      The fiery Biscayan was the first to strike a blow, which was delivered
      with such force and fury that had not the sword turned in its course, that
      single stroke would have sufficed to put an end to the bitter struggle and
      to all the adventures of our knight; but that good fortune which reserved
      him for greater things, turned aside the sword of his adversary, so that
      although it smote him upon the left shoulder, it did him no more harm than
      to strip all that side of its armour, carrying away a great part of his
      helmet with half of his ear, all which with fearful ruin fell to the
      ground, leaving him in a sorry plight.
    </p>
    <p>
      Good God! Who is there that could properly describe the rage that filled
      the heart of our Manchegan when he saw himself dealt with in this fashion?
      All that can be said is, it was such that he again raised himself in his
      stirrups, and, grasping his sword more firmly with both hands, he came
      down on the Biscayan with such fury, smiting him full over the cushion and
      over the head, that&mdash;even so good a shield proving useless&mdash;as
      if a mountain had fallen on him, he began to bleed from nose, mouth, and
      ears, reeling as if about to fall backwards from his mule, as no doubt he
      would have done had he not flung his arms about its neck; at the same
      time, however, he slipped his feet out of the stirrups and then unclasped
      his arms, and the mule, taking fright at the terrible blow, made off
      across the plain, and with a few plunges flung its master to the ground.
      Don Quixote stood looking on very calmly, and, when he saw him fall,
      leaped from his horse and with great briskness ran to him, and, presenting
      the point of his sword to his eyes, bade him surrender, or he would cut
      his head off. The Biscayan was so bewildered that he was unable to answer
      a word, and it would have gone hard with him, so blind was Don Quixote,
      had not the ladies in the coach, who had hitherto been watching the combat
      in great terror, hastened to where he stood and implored him with earnest
      entreaties to grant them the great grace and favour of sparing their
      squire's life; to which Don Quixote replied with much gravity and dignity,
      "In truth, fair ladies, I am well content to do what ye ask of me; but it
      must be on one condition and understanding, which is that this knight
      promise me to go to the village of El Toboso, and on my behalf present
      himself before the peerless lady Dulcinea, that she deal with him as shall
      be most pleasing to her."
    </p>
    <p>
      The terrified and disconsolate ladies, without discussing Don Quixote's
      demand or asking who Dulcinea might be, promised that their squire should
      do all that had been commanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then, on the faith of that promise," said Don Quixote, "I shall do him no
      further harm, though he well deserves it of me."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c09e" id="c09e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c09e.jpg (61K)" src="images/c09e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c09e.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch10" id="ch10"></a>CHAPTER X.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE PLEASANT DISCOURSE THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE
      SANCHO PANZA
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c10a" id="c10a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c10a.jpg (91K)" src="images/c10a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c10a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Now by this time Sancho had risen, rather the worse for the handling of
      the friars' muleteers, and stood watching the battle of his master, Don
      Quixote, and praying to God in his heart that it might be his will to
      grant him the victory, and that he might thereby win some island to make
      him governor of, as he had promised. Seeing, therefore, that the struggle
      was now over, and that his master was returning to mount Rocinante, he
      approached to hold the stirrup for him, and, before he could mount, he
      went on his knees before him, and taking his hand, kissed it saying, "May
      it please your worship, Senor Don Quixote, to give me the government of
      that island which has been won in this hard fight, for be it ever so big I
      feel myself in sufficient force to be able to govern it as much and as
      well as anyone in the world who has ever governed islands."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Don Quixote replied, "Thou must take notice, brother Sancho, that
      this adventure and those like it are not adventures of islands, but of
      cross-roads, in which nothing is got except a broken head or an ear the
      less: have patience, for adventures will present themselves from which I
      may make you, not only a governor, but something more."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho gave him many thanks, and again kissing his hand and the skirt of
      his hauberk, helped him to mount Rocinante, and mounting his ass himself,
      proceeded to follow his master, who at a brisk pace, without taking leave,
      or saying anything further to the ladies belonging to the coach, turned
      into a wood that was hard by. Sancho followed him at his ass's best trot,
      but Rocinante stepped out so that, seeing himself left behind, he was
      forced to call to his master to wait for him. Don Quixote did so, reining
      in Rocinante until his weary squire came up, who on reaching him said, "It
      seems to me, senor, it would be prudent in us to go and take refuge in
      some church, for, seeing how mauled he with whom you fought has been left,
      it will be no wonder if they give information of the affair to the Holy
      Brotherhood and arrest us, and, faith, if they do, before we come out of
      gaol we shall have to sweat for it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Peace," said Don Quixote; "where hast thou ever seen or heard that a
      knight-errant has been arraigned before a court of justice, however many
      homicides he may have committed?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know nothing about omecils," answered Sancho, "nor in my life have had
      anything to do with one; I only know that the Holy Brotherhood looks after
      those who fight in the fields, and in that other matter I do not meddle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then thou needst have no uneasiness, my friend," said Don Quixote, "for I
      will deliver thee out of the hands of the Chaldeans, much more out of
      those of the Brotherhood. But tell me, as thou livest, hast thou seen a
      more valiant knight than I in all the known world; hast thou read in
      history of any who has or had higher mettle in attack, more spirit in
      maintaining it, more dexterity in wounding or skill in overthrowing?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The truth is," answered Sancho, "that I have never read any history, for
      I can neither read nor write, but what I will venture to bet is that a
      more daring master than your worship I have never served in all the days
      of my life, and God grant that this daring be not paid for where I have
      said; what I beg of your worship is to dress your wound, for a great deal
      of blood flows from that ear, and I have here some lint and a little white
      ointment in the alforjas."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All that might be well dispensed with," said Don Quixote, "if I had
      remembered to make a vial of the balsam of Fierabras, for time and
      medicine are saved by one single drop."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What vial and what balsam is that?" said Sancho Panza.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is a balsam," answered Don Quixote, "the receipt of which I have in my
      memory, with which one need have no fear of death, or dread dying of any
      wound; and so when I make it and give it to thee thou hast nothing to do
      when in some battle thou seest they have cut me in half through the middle
      of the body&mdash;as is wont to happen frequently&mdash;but neatly and
      with great nicety, ere the blood congeal, to place that portion of the
      body which shall have fallen to the ground upon the other half which
      remains in the saddle, taking care to fit it on evenly and exactly. Then
      thou shalt give me to drink but two drops of the balsam I have mentioned,
      and thou shalt see me become sounder than an apple."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If that be so," said Panza, "I renounce henceforth the government of the
      promised island, and desire nothing more in payment of my many and
      faithful services than that your worship give me the receipt of this
      supreme liquor, for I am persuaded it will be worth more than two reals an
      ounce anywhere, and I want no more to pass the rest of my life in ease and
      honour; but it remains to be told if it costs much to make it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "With less than three reals, six quarts of it may be made," said Don
      Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sinner that I am!" said Sancho, "then why does your worship put off
      making it and teaching it to me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Peace, friend," answered Don Quixote; "greater secrets I mean to teach
      thee and greater favours to bestow upon thee; and for the present let us
      see to the dressing, for my ear pains me more than I could wish."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho took out some lint and ointment from the alforjas; but when Don
      Quixote came to see his helmet shattered, he was like to lose his senses,
      and clapping his hand upon his sword and raising his eyes to heaven, he
      said, "I swear by the Creator of all things and the four Gospels in their
      fullest extent, to do as the great Marquis of Mantua did when he swore to
      avenge the death of his nephew Baldwin (and that was not to eat bread from
      a table-cloth, nor embrace his wife, and other points which, though I
      cannot now call them to mind, I here grant as expressed) until I take
      complete vengeance upon him who has committed such an offence against me."
    </p>
    <p>
      Hearing this, Sancho said to him, "Your worship should bear in mind, Senor
      Don Quixote, that if the knight has done what was commanded him in going
      to present himself before my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he will have done
      all that he was bound to do, and does not deserve further punishment
      unless he commits some new offence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou hast said well and hit the point," answered Don Quixote; and so I
      recall the oath in so far as relates to taking fresh vengeance on him, but
      I make and confirm it anew to lead the life I have said until such time as
      I take by force from some knight another helmet such as this and as good;
      and think not, Sancho, that I am raising smoke with straw in doing so, for
      I have one to imitate in the matter, since the very same thing to a hair
      happened in the case of Mambrino's helmet, which cost Sacripante so dear."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor," replied Sancho, "let your worship send all such oaths to the
      devil, for they are very pernicious to salvation and prejudicial to the
      conscience; just tell me now, if for several days to come we fall in with
      no man armed with a helmet, what are we to do? Is the oath to be observed
      in spite of all the inconvenience and discomfort it will be to sleep in
      your clothes, and not to sleep in a house, and a thousand other
      mortifications contained in the oath of that old fool the Marquis of
      Mantua, which your worship is now wanting to revive? Let your worship
      observe that there are no men in armour travelling on any of these roads,
      nothing but carriers and carters, who not only do not wear helmets, but
      perhaps never heard tell of them all their lives."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art wrong there," said Don Quixote, "for we shall not have been
      above two hours among these cross-roads before we see more men in armour
      than came to Albraca to win the fair Angelica."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Enough," said Sancho; "so be it then, and God grant us success, and that
      the time for winning that island which is costing me so dear may soon
      come, and then let me die."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have already told thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "not to give thyself
      any uneasiness on that score; for if an island should fail, there is the
      kingdom of Denmark, or of Sobradisa, which will fit thee as a ring fits
      the finger, and all the more that, being on terra firma, thou wilt all the
      better enjoy thyself. But let us leave that to its own time; see if thou
      hast anything for us to eat in those alforjas, because we must presently
      go in quest of some castle where we may lodge to-night and make the balsam
      I told thee of, for I swear to thee by God, this ear is giving me great
      pain."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have here an onion and a little cheese and a few scraps of bread," said
      Sancho, "but they are not victuals fit for a valiant knight like your
      worship."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How little thou knowest about it," answered Don Quixote; "I would have
      thee to know, Sancho, that it is the glory of knights-errant to go without
      eating for a month, and even when they do eat, that it should be of what
      comes first to hand; and this would have been clear to thee hadst thou
      read as many histories as I have, for, though they are very many, among
      them all I have found no mention made of knights-errant eating, unless by
      accident or at some sumptuous banquets prepared for them, and the rest of
      the time they passed in dalliance. And though it is plain they could not
      do without eating and performing all the other natural functions, because,
      in fact, they were men like ourselves, it is plain too that, wandering as
      they did the most part of their lives through woods and wilds and without
      a cook, their most usual fare would be rustic viands such as those thou
      now offer me; so that, friend Sancho, let not that distress thee which
      pleases me, and do not seek to make a new world or pervert
      knight-errantry."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pardon me, your worship," said Sancho, "for, as I cannot read or write,
      as I said just now, I neither know nor comprehend the rules of the
      profession of chivalry: henceforward I will stock the alforjas with every
      kind of dry fruit for your worship, as you are a knight; and for myself,
      as I am not one, I will furnish them with poultry and other things more
      substantial."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not say, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that it is imperative on
      knights-errant not to eat anything else but the fruits thou speakest of;
      only that their more usual diet must be those, and certain herbs they
      found in the fields which they knew and I know too."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A good thing it is," answered Sancho, "to know those herbs, for to my
      thinking it will be needful some day to put that knowledge into practice."
    </p>
    <p>
      And here taking out what he said he had brought, the pair made their
      repast peaceably and sociably. But anxious to find quarters for the night,
      they with all despatch made an end of their poor dry fare, mounted at
      once, and made haste to reach some habitation before night set in; but
      daylight and the hope of succeeding in their object failed them close by
      the huts of some goatherds, so they determined to pass the night there,
      and it was as much to Sancho's discontent not to have reached a house, as
      it was to his master's satisfaction to sleep under the open heaven, for he
      fancied that each time this happened to him he performed an act of
      ownership that helped to prove his chivalry.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c10e" id="c10e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c10e.jpg (57K)" src="images/c10e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch11" id="ch11"></a>CHAPTER XI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH CERTAIN GOATHERDS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c11a" id="c11a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c11a.jpg (173K)" src="images/c11a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c11a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      He was cordially welcomed by the goatherds, and Sancho, having as best he
      could put up Rocinante and the ass, drew towards the fragrance that came
      from some pieces of salted goat simmering in a pot on the fire; and though
      he would have liked at once to try if they were ready to be transferred
      from the pot to the stomach, he refrained from doing so as the goatherds
      removed them from the fire, and laying sheepskins on the ground, quickly
      spread their rude table, and with signs of hearty good-will invited them
      both to share what they had. Round the skins six of the men belonging to
      the fold seated themselves, having first with rough politeness pressed Don
      Quixote to take a seat upon a trough which they placed for him upside
      down. Don Quixote seated himself, and Sancho remained standing to serve
      the cup, which was made of horn. Seeing him standing, his master said to
      him:
    </p>
    <p>
      "That thou mayest see, Sancho, the good that knight-errantry contains in
      itself, and how those who fill any office in it are on the high road to be
      speedily honoured and esteemed by the world, I desire that thou seat
      thyself here at my side and in the company of these worthy people, and
      that thou be one with me who am thy master and natural lord, and that thou
      eat from my plate and drink from whatever I drink from; for the same may
      be said of knight-errantry as of love, that it levels all."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Great thanks," said Sancho, "but I may tell your worship that provided I
      have enough to eat, I can eat it as well, or better, standing, and by
      myself, than seated alongside of an emperor. And indeed, if the truth is
      to be told, what I eat in my corner without form or fuss has much more
      relish for me, even though it be bread and onions, than the turkeys of
      those other tables where I am forced to chew slowly, drink little, wipe my
      mouth every minute, and cannot sneeze or cough if I want or do other
      things that are the privileges of liberty and solitude. So, senor, as for
      these honours which your worship would put upon me as a servant and
      follower of knight-errantry, exchange them for other things which may be
      of more use and advantage to me; for these, though I fully acknowledge
      them as received, I renounce from this moment to the end of the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For all that," said Don Quixote, "thou must seat thyself, because him who
      humbleth himself God exalteth;" and seizing him by the arm he forced him
      to sit down beside himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      The goatherds did not understand this jargon about squires and
      knights-errant, and all they did was to eat in silence and stare at their
      guests, who with great elegance and appetite were stowing away pieces as
      big as one's fist. The course of meat finished, they spread upon the
      sheepskins a great heap of parched acorns, and with them they put down a
      half cheese harder than if it had been made of mortar. All this while the
      horn was not idle, for it went round so constantly, now full, now empty,
      like the bucket of a water-wheel, that it soon drained one of the two
      wine-skins that were in sight. When Don Quixote had quite appeased his
      appetite he took up a handful of the acorns, and contemplating them
      attentively delivered himself somewhat in this fashion:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Happy the age, happy the time, to which the ancients gave the name of
      golden, not because in that fortunate age the gold so coveted in this our
      iron one was gained without toil, but because they that lived in it knew
      not the two words "mine" and "thine"! In that blessed age all things were
      in common; to win the daily food no labour was required of any save to
      stretch forth his hand and gather it from the sturdy oaks that stood
      generously inviting him with their sweet ripe fruit. The clear streams and
      running brooks yielded their savoury limpid waters in noble abundance. The
      busy and sagacious bees fixed their republic in the clefts of the rocks
      and hollows of the trees, offering without usance the plenteous produce of
      their fragrant toil to every hand. The mighty cork trees, unenforced save
      of their own courtesy, shed the broad light bark that served at first to
      roof the houses supported by rude stakes, a protection against the
      inclemency of heaven alone. Then all was peace, all friendship, all
      concord; as yet the dull share of the crooked plough had not dared to rend
      and pierce the tender bowels of our first mother that without compulsion
      yielded from every portion of her broad fertile bosom all that could
      satisfy, sustain, and delight the children that then possessed her. Then
      was it that the innocent and fair young shepherdess roamed from vale to
      vale and hill to hill, with flowing locks, and no more garments than were
      needful modestly to cover what modesty seeks and ever sought to hide. Nor
      were their ornaments like those in use to-day, set off by Tyrian purple,
      and silk tortured in endless fashions, but the wreathed leaves of the
      green dock and ivy, wherewith they went as bravely and becomingly decked
      as our Court dames with all the rare and far-fetched artifices that idle
      curiosity has taught them. Then the love-thoughts of the heart clothed
      themselves simply and naturally as the heart conceived them, nor sought to
      commend themselves by forced and rambling verbiage. Fraud, deceit, or
      malice had then not yet mingled with truth and sincerity. Justice held her
      ground, undisturbed and unassailed by the efforts of favour and of
      interest, that now so much impair, pervert, and beset her. Arbitrary law
      had not yet established itself in the mind of the judge, for then there
      was no cause to judge and no one to be judged. Maidens and modesty, as I
      have said, wandered at will alone and unattended, without fear of insult
      from lawlessness or libertine assault, and if they were undone it was of
      their own will and pleasure. But now in this hateful age of ours not one
      is safe, not though some new labyrinth like that of Crete conceal and
      surround her; even there the pestilence of gallantry will make its way to
      them through chinks or on the air by the zeal of its accursed importunity,
      and, despite of all seclusion, lead them to ruin. In defence of these, as
      time advanced and wickedness increased, the order of knights-errant was
      instituted, to defend maidens, to protect widows and to succour the
      orphans and the needy. To this order I belong, brother goatherds, to whom
      I return thanks for the hospitality and kindly welcome ye offer me and my
      squire; for though by natural law all living are bound to show favour to
      knights-errant, yet, seeing that without knowing this obligation ye have
      welcomed and feasted me, it is right that with all the good-will in my
      power I should thank you for yours."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c11b" id="c11b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c11b.jpg (349K)" src="images/c11b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c11b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      All this long harangue (which might very well have been spared) our knight
      delivered because the acorns they gave him reminded him of the golden age;
      and the whim seized him to address all this unnecessary argument to the
      goatherds, who listened to him gaping in amazement without saying a word
      in reply. Sancho likewise held his peace and ate acorns, and paid repeated
      visits to the second wine-skin, which they had hung up on a cork tree to
      keep the wine cool.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote was longer in talking than the supper in finishing, at the end
      of which one of the goatherds said, "That your worship, senor
      knight-errant, may say with more truth that we show you hospitality with
      ready good-will, we will give you amusement and pleasure by making one of
      our comrades sing: he will be here before long, and he is a very
      intelligent youth and deep in love, and what is more he can read and write
      and play on the rebeck to perfection."
    </p>
    <p>
      The goatherd had hardly done speaking, when the notes of the rebeck
      reached their ears; and shortly after, the player came up, a very
      good-looking young man of about two-and-twenty. His comrades asked him if
      he had supped, and on his replying that he had, he who had already made
      the offer said to him:
    </p>
    <p>
      "In that case, Antonio, thou mayest as well do us the pleasure of singing
      a little, that the gentleman, our guest, may see that even in the
      mountains and woods there are musicians: we have told him of thy
      accomplishments, and we want thee to show them and prove that we say true;
      so, as thou livest, pray sit down and sing that ballad about thy love that
      thy uncle the prebendary made thee, and that was so much liked in the
      town."
    </p>
    <p>
      "With all my heart," said the young man, and without waiting for more
      pressing he seated himself on the trunk of a felled oak, and tuning his
      rebeck, presently began to sing to these words.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
       ANTONIO'S BALLAD

Thou dost love me well, Olalla;
  Well I know it, even though
Love's mute tongues, thine eyes, have never
  By their glances told me so.

For I know my love thou knowest,
  Therefore thine to claim I dare:
Once it ceases to be secret,
  Love need never feel despair.

True it is, Olalla, sometimes
  Thou hast all too plainly shown
That thy heart is brass in hardness,
  And thy snowy bosom stone.

Yet for all that, in thy coyness,
  And thy fickle fits between,
Hope is there&mdash;at least the border
  Of her garment may be seen.

Lures to faith are they, those glimpses,
  And to faith in thee I hold;
Kindness cannot make it stronger,
  Coldness cannot make it cold.

If it be that love is gentle,
  In thy gentleness I see
Something holding out assurance
  To the hope of winning thee.

If it be that in devotion
  Lies a power hearts to move,
That which every day I show thee,
  Helpful to my suit should prove.

Many a time thou must have noticed&mdash;
  If to notice thou dost care&mdash;
How I go about on Monday
  Dressed in all my Sunday wear.

Love's eyes love to look on brightness;
  Love loves what is gaily drest;
Sunday, Monday, all I care is
  Thou shouldst see me in my best.

No account I make of dances,
  Or of strains that pleased thee so,
Keeping thee awake from midnight
  Till the cocks began to crow;

Or of how I roundly swore it
  That there's none so fair as thou;
True it is, but as I said it,
  By the girls I'm hated now.

For Teresa of the hillside
  At my praise of thee was sore;
Said, "You think you love an angel;
  It's a monkey you adore;

"Caught by all her glittering trinkets,
  And her borrowed braids of hair,
And a host of made-up beauties
  That would Love himself ensnare."

'T was a lie, and so I told her,
  And her cousin at the word
Gave me his defiance for it;
  And what followed thou hast heard.

Mine is no high-flown affection,
  Mine no passion par amours&mdash;
As they call it&mdash;what I offer
  Is an honest love, and pure.

Cunning cords the holy Church has,
  Cords of softest silk they be;
Put thy neck beneath the yoke, dear;
  Mine will follow, thou wilt see.

Else&mdash;and once for all I swear it
  By the saint of most renown&mdash;
If I ever quit the mountains,
  'T will be in a friar's gown.
</pre>
    <p>
      Here the goatherd brought his song to an end, and though Don Quixote
      entreated him to sing more, Sancho had no mind that way, being more
      inclined for sleep than for listening to songs; so said he to his master,
      "Your worship will do well to settle at once where you mean to pass the
      night, for the labour these good men are at all day does not allow them to
      spend the night in singing."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I understand thee, Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "I perceive clearly that
      those visits to the wine-skin demand compensation in sleep rather than in
      music."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's sweet to us all, blessed be God," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not deny it," replied Don Quixote; "but settle thyself where thou
      wilt; those of my calling are more becomingly employed in watching than in
      sleeping; still it would be as well if thou wert to dress this ear for me
      again, for it is giving me more pain than it need."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho did as he bade him, but one of the goatherds, seeing the wound,
      told him not to be uneasy, as he would apply a remedy with which it would
      be soon healed; and gathering some leaves of rosemary, of which there was
      a great quantity there, he chewed them and mixed them with a little salt,
      and applying them to the ear he secured them firmly with a bandage,
      assuring him that no other treatment would be required, and so it proved.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c11e" id="c11e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c11e.jpg (37K)" src="images/c11e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch12" id="ch12"></a>CHAPTER XII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF WHAT A GOATHERD RELATED TO THOSE WITH DON QUIXOTE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c12a" id="c12a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c12a.jpg (143K)" src="images/c12a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c12a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Just then another young man, one of those who fetched their provisions
      from the village, came up and said, "Do you know what is going on in the
      village, comrades?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "How could we know it?" replied one of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, then, you must know," continued the young man, "this morning that
      famous student-shepherd called Chrysostom died, and it is rumoured that he
      died of love for that devil of a village girl the daughter of Guillermo
      the Rich, she that wanders about the wolds here in the dress of a
      shepherdess."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You mean Marcela?" said one.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Her I mean," answered the goatherd; "and the best of it is, he has
      directed in his will that he is to be buried in the fields like a Moor,
      and at the foot of the rock where the Cork-tree spring is, because, as the
      story goes (and they say he himself said so), that was the place where he
      first saw her. And he has also left other directions which the clergy of
      the village say should not and must not be obeyed because they savour of
      paganism. To all which his great friend Ambrosio the student, he who, like
      him, also went dressed as a shepherd, replies that everything must be done
      without any omission according to the directions left by Chrysostom, and
      about this the village is all in commotion; however, report says that,
      after all, what Ambrosio and all the shepherds his friends desire will be
      done, and to-morrow they are coming to bury him with great ceremony where
      I said. I am sure it will be something worth seeing; at least I will not
      fail to go and see it even if I knew I should not return to the village
      tomorrow."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We will do the same," answered the goatherds, "and cast lots to see who
      must stay to mind the goats of all."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou sayest well, Pedro," said one, "though there will be no need of
      taking that trouble, for I will stay behind for all; and don't suppose it
      is virtue or want of curiosity in me; it is that the splinter that ran
      into my foot the other day will not let me walk."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For all that, we thank thee," answered Pedro.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote asked Pedro to tell him who the dead man was and who the
      shepherdess, to which Pedro replied that all he knew was that the dead man
      was a wealthy gentleman belonging to a village in those mountains, who had
      been a student at Salamanca for many years, at the end of which he
      returned to his village with the reputation of being very learned and
      deeply read. "Above all, they said, he was learned in the science of the
      stars and of what went on yonder in the heavens and the sun and the moon,
      for he told us of the cris of the sun and moon to exact time."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Eclipse it is called, friend, not cris, the darkening of those two
      luminaries," said Don Quixote; but Pedro, not troubling himself with
      trifles, went on with his story, saying, "Also he foretold when the year
      was going to be one of abundance or estility."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sterility, you mean," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sterility or estility," answered Pedro, "it is all the same in the end.
      And I can tell you that by this his father and friends who believed him
      grew very rich because they did as he advised them, bidding them 'sow
      barley this year, not wheat; this year you may sow pulse and not barley;
      the next there will be a full oil crop, and the three following not a drop
      will be got.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That science is called astrology," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not know what it is called," replied Pedro, "but I know that he knew
      all this and more besides. But, to make an end, not many months had passed
      after he returned from Salamanca, when one day he appeared dressed as a
      shepherd with his crook and sheepskin, having put off the long gown he
      wore as a scholar; and at the same time his great friend, Ambrosio by
      name, who had been his companion in his studies, took to the shepherd's
      dress with him. I forgot to say that Chrysostom, who is dead, was a great
      man for writing verses, so much so that he made carols for Christmas Eve,
      and plays for Corpus Christi, which the young men of our village acted,
      and all said they were excellent. When the villagers saw the two scholars
      so unexpectedly appearing in shepherd's dress, they were lost in wonder,
      and could not guess what had led them to make so extraordinary a change.
      About this time the father of our Chrysostom died, and he was left heir to
      a large amount of property in chattels as well as in land, no small number
      of cattle and sheep, and a large sum of money, of all of which the young
      man was left dissolute owner, and indeed he was deserving of it all, for
      he was a very good comrade, and kind-hearted, and a friend of worthy folk,
      and had a countenance like a benediction. Presently it came to be known
      that he had changed his dress with no other object than to wander about
      these wastes after that shepherdess Marcela our lad mentioned a while ago,
      with whom the deceased Chrysostom had fallen in love. And I must tell you
      now, for it is well you should know it, who this girl is; perhaps, and
      even without any perhaps, you will not have heard anything like it all the
      days of your life, though you should live more years than sarna."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Say Sarra," said Don Quixote, unable to endure the goatherd's confusion
      of words.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The sarna lives long enough," answered Pedro; "and if, senor, you must go
      finding fault with words at every step, we shall not make an end of it
      this twelvemonth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pardon me, friend," said Don Quixote; "but, as there is such a difference
      between sarna and Sarra, I told you of it; however, you have answered very
      rightly, for sarna lives longer than Sarra: so continue your story, and I
      will not object any more to anything."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I say then, my dear sir," said the goatherd, "that in our village there
      was a farmer even richer than the father of Chrysostom, who was named
      Guillermo, and upon whom God bestowed, over and above great wealth, a
      daughter at whose birth her mother died, the most respected woman there
      was in this neighbourhood; I fancy I can see her now with that countenance
      which had the sun on one side and the moon on the other; and moreover
      active, and kind to the poor, for which I trust that at the present moment
      her soul is in bliss with God in the other world. Her husband Guillermo
      died of grief at the death of so good a wife, leaving his daughter
      Marcela, a child and rich, to the care of an uncle of hers, a priest and
      prebendary in our village. The girl grew up with such beauty that it
      reminded us of her mother's, which was very great, and yet it was thought
      that the daughter's would exceed it; and so when she reached the age of
      fourteen to fifteen years nobody beheld her but blessed God that had made
      her so beautiful, and the greater number were in love with her past
      redemption. Her uncle kept her in great seclusion and retirement, but for
      all that the fame of her great beauty spread so that, as well for it as
      for her great wealth, her uncle was asked, solicited, and importuned, to
      give her in marriage not only by those of our town but of those many
      leagues round, and by the persons of highest quality in them. But he,
      being a good Christian man, though he desired to give her in marriage at
      once, seeing her to be old enough, was unwilling to do so without her
      consent, not that he had any eye to the gain and profit which the custody
      of the girl's property brought him while he put off her marriage; and,
      faith, this was said in praise of the good priest in more than one set in
      the town. For I would have you know, Sir Errant, that in these little
      villages everything is talked about and everything is carped at, and rest
      assured, as I am, that the priest must be over and above good who forces
      his parishioners to speak well of him, especially in villages."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is the truth," said Don Quixote; "but go on, for the story is very
      good, and you, good Pedro, tell it with very good grace."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May that of the Lord not be wanting to me," said Pedro; "that is the one
      to have. To proceed; you must know that though the uncle put before his
      niece and described to her the qualities of each one in particular of the
      many who had asked her in marriage, begging her to marry and make a choice
      according to her own taste, she never gave any other answer than that she
      had no desire to marry just yet, and that being so young she did not think
      herself fit to bear the burden of matrimony. At these, to all appearance,
      reasonable excuses that she made, her uncle ceased to urge her, and waited
      till she was somewhat more advanced in age and could mate herself to her
      own liking. For, said he&mdash;and he said quite right&mdash;parents are
      not to settle children in life against their will. But when one least
      looked for it, lo and behold! one day the demure Marcela makes her
      appearance turned shepherdess; and, in spite of her uncle and all those of
      the town that strove to dissuade her, took to going a-field with the other
      shepherd-lasses of the village, and tending her own flock. And so, since
      she appeared in public, and her beauty came to be seen openly, I could not
      well tell you how many rich youths, gentlemen and peasants, have adopted
      the costume of Chrysostom, and go about these fields making love to her.
      One of these, as has been already said, was our deceased friend, of whom
      they say that he did not love but adore her. But you must not suppose,
      because Marcela chose a life of such liberty and independence, and of so
      little or rather no retirement, that she has given any occasion, or even
      the semblance of one, for disparagement of her purity and modesty; on the
      contrary, such and so great is the vigilance with which she watches over
      her honour, that of all those that court and woo her not one has boasted,
      or can with truth boast, that she has given him any hope however small of
      obtaining his desire. For although she does not avoid or shun the society
      and conversation of the shepherds, and treats them courteously and kindly,
      should any one of them come to declare his intention to her, though it be
      one as proper and holy as that of matrimony, she flings him from her like
      a catapult. And with this kind of disposition she does more harm in this
      country than if the plague had got into it, for her affability and her
      beauty draw on the hearts of those that associate with her to love her and
      to court her, but her scorn and her frankness bring them to the brink of
      despair; and so they know not what to say save to proclaim her aloud cruel
      and hard-hearted, and other names of the same sort which well describe the
      nature of her character; and if you should remain here any time, senor,
      you would hear these hills and valleys resounding with the laments of the
      rejected ones who pursue her. Not far from this there is a spot where
      there are a couple of dozen of tall beeches, and there is not one of them
      but has carved and written on its smooth bark the name of Marcela, and
      above some a crown carved on the same tree as though her lover would say
      more plainly that Marcela wore and deserved that of all human beauty. Here
      one shepherd is sighing, there another is lamenting; there love songs are
      heard, here despairing elegies. One will pass all the hours of the night
      seated at the foot of some oak or rock, and there, without having closed
      his weeping eyes, the sun finds him in the morning bemused and bereft of
      sense; and another without relief or respite to his sighs, stretched on
      the burning sand in the full heat of the sultry summer noontide, makes his
      appeal to the compassionate heavens, and over one and the other, over
      these and all, the beautiful Marcela triumphs free and careless. And all
      of us that know her are waiting to see what her pride will come to, and
      who is to be the happy man that will succeed in taming a nature so
      formidable and gaining possession of a beauty so supreme. All that I have
      told you being such well-established truth, I am persuaded that what they
      say of the cause of Chrysostom's death, as our lad told us, is the same.
      And so I advise you, senor, fail not to be present to-morrow at his
      burial, which will be well worth seeing, for Chrysostom had many friends,
      and it is not half a league from this place to where he directed he should
      be buried."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will make a point of it," said Don Quixote, "and I thank you for the
      pleasure you have given me by relating so interesting a tale."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh," said the goatherd, "I do not know even the half of what has happened
      to the lovers of Marcela, but perhaps to-morrow we may fall in with some
      shepherd on the road who can tell us; and now it will be well for you to
      go and sleep under cover, for the night air may hurt your wound, though
      with the remedy I have applied to you there is no fear of an untoward
      result."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho Panza, who was wishing the goatherd's loquacity at the devil, on
      his part begged his master to go into Pedro's hut to sleep. He did so, and
      passed all the rest of the night in thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in
      imitation of the lovers of Marcela. Sancho Panza settled himself between
      Rocinante and his ass, and slept, not like a lover who had been discarded,
      but like a man who had been soundly kicked.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c12e" id="c12e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c12e.jpg (42K)" src="images/c12e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch13" id="ch13"></a>CHAPTER XIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH IS ENDED THE STORY OF THE SHEPHERDESS MARCELA, WITH OTHER
      INCIDENTS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c13a" id="c13a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c13a.jpg (181K)" src="images/c13a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c13a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      But hardly had day begun to show itself through the balconies of the east,
      when five of the six goatherds came to rouse Don Quixote and tell him that
      if he was still of a mind to go and see the famous burial of Chrysostom
      they would bear him company. Don Quixote, who desired nothing better, rose
      and ordered Sancho to saddle and pannel at once, which he did with all
      despatch, and with the same they all set out forthwith. They had not gone
      a quarter of a league when at the meeting of two paths they saw coming
      towards them some six shepherds dressed in black sheepskins and with their
      heads crowned with garlands of cypress and bitter oleander. Each of them
      carried a stout holly staff in his hand, and along with them there came
      two men of quality on horseback in handsome travelling dress, with three
      servants on foot accompanying them. Courteous salutations were exchanged
      on meeting, and inquiring one of the other which way each party was going,
      they learned that all were bound for the scene of the burial, so they went
      on all together.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of those on horseback addressing his companion said to him, "It seems
      to me, Senor Vivaldo, that we may reckon as well spent the delay we shall
      incur in seeing this remarkable funeral, for remarkable it cannot but be
      judging by the strange things these shepherds have told us, of both the
      dead shepherd and homicide shepherdess."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So I think too," replied Vivaldo, "and I would delay not to say a day,
      but four, for the sake of seeing it."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote asked them what it was they had heard of Marcela and
      Chrysostom. The traveller answered that the same morning they had met
      these shepherds, and seeing them dressed in this mournful fashion they had
      asked them the reason of their appearing in such a guise; which one of
      them gave, describing the strange behaviour and beauty of a shepherdess
      called Marcela, and the loves of many who courted her, together with the
      death of that Chrysostom to whose burial they were going. In short, he
      repeated all that Pedro had related to Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      This conversation dropped, and another was commenced by him who was called
      Vivaldo asking Don Quixote what was the reason that led him to go armed in
      that fashion in a country so peaceful. To which Don Quixote replied, "The
      pursuit of my calling does not allow or permit me to go in any other
      fashion; easy life, enjoyment, and repose were invented for soft
      courtiers, but toil, unrest, and arms were invented and made for those
      alone whom the world calls knights-errant, of whom I, though unworthy, am
      the least of all."
    </p>
    <p>
      The instant they heard this all set him down as mad, and the better to
      settle the point and discover what kind of madness his was, Vivaldo
      proceeded to ask him what knights-errant meant.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Have not your worships," replied Don Quixote, "read the annals and
      histories of England, in which are recorded the famous deeds of King
      Arthur, whom we in our popular Castilian invariably call King Artus, with
      regard to whom it is an ancient tradition, and commonly received all over
      that kingdom of Great Britain, that this king did not die, but was changed
      by magic art into a raven, and that in process of time he is to return to
      reign and recover his kingdom and sceptre; for which reason it cannot be
      proved that from that time to this any Englishman ever killed a raven?
      Well, then, in the time of this good king that famous order of chivalry of
      the Knights of the Round Table was instituted, and the amour of Don
      Lancelot of the Lake with the Queen Guinevere occurred, precisely as is
      there related, the go-between and confidante therein being the highly
      honourable dame Quintanona, whence came that ballad so well known and
      widely spread in our Spain&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
O never surely was there knight
  So served by hand of dame,
As served was he Sir Lancelot hight
  When he from Britain came--
</pre>
    <p>
      with all the sweet and delectable course of his achievements in love and
      war. Handed down from that time, then, this order of chivalry went on
      extending and spreading itself over many and various parts of the world;
      and in it, famous and renowned for their deeds, were the mighty Amadis of
      Gaul with all his sons and descendants to the fifth generation, and the
      valiant Felixmarte of Hircania, and the never sufficiently praised Tirante
      el Blanco, and in our own days almost we have seen and heard and talked
      with the invincible knight Don Belianis of Greece. This, then, sirs, is to
      be a knight-errant, and what I have spoken of is the order of his
      chivalry, of which, as I have already said, I, though a sinner, have made
      profession, and what the aforesaid knights professed that same do I
      profess, and so I go through these solitudes and wilds seeking adventures,
      resolved in soul to oppose my arm and person to the most perilous that
      fortune may offer me in aid of the weak and needy."
    </p>
    <p>
      By these words of his the travellers were able to satisfy themselves of
      Don Quixote's being out of his senses and of the form of madness that
      overmastered him, at which they felt the same astonishment that all felt
      on first becoming acquainted with it; and Vivaldo, who was a person of
      great shrewdness and of a lively temperament, in order to beguile the
      short journey which they said was required to reach the mountain, the
      scene of the burial, sought to give him an opportunity of going on with
      his absurdities. So he said to him, "It seems to me, Senor Knight-errant,
      that your worship has made choice of one of the most austere professions
      in the world, and I imagine even that of the Carthusian monks is not so
      austere."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As austere it may perhaps be," replied our Don Quixote, "but so necessary
      for the world I am very much inclined to doubt. For, if the truth is to be
      told, the soldier who executes what his captain orders does no less than
      the captain himself who gives the order. My meaning, is, that churchmen in
      peace and quiet pray to Heaven for the welfare of the world, but we
      soldiers and knights carry into effect what they pray for, defending it
      with the might of our arms and the edge of our swords, not under shelter
      but in the open air, a target for the intolerable rays of the sun in
      summer and the piercing frosts of winter. Thus are we God's ministers on
      earth and the arms by which his justice is done therein. And as the
      business of war and all that relates and belongs to it cannot be conducted
      without exceeding great sweat, toil, and exertion, it follows that those
      who make it their profession have undoubtedly more labour than those who
      in tranquil peace and quiet are engaged in praying to God to help the
      weak. I do not mean to say, nor does it enter into my thoughts, that the
      knight-errant's calling is as good as that of the monk in his cell; I
      would merely infer from what I endure myself that it is beyond a doubt a
      more laborious and a more belaboured one, a hungrier and thirstier, a
      wretcheder, raggeder, and lousier; for there is no reason to doubt that
      the knights-errant of yore endured much hardship in the course of their
      lives. And if some of them by the might of their arms did rise to be
      emperors, in faith it cost them dear in the matter of blood and sweat; and
      if those who attained to that rank had not had magicians and sages to help
      them they would have been completely baulked in their ambition and
      disappointed in their hopes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is my own opinion," replied the traveller; "but one thing among many
      others seems to me very wrong in knights-errant, and that is that when
      they find themselves about to engage in some mighty and perilous adventure
      in which there is manifest danger of losing their lives, they never at the
      moment of engaging in it think of commending themselves to God, as is the
      duty of every good Christian in like peril; instead of which they commend
      themselves to their ladies with as much devotion as if these were their
      gods, a thing which seems to me to savour somewhat of heathenism."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sir," answered Don Quixote, "that cannot be on any account omitted, and
      the knight-errant would be disgraced who acted otherwise: for it is usual
      and customary in knight-errantry that the knight-errant, who on engaging
      in any great feat of arms has his lady before him, should turn his eyes
      towards her softly and lovingly, as though with them entreating her to
      favour and protect him in the hazardous venture he is about to undertake,
      and even though no one hear him, he is bound to say certain words between
      his teeth, commending himself to her with all his heart, and of this we
      have innumerable instances in the histories. Nor is it to be supposed from
      this that they are to omit commending themselves to God, for there will be
      time and opportunity for doing so while they are engaged in their task."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For all that," answered the traveller, "I feel some doubt still, because
      often I have read how words will arise between two knights-errant, and
      from one thing to another it comes about that their anger kindles and they
      wheel their horses round and take a good stretch of field, and then
      without any more ado at the top of their speed they come to the charge,
      and in mid-career they are wont to commend themselves to their ladies; and
      what commonly comes of the encounter is that one falls over the haunches
      of his horse pierced through and through by his antagonist's lance, and as
      for the other, it is only by holding on to the mane of his horse that he
      can help falling to the ground; but I know not how the dead man had time
      to commend himself to God in the course of such rapid work as this; it
      would have been better if those words which he spent in commending himself
      to his lady in the midst of his career had been devoted to his duty and
      obligation as a Christian. Moreover, it is my belief that all
      knights-errant have not ladies to commend themselves to, for they are not
      all in love."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is impossible," said Don Quixote: "I say it is impossible that there
      could be a knight-errant without a lady, because to such it is as natural
      and proper to be in love as to the heavens to have stars: most certainly
      no history has been seen in which there is to be found a knight-errant
      without an amour, and for the simple reason that without one he would be
      held no legitimate knight but a bastard, and one who had gained entrance
      into the stronghold of the said knighthood, not by the door, but over the
      wall like a thief and a robber."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nevertheless," said the traveller, "if I remember rightly, I think I have
      read that Don Galaor, the brother of the valiant Amadis of Gaul, never had
      any special lady to whom he might commend himself, and yet he was not the
      less esteemed, and was a very stout and famous knight."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which our Don Quixote made answer, "Sir, one solitary swallow does not
      make summer; moreover, I know that knight was in secret very deeply in
      love; besides which, that way of falling in love with all that took his
      fancy was a natural propensity which he could not control. But, in short,
      it is very manifest that he had one alone whom he made mistress of his
      will, to whom he commended himself very frequently and very secretly, for
      he prided himself on being a reticent knight."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then if it be essential that every knight-errant should be in love," said
      the traveller, "it may be fairly supposed that your worship is so, as you
      are of the order; and if you do not pride yourself on being as reticent as
      Don Galaor, I entreat you as earnestly as I can, in the name of all this
      company and in my own, to inform us of the name, country, rank, and beauty
      of your lady, for she will esteem herself fortunate if all the world knows
      that she is loved and served by such a knight as your worship seems to
      be."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this Don Quixote heaved a deep sigh and said, "I cannot say positively
      whether my sweet enemy is pleased or not that the world should know I
      serve her; I can only say in answer to what has been so courteously asked
      of me, that her name is Dulcinea, her country El Toboso, a village of La
      Mancha, her rank must be at least that of a princess, since she is my
      queen and lady, and her beauty superhuman, since all the impossible and
      fanciful attributes of beauty which the poets apply to their ladies are
      verified in her; for her hairs are gold, her forehead Elysian fields, her
      eyebrows rainbows, her eyes suns, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her
      teeth pearls, her neck alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her
      fairness snow, and what modesty conceals from sight such, I think and
      imagine, as rational reflection can only extol, not compare."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We should like to know her lineage, race, and ancestry," said Vivaldo.
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Don Quixote replied, "She is not of the ancient Roman Curtii,
      Caii, or Scipios, nor of the modern Colonnas or Orsini, nor of the
      Moncadas or Requesenes of Catalonia, nor yet of the Rebellas or Villanovas
      of Valencia; Palafoxes, Nuzas, Rocabertis, Corellas, Lunas, Alagones,
      Urreas, Foces, or Gurreas of Aragon; Cerdas, Manriques, Mendozas, or
      Guzmans of Castile; Alencastros, Pallas, or Meneses of Portugal; but she
      is of those of El Toboso of La Mancha, a lineage that though modern, may
      furnish a source of gentle blood for the most illustrious families of the
      ages that are to come, and this let none dispute with me save on the
      condition that Zerbino placed at the foot of the trophy of Orlando's arms,
      saying,
    </p>
    <p>
      'These let none move Who dareth not his might with Roland prove.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Although mine is of the Cachopins of Laredo," said the traveller, "I will
      not venture to compare it with that of El Toboso of La Mancha, though, to
      tell the truth, no such surname has until now ever reached my ears."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What!" said Don Quixote, "has that never reached them?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The rest of the party went along listening with great attention to the
      conversation of the pair, and even the very goatherds and shepherds
      perceived how exceedingly out of his wits our Don Quixote was. Sancho
      Panza alone thought that what his master said was the truth, knowing who
      he was and having known him from his birth; and all that he felt any
      difficulty in believing was that about the fair Dulcinea del Toboso,
      because neither any such name nor any such princess had ever come to his
      knowledge though he lived so close to El Toboso. They were going along
      conversing in this way, when they saw descending a gap between two high
      mountains some twenty shepherds, all clad in sheepskins of black wool, and
      crowned with garlands which, as afterwards appeared, were, some of them of
      yew, some of cypress. Six of the number were carrying a bier covered with
      a great variety of flowers and branches, on seeing which one of the
      goatherds said, "Those who come there are the bearers of Chrysostom's
      body, and the foot of that mountain is the place where he ordered them to
      bury him." They therefore made haste to reach the spot, and did so by the
      time those who came had laid the bier upon the ground, and four of them
      with sharp pickaxes were digging a grave by the side of a hard rock. They
      greeted each other courteously, and then Don Quixote and those who
      accompanied him turned to examine the bier, and on it, covered with
      flowers, they saw a dead body in the dress of a shepherd, to all
      appearance of one thirty years of age, and showing even in death that in
      life he had been of comely features and gallant bearing. Around him on the
      bier itself were laid some books, and several papers open and folded; and
      those who were looking on as well as those who were opening the grave and
      all the others who were there preserved a strange silence, until one of
      those who had borne the body said to another, "Observe carefully, Ambrosia
      if this is the place Chrysostom spoke of, since you are anxious that what
      he directed in his will should be so strictly complied with."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is the place," answered Ambrosia "for in it many a time did my poor
      friend tell me the story of his hard fortune. Here it was, he told me,
      that he saw for the first time that mortal enemy of the human race, and
      here, too, for the first time he declared to her his passion, as
      honourable as it was devoted, and here it was that at last Marcela ended
      by scorning and rejecting him so as to bring the tragedy of his wretched
      life to a close; here, in memory of misfortunes so great, he desired to be
      laid in the bowels of eternal oblivion." Then turning to Don Quixote and
      the travellers he went on to say, "That body, sirs, on which you are
      looking with compassionate eyes, was the abode of a soul on which Heaven
      bestowed a vast share of its riches. That is the body of Chrysostom, who
      was unrivalled in wit, unequalled in courtesy, unapproached in gentle
      bearing, a phoenix in friendship, generous without limit, grave without
      arrogance, gay without vulgarity, and, in short, first in all that
      constitutes goodness and second to none in all that makes up misfortune.
      He loved deeply, he was hated; he adored, he was scorned; he wooed a wild
      beast, he pleaded with marble, he pursued the wind, he cried to the
      wilderness, he served ingratitude, and for reward was made the prey of
      death in the mid-course of life, cut short by a shepherdess whom he sought
      to immortalise in the memory of man, as these papers which you see could
      fully prove, had he not commanded me to consign them to the fire after
      having consigned his body to the earth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You would deal with them more harshly and cruelly than their owner
      himself," said Vivaldo, "for it is neither right nor proper to do the will
      of one who enjoins what is wholly unreasonable; it would not have been
      reasonable in Augustus Caesar had he permitted the directions left by the
      divine Mantuan in his will to be carried into effect. So that, Senor
      Ambrosia while you consign your friend's body to the earth, you should not
      consign his writings to oblivion, for if he gave the order in bitterness
      of heart, it is not right that you should irrationally obey it. On the
      contrary, by granting life to those papers, let the cruelty of Marcela
      live for ever, to serve as a warning in ages to come to all men to shun
      and avoid falling into like danger; or I and all of us who have come here
      know already the story of this your love-stricken and heart-broken friend,
      and we know, too, your friendship, and the cause of his death, and the
      directions he gave at the close of his life; from which sad story may be
      gathered how great was the cruelty of Marcela, the love of Chrysostom, and
      the loyalty of your friendship, together with the end awaiting those who
      pursue rashly the path that insane passion opens to their eyes. Last night
      we learned the death of Chrysostom and that he was to be buried here, and
      out of curiosity and pity we left our direct road and resolved to come and
      see with our eyes that which when heard of had so moved our compassion,
      and in consideration of that compassion and our desire to prove it if we
      might by condolence, we beg of you, excellent Ambrosia, or at least I on
      my own account entreat you, that instead of burning those papers you allow
      me to carry away some of them."
    </p>
    <p>
      And without waiting for the shepherd's answer, he stretched out his hand
      and took up some of those that were nearest to him; seeing which Ambrosio
      said, "Out of courtesy, senor, I will grant your request as to those you
      have taken, but it is idle to expect me to abstain from burning the
      remainder."
    </p>
    <p>
      Vivaldo, who was eager to see what the papers contained, opened one of
      them at once, and saw that its title was "Lay of Despair."
    </p>
    <p>
      Ambrosio hearing it said, "That is the last paper the unhappy man wrote;
      and that you may see, senor, to what an end his misfortunes brought him,
      read it so that you may be heard, for you will have time enough for that
      while we are waiting for the grave to be dug."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will do so very willingly," said Vivaldo; and as all the bystanders
      were equally eager they gathered round him, and he, reading in a loud
      voice, found that it ran as follows.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c13e" id="c13e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c13e.jpg (15K)" src="images/c13e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch14" id="ch14"></a>CHAPTER XIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN ARE INSERTED THE DESPAIRING VERSES OF THE DEAD SHEPHERD, TOGETHER
      WITH OTHER INCIDENTS NOT LOOKED FOR
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c14a" id="c14a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c14a.jpg (172K)" src="images/c14a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c14a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           THE LAY OF CHRYSOSTOM

  Since thou dost in thy cruelty desire
The ruthless rigour of thy tyranny
From tongue to tongue, from land to land proclaimed,
The very Hell will I constrain to lend
This stricken breast of mine deep notes of woe
To serve my need of fitting utterance.
And as I strive to body forth the tale
Of all I suffer, all that thou hast done,
Forth shall the dread voice roll, and bear along
Shreds from my vitals torn for greater pain.
Then listen, not to dulcet harmony,
But to a discord wrung by mad despair
Out of this bosom's depths of bitterness,
To ease my heart and plant a sting in thine.

  The lion's roar, the fierce wolf's savage howl,
The horrid hissing of the scaly snake,
The awesome cries of monsters yet unnamed,
The crow's ill-boding croak, the hollow moan
Of wild winds wrestling with the restless sea,
The wrathful bellow of the vanquished bull,
The plaintive sobbing of the widowed dove,
The envied owl's sad note, the wail of woe
That rises from the dreary choir of Hell,
Commingled in one sound, confusing sense,
Let all these come to aid my soul's complaint,
For pain like mine demands new modes of song.

  No echoes of that discord shall be heard
Where Father Tagus rolls, or on the banks
Of olive-bordered Betis; to the rocks
Or in deep caverns shall my plaint be told,
And by a lifeless tongue in living words;
Or in dark valleys or on lonely shores,
Where neither foot of man nor sunbeam falls;
Or in among the poison-breathing swarms
Of monsters nourished by the sluggish Nile.
For, though it be to solitudes remote
The hoarse vague echoes of my sorrows sound
Thy matchless cruelty, my dismal fate
Shall carry them to all the spacious world.

  Disdain hath power to kill, and patience dies
Slain by suspicion, be it false or true;
And deadly is the force of jealousy;
Long absence makes of life a dreary void;
No hope of happiness can give repose
To him that ever fears to be forgot;
And death, inevitable, waits in hall.
But I, by some strange miracle, live on
A prey to absence, jealousy, disdain;
Racked by suspicion as by certainty;
Forgotten, left to feed my flame alone.
And while I suffer thus, there comes no ray
Of hope to gladden me athwart the gloom;
Nor do I look for it in my despair;
But rather clinging to a cureless woe,
All hope do I abjure for evermore.

  Can there be hope where fear is? Were it well,
When far more certain are the grounds of fear?
Ought I to shut mine eyes to jealousy,
If through a thousand heart-wounds it appears?
Who would not give free access to distrust,
Seeing disdain unveiled, and&mdash;bitter change!&mdash;
All his suspicions turned to certainties,
And the fair truth transformed into a lie?
Oh, thou fierce tyrant of the realms of love,
Oh, Jealousy! put chains upon these hands,
And bind me with thy strongest cord, Disdain.
But, woe is me! triumphant over all,
My sufferings drown the memory of you.

  And now I die, and since there is no hope
Of happiness for me in life or death,
Still to my fantasy I'll fondly cling.
I'll say that he is wise who loveth well,
And that the soul most free is that most bound
In thraldom to the ancient tyrant Love.
I'll say that she who is mine enemy
In that fair body hath as fair a mind,
And that her coldness is but my desert,
And that by virtue of the pain he sends
Love rules his kingdom with a gentle sway.
Thus, self-deluding, and in bondage sore,
And wearing out the wretched shred of life
To which I am reduced by her disdain,
I'll give this soul and body to the winds,
All hopeless of a crown of bliss in store.

  Thou whose injustice hath supplied the cause
That makes me quit the weary life I loathe,
As by this wounded bosom thou canst see
How willingly thy victim I become,
Let not my death, if haply worth a tear,
Cloud the clear heaven that dwells in thy bright eyes;
I would not have thee expiate in aught
The crime of having made my heart thy prey;
But rather let thy laughter gaily ring
And prove my death to be thy festival.
Fool that I am to bid thee! well I know
Thy glory gains by my untimely end.

  And now it is the time; from Hell's abyss
Come thirsting Tantalus, come Sisyphus
Heaving the cruel stone, come Tityus
With vulture, and with wheel Ixion come,
And come the sisters of the ceaseless toil;
And all into this breast transfer their pains,
And (if such tribute to despair be due)
Chant in their deepest tones a doleful dirge
Over a corse unworthy of a shroud.
Let the three-headed guardian of the gate,
And all the monstrous progeny of hell,
The doleful concert join: a lover dead
Methinks can have no fitter obsequies.

  Lay of despair, grieve not when thou art gone
Forth from this sorrowing heart: my misery
Brings fortune to the cause that gave thee birth;
Then banish sadness even in the tomb.

</pre>
    <p>
      The "Lay of Chrysostom" met with the approbation of the listeners, though
      the reader said it did not seem to him to agree with what he had heard of
      Marcela's reserve and propriety, for Chrysostom complained in it of
      jealousy, suspicion, and absence, all to the prejudice of the good name
      and fame of Marcela; to which Ambrosio replied as one who knew well his
      friend's most secret thoughts, "Senor, to remove that doubt I should tell
      you that when the unhappy man wrote this lay he was away from Marcela,
      from whom he had voluntarily separated himself, to try if absence would
      act with him as it is wont; and as everything distresses and every fear
      haunts the banished lover, so imaginary jealousies and suspicions, dreaded
      as if they were true, tormented Chrysostom; and thus the truth of what
      report declares of the virtue of Marcela remains unshaken, and with her
      envy itself should not and cannot find any fault save that of being cruel,
      somewhat haughty, and very scornful."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said Vivaldo; and as he was about to read another paper of
      those he had preserved from the fire, he was stopped by a marvellous
      vision (for such it seemed) that unexpectedly presented itself to their
      eyes; for on the summit of the rock where they were digging the grave
      there appeared the shepherdess Marcela, so beautiful that her beauty
      exceeded its reputation. Those who had never till then beheld her gazed
      upon her in wonder and silence, and those who were accustomed to see her
      were not less amazed than those who had never seen her before. But the
      instant Ambrosio saw her he addressed her, with manifest indignation:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Art thou come, by chance, cruel basilisk of these mountains, to see if in
      thy presence blood will flow from the wounds of this wretched being thy
      cruelty has robbed of life; or is it to exult over the cruel work of thy
      humours that thou art come; or like another pitiless Nero to look down
      from that height upon the ruin of his Rome in embers; or in thy arrogance
      to trample on this ill-fated corpse, as the ungrateful daughter trampled
      on her father Tarquin's? Tell us quickly for what thou art come, or what
      it is thou wouldst have, for, as I know the thoughts of Chrysostom never
      failed to obey thee in life, I will make all these who call themselves his
      friends obey thee, though he be dead."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I come not, Ambrosia for any of the purposes thou hast named," replied
      Marcela, "but to defend myself and to prove how unreasonable are all those
      who blame me for their sorrow and for Chrysostom's death; and therefore I
      ask all of you that are here to give me your attention, for will not take
      much time or many words to bring the truth home to persons of sense.
      Heaven has made me, so you say, beautiful, and so much so that in spite of
      yourselves my beauty leads you to love me; and for the love you show me
      you say, and even urge, that I am bound to love you. By that natural
      understanding which God has given me I know that everything beautiful
      attracts love, but I cannot see how, by reason of being loved, that which
      is loved for its beauty is bound to love that which loves it; besides, it
      may happen that the lover of that which is beautiful may be ugly, and
      ugliness being detestable, it is very absurd to say, "I love thee because
      thou art beautiful, thou must love me though I be ugly." But supposing the
      beauty equal on both sides, it does not follow that the inclinations must
      be therefore alike, for it is not every beauty that excites love, some but
      pleasing the eye without winning the affection; and if every sort of
      beauty excited love and won the heart, the will would wander vaguely to
      and fro unable to make choice of any; for as there is an infinity of
      beautiful objects there must be an infinity of inclinations, and true
      love, I have heard it said, is indivisible, and must be voluntary and not
      compelled. If this be so, as I believe it to be, why do you desire me to
      bend my will by force, for no other reason but that you say you love me?
      Nay&mdash;tell me&mdash;had Heaven made me ugly, as it has made me
      beautiful, could I with justice complain of you for not loving me?
      Moreover, you must remember that the beauty I possess was no choice of
      mine, for, be it what it may, Heaven of its bounty gave it me without my
      asking or choosing it; and as the viper, though it kills with it, does not
      deserve to be blamed for the poison it carries, as it is a gift of nature,
      neither do I deserve reproach for being beautiful; for beauty in a modest
      woman is like fire at a distance or a sharp sword; the one does not burn,
      the other does not cut, those who do not come too near. Honour and virtue
      are the ornaments of the mind, without which the body, though it be so,
      has no right to pass for beautiful; but if modesty is one of the virtues
      that specially lend a grace and charm to mind and body, why should she who
      is loved for her beauty part with it to gratify one who for his pleasure
      alone strives with all his might and energy to rob her of it? I was born
      free, and that I might live in freedom I chose the solitude of the fields;
      in the trees of the mountains I find society, the clear waters of the
      brooks are my mirrors, and to the trees and waters I make known my
      thoughts and charms. I am a fire afar off, a sword laid aside. Those whom
      I have inspired with love by letting them see me, I have by words
      undeceived, and if their longings live on hope&mdash;and I have given none
      to Chrysostom or to any other&mdash;it cannot justly be said that the
      death of any is my doing, for it was rather his own obstinacy than my
      cruelty that killed him; and if it be made a charge against me that his
      wishes were honourable, and that therefore I was bound to yield to them, I
      answer that when on this very spot where now his grave is made he declared
      to me his purity of purpose, I told him that mine was to live in perpetual
      solitude, and that the earth alone should enjoy the fruits of my
      retirement and the spoils of my beauty; and if, after this open avowal, he
      chose to persist against hope and steer against the wind, what wonder is
      it that he should sink in the depths of his infatuation? If I had
      encouraged him, I should be false; if I had gratified him, I should have
      acted against my own better resolution and purpose. He was persistent in
      spite of warning, he despaired without being hated. Bethink you now if it
      be reasonable that his suffering should be laid to my charge. Let him who
      has been deceived complain, let him give way to despair whose encouraged
      hopes have proved vain, let him flatter himself whom I shall entice, let
      him boast whom I shall receive; but let not him call me cruel or homicide
      to whom I make no promise, upon whom I practise no deception, whom I
      neither entice nor receive. It has not been so far the will of Heaven that
      I should love by fate, and to expect me to love by choice is idle. Let
      this general declaration serve for each of my suitors on his own account,
      and let it be understood from this time forth that if anyone dies for me
      it is not of jealousy or misery he dies, for she who loves no one can give
      no cause for jealousy to any, and candour is not to be confounded with
      scorn. Let him who calls me wild beast and basilisk, leave me alone as
      something noxious and evil; let him who calls me ungrateful, withhold his
      service; who calls me wayward, seek not my acquaintance; who calls me
      cruel, pursue me not; for this wild beast, this basilisk, this ungrateful,
      cruel, wayward being has no kind of desire to seek, serve, know, or follow
      them. If Chrysostom's impatience and violent passion killed him, why
      should my modest behaviour and circumspection be blamed? If I preserve my
      purity in the society of the trees, why should he who would have me
      preserve it among men, seek to rob me of it? I have, as you know, wealth
      of my own, and I covet not that of others; my taste is for freedom, and I
      have no relish for constraint; I neither love nor hate anyone; I do not
      deceive this one or court that, or trifle with one or play with another.
      The modest converse of the shepherd girls of these hamlets and the care of
      my goats are my recreations; my desires are bounded by these mountains,
      and if they ever wander hence it is to contemplate the beauty of the
      heavens, steps by which the soul travels to its primeval abode."
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words, and not waiting to hear a reply, she turned and passed
      into the thickest part of a wood that was hard by, leaving all who were
      there lost in admiration as much of her good sense as of her beauty. Some&mdash;those
      wounded by the irresistible shafts launched by her bright eyes&mdash;made
      as though they would follow her, heedless of the frank declaration they
      had heard; seeing which, and deeming this a fitting occasion for the
      exercise of his chivalry in aid of distressed damsels, Don Quixote, laying
      his hand on the hilt of his sword, exclaimed in a loud and distinct voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let no one, whatever his rank or condition, dare to follow the beautiful
      Marcela, under pain of incurring my fierce indignation. She has shown by
      clear and satisfactory arguments that little or no fault is to be found
      with her for the death of Chrysostom, and also how far she is from
      yielding to the wishes of any of her lovers, for which reason, instead of
      being followed and persecuted, she should in justice be honoured and
      esteemed by all the good people of the world, for she shows that she is
      the only woman in it that holds to such a virtuous resolution."
    </p>
    <p>
      Whether it was because of the threats of Don Quixote, or because Ambrosio
      told them to fulfil their duty to their good friend, none of the shepherds
      moved or stirred from the spot until, having finished the grave and burned
      Chrysostom's papers, they laid his body in it, not without many tears from
      those who stood by. They closed the grave with a heavy stone until a slab
      was ready which Ambrosio said he meant to have prepared, with an epitaph
      which was to be to this effect:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Beneath the stone before your eyes
The body of a lover lies;
In life he was a shepherd swain,
In death a victim to disdain.
Ungrateful, cruel, coy, and fair,
Was she that drove him to despair,
And Love hath made her his ally
For spreading wide his tyranny.
</pre>
    <p>
      They then strewed upon the grave a profusion of flowers and branches, and
      all expressing their condolence with his friend Ambrosio, took their
      Vivaldo and his companion did the same; and Don Quixote bade farewell to
      his hosts and to the travellers, who pressed him to come with them to
      Seville, as being such a convenient place for finding adventures, for they
      presented themselves in every street and round every corner oftener than
      anywhere else. Don Quixote thanked them for their advice and for the
      disposition they showed to do him a favour, and said that for the present
      he would not, and must not go to Seville until he had cleared all these
      mountains of highwaymen and robbers, of whom report said they were full.
      Seeing his good intention, the travellers were unwilling to press him
      further, and once more bidding him farewell, they left him and pursued
      their journey, in the course of which they did not fail to discuss the
      story of Marcela and Chrysostom as well as the madness of Don Quixote. He,
      on his part, resolved to go in quest of the shepherdess Marcela, and make
      offer to her of all the service he could render her; but things did not
      fall out with him as he expected, according to what is related in the
      course of this veracious history, of which the Second Part ends here.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c14e" id="c14e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c14e.jpg (31K)" src="images/c14e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch15" id="ch15"></a>CHAPTER XV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH IS RELATED THE UNFORTUNATE ADVENTURE THAT DON QUIXOTE FELL IN
      WITH WHEN HE FELL OUT WITH CERTAIN HEARTLESS YANGUESANS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c15a" id="c15a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c15a.jpg (81K)" src="images/c15a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c15a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The sage Cid Hamete Benengeli relates that as soon as Don Quixote took
      leave of his hosts and all who had been present at the burial of
      Chrysostom, he and his squire passed into the same wood which they had
      seen the shepherdess Marcela enter, and after having wandered for more
      than two hours in all directions in search of her without finding her,
      they came to a halt in a glade covered with tender grass, beside which ran
      a pleasant cool stream that invited and compelled them to pass there the
      hours of the noontide heat, which by this time was beginning to come on
      oppressively. Don Quixote and Sancho dismounted, and turning Rocinante and
      the ass loose to feed on the grass that was there in abundance, they
      ransacked the alforjas, and without any ceremony very peacefully and
      sociably master and man made their repast on what they found in them.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c15b" id="c15b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c15b.jpg (376K)" src="images/c15b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c15b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho had not thought it worth while to hobble Rocinante, feeling sure,
      from what he knew of his staidness and freedom from incontinence, that all
      the mares in the Cordova pastures would not lead him into an impropriety.
      Chance, however, and the devil, who is not always asleep, so ordained it
      that feeding in this valley there was a drove of Galician ponies belonging
      to certain Yanguesan carriers, whose way it is to take their midday rest
      with their teams in places and spots where grass and water abound; and
      that where Don Quixote chanced to be suited the Yanguesans' purpose very
      well. It so happened, then, that Rocinante took a fancy to disport himself
      with their ladyships the ponies, and abandoning his usual gait and
      demeanour as he scented them, he, without asking leave of his master, got
      up a briskish little trot and hastened to make known his wishes to them;
      they, however, it seemed, preferred their pasture to him, and received him
      with their heels and teeth to such effect that they soon broke his girths
      and left him naked without a saddle to cover him; but what must have been
      worse to him was that the carriers, seeing the violence he was offering to
      their mares, came running up armed with stakes, and so belaboured him that
      they brought him sorely battered to the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time Don Quixote and Sancho, who had witnessed the drubbing of
      Rocinante, came up panting, and said Don Quixote to Sancho:
    </p>
    <p>
      "So far as I can see, friend Sancho, these are not knights but base folk
      of low birth: I mention it because thou canst lawfully aid me in taking
      due vengeance for the insult offered to Rocinante before our eyes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What the devil vengeance can we take," answered Sancho, "if they are more
      than twenty, and we no more than two, or, indeed, perhaps not more than
      one and a half?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I count for a hundred," replied Don Quixote, and without more words he
      drew his sword and attacked the Yanguesans and excited and impelled by the
      example of his master, Sancho did the same; and to begin with, Don Quixote
      delivered a slash at one of them that laid open the leather jerkin he
      wore, together with a great portion of his shoulder. The Yanguesans,
      seeing themselves assaulted by only two men while they were so many,
      betook themselves to their stakes, and driving the two into the middle
      they began to lay on with great zeal and energy; in fact, at the second
      blow they brought Sancho to the ground, and Don Quixote fared the same
      way, all his skill and high mettle availing him nothing, and fate willed
      it that he should fall at the feet of Rocinante, who had not yet risen;
      whereby it may be seen how furiously stakes can pound in angry boorish
      hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c15c" id="c15c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c15c.jpg (362K)" src="images/c15c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c15c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, seeing the mischief they had done, the Yanguesans with all the haste
      they could loaded their team and pursued their journey, leaving the two
      adventurers a sorry sight and in sorrier mood.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho was the first to come to, and finding himself close to his master
      he called to him in a weak and doleful voice, "Senor Don Quixote, ah,
      Senor Don Quixote!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "What wouldst thou, brother Sancho?" answered Don Quixote in the same
      feeble suffering tone as Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would like, if it were possible," answered Sancho Panza, "your worship
      to give me a couple of sups of that potion of the fiery Blas, if it be
      that you have any to hand there; perhaps it will serve for broken bones as
      well as for wounds."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If I only had it here, wretch that I am, what more should we want?" said
      Don Quixote; "but I swear to thee, Sancho Panza, on the faith of a
      knight-errant, ere two days are over, unless fortune orders otherwise, I
      mean to have it in my possession, or my hand will have lost its cunning."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But in how many does your worship think we shall have the use of our
      feet?" answered Sancho Panza.
    </p>
    <p>
      "For myself I must say I cannot guess how many," said the battered knight
      Don Quixote; "but I take all the blame upon myself, for I had no business
      to put hand to sword against men who where not dubbed knights like myself,
      and so I believe that in punishment for having transgressed the laws of
      chivalry the God of battles has permitted this chastisement to be
      administered to me; for which reason, brother Sancho, it is well thou
      shouldst receive a hint on the matter which I am now about to mention to
      thee, for it is of much importance to the welfare of both of us. It is at
      when thou shalt see rabble of this sort offering us insult thou art not to
      wait till I draw sword against them, for I shall not do so at all; but do
      thou draw sword and chastise them to thy heart's content, and if any
      knights come to their aid and defence I will take care to defend thee and
      assail them with all my might; and thou hast already seen by a thousand
      signs and proofs what the might of this strong arm of mine is equal to"&mdash;so
      uplifted had the poor gentleman become through the victory over the stout
      Biscayan.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Sancho did not so fully approve of his master's admonition as to let
      it pass without saying in reply, "Senor, I am a man of peace, meek and
      quiet, and I can put up with any affront because I have a wife and
      children to support and bring up; so let it be likewise a hint to your
      worship, as it cannot be a mandate, that on no account will I draw sword
      either against clown or against knight, and that here before God I forgive
      the insults that have been offered me, whether they have been, are, or
      shall be offered me by high or low, rich or poor, noble or commoner, not
      excepting any rank or condition whatsoever."
    </p>
    <p>
      To all which his master said in reply, "I wish I had breath enough to
      speak somewhat easily, and that the pain I feel on this side would abate
      so as to let me explain to thee, Panza, the mistake thou makest. Come now,
      sinner, suppose the wind of fortune, hitherto so adverse, should turn in
      our favour, filling the sails of our desires so that safely and without
      impediment we put into port in some one of those islands I have promised
      thee, how would it be with thee if on winning it I made thee lord of it?
      Why, thou wilt make it well-nigh impossible through not being a knight nor
      having any desire to be one, nor possessing the courage nor the will to
      avenge insults or defend thy lordship; for thou must know that in newly
      conquered kingdoms and provinces the minds of the inhabitants are never so
      quiet nor so well disposed to the new lord that there is no fear of their
      making some move to change matters once more, and try, as they say, what
      chance may do for them; so it is essential that the new possessor should
      have good sense to enable him to govern, and valour to attack and defend
      himself, whatever may befall him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In what has now befallen us," answered Sancho, "I'd have been well
      pleased to have that good sense and that valour your worship speaks of,
      but I swear on the faith of a poor man I am more fit for plasters than for
      arguments. See if your worship can get up, and let us help Rocinante,
      though he does not deserve it, for he was the main cause of all this
      thrashing. I never thought it of Rocinante, for I took him to be a
      virtuous person and as quiet as myself. After all, they say right that it
      takes a long time to come to know people, and that there is nothing sure
      in this life. Who would have said that, after such mighty slashes as your
      worship gave that unlucky knight-errant, there was coming, travelling post
      and at the very heels of them, such a great storm of sticks as has fallen
      upon our shoulders?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And yet thine, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "ought to be used to such
      squalls; but mine, reared in soft cloth and fine linen, it is plain they
      must feel more keenly the pain of this mishap, and if it were not that I
      imagine&mdash;why do I say imagine?&mdash;know of a certainty that all
      these annoyances are very necessary accompaniments of the calling of arms,
      I would lay me down here to die of pure vexation."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this the squire replied, "Senor, as these mishaps are what one reaps of
      chivalry, tell me if they happen very often, or if they have their own
      fixed times for coming to pass; because it seems to me that after two
      harvests we shall be no good for the third, unless God in his infinite
      mercy helps us."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Know, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "that the life of
      knights-errant is subject to a thousand dangers and reverses, and neither
      more nor less is it within immediate possibility for knights-errant to
      become kings and emperors, as experience has shown in the case of many
      different knights with whose histories I am thoroughly acquainted; and I
      could tell thee now, if the pain would let me, of some who simply by might
      of arm have risen to the high stations I have mentioned; and those same,
      both before and after, experienced divers misfortunes and miseries; for
      the valiant Amadis of Gaul found himself in the power of his mortal enemy
      Arcalaus the magician, who, it is positively asserted, holding him
      captive, gave him more than two hundred lashes with the reins of his horse
      while tied to one of the pillars of a court; and moreover there is a
      certain recondite author of no small authority who says that the Knight of
      Phoebus, being caught in a certain pitfall, which opened under his feet in
      a certain castle, on falling found himself bound hand and foot in a deep
      pit underground, where they administered to him one of those things they
      call clysters, of sand and snow-water, that well-nigh finished him; and if
      he had not been succoured in that sore extremity by a sage, a great friend
      of his, it would have gone very hard with the poor knight; so I may well
      suffer in company with such worthy folk, for greater were the indignities
      which they had to suffer than those which we suffer. For I would have thee
      know, Sancho, that wounds caused by any instruments which happen by chance
      to be in hand inflict no indignity, and this is laid down in the law of
      the duel in express words: if, for instance, the cobbler strikes another
      with the last which he has in his hand, though it be in fact a piece of
      wood, it cannot be said for that reason that he whom he struck with it has
      been cudgelled. I say this lest thou shouldst imagine that because we have
      been drubbed in this affray we have therefore suffered any indignity; for
      the arms those men carried, with which they pounded us, were nothing more
      than their stakes, and not one of them, so far as I remember, carried
      rapier, sword, or dagger."
    </p>
    <p>
      "They gave me no time to see that much," answered Sancho, "for hardly had
      I laid hand on my tizona when they signed the cross on my shoulders with
      their sticks in such style that they took the sight out of my eyes and the
      strength out of my feet, stretching me where I now lie, and where thinking
      of whether all those stake-strokes were an indignity or not gives me no
      uneasiness, which the pain of the blows does, for they will remain as
      deeply impressed on my memory as on my shoulders."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For all that let me tell thee, brother Panza," said Don Quixote, "that
      there is no recollection which time does not put an end to, and no pain
      which death does not remove."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what greater misfortune can there be," replied Panza, "than the one
      that waits for time to put an end to it and death to remove it? If our
      mishap were one of those that are cured with a couple of plasters, it
      would not be so bad; but I am beginning to think that all the plasters in
      a hospital almost won't be enough to put us right."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No more of that: pluck strength out of weakness, Sancho, as I mean to
      do," returned Don Quixote, "and let us see how Rocinante is, for it seems
      to me that not the least share of this mishap has fallen to the lot of the
      poor beast."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is nothing wonderful in that," replied Sancho, "since he is a
      knight-errant too; what I wonder at is that my beast should have come off
      scot-free where we come out scotched."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fortune always leaves a door open in adversity in order to bring relief
      to it," said Don Quixote; "I say so because this little beast may now
      supply the want of Rocinante, carrying me hence to some castle where I may
      be cured of my wounds. And moreover I shall not hold it any dishonour to
      be so mounted, for I remember having read how the good old Silenus, the
      tutor and instructor of the gay god of laughter, when he entered the city
      of the hundred gates, went very contentedly mounted on a handsome ass."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It may be true that he went mounted as your worship says," answered
      Sancho, "but there is a great difference between going mounted and going
      slung like a sack of manure."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Don Quixote replied, "Wounds received in battle confer honour
      instead of taking it away; and so, friend Panza, say no more, but, as I
      told thee before, get up as well as thou canst and put me on top of thy
      beast in whatever fashion pleases thee best, and let us go hence ere night
      come on and surprise us in these wilds."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And yet I have heard your worship say," observed Panza, "that it is very
      meet for knights-errant to sleep in wastes and deserts, and that they
      esteem it very good fortune."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is," said Don Quixote, "when they cannot help it, or when they are
      in love; and so true is this that there have been knights who have
      remained two years on rocks, in sunshine and shade and all the
      inclemencies of heaven, without their ladies knowing anything of it; and
      one of these was Amadis, when, under the name of Beltenebros, he took up
      his abode on the Pena Pobre for&mdash;I know not if it was eight years or
      eight months, for I am not very sure of the reckoning; at any rate he
      stayed there doing penance for I know not what pique the Princess Oriana
      had against him; but no more of this now, Sancho, and make haste before a
      mishap like Rocinante's befalls the ass."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The very devil would be in it in that case," said Sancho; and letting off
      thirty "ohs," and sixty sighs, and a hundred and twenty maledictions and
      execrations on whomsoever it was that had brought him there, he raised
      himself, stopping half-way bent like a Turkish bow without power to bring
      himself upright, but with all his pains he saddled his ass, who too had
      gone astray somewhat, yielding to the excessive licence of the day; he
      next raised up Rocinante, and as for him, had he possessed a tongue to
      complain with, most assuredly neither Sancho nor his master would have
      been behind him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c15d" id="c15d"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c15d.jpg (329K)" src="images/c15d.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c15d.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      To be brief, Sancho fixed Don Quixote on the ass and secured Rocinante
      with a leading rein, and taking the ass by the halter, he proceeded more
      or less in the direction in which it seemed to him the high road might be;
      and, as chance was conducting their affairs for them from good to better,
      he had not gone a short league when the road came in sight, and on it he
      perceived an inn, which to his annoyance and to the delight of Don Quixote
      must needs be a castle. Sancho insisted that it was an inn, and his master
      that it was not one, but a castle, and the dispute lasted so long that
      before the point was settled they had time to reach it, and into it Sancho
      entered with all his team without any further controversy.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c15e" id="c15e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c15e.jpg (31K)" src="images/c15e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch16" id="ch16"></a>CHAPTER XVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF WHAT HAPPENED TO THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN IN THE INN WHICH HE TOOK TO BE
      A CASTLE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c16a" id="c16a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c16a.jpg (129K)" src="images/c16a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c16a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote slung across the ass, asked Sancho what
      was amiss with him. Sancho answered that it was nothing, only that he had
      fallen down from a rock and had his ribs a little bruised. The innkeeper
      had a wife whose disposition was not such as those of her calling commonly
      have, for she was by nature kind-hearted and felt for the sufferings of
      her neighbours, so she at once set about tending Don Quixote, and made her
      young daughter, a very comely girl, help her in taking care of her guest.
      There was besides in the inn, as servant, an Asturian lass with a broad
      face, flat poll, and snub nose, blind of one eye and not very sound in the
      other. The elegance of her shape, to be sure, made up for all her defects;
      she did not measure seven palms from head to foot, and her shoulders,
      which overweighted her somewhat, made her contemplate the ground more than
      she liked. This graceful lass, then, helped the young girl, and the two
      made up a very bad bed for Don Quixote in a garret that showed evident
      signs of having formerly served for many years as a straw-loft, in which
      there was also quartered a carrier whose bed was placed a little beyond
      our Don Quixote's, and, though only made of the pack-saddles and cloths of
      his mules, had much the advantage of it, as Don Quixote's consisted simply
      of four rough boards on two not very even trestles, a mattress, that for
      thinness might have passed for a quilt, full of pellets which, were they
      not seen through the rents to be wool, would to the touch have seemed
      pebbles in hardness, two sheets made of buckler leather, and a coverlet
      the threads of which anyone that chose might have counted without missing
      one in the reckoning.
    </p>
    <p>
      On this accursed bed Don Quixote stretched himself, and the hostess and
      her daughter soon covered him with plasters from top to toe, while
      Maritornes&mdash;for that was the name of the Asturian&mdash;held the
      light for them, and while plastering him, the hostess, observing how full
      of wheals Don Quixote was in some places, remarked that this had more the
      look of blows than of a fall.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not blows, Sancho said, but that the rock had many points and
      projections, and that each of them had left its mark. "Pray, senora," he
      added, "manage to save some tow, as there will be no want of some one to
      use it, for my loins too are rather sore."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then you must have fallen too," said the hostess.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I did not fall," said Sancho Panza, "but from the shock I got at seeing
      my master fall, my body aches so that I feel as if I had had a thousand
      thwacks."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That may well be," said the young girl, "for it has many a time happened
      to me to dream that I was falling down from a tower and never coming to
      the ground, and when I awoke from the dream to find myself as weak and
      shaken as if I had really fallen."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is the point, senora," replied Sancho Panza, "that I without
      dreaming at all, but being more awake than I am now, find myself with
      scarcely less wheals than my master, Don Quixote."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How is the gentleman called?" asked Maritornes the Asturian.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Don Quixote of La Mancha," answered Sancho Panza, "and he is a
      knight-adventurer, and one of the best and stoutest that have been seen in
      the world this long time past."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What is a knight-adventurer?" said the lass.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Are you so new in the world as not to know?" answered Sancho Panza.
      "Well, then, you must know, sister, that a knight-adventurer is a thing
      that in two words is seen drubbed and emperor, that is to-day the most
      miserable and needy being in the world, and to-morrow will have two or
      three crowns of kingdoms to give his squire."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then how is it," said the hostess, "that belonging to so good a master as
      this, you have not, to judge by appearances, even so much as a county?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is too soon yet," answered Sancho, "for we have only been a month
      going in quest of adventures, and so far we have met with nothing that can
      be called one, for it will happen that when one thing is looked for
      another thing is found; however, if my master Don Quixote gets well of
      this wound, or fall, and I am left none the worse of it, I would not
      change my hopes for the best title in Spain."
    </p>
    <p>
      To all this conversation Don Quixote was listening very attentively, and
      sitting up in bed as well as he could, and taking the hostess by the hand
      he said to her, "Believe me, fair lady, you may call yourself fortunate in
      having in this castle of yours sheltered my person, which is such that if
      I do not myself praise it, it is because of what is commonly said, that
      self-praise debaseth; but my squire will inform you who I am. I only tell
      you that I shall preserve for ever inscribed on my memory the service you
      have rendered me in order to tender you my gratitude while life shall last
      me; and would to Heaven love held me not so enthralled and subject to its
      laws and to the eyes of that fair ingrate whom I name between my teeth,
      but that those of this lovely damsel might be the masters of my liberty."
    </p>
    <p>
      The hostess, her daughter, and the worthy Maritornes listened in
      bewilderment to the words of the knight-errant; for they understood about
      as much of them as if he had been talking Greek, though they could
      perceive they were all meant for expressions of good-will and
      blandishments; and not being accustomed to this kind of language, they
      stared at him and wondered to themselves, for he seemed to them a man of a
      different sort from those they were used to, and thanking him in pothouse
      phrase for his civility they left him, while the Asturian gave her
      attention to Sancho, who needed it no less than his master.
    </p>
    <p>
      The carrier had made an arrangement with her for recreation that night,
      and she had given him her word that when the guests were quiet and the
      family asleep she would come in search of him and meet his wishes
      unreservedly. And it is said of this good lass that she never made
      promises of the kind without fulfilling them, even though she made them in
      a forest and without any witness present, for she plumed herself greatly
      on being a lady and held it no disgrace to be in such an employment as
      servant in an inn, because, she said, misfortunes and ill-luck had brought
      her to that position. The hard, narrow, wretched, rickety bed of Don
      Quixote stood first in the middle of this star-lit stable, and close
      beside it Sancho made his, which merely consisted of a rush mat and a
      blanket that looked as if it was of threadbare canvas rather than of wool.
      Next to these two beds was that of the carrier, made up, as has been said,
      of the pack-saddles and all the trappings of the two best mules he had,
      though there were twelve of them, sleek, plump, and in prime condition,
      for he was one of the rich carriers of Arevalo, according to the author of
      this history, who particularly mentions this carrier because he knew him
      very well, and they even say was in some degree a relation of his; besides
      which Cid Hamete Benengeli was a historian of great research and accuracy
      in all things, as is very evident since he would not pass over in silence
      those that have been already mentioned, however trifling and insignificant
      they might be, an example that might be followed by those grave historians
      who relate transactions so curtly and briefly that we hardly get a taste
      of them, all the substance of the work being left in the inkstand from
      carelessness, perverseness, or ignorance. A thousand blessings on the
      author of "Tablante de Ricamonte" and that of the other book in which the
      deeds of the Conde Tomillas are recounted; with what minuteness they
      describe everything!
    </p>
    <p>
      To proceed, then: after having paid a visit to his team and given them
      their second feed, the carrier stretched himself on his pack-saddles and
      lay waiting for his conscientious Maritornes. Sancho was by this time
      plastered and had lain down, and though he strove to sleep the pain of his
      ribs would not let him, while Don Quixote with the pain of his had his
      eyes as wide open as a hare's.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c16b" id="c16b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c16b.jpg (333K)" src="images/c16b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c16b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The inn was all in silence, and in the whole of it there was no light
      except that given by a lantern that hung burning in the middle of the
      gateway. This strange stillness, and the thoughts, always present to our
      knight's mind, of the incidents described at every turn in the books that
      were the cause of his misfortune, conjured up to his imagination as
      extraordinary a delusion as can well be conceived, which was that he
      fancied himself to have reached a famous castle (for, as has been said,
      all the inns he lodged in were castles to his eyes), and that the daughter
      of the innkeeper was daughter of the lord of the castle, and that she, won
      by his high-bred bearing, had fallen in love with him, and had promised to
      come to his bed for a while that night without the knowledge of her
      parents; and holding all this fantasy that he had constructed as solid
      fact, he began to feel uneasy and to consider the perilous risk which his
      virtue was about to encounter, and he resolved in his heart to commit no
      treason to his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, even though the queen Guinevere
      herself and the dame Quintanona should present themselves before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he was taken up with these vagaries, then, the time and the hour&mdash;an
      unlucky one for him&mdash;arrived for the Asturian to come, who in her
      smock, with bare feet and her hair gathered into a fustian coif, with
      noiseless and cautious steps entered the chamber where the three were
      quartered, in quest of the carrier; but scarcely had she gained the door
      when Don Quixote perceived her, and sitting up in his bed in spite of his
      plasters and the pain of his ribs, he stretched out his arms to receive
      his beauteous damsel. The Asturian, who went all doubled up and in silence
      with her hands before her feeling for her lover, encountered the arms of
      Don Quixote, who grasped her tightly by the wrist, and drawing her towards
      him, while she dared not utter a word, made her sit down on the bed. He
      then felt her smock, and although it was of sackcloth it appeared to him
      to be of the finest and softest silk: on her wrists she wore some glass
      beads, but to him they had the sheen of precious Orient pearls: her hair,
      which in some measure resembled a horse's mane, he rated as threads of the
      brightest gold of Araby, whose refulgence dimmed the sun himself: her
      breath, which no doubt smelt of yesterday's stale salad, seemed to him to
      diffuse a sweet aromatic fragrance from her mouth; and, in short, he drew
      her portrait in his imagination with the same features and in the same
      style as that which he had seen in his books of the other princesses who,
      smitten by love, came with all the adornments that are here set down, to
      see the sorely wounded knight; and so great was the poor gentleman's
      blindness that neither touch, nor smell, nor anything else about the good
      lass that would have made any but a carrier vomit, were enough to
      undeceive him; on the contrary, he was persuaded he had the goddess of
      beauty in his arms, and holding her firmly in his grasp he went on to say
      in low, tender voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Would that found myself, lovely and exalted lady, in a position to repay
      such a favour as that which you, by the sight of your great beauty, have
      granted me; but fortune, which is never weary of persecuting the good, has
      chosen to place me upon this bed, where I lie so bruised and broken that
      though my inclination would gladly comply with yours it is impossible;
      besides, to this impossibility another yet greater is to be added, which
      is the faith that I have pledged to the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole
      lady of my most secret thoughts; and were it not that this stood in the
      way I should not be so insensible a knight as to miss the happy
      opportunity which your great goodness has offered me."
    </p>
    <p>
      Maritornes was fretting and sweating at finding herself held so fast by
      Don Quixote, and not understanding or heeding the words he addressed to
      her, she strove without speaking to free herself. The worthy carrier,
      whose unholy thoughts kept him awake, was aware of his doxy the moment she
      entered the door, and was listening attentively to all Don Quixote said;
      and jealous that the Asturian should have broken her word with him for
      another, drew nearer to Don Quixote's bed and stood still to see what
      would come of this talk which he could not understand; but when he
      perceived the wench struggling to get free and Don Quixote striving to
      hold her, not relishing the joke he raised his arm and delivered such a
      terrible cuff on the lank jaws of the amorous knight that he bathed all
      his mouth in blood, and not content with this he mounted on his ribs and
      with his feet tramped all over them at a pace rather smarter than a trot.
      The bed which was somewhat crazy and not very firm on its feet, unable to
      support the additional weight of the carrier, came to the ground, and at
      the mighty crash of this the innkeeper awoke and at once concluded that it
      must be some brawl of Maritornes', because after calling loudly to her he
      got no answer. With this suspicion he got up, and lighting a lamp hastened
      to the quarter where he had heard the disturbance. The wench, seeing that
      her master was coming and knowing that his temper was terrible, frightened
      and panic-stricken made for the bed of Sancho Panza, who still slept, and
      crouching upon it made a ball of herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      The innkeeper came in exclaiming, "Where art thou, strumpet? Of course
      this is some of thy work." At this Sancho awoke, and feeling this mass
      almost on top of him fancied he had the nightmare and began to distribute
      fisticuffs all round, of which a certain share fell upon Maritornes, who,
      irritated by the pain and flinging modesty aside, paid back so many in
      return to Sancho that she woke him up in spite of himself. He then,
      finding himself so handled, by whom he knew not, raising himself up as
      well as he could, grappled with Maritornes, and he and she between them
      began the bitterest and drollest scrimmage in the world. The carrier,
      however, perceiving by the light of the innkeeper candle how it fared with
      his ladylove, quitting Don Quixote, ran to bring her the help she needed;
      and the innkeeper did the same but with a different intention, for his was
      to chastise the lass, as he believed that beyond a doubt she alone was the
      cause of all the harmony. And so, as the saying is, cat to rat, rat to
      rope, rope to stick, the carrier pounded Sancho, Sancho the lass, she him,
      and the innkeeper her, and all worked away so briskly that they did not
      give themselves a moment's rest; and the best of it was that the
      innkeeper's lamp went out, and as they were left in the dark they all laid
      on one upon the other in a mass so unmercifully that there was not a sound
      spot left where a hand could light.
    </p>
    <p>
      It so happened that there was lodging that night in the inn a caudrillero
      of what they call the Old Holy Brotherhood of Toledo, who, also hearing
      the extraordinary noise of the conflict, seized his staff and the tin case
      with his warrants, and made his way in the dark into the room crying:
      "Hold! in the name of the Jurisdiction! Hold! in the name of the Holy
      Brotherhood!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The first that he came upon was the pummelled Don Quixote, who lay
      stretched senseless on his back upon his broken-down bed, and, his hand
      falling on the beard as he felt about, he continued to cry, "Help for the
      Jurisdiction!" but perceiving that he whom he had laid hold of did not
      move or stir, he concluded that he was dead and that those in the room
      were his murderers, and with this suspicion he raised his voice still
      higher, calling out, "Shut the inn gate; see that no one goes out; they
      have killed a man here!" This cry startled them all, and each dropped the
      contest at the point at which the voice reached him. The innkeeper
      retreated to his room, the carrier to his pack-saddles, the lass to her
      crib; the unlucky Don Quixote and Sancho alone were unable to move from
      where they were. The cuadrillero on this let go Don Quixote's beard, and
      went out to look for a light to search for and apprehend the culprits; but
      not finding one, as the innkeeper had purposely extinguished the lantern
      on retreating to his room, he was compelled to have recourse to the
      hearth, where after much time and trouble he lit another lamp.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c16e" id="c16e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c16e.jpg (32K)" src="images/c16e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch17" id="ch17"></a>CHAPTER XVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH ARE CONTAINED THE INNUMERABLE TROUBLES WHICH THE BRAVE DON
      QUIXOTE AND HIS GOOD SQUIRE SANCHO PANZA ENDURED IN THE INN, WHICH TO HIS
      MISFORTUNE HE TOOK TO BE A CASTLE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c17a" id="c17a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c17a.jpg (87K)" src="images/c17a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c17a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time Don Quixote had recovered from his swoon; and in the same
      tone of voice in which he had called to his squire the day before when he
      lay stretched "in the vale of the stakes," he began calling to him now,
      "Sancho, my friend, art thou asleep? sleepest thou, friend Sancho?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "How can I sleep, curses on it!" returned Sancho discontentedly and
      bitterly, "when it is plain that all the devils have been at me this
      night?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou mayest well believe that," answered Don Quixote, "because, either I
      know little, or this castle is enchanted, for thou must know&mdash;but
      this that I am now about to tell thee thou must swear to keep secret until
      after my death."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I swear it," answered Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I say so," continued Don Quixote, "because I hate taking away anyone's
      good name."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I say," replied Sancho, "that I swear to hold my tongue about it till the
      end of your worship's days, and God grant I may be able to let it out
      tomorrow."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do I do thee such injuries, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that thou wouldst
      see me dead so soon?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is not for that," replied Sancho, "but because I hate keeping things
      long, and I don't want them to grow rotten with me from over-keeping."
    </p>
    <p>
      "At any rate," said Don Quixote, "I have more confidence in thy affection
      and good nature; and so I would have thee know that this night there
      befell me one of the strangest adventures that I could describe, and to
      relate it to thee briefly thou must know that a little while ago the
      daughter of the lord of this castle came to me, and that she is the most
      elegant and beautiful damsel that could be found in the wide world. What I
      could tell thee of the charms of her person! of her lively wit! of other
      secret matters which, to preserve the fealty I owe to my lady Dulcinea del
      Toboso, I shall pass over unnoticed and in silence! I will only tell thee
      that, either fate being envious of so great a boon placed in my hands by
      good fortune, or perhaps (and this is more probable) this castle being, as
      I have already said, enchanted, at the time when I was engaged in the
      sweetest and most amorous discourse with her, there came, without my
      seeing or knowing whence it came, a hand attached to some arm of some huge
      giant, that planted such a cuff on my jaws that I have them all bathed in
      blood, and then pummelled me in such a way that I am in a worse plight
      than yesterday when the carriers, on account of Rocinante's misbehaviour,
      inflicted on us the injury thou knowest of; whence conjecture that there
      must be some enchanted Moor guarding the treasure of this damsel's beauty,
      and that it is not for me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not for me either," said Sancho, "for more than four hundred Moors have
      so thrashed me that the drubbing of the stakes was cakes and fancy-bread
      to it. But tell me, senor, what do you call this excellent and rare
      adventure that has left us as we are left now? Though your worship was not
      so badly off, having in your arms that incomparable beauty you spoke of;
      but I, what did I have, except the heaviest whacks I think I had in all my
      life? Unlucky me and the mother that bore me! for I am not a knight-errant
      and never expect to be one, and of all the mishaps, the greater part falls
      to my share."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then thou hast been thrashed too?" said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Didn't I say so? worse luck to my line!" said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be not distressed, friend," said Don Quixote, "for I will now make the
      precious balsam with which we shall cure ourselves in the twinkling of an
      eye."
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time the cuadrillero had succeeded in lighting the lamp, and came
      in to see the man that he thought had been killed; and as Sancho caught
      sight of him at the door, seeing him coming in his shirt, with a cloth on
      his head, and a lamp in his hand, and a very forbidding countenance, he
      said to his master, "Senor, can it be that this is the enchanted Moor
      coming back to give us more castigation if there be anything still left in
      the ink-bottle?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It cannot be the Moor," answered Don Quixote, "for those under
      enchantment do not let themselves be seen by anyone."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If they don't let themselves be seen, they let themselves be felt," said
      Sancho; "if not, let my shoulders speak to the point."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mine could speak too," said Don Quixote, "but that is not a sufficient
      reason for believing that what we see is the enchanted Moor."
    </p>
    <p>
      The officer came up, and finding them engaged in such a peaceful
      conversation, stood amazed; though Don Quixote, to be sure, still lay on
      his back unable to move from pure pummelling and plasters. The officer
      turned to him and said, "Well, how goes it, good man?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would speak more politely if I were you," replied Don Quixote; "is it
      the way of this country to address knights-errant in that style, you
      booby?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The cuadrillero finding himself so disrespectfully treated by such a
      sorry-looking individual, lost his temper, and raising the lamp full of
      oil, smote Don Quixote such a blow with it on the head that he gave him a
      badly broken pate; then, all being in darkness, he went out, and Sancho
      Panza said, "That is certainly the enchanted Moor, Senor, and he keeps the
      treasure for others, and for us only the cuffs and lamp-whacks."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is the truth," answered Don Quixote, "and there is no use in
      troubling oneself about these matters of enchantment or being angry or
      vexed at them, for as they are invisible and visionary we shall find no
      one on whom to avenge ourselves, do what we may; rise, Sancho, if thou
      canst, and call the alcaide of this fortress, and get him to give me a
      little oil, wine, salt, and rosemary to make the salutiferous balsam, for
      indeed I believe I have great need of it now, because I am losing much
      blood from the wound that phantom gave me."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho got up with pain enough in his bones, and went after the innkeeper
      in the dark, and meeting the officer, who was looking to see what had
      become of his enemy, he said to him, "Senor, whoever you are, do us the
      favour and kindness to give us a little rosemary, oil, salt, and wine, for
      it is wanted to cure one of the best knights-errant on earth, who lies on
      yonder bed wounded by the hands of the enchanted Moor that is in this
      inn."
    </p>
    <p>
      When the officer heard him talk in this way, he took him for a man out of
      his senses, and as day was now beginning to break, he opened the inn gate,
      and calling the host, he told him what this good man wanted. The host
      furnished him with what he required, and Sancho brought it to Don Quixote,
      who, with his hand to his head, was bewailing the pain of the blow of the
      lamp, which had done him no more harm than raising a couple of rather
      large lumps, and what he fancied blood was only the sweat that flowed from
      him in his sufferings during the late storm. To be brief, he took the
      materials, of which he made a compound, mixing them all and boiling them a
      good while until it seemed to him they had come to perfection. He then
      asked for some vial to pour it into, and as there was not one in the inn,
      he decided on putting it into a tin oil-bottle or flask of which the host
      made him a free gift; and over the flask he repeated more than eighty
      paternosters and as many more ave-marias, salves, and credos, accompanying
      each word with a cross by way of benediction, at all which there were
      present Sancho, the innkeeper, and the cuadrillero; for the carrier was
      now peacefully engaged in attending to the comfort of his mules.
    </p>
    <p>
      This being accomplished, he felt anxious to make trial himself, on the
      spot, of the virtue of this precious balsam, as he considered it, and so
      he drank near a quart of what could not be put into the flask and remained
      in the pigskin in which it had been boiled; but scarcely had he done
      drinking when he began to vomit in such a way that nothing was left in his
      stomach, and with the pangs and spasms of vomiting he broke into a profuse
      sweat, on account of which he bade them cover him up and leave him alone.
      They did so, and he lay sleeping more than three hours, at the end of
      which he awoke and felt very great bodily relief and so much ease from his
      bruises that he thought himself quite cured, and verily believed he had
      hit upon the balsam of Fierabras; and that with this remedy he might
      thenceforward, without any fear, face any kind of destruction, battle, or
      combat, however perilous it might be.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho Panza, who also regarded the amendment of his master as miraculous,
      begged him to give him what was left in the pigskin, which was no small
      quantity. Don Quixote consented, and he, taking it with both hands, in
      good faith and with a better will, gulped down and drained off very little
      less than his master. But the fact is, that the stomach of poor Sancho was
      of necessity not so delicate as that of his master, and so, before
      vomiting, he was seized with such gripings and retchings, and such sweats
      and faintness, that verily and truly he believed his last hour had come,
      and finding himself so racked and tormented he cursed the balsam and the
      thief that had given it to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote seeing him in this state said, "It is my belief, Sancho, that
      this mischief comes of thy not being dubbed a knight, for I am persuaded
      this liquor cannot be good for those who are not so."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If your worship knew that," returned Sancho&mdash;"woe betide me and all
      my kindred!&mdash;why did you let me taste it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment the draught took effect, and the poor squire began to
      discharge both ways at such a rate that the rush mat on which he had
      thrown himself and the canvas blanket he had covering him were fit for
      nothing afterwards. He sweated and perspired with such paroxysms and
      convulsions that not only he himself but all present thought his end had
      come. This tempest and tribulation lasted about two hours, at the end of
      which he was left, not like his master, but so weak and exhausted that he
      could not stand. Don Quixote, however, who, as has been said, felt himself
      relieved and well, was eager to take his departure at once in quest of
      adventures, as it seemed to him that all the time he loitered there was a
      fraud upon the world and those in it who stood in need of his help and
      protection, all the more when he had the security and confidence his
      balsam afforded him; and so, urged by this impulse, he saddled Rocinante
      himself and put the pack-saddle on his squire's beast, whom likewise he
      helped to dress and mount the ass; after which he mounted his horse and
      turning to a corner of the inn he laid hold of a pike that stood there, to
      serve him by way of a lance. All that were in the inn, who were more than
      twenty persons, stood watching him; the innkeeper's daughter was likewise
      observing him, and he too never took his eyes off her, and from time to
      time fetched a sigh that he seemed to pluck up from the depths of his
      bowels; but they all thought it must be from the pain he felt in his ribs;
      at any rate they who had seen him plastered the night before thought so.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as they were both mounted, at the gate of the inn, he called to
      the host and said in a very grave and measured voice, "Many and great are
      the favours, Senor Alcaide, that I have received in this castle of yours,
      and I remain under the deepest obligation to be grateful to you for them
      all the days of my life; if I can repay them in avenging you of any
      arrogant foe who may have wronged you, know that my calling is no other
      than to aid the weak, to avenge those who suffer wrong, and to chastise
      perfidy. Search your memory, and if you find anything of this kind you
      need only tell me of it, and I promise you by the order of knighthood
      which I have received to procure you satisfaction and reparation to the
      utmost of your desire."
    </p>
    <p>
      The innkeeper replied to him with equal calmness, "Sir Knight, I do not
      want your worship to avenge me of any wrong, because when any is done me I
      can take what vengeance seems good to me; the only thing I want is that
      you pay me the score that you have run up in the inn last night, as well
      for the straw and barley for your two beasts, as for supper and beds."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c16c" id="c16c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c16c.jpg (326K)" src="images/c16c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c16c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then this is an inn?" said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And a very respectable one," said the innkeeper.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have been under a mistake all this time," answered Don Quixote, "for in
      truth I thought it was a castle, and not a bad one; but since it appears
      that it is not a castle but an inn, all that can be done now is that you
      should excuse the payment, for I cannot contravene the rule of
      knights-errant, of whom I know as a fact (and up to the present I have
      read nothing to the contrary) that they never paid for lodging or anything
      else in the inn where they might be; for any hospitality that might be
      offered them is their due by law and right in return for the insufferable
      toil they endure in seeking adventures by night and by day, in summer and
      in winter, on foot and on horseback, in hunger and thirst, cold and heat,
      exposed to all the inclemencies of heaven and all the hardships of earth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have little to do with that," replied the innkeeper; "pay me what you
      owe me, and let us have no more talk of chivalry, for all I care about is
      to get my money."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are a stupid, scurvy innkeeper," said Don Quixote, and putting spurs
      to Rocinante and bringing his pike to the slope he rode out of the inn
      before anyone could stop him, and pushed on some distance without looking
      to see if his squire was following him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The innkeeper when he saw him go without paying him ran to get payment of
      Sancho, who said that as his master would not pay neither would he,
      because, being as he was squire to a knight-errant, the same rule and
      reason held good for him as for his master with regard to not paying
      anything in inns and hostelries. At this the innkeeper waxed very wroth,
      and threatened if he did not pay to compel him in a way that he would not
      like. To which Sancho made answer that by the law of chivalry his master
      had received he would not pay a rap, though it cost him his life; for the
      excellent and ancient usage of knights-errant was not going to be violated
      by him, nor should the squires of such as were yet to come into the world
      ever complain of him or reproach him with breaking so just a privilege.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ill-luck of the unfortunate Sancho so ordered it that among the
      company in the inn there were four woolcarders from Segovia, three
      needle-makers from the Colt of Cordova, and two lodgers from the Fair of
      Seville, lively fellows, tender-hearted, fond of a joke, and playful, who,
      almost as if instigated and moved by a common impulse, made up to Sancho
      and dismounted him from his ass, while one of them went in for the blanket
      of the host's bed; but on flinging him into it they looked up, and seeing
      that the ceiling was somewhat lower than what they required for their work,
      they decided upon going out into the yard, which was bounded by the sky,
      and there, putting Sancho in the middle of the blanket, they began to
      raise him high, making sport with him as they would with a dog at
      Shrovetide.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c16d" id="c16d"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c16d.jpg (285K)" src="images/c16d.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c16d.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The cries of the poor blanketed wretch were so loud that they reached the
      ears of his master, who, halting to listen attentively, was persuaded that
      some new adventure was coming, until he clearly perceived that it was his
      squire who uttered them. Wheeling about he came up to the inn with a
      laborious gallop, and finding it shut went round it to see if he could
      find some way of getting in; but as soon as he came to the wall of the
      yard, which was not very high, he discovered the game that was being
      played with his squire. He saw him rising and falling in the air with such
      grace and nimbleness that, had his rage allowed him, it is my belief he
      would have laughed. He tried to climb from his horse on to the top of the
      wall, but he was so bruised and battered that he could not even dismount;
      and so from the back of his horse he began to utter such maledictions and
      objurgations against those who were blanketing Sancho as it would be
      impossible to write down accurately: they, however, did not stay their
      laughter or their work for this, nor did the flying Sancho cease his
      lamentations, mingled now with threats, now with entreaties but all to
      little purpose, or none at all, until from pure weariness they left off.
      They then brought him his ass, and mounting him on top of it they put his
      jacket round him; and the compassionate Maritornes, seeing him so
      exhausted, thought fit to refresh him with a jug of water, and that it
      might be all the cooler she fetched it from the well. Sancho took it, and
      as he was raising it to his mouth he was stopped by the cries of his
      master exclaiming, "Sancho, my son, drink not water; drink it not, my son,
      for it will kill thee; see, here I have the blessed balsam (and he held up
      the flask of liquor), and with drinking two drops of it thou wilt
      certainly be restored."
    </p>
    <p>
      At these words Sancho turned his eyes asquint, and in a still louder voice
      said, "Can it be your worship has forgotten that I am not a knight, or do
      you want me to end by vomiting up what bowels I have left after last
      night? Keep your liquor in the name of all the devils, and leave me to
      myself!" and at one and the same instant he left off talking and began
      drinking; but as at the first sup he perceived it was water he did not
      care to go on with it, and begged Maritornes to fetch him some wine, which
      she did with right good will, and paid for it with her own money; for
      indeed they say of her that, though she was in that line of life, there
      was some faint and distant resemblance to a Christian about her. When
      Sancho had done drinking he dug his heels into his ass, and the gate of
      the inn being thrown open he passed out very well pleased at having paid
      nothing and carried his point, though it had been at the expense of his
      usual sureties, his shoulders. It is true that the innkeeper detained his
      alforjas in payment of what was owing to him, but Sancho took his
      departure in such a flurry that he never missed them. The innkeeper, as
      soon as he saw him off, wanted to bar the gate close, but the blanketers
      would not agree to it, for they were fellows who would not have cared two
      farthings for Don Quixote, even had he been really one of the
      knights-errant of the Round Table.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c17e" id="c17e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c17e.jpg (47K)" src="images/c17e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch18" id="ch18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH IS RELATED THE DISCOURSE SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS MASTER, DON
      QUIXOTE, AND OTHER ADVENTURES WORTH RELATING
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c18a" id="c18a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c18a.jpg (79K)" src="images/c18a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c18a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho reached his master so limp and faint that he could not urge on his
      beast. When Don Quixote saw the state he was in he said, "I have now come
      to the conclusion, good Sancho, that this castle or inn is beyond a doubt
      enchanted, because those who have so atrociously diverted themselves with
      thee, what can they be but phantoms or beings of another world? and I hold
      this confirmed by having noticed that when I was by the wall of the yard
      witnessing the acts of thy sad tragedy, it was out of my power to mount
      upon it, nor could I even dismount from Rocinante, because they no doubt
      had me enchanted; for I swear to thee by the faith of what I am that if I
      had been able to climb up or dismount, I would have avenged thee in such a
      way that those braggart thieves would have remembered their freak for
      ever, even though in so doing I knew that I contravened the laws of
      chivalry, which, as I have often told thee, do not permit a knight to lay
      hands on him who is not one, save in case of urgent and great necessity in
      defence of his own life and person."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would have avenged myself too if I could," said Sancho, "whether I had
      been dubbed knight or not, but I could not; though for my part I am
      persuaded those who amused themselves with me were not phantoms or
      enchanted men, as your worship says, but men of flesh and bone like
      ourselves; and they all had their names, for I heard them name them when
      they were tossing me, and one was called Pedro Martinez, and another
      Tenorio Hernandez, and the innkeeper, I heard, was called Juan Palomeque
      the Left-handed; so that, senor, your not being able to leap over the wall
      of the yard or dismount from your horse came of something else besides
      enchantments; and what I make out clearly from all this is, that these
      adventures we go seeking will in the end lead us into such misadventures
      that we shall not know which is our right foot; and that the best and
      wisest thing, according to my small wits, would be for us to return home,
      now that it is harvest-time, and attend to our business, and give over
      wandering from Zeca to Mecca and from pail to bucket, as the saying is."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How little thou knowest about chivalry, Sancho," replied Don Quixote;
      "hold thy peace and have patience; the day will come when thou shalt see
      with thine own eyes what an honourable thing it is to wander in the
      pursuit of this calling; nay, tell me, what greater pleasure can there be
      in the world, or what delight can equal that of winning a battle, and
      triumphing over one's enemy? None, beyond all doubt."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very likely," answered Sancho, "though I do not know it; all I know is
      that since we have been knights-errant, or since your worship has been one
      (for I have no right to reckon myself one of so honourable a number) we
      have never won any battle except the one with the Biscayan, and even out
      of that your worship came with half an ear and half a helmet the less; and
      from that till now it has been all cudgellings and more cudgellings, cuffs
      and more cuffs, I getting the blanketing over and above, and falling in
      with enchanted persons on whom I cannot avenge myself so as to know what
      the delight, as your worship calls it, of conquering an enemy is like."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is what vexes me, and what ought to vex thee, Sancho," replied Don
      Quixote; "but henceforward I will endeavour to have at hand some sword
      made by such craft that no kind of enchantments can take effect upon him
      who carries it, and it is even possible that fortune may procure for me
      that which belonged to Amadis when he was called 'The Knight of the
      Burning Sword,' which was one of the best swords that ever knight in the
      world possessed, for, besides having the said virtue, it cut like a razor,
      and there was no armour, however strong and enchanted it might be, that
      could resist it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Such is my luck," said Sancho, "that even if that happened and your
      worship found some such sword, it would, like the balsam, turn out
      serviceable and good for dubbed knights only, and as for the squires, they
      might sup sorrow."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fear not that, Sancho," said Don Quixote: "Heaven will deal better by
      thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus talking, Don Quixote and his squire were going along, when, on the
      road they were following, Don Quixote perceived approaching them a large
      and thick cloud of dust, on seeing which he turned to Sancho and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is the day, Sancho, on which will be seen the boon my fortune is
      reserving for me; this, I say, is the day on which as much as on any other
      shall be displayed the might of my arm, and on which I shall do deeds that
      shall remain written in the book of fame for all ages to come. Seest thou
      that cloud of dust which rises yonder? Well, then, all that is churned up
      by a vast army composed of various and countless nations that comes
      marching there."
    </p>
    <p>
      "According to that there must be two," said Sancho, "for on this opposite
      side also there rises just such another cloud of dust."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote turned to look and found that it was true, and rejoicing
      exceedingly, he concluded that they were two armies about to engage and
      encounter in the midst of that broad plain; for at all times and seasons
      his fancy was full of the battles, enchantments, adventures, crazy feats,
      loves, and defiances that are recorded in the books of chivalry, and
      everything he said, thought, or did had reference to such things. Now the
      cloud of dust he had seen was raised by two great droves of sheep coming
      along the same road in opposite directions, which, because of the dust,
      did not become visible until they drew near, but Don Quixote asserted so
      positively that they were armies that Sancho was led to believe it and
      say, "Well, and what are we to do, senor?"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c17b" id="c17b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c17b.jpg (339K)" src="images/c17b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c17b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "What?" said Don Quixote: "give aid and assistance to the weak and those
      who need it; and thou must know, Sancho, that this which comes opposite to
      us is conducted and led by the mighty emperor Alifanfaron, lord of the
      great isle of Trapobana; this other that marches behind me is that of his
      enemy the king of the Garamantas, Pentapolin of the Bare Arm, for he
      always goes into battle with his right arm bare."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But why are these two lords such enemies?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "They are at enmity," replied Don Quixote, "because this Alifanfaron is a
      furious pagan and is in love with the daughter of Pentapolin, who is a
      very beautiful and moreover gracious lady, and a Christian, and her father
      is unwilling to bestow her upon the pagan king unless he first abandons
      the religion of his false prophet Mahomet, and adopts his own."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By my beard," said Sancho, "but Pentapolin does quite right, and I will
      help him as much as I can."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In that thou wilt do what is thy duty, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "for to
      engage in battles of this sort it is not requisite to be a dubbed knight."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I can well understand," answered Sancho; "but where shall we put
      this ass where we may be sure to find him after the fray is over? for I
      believe it has not been the custom so far to go into battle on a beast of
      this kind."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said Don Quixote, "and what you had best do with him is to
      leave him to take his chance whether he be lost or not, for the horses we
      shall have when we come out victors will be so many that even Rocinante
      will run a risk of being changed for another. But attend to me and
      observe, for I wish to give thee some account of the chief knights who
      accompany these two armies; and that thou mayest the better see and mark,
      let us withdraw to that hillock which rises yonder, whence both armies may
      be seen."
    </p>
    <p>
      They did so, and placed themselves on a rising ground from which the two
      droves that Don Quixote made armies of might have been plainly seen if the
      clouds of dust they raised had not obscured them and blinded the sight;
      nevertheless, seeing in his imagination what he did not see and what did
      not exist, he began thus in a loud voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      "That knight whom thou seest yonder in yellow armour, who bears upon his
      shield a lion crowned crouching at the feet of a damsel, is the valiant
      Laurcalco, lord of the Silver Bridge; that one in armour with flowers of
      gold, who bears on his shield three crowns argent on an azure field, is
      the dreaded Micocolembo, grand duke of Quirocia; that other of gigantic
      frame, on his right hand, is the ever dauntless Brandabarbaran de Boliche,
      lord of the three Arabias, who for armour wears that serpent skin, and has
      for shield a gate which, according to tradition, is one of those of the
      temple that Samson brought to the ground when by his death he revenged
      himself upon his enemies. But turn thine eyes to the other side, and thou
      shalt see in front and in the van of this other army the ever victorious
      and never vanquished Timonel of Carcajona, prince of New Biscay, who comes
      in armour with arms quartered azure, vert, white, and yellow, and bears on
      his shield a cat or on a field tawny with a motto which says Miau, which
      is the beginning of the name of his lady, who according to report is the
      peerless Miaulina, daughter of the duke Alfeniquen of the Algarve; the
      other, who burdens and presses the loins of that powerful charger and
      bears arms white as snow and a shield blank and without any device, is a
      novice knight, a Frenchman by birth, Pierres Papin by name, lord of the
      baronies of Utrique; that other, who with iron-shod heels strikes the
      flanks of that nimble parti-coloured zebra, and for arms bears azure vair,
      is the mighty duke of Nerbia, Espartafilardo del Bosque, who bears for
      device on his shield an asparagus plant with a motto in Castilian that
      says, Rastrea mi suerte." And so he went on naming a number of knights of
      one squadron or the other out of his imagination, and to all he assigned
      off-hand their arms, colours, devices, and mottoes, carried away by the
      illusions of his unheard-of craze; and without a pause, he continued,
      "People of divers nations compose this squadron in front; here are those
      that drink of the sweet waters of the famous Xanthus, those that scour the
      woody Massilian plains, those that sift the pure fine gold of Arabia
      Felix, those that enjoy the famed cool banks of the crystal Thermodon,
      those that in many and various ways divert the streams of the golden
      Pactolus, the Numidians, faithless in their promises, the Persians
      renowned in archery, the Parthians and the Medes that fight as they fly,
      the Arabs that ever shift their dwellings, the Scythians as cruel as they
      are fair, the Ethiopians with pierced lips, and an infinity of other
      nations whose features I recognise and descry, though I cannot recall
      their names. In this other squadron there come those that drink of the
      crystal streams of the olive-bearing Betis, those that make smooth their
      countenances with the water of the ever rich and golden Tagus, those that
      rejoice in the fertilising flow of the divine Genil, those that roam the
      Tartesian plains abounding in pasture, those that take their pleasure in
      the Elysian meadows of Jerez, the rich Manchegans crowned with ruddy ears
      of corn, the wearers of iron, old relics of the Gothic race, those that
      bathe in the Pisuerga renowned for its gentle current, those that feed
      their herds along the spreading pastures of the winding Guadiana famed for
      its hidden course, those that tremble with the cold of the pineclad
      Pyrenees or the dazzling snows of the lofty Apennine; in a word, as many
      as all Europe includes and contains."
    </p>
    <p>
      Good God! what a number of countries and nations he named! giving to each
      its proper attributes with marvellous readiness; brimful and saturated
      with what he had read in his lying books! Sancho Panza hung upon his words
      without speaking, and from time to time turned to try if he could see the
      knights and giants his master was describing, and as he could not make out
      one of them he said to him:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor, devil take it if there's a sign of any man you talk of, knight or
      giant, in the whole thing; maybe it's all enchantment, like the phantoms
      last night."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How canst thou say that!" answered Don Quixote; "dost thou not hear the
      neighing of the steeds, the braying of the trumpets, the roll of the
      drums?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I hear nothing but a great bleating of ewes and sheep," said Sancho;
      which was true, for by this time the two flocks had come close.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The fear thou art in, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "prevents thee from
      seeing or hearing correctly, for one of the effects of fear is to derange
      the senses and make things appear different from what they are; if thou
      art in such fear, withdraw to one side and leave me to myself, for alone I
      suffice to bring victory to that side to which I shall give my aid;" and
      so saying he gave Rocinante the spur, and putting the lance in rest, shot
      down the slope like a thunderbolt. Sancho shouted after him, crying, "Come
      back, Senor Don Quixote; I vow to God they are sheep and ewes you are
      charging! Come back! Unlucky the father that begot me! what madness is
      this! Look, there is no giant, nor knight, nor cats, nor arms, nor shields
      quartered or whole, nor vair azure or bedevilled. What are you about?
      Sinner that I am before God!" But not for all these entreaties did Don
      Quixote turn back; on the contrary he went on shouting out, "Ho, knights,
      ye who follow and fight under the banners of the valiant emperor
      Pentapolin of the Bare Arm, follow me all; ye shall see how easily I shall
      give him his revenge over his enemy Alifanfaron of the Trapobana."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he dashed into the midst of the squadron of ewes, and began
      spearing them with as much spirit and intrepidity as if he were
      transfixing mortal enemies in earnest. The shepherds and drovers
      accompanying the flock shouted to him to desist; seeing it was no use,
      they ungirt their slings and began to salute his ears with stones as big
      as one's fist. Don Quixote gave no heed to the stones, but, letting drive
      right and left kept saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron? Come before me; I am a single knight
      who would fain prove thy prowess hand to hand, and make thee yield thy
      life a penalty for the wrong thou dost to the valiant Pentapolin
      Garamanta." Here came a sugar-plum from the brook that struck him on the
      side and buried a couple of ribs in his body. Feeling himself so smitten,
      he imagined himself slain or badly wounded for certain, and recollecting
      his liquor he drew out his flask, and putting it to his mouth began to
      pour the contents into his stomach; but ere he had succeeded in swallowing
      what seemed to him enough, there came another almond which struck him on
      the hand and on the flask so fairly that it smashed it to pieces, knocking
      three or four teeth and grinders out of his mouth in its course, and
      sorely crushing two fingers of his hand. Such was the force of the first
      blow and of the second, that the poor knight in spite of himself came down
      backwards off his horse. The shepherds came up, and felt sure they had
      killed him; so in all haste they collected their flock together, took up
      the dead beasts, of which there were more than seven, and made off without
      waiting to ascertain anything further.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this time Sancho stood on the hill watching the crazy feats his master
      was performing, and tearing his beard and cursing the hour and the
      occasion when fortune had made him acquainted with him. Seeing him, then,
      brought to the ground, and that the shepherds had taken themselves off, he
      ran to him and found him in very bad case, though not unconscious; and
      said he:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did I not tell you to come back, Senor Don Quixote; and that what you
      were going to attack were not armies but droves of sheep?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's how that thief of a sage, my enemy, can alter and falsify things,"
      answered Don Quixote; "thou must know, Sancho, that it is a very easy
      matter for those of his sort to make us believe what they choose; and this
      malignant being who persecutes me, envious of the glory he knew I was to
      win in this battle, has turned the squadrons of the enemy into droves of
      sheep. At any rate, do this much, I beg of thee, Sancho, to undeceive
      thyself, and see that what I say is true; mount thy ass and follow them
      quietly, and thou shalt see that when they have gone some little distance
      from this they will return to their original shape and, ceasing to be
      sheep, become men in all respects as I described them to thee at first.
      But go not just yet, for I want thy help and assistance; come hither, and
      see how many of my teeth and grinders are missing, for I feel as if there
      was not one left in my mouth."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho came so close that he almost put his eyes into his mouth; now just
      at that moment the balsam had acted on the stomach of Don Quixote, so, at
      the very instant when Sancho came to examine his mouth, he discharged all
      its contents with more force than a musket, and full into the beard of the
      compassionate squire.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Holy Mary!" cried Sancho, "what is this that has happened me? Clearly
      this sinner is mortally wounded, as he vomits blood from the mouth;" but
      considering the matter a little more closely he perceived by the colour,
      taste, and smell, that it was not blood but the balsam from the flask
      which he had seen him drink; and he was taken with such a loathing that
      his stomach turned, and he vomited up his inside over his very master, and
      both were left in a precious state. Sancho ran to his ass to get something
      wherewith to clean himself, and relieve his master, out of his alforjas;
      but not finding them, he well-nigh took leave of his senses, and cursed
      himself anew, and in his heart resolved to quit his master and return
      home, even though he forfeited the wages of his service and all hopes of
      the promised island.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote now rose, and putting his left hand to his mouth to keep his
      teeth from falling out altogether, with the other he laid hold of the
      bridle of Rocinante, who had never stirred from his master's side&mdash;so
      loyal and well-behaved was he&mdash;and betook himself to where the squire
      stood leaning over his ass with his hand to his cheek, like one in deep
      dejection. Seeing him in this mood, looking so sad, Don Quixote said to
      him:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Bear in mind, Sancho, that one man is no more than another, unless he
      does more than another; all these tempests that fall upon us are signs
      that fair weather is coming shortly, and that things will go well with us,
      for it is impossible for good or evil to last for ever; and hence it
      follows that the evil having lasted long, the good must be now nigh at
      hand; so thou must not distress thyself at the misfortunes which happen to
      me, since thou hast no share in them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How have I not?" replied Sancho; "was he whom they blanketed yesterday
      perchance any other than my father's son? and the alforjas that are
      missing to-day with all my treasures, did they belong to any other but
      myself?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "What! are the alforjas missing, Sancho?" said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, they are missing," answered Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In that case we have nothing to eat to-day," replied Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It would be so," answered Sancho, "if there were none of the herbs your
      worship says you know in these meadows, those with which knights-errant as
      unlucky as your worship are wont to supply such-like shortcomings."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For all that," answered Don Quixote, "I would rather have just now a
      quarter of bread, or a loaf and a couple of pilchards' heads, than all the
      herbs described by Dioscorides, even with Doctor Laguna's notes.
      Nevertheless, Sancho the Good, mount thy beast and come along with me, for
      God, who provides for all things, will not fail us (more especially when
      we are so active in his service as we are), since he fails not the midges
      of the air, nor the grubs of the earth, nor the tadpoles of the water, and
      is so merciful that he maketh his sun to rise on the good and on the evil,
      and sendeth rain on the unjust and on the just."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your worship would make a better preacher than knight-errant," said
      Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Knights-errant knew and ought to know everything, Sancho," said Don
      Quixote; "for there were knights-errant in former times as well qualified
      to deliver a sermon or discourse in the middle of an encampment, as if
      they had graduated in the University of Paris; whereby we may see that the
      lance has never blunted the pen, nor the pen the lance."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, be it as your worship says," replied Sancho; "let us be off now and
      find some place of shelter for the night, and God grant it may be
      somewhere where there are no blankets, nor blanketeers, nor phantoms, nor
      enchanted Moors; for if there are, may the devil take the whole concern."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ask that of God, my son," said Don Quixote; and do thou lead on where
      thou wilt, for this time I leave our lodging to thy choice; but reach me
      here thy hand, and feel with thy finger, and find out how many of my teeth
      and grinders are missing from this right side of the upper jaw, for it is
      there I feel the pain."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho put in his fingers, and feeling about asked him, "How many grinders
      used your worship have on this side?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Four," replied Don Quixote, "besides the back-tooth, all whole and quite
      sound."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mind what you are saying, senor."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I say four, if not five," answered Don Quixote, "for never in my life
      have I had tooth or grinder drawn, nor has any fallen out or been
      destroyed by any decay or rheum."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, then," said Sancho, "in this lower side your worship has no more
      than two grinders and a half, and in the upper neither a half nor any at
      all, for it is all as smooth as the palm of my hand."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Luckless that I am!" said Don Quixote, hearing the sad news his squire
      gave him; "I had rather they despoiled me of an arm, so it were not the
      sword-arm; for I tell thee, Sancho, a mouth without teeth is like a mill
      without a millstone, and a tooth is much more to be prized than a diamond;
      but we who profess the austere order of chivalry are liable to all this.
      Mount, friend, and lead the way, and I will follow thee at whatever pace
      thou wilt."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho did as he bade him, and proceeded in the direction in which he
      thought he might find refuge without quitting the high road, which was
      there very much frequented. As they went along, then, at a slow pace&mdash;for
      the pain in Don Quixote's jaws kept him uneasy and ill-disposed for speed&mdash;Sancho
      thought it well to amuse and divert him by talk of some kind, and among
      the things he said to him was that which will be told in the following
      chapter.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c18e" id="c18e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c18e.jpg (44K)" src="images/c18e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch19" id="ch19"></a>CHAPTER XIX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE SHREWD DISCOURSE WHICH SANCHO HELD WITH HIS MASTER, AND OF THE
      ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL HIM WITH A DEAD BODY, TOGETHER WITH OTHER NOTABLE
      OCCURRENCES
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "It seems to me, senor, that all these mishaps that have befallen us of
      late have been without any doubt a punishment for the offence committed by
      your worship against the order of chivalry in not keeping the oath you
      made not to eat bread off a tablecloth or embrace the queen, and all the
      rest of it that your worship swore to observe until you had taken that
      helmet of Malandrino's, or whatever the Moor is called, for I do not very
      well remember."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art very right, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "but to tell the truth,
      it had escaped my memory; and likewise thou mayest rely upon it that the
      affair of the blanket happened to thee because of thy fault in not
      reminding me of it in time; but I will make amends, for there are ways of
      compounding for everything in the order of chivalry."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why! have I taken an oath of some sort, then?" said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It makes no matter that thou hast not taken an oath," said Don Quixote;
      "suffice it that I see thou art not quite clear of complicity; and whether
      or no, it will not be ill done to provide ourselves with a remedy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In that case," said Sancho, "mind that your worship does not forget this
      as you did the oath; perhaps the phantoms may take it into their heads to
      amuse themselves once more with me; or even with your worship if they see
      you so obstinate."
    </p>
    <p>
      While engaged in this and other talk, night overtook them on the road
      before they had reached or discovered any place of shelter; and what made
      it still worse was that they were dying of hunger, for with the loss of
      the alforjas they had lost their entire larder and commissariat; and to
      complete the misfortune they met with an adventure which without any
      invention had really the appearance of one. It so happened that the night
      closed in somewhat darkly, but for all that they pushed on, Sancho feeling
      sure that as the road was the king's highway they might reasonably expect
      to find some inn within a league or two. Going along, then, in this way,
      the night dark, the squire hungry, the master sharp-set, they saw coming
      towards them on the road they were travelling a great number of lights
      which looked exactly like stars in motion. Sancho was taken aback at the
      sight of them, nor did Don Quixote altogether relish them: the one pulled
      up his ass by the halter, the other his hack by the bridle, and they stood
      still, watching anxiously to see what all this would turn out to be, and
      found that the lights were approaching them, and the nearer they came the
      greater they seemed, at which spectacle Sancho began to shake like a man
      dosed with mercury, and Don Quixote's hair stood on end; he, however,
      plucking up spirit a little, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "This, no doubt, Sancho, will be a most mighty and perilous adventure, in
      which it will be needful for me to put forth all my valour and
      resolution."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Unlucky me!" answered Sancho; "if this adventure happens to be one of
      phantoms, as I am beginning to think it is, where shall I find the ribs to
      bear it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be they phantoms ever so much," said Don Quixote, "I will not permit them
      to touch a thread of thy garments; for if they played tricks with thee the
      time before, it was because I was unable to leap the walls of the yard;
      but now we are on a wide plain, where I shall be able to wield my sword as
      I please."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And if they enchant and cripple you as they did the last time," said
      Sancho, "what difference will it make being on the open plain or not?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "For all that," replied Don Quixote, "I entreat thee, Sancho, to keep a
      good heart, for experience will tell thee what mine is."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will, please God," answered Sancho, and the two retiring to one side of
      the road set themselves to observe closely what all these moving lights
      might be; and very soon afterwards they made out some twenty encamisados,
      all on horseback, with lighted torches in their hands, the awe-inspiring
      aspect of whom completely extinguished the courage of Sancho, who began to
      chatter with his teeth like one in the cold fit of an ague; and his heart
      sank and his teeth chattered still more when they perceived distinctly
      that behind them there came a litter covered over with black and followed
      by six more mounted figures in mourning down to the very feet of their
      mules&mdash;for they could perceive plainly they were not horses by the
      easy pace at which they went. And as the encamisados came along they
      muttered to themselves in a low plaintive tone. This strange spectacle at
      such an hour and in such a solitary place was quite enough to strike
      terror into Sancho's heart, and even into his master's; and (save in Don
      Quixote's case) did so, for all Sancho's resolution had now broken down.
      It was just the opposite with his master, whose imagination immediately
      conjured up all this to him vividly as one of the adventures of his books.
    </p>
    <p>
      He took it into his head that the litter was a bier on which was borne
      some sorely wounded or slain knight, to avenge whom was a task reserved
      for him alone; and without any further reasoning he laid his lance in
      rest, fixed himself firmly in his saddle, and with gallant spirit and
      bearing took up his position in the middle of the road where the
      encamisados must of necessity pass; and as soon as he saw them near at
      hand he raised his voice and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Halt, knights, or whosoever ye may be, and render me account of who ye
      are, whence ye come, where ye go, what it is ye carry upon that bier, for,
      to judge by appearances, either ye have done some wrong or some wrong has
      been done to you, and it is fitting and necessary that I should know,
      either that I may chastise you for the evil ye have done, or else that I
      may avenge you for the injury that has been inflicted upon you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We are in haste," answered one of the encamisados, "and the inn is far
      off, and we cannot stop to render you such an account as you demand;" and
      spurring his mule he moved on.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote was mightily provoked by this answer, and seizing the mule by
      the bridle he said, "Halt, and be more mannerly, and render an account of
      what I have asked of you; else, take my defiance to combat, all of you."
    </p>
    <p>
      The mule was shy, and was so frightened at her bridle being seized that
      rearing up she flung her rider to the ground over her haunches. An
      attendant who was on foot, seeing the encamisado fall, began to abuse Don
      Quixote, who now moved to anger, without any more ado, laying his lance in
      rest charged one of the men in mourning and brought him badly wounded to
      the ground, and as he wheeled round upon the others the agility with which
      he attacked and routed them was a sight to see, for it seemed just as if
      wings had that instant grown upon Rocinante, so lightly and proudly did he
      bear himself. The encamisados were all timid folk and unarmed, so they
      speedily made their escape from the fray and set off at a run across the
      plain with their lighted torches, looking exactly like maskers running on
      some gala or festival night. The mourners, too, enveloped and swathed in
      their skirts and gowns, were unable to bestir themselves, and so with
      entire safety to himself Don Quixote belaboured them all and drove them
      off against their will, for they all thought it was no man but a devil
      from hell come to carry away the dead body they had in the litter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho beheld all this in astonishment at the intrepidity of his lord, and
      said to himself, "Clearly this master of mine is as bold and valiant as he
      says he is."
    </p>
    <p>
      A burning torch lay on the ground near the first man whom the mule had
      thrown, by the light of which Don Quixote perceived him, and coming up to
      him he presented the point of the lance to his face, calling on him to
      yield himself prisoner, or else he would kill him; to which the prostrate
      man replied, "I am prisoner enough as it is; I cannot stir, for one of my
      legs is broken: I entreat you, if you be a Christian gentleman, not to
      kill me, which will be committing grave sacrilege, for I am a licentiate
      and I hold first orders."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then what the devil brought you here, being a churchman?" said Don
      Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What, senor?" said the other. "My bad luck."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then still worse awaits you," said Don Quixote, "if you do not satisfy me
      as to all I asked you at first."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You shall be soon satisfied," said the licentiate; "you must know, then,
      that though just now I said I was a licentiate, I am only a bachelor, and
      my name is Alonzo Lopez; I am a native of Alcobendas, I come from the city
      of Baeza with eleven others, priests, the same who fled with the torches,
      and we are going to the city of Segovia accompanying a dead body which is
      in that litter, and is that of a gentleman who died in Baeza, where he was
      interred; and now, as I said, we are taking his bones to their
      burial-place, which is in Segovia, where he was born."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And who killed him?" asked Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "God, by means of a malignant fever that took him," answered the bachelor.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In that case," said Don Quixote, "the Lord has relieved me of the task of
      avenging his death had any other slain him; but, he who slew him having
      slain him, there is nothing for it but to be silent, and shrug one's
      shoulders; I should do the same were he to slay myself; and I would have
      your reverence know that I am a knight of La Mancha, Don Quixote by name,
      and it is my business and calling to roam the world righting wrongs and
      redressing injuries."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not know how that about righting wrongs can be," said the bachelor,
      "for from straight you have made me crooked, leaving me with a broken leg
      that will never see itself straight again all the days of its life; and
      the injury you have redressed in my case has been to leave me injured in
      such a way that I shall remain injured for ever; and the height of
      misadventure it was to fall in with you who go in search of adventures."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Things do not all happen in the same way," answered Don Quixote; "it all
      came, Sir Bachelor Alonzo Lopez, of your going, as you did, by night,
      dressed in those surplices, with lighted torches, praying, covered with
      mourning, so that naturally you looked like something evil and of the
      other world; and so I could not avoid doing my duty in attacking you, and
      I should have attacked you even had I known positively that you were the
      very devils of hell, for such I certainly believed and took you to be."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As my fate has so willed it," said the bachelor, "I entreat you, sir
      knight-errant, whose errand has been such an evil one for me, to help me
      to get from under this mule that holds one of my legs caught between the
      stirrup and the saddle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would have talked on till to-morrow," said Don Quixote; "how long were
      you going to wait before telling me of your distress?"
    </p>
    <p>
      He at once called to Sancho, who, however, had no mind to come, as he was
      just then engaged in unloading a sumpter mule, well laden with provender,
      which these worthy gentlemen had brought with them. Sancho made a bag of
      his coat, and, getting together as much as he could, and as the bag would
      hold, he loaded his beast, and then hastened to obey his master's call,
      and helped him to remove the bachelor from under the mule; then putting
      him on her back he gave him the torch, and Don Quixote bade him follow the
      track of his companions, and beg pardon of them on his part for the wrong
      which he could not help doing them.
    </p>
    <p>
      And said Sancho, "If by chance these gentlemen should want to know who was
      the hero that served them so, your worship may tell them that he is the
      famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the Rueful
      Countenance."
    </p>
    <p>
      The bachelor then took his departure.
    </p>
    <p>
      I forgot to mention that before he did so he said to Don Quixote,
      "Remember that you stand excommunicated for having laid violent hands on a
      holy thing, juxta illud, si quis, suadente diabolo."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not understand that Latin," answered Don Quixote, "but I know well I
      did not lay hands, only this pike; besides, I did not think I was
      committing an assault upon priests or things of the Church, which, like a
      Catholic and faithful Christian as I am, I respect and revere, but upon
      phantoms and spectres of the other world; but even so, I remember how it
      fared with Cid Ruy Diaz when he broke the chair of the ambassador of that
      king before his Holiness the Pope, who excommunicated him for the same;
      and yet the good Roderick of Vivar bore himself that day like a very noble
      and valiant knight."
    </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this the bachelor took his departure, as has been said, without
      making any reply; and Don Quixote asked Sancho what had induced him to
      call him the "Knight of the Rueful Countenance" more then than at any
      other time.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will tell you," answered Sancho; "it was because I have been looking at
      you for some time by the light of the torch held by that unfortunate, and
      verily your worship has got of late the most ill-favoured countenance I
      ever saw: it must be either owing to the fatigue of this combat, or else
      to the want of teeth and grinders."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is not that," replied Don Quixote, "but because the sage whose duty it
      will be to write the history of my achievements must have thought it
      proper that I should take some distinctive name as all knights of yore
      did; one being 'He of the Burning Sword,' another 'He of the Unicorn,'
      this one 'He of the Damsels,' that 'He of the Phoenix,' another 'The
      Knight of the Griffin,' and another 'He of the Death,' and by these names
      and designations they were known all the world round; and so I say that
      the sage aforesaid must have put it into your mouth and mind just now to
      call me 'The Knight of the Rueful Countenance,' as I intend to call myself
      from this day forward; and that the said name may fit me better, I mean,
      when the opportunity offers, to have a very rueful countenance painted on
      my shield."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no occasion, senor, for wasting time or money on making that
      countenance," said Sancho; "for all that need be done is for your worship
      to show your own, face to face, to those who look at you, and without
      anything more, either image or shield, they will call you 'Him of the
      Rueful Countenance' and believe me I am telling you the truth, for I
      assure you, senor (and in good part be it said), hunger and the loss of
      your grinders have given you such an ill-favoured face that, as I say, the
      rueful picture may be very well spared."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's pleasantry; nevertheless he resolved to
      call himself by that name, and have his shield or buckler painted as he
      had devised.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote would have looked to see whether the body in the litter were
      bones or not, but Sancho would not have it, saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor, you have ended this perilous adventure more safely for yourself
      than any of those I have seen: perhaps these people, though beaten and
      routed, may bethink themselves that it is a single man that has beaten
      them, and feeling sore and ashamed of it may take heart and come in search
      of us and give us trouble enough. The ass is in proper trim, the mountains
      are near at hand, hunger presses, we have nothing more to do but make good
      our retreat, and, as the saying is, the dead to the grave and the living
      to the loaf."
    </p>
    <p>
      And driving his ass before him he begged his master to follow, who,
      feeling that Sancho was right, did so without replying; and after
      proceeding some little distance between two hills they found themselves in
      a wide and retired valley, where they alighted, and Sancho unloaded his
      beast, and stretched upon the green grass, with hunger for sauce, they
      breakfasted, dined, lunched, and supped all at once, satisfying their
      appetites with more than one store of cold meat which the dead man's
      clerical gentlemen (who seldom put themselves on short allowance) had
      brought with them on their sumpter mule. But another piece of ill-luck
      befell them, which Sancho held the worst of all, and that was that they
      had no wine to drink, nor even water to moisten their lips; and as thirst
      tormented them, Sancho, observing that the meadow where they were was full
      of green and tender grass, said what will be told in the following
      chapter.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch20" id="ch20"></a>CHAPTER XX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE UNEXAMPLED AND UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURE WHICH WAS ACHIEVED BY THE
      VALIANT DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WITH LESS PERIL THAN ANY EVER ACHIEVED BY
      ANY FAMOUS KNIGHT IN THE WORLD
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c19a" id="c19a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c19a.jpg (147K)" src="images/c19a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c19a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "It cannot be, senor, but that this grass is a proof that there must be
      hard by some spring or brook to give it moisture, so it would be well to
      move a little farther on, that we may find some place where we may quench
      this terrible thirst that plagues us, which beyond a doubt is more
      distressing than hunger."
    </p>
    <p>
      The advice seemed good to Don Quixote, and, he leading Rocinante by the
      bridle and Sancho the ass by the halter, after he had packed away upon him
      the remains of the supper, they advanced the meadow feeling their way, for
      the darkness of the night made it impossible to see anything; but they had
      not gone two hundred paces when a loud noise of water, as if falling from
      great rocks, struck their ears. The sound cheered them greatly; but
      halting to make out by listening from what quarter it came they heard
      unseasonably another noise which spoiled the satisfaction the sound of the
      water gave them, especially for Sancho, who was by nature timid and
      faint-hearted. They heard, I say, strokes falling with a measured beat,
      and a certain rattling of iron and chains that, together with the furious
      din of the water, would have struck terror into any heart but Don
      Quixote's. The night was, as has been said, dark, and they had happened to
      reach a spot in among some tall trees, whose leaves stirred by a gentle
      breeze made a low ominous sound; so that, what with the solitude, the
      place, the darkness, the noise of the water, and the rustling of the
      leaves, everything inspired awe and dread; more especially as they
      perceived that the strokes did not cease, nor the wind lull, nor morning
      approach; to all which might be added their ignorance as to where they
      were.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c19b" id="c19b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c19b.jpg (204K)" src="images/c19b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c19b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      But Don Quixote, supported by his intrepid heart, leaped on Rocinante, and
      bracing his buckler on his arm, brought his pike to the slope, and said,
      "Friend Sancho, know that I by Heaven's will have been born in this our
      iron age to revive in it the age of gold, or the golden as it is
      called; I am he for whom perils, mighty achievements, and valiant deeds
      are reserved; I am, I say again, he who is to revive the Knights of the
      Round Table, the Twelve of France and the Nine Worthies; and he who is to
      consign to oblivion the Platirs, the Tablantes, the Olivantes and
      Tirantes, the Phoebuses and Belianises, with the whole herd of famous
      knights-errant of days gone by, performing in these in which I live such
      exploits, marvels, and feats of arms as shall obscure their brightest
      deeds. Thou dost mark well, faithful and trusty squire, the gloom of this
      night, its strange silence, the dull confused murmur of those trees, the
      awful sound of that water in quest of which we came, that seems as though
      it were precipitating and dashing itself down from the lofty mountains of
      the Moon, and that incessant hammering that wounds and pains our ears;
      which things all together and each of itself are enough to instil fear,
      dread, and dismay into the breast of Mars himself, much more into one not
      used to hazards and adventures of the kind. Well, then, all this that I
      put before thee is but an incentive and stimulant to my spirit, making my
      heart burst in my bosom through eagerness to engage in this adventure,
      arduous as it promises to be; therefore tighten Rocinante's girths a
      little, and God be with thee; wait for me here three days and no more, and
      if in that time I come not back, thou canst return to our village, and
      thence, to do me a favour and a service, thou wilt go to El Toboso, where
      thou shalt say to my incomparable lady Dulcinea that her captive knight
      hath died in attempting things that might make him worthy of being called
      hers."
    </p>
    <p>
      When Sancho heard his master's words he began to weep in the most pathetic
      way, saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor, I know not why your worship wants to attempt this so dreadful
      adventure; it is night now, no one sees us here, we can easily turn about
      and take ourselves out of danger, even if we don't drink for three days to
      come; and as there is no one to see us, all the less will there be anyone
      to set us down as cowards; besides, I have many a time heard the curate of
      our village, whom your worship knows well, preach that he who seeks danger
      perishes in it; so it is not right to tempt God by trying so tremendous a
      feat from which there can be no escape save by a miracle, and Heaven has
      performed enough of them for your worship in delivering you from being
      blanketed as I was, and bringing you out victorious and safe and sound
      from among all those enemies that were with the dead man; and if all this
      does not move or soften that hard heart, let this thought and reflection
      move it, that you will have hardly quitted this spot when from pure fear I
      shall yield my soul up to anyone that will take it. I left home and wife
      and children to come and serve your worship, trusting to do better and not
      worse; but as covetousness bursts the bag, it has rent my hopes asunder,
      for just as I had them highest about getting that wretched unlucky island
      your worship has so often promised me, I see that instead and in lieu of
      it you mean to desert me now in a place so far from human reach: for God's
      sake, master mine, deal not so unjustly by me, and if your worship will
      not entirely give up attempting this feat, at least put it off till
      morning, for by what the lore I learned when I was a shepherd tells me it
      cannot want three hours of dawn now, because the mouth of the Horn is
      overhead and makes midnight in the line of the left arm."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How canst thou see, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "where it makes that line,
      or where this mouth or this occiput is that thou talkest of, when the
      night is so dark that there is not a star to be seen in the whole heaven?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's true," said Sancho, "but fear has sharp eyes, and sees things
      underground, much more above in heavens; besides, there is good reason to
      show that it now wants but little of day."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let it want what it may," replied Don Quixote, "it shall not be said of
      me now or at any time that tears or entreaties turned me aside from doing
      what was in accordance with knightly usage; and so I beg of thee, Sancho,
      to hold thy peace, for God, who has put it into my heart to undertake now
      this so unexampled and terrible adventure, will take care to watch over my
      safety and console thy sorrow; what thou hast to do is to tighten
      Rocinante's girths well, and wait here, for I shall come back shortly,
      alive or dead."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho perceiving it his master's final resolve, and how little his tears,
      counsels, and entreaties prevailed with him, determined to have recourse
      to his own ingenuity and compel him, if he could, to wait till daylight;
      and so, while tightening the girths of the horse, he quietly and without
      being felt, with his ass' halter tied both Rocinante's legs, so that when
      Don Quixote strove to go he was unable as the horse could only move by
      jumps. Seeing the success of his trick, Sancho Panza said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "See there, senor! Heaven, moved by my tears and prayers, has so ordered
      it that Rocinante cannot stir; and if you will be obstinate, and spur and
      strike him, you will only provoke fortune, and kick, as they say, against
      the pricks."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote at this grew desperate, but the more he drove his heels into
      the horse, the less he stirred him; and not having any suspicion of the
      tying, he was fain to resign himself and wait till daybreak or until
      Rocinante could move, firmly persuaded that all this came of something
      other than Sancho's ingenuity. So he said to him, "As it is so, Sancho,
      and as Rocinante cannot move, I am content to wait till dawn smiles upon
      us, even though I weep while it delays its coming."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no need to weep," answered Sancho, "for I will amuse your
      worship by telling stories from this till daylight, unless indeed you like
      to dismount and lie down to sleep a little on the green grass after the
      fashion of knights-errant, so as to be fresher when day comes and the
      moment arrives for attempting this extraordinary adventure you are looking
      forward to."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What art thou talking about dismounting or sleeping for?" said Don
      Quixote. "Am I, thinkest thou, one of those knights that take their rest
      in the presence of danger? Sleep thou who art born to sleep, or do as thou
      wilt, for I will act as I think most consistent with my character."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be not angry, master mine," replied Sancho, "I did not mean to say that;"
      and coming close to him he laid one hand on the pommel of the saddle and
      the other on the cantle so that he held his master's left thigh in his
      embrace, not daring to separate a finger's width from him; so much afraid
      was he of the strokes which still resounded with a regular beat. Don
      Quixote bade him tell some story to amuse him as he had proposed, to which
      Sancho replied that he would if his dread of what he heard would let him;
      "Still," said he, "I will strive to tell a story which, if I can manage to
      relate it, and nobody interferes with the telling, is the best of stories,
      and let your worship give me your attention, for here I begin. What was,
      was; and may the good that is to come be for all, and the evil for him who
      goes to look for it&mdash;your worship must know that the beginning the
      old folk used to put to their tales was not just as each one pleased; it
      was a maxim of Cato Zonzorino the Roman, that says 'the evil for him that
      goes to look for it,' and it comes as pat to the purpose now as ring to
      finger, to show that your worship should keep quiet and not go looking for
      evil in any quarter, and that we should go back by some other road, since
      nobody forces us to follow this in which so many terrors affright us."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Go on with thy story, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and leave the choice of
      our road to my care."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I say then," continued Sancho, "that in a village of Estremadura there
      was a goat-shepherd&mdash;that is to say, one who tended goats&mdash;which
      shepherd or goatherd, as my story goes, was called Lope Ruiz, and this
      Lope Ruiz was in love with a shepherdess called Torralva, which
      shepherdess called Torralva was the daughter of a rich grazier, and this
      rich grazier-"
    </p>
    <p>
      "If that is the way thou tellest thy tale, Sancho," said Don Quixote,
      "repeating twice all thou hast to say, thou wilt not have done these two
      days; go straight on with it, and tell it like a reasonable man, or else
      say nothing."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tales are always told in my country in the very way I am telling this,"
      answered Sancho, "and I cannot tell it in any other, nor is it right of
      your worship to ask me to make new customs."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell it as thou wilt," replied Don Quixote; "and as fate will have it
      that I cannot help listening to thee, go on."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And so, lord of my soul," continued Sancho, as I have said, this shepherd
      was in love with Torralva the shepherdess, who was a wild buxom lass with
      something of the look of a man about her, for she had little moustaches; I
      fancy I see her now."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then you knew her?" said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I did not know her," said Sancho, "but he who told me the story said it
      was so true and certain that when I told it to another I might safely
      declare and swear I had seen it all myself. And so in course of time, the
      devil, who never sleeps and puts everything in confusion, contrived that
      the love the shepherd bore the shepherdess turned into hatred and
      ill-will, and the reason, according to evil tongues, was some little
      jealousy she caused him that crossed the line and trespassed on forbidden
      ground; and so much did the shepherd hate her from that time forward that,
      in order to escape from her, he determined to quit the country and go
      where he should never set eyes on her again. Torralva, when she found
      herself spurned by Lope, was immediately smitten with love for him, though
      she had never loved him before."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is the natural way of women," said Don Quixote, "to scorn the one
      that loves them, and love the one that hates them: go on, Sancho."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It came to pass," said Sancho, "that the shepherd carried out his
      intention, and driving his goats before him took his way across the plains
      of Estremadura to pass over into the Kingdom of Portugal. Torralva, who
      knew of it, went after him, and on foot and barefoot followed him at a
      distance, with a pilgrim's staff in her hand and a scrip round her neck,
      in which she carried, it is said, a bit of looking-glass and a piece of a
      comb and some little pot or other of paint for her face; but let her carry
      what she did, I am not going to trouble myself to prove it; all I say is,
      that the shepherd, they say, came with his flock to cross over the river
      Guadiana, which was at that time swollen and almost overflowing its banks,
      and at the spot he came to there was neither ferry nor boat nor anyone to
      carry him or his flock to the other side, at which he was much vexed, for
      he perceived that Torralva was approaching and would give him great
      annoyance with her tears and entreaties; however, he went looking about so
      closely that he discovered a fisherman who had alongside of him a boat so
      small that it could only hold one person and one goat; but for all that he
      spoke to him and agreed with him to carry himself and his three hundred
      goats across. The fisherman got into the boat and carried one goat over;
      he came back and carried another over; he came back again, and again
      brought over another&mdash;let your worship keep count of the goats the
      fisherman is taking across, for if one escapes the memory there will be an
      end of the story, and it will be impossible to tell another word of it. To
      proceed, I must tell you the landing place on the other side was miry and
      slippery, and the fisherman lost a great deal of time in going and coming;
      still he returned for another goat, and another, and another."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Take it for granted he brought them all across," said Don Quixote, "and
      don't keep going and coming in this way, or thou wilt not make an end of
      bringing them over this twelvemonth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How many have gone across so far?" said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "How the devil do I know?" replied Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There it is," said Sancho, "what I told you, that you must keep a good
      count; well then, by God, there is an end of the story, for there is no
      going any farther."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How can that be?" said Don Quixote; "is it so essential to the story to
      know to a nicety the goats that have crossed over, that if there be a
      mistake of one in the reckoning, thou canst not go on with it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, senor, not a bit," replied Sancho; "for when I asked your worship to
      tell me how many goats had crossed, and you answered you did not know, at
      that very instant all I had to say passed away out of my memory, and,
      faith, there was much virtue in it, and entertainment."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So, then," said Don Quixote, "the story has come to an end?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "As much as my mother has," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In truth," said Don Quixote, "thou hast told one of the rarest stories,
      tales, or histories, that anyone in the world could have imagined, and
      such a way of telling it and ending it was never seen nor will be in a
      lifetime; though I expected nothing else from thy excellent understanding.
      But I do not wonder, for perhaps those ceaseless strokes may have confused
      thy wits."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All that may be," replied Sancho, "but I know that as to my story, all
      that can be said is that it ends there where the mistake in the count of
      the passage of the goats begins."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let it end where it will, well and good," said Don Quixote, "and let us
      see if Rocinante can go;" and again he spurred him, and again Rocinante
      made jumps and remained where he was, so well tied was he.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just then, whether it was the cold of the morning that was now
      approaching, or that he had eaten something laxative at supper, or that it
      was only natural (as is most likely), Sancho felt a desire to do what no
      one could do for him; but so great was the fear that had penetrated his
      heart, he dared not separate himself from his master by as much as the
      black of his nail; to escape doing what he wanted was, however, also
      impossible; so what he did for peace's sake was to remove his right hand,
      which held the back of the saddle, and with it to untie gently and
      silently the running string which alone held up his breeches, so that on
      loosening it they at once fell down round his feet like fetters; he then
      raised his shirt as well as he could and bared his hind quarters, no slim
      ones. But, this accomplished, which he fancied was all he had to do to get
      out of this terrible strait and embarrassment, another still greater
      difficulty presented itself, for it seemed to him impossible to relieve
      himself without making some noise, and he ground his teeth and squeezed
      his shoulders together, holding his breath as much as he could; but in
      spite of his precautions he was unlucky enough after all to make a little
      noise, very different from that which was causing him so much fear.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c19c" id="c19c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c19c.jpg (308K)" src="images/c19c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c19c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote, hearing it, said, "What noise is that, Sancho?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know, senor," said he; "it must be something new, for adventures
      and misadventures never begin with a trifle." Once more he tried his luck,
      and succeeded so well, that without any further noise or disturbance he
      found himself relieved of the burden that had given him so much
      discomfort. But as Don Quixote's sense of smell was as acute as his
      hearing, and as Sancho was so closely linked with him that the fumes rose
      almost in a straight line, it could not be but that some should reach his
      nose, and as soon as they did he came to its relief by compressing it
      between his fingers, saying in a rather snuffing tone, "Sancho, it strikes
      me thou art in great fear."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am," answered Sancho; "but how does your worship perceive it now more
      than ever?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Because just now thou smellest stronger than ever, and not of ambergris,"
      answered Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very likely," said Sancho, "but that's not my fault, but your worship's,
      for leading me about at unseasonable hours and at such unwonted paces."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then go back three or four, my friend," said Don Quixote, all the time
      with his fingers to his nose; "and for the future pay more attention to
      thy person and to what thou owest to mine; for it is my great familiarity
      with thee that has bred this contempt."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'll bet," replied Sancho, "that your worship thinks I have done
      something I ought not with my person."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It makes it worse to stir it, friend Sancho," returned Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      With this and other talk of the same sort master and man passed the night,
      till Sancho, perceiving that daybreak was coming on apace, very cautiously
      untied Rocinante and tied up his breeches. As soon as Rocinante found
      himself free, though by nature he was not at all mettlesome, he seemed to
      feel lively and began pawing&mdash;for as to capering, begging his pardon,
      he knew not what it meant. Don Quixote, then, observing that Rocinante
      could move, took it as a good sign and a signal that he should attempt the
      dread adventure. By this time day had fully broken and everything showed
      distinctly, and Don Quixote saw that he was among some tall trees,
      chestnuts, which cast a very deep shade; he perceived likewise that the
      sound of the strokes did not cease, but could not discover what caused it,
      and so without any further delay he let Rocinante feel the spur, and once
      more taking leave of Sancho, he told him to wait for him there three days
      at most, as he had said before, and if he should not have returned by that
      time, he might feel sure it had been God's will that he should end his
      days in that perilous adventure. He again repeated the message and
      commission with which he was to go on his behalf to his lady Dulcinea, and
      said he was not to be uneasy as to the payment of his services, for before
      leaving home he had made his will, in which he would find himself fully
      recompensed in the matter of wages in due proportion to the time he had
      served; but if God delivered him safe, sound, and unhurt out of that
      danger, he might look upon the promised island as much more than certain.
      Sancho began to weep afresh on again hearing the affecting words of his
      good master, and resolved to stay with him until the final issue and end
      of the business. From these tears and this honourable resolve of Sancho
      Panza's the author of this history infers that he must have been of good
      birth and at least an old Christian; and the feeling he displayed touched
      his but not so much as to make him show any weakness; on the contrary,
      hiding what he felt as well as he could, he began to move towards that
      quarter whence the sound of the water and of the strokes seemed to come.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho followed him on foot, leading by the halter, as his custom was, his
      ass, his constant comrade in prosperity or adversity; and advancing some
      distance through the shady chestnut trees they came upon a little meadow
      at the foot of some high rocks, down which a mighty rush of water flung
      itself. At the foot of the rocks were some rudely constructed houses
      looking more like ruins than houses, from among which came, they
      perceived, the din and clatter of blows, which still continued without
      intermission. Rocinante took fright at the noise of the water and of the
      blows, but quieting him Don Quixote advanced step by step towards the
      houses, commending himself with all his heart to his lady, imploring her
      support in that dread pass and enterprise, and on the way commending
      himself to God, too, not to forget him. Sancho who never quitted his side,
      stretched his neck as far as he could and peered between the legs of
      Rocinante to see if he could now discover what it was that caused him such
      fear and apprehension. They went it might be a hundred paces farther, when
      on turning a corner the true cause, beyond the possibility of any mistake,
      of that dread-sounding and to them awe-inspiring noise that had kept them
      all the night in such fear and perplexity, appeared plain and obvious; and
      it was (if, reader, thou art not disgusted and disappointed) six fulling
      hammers which by their alternate strokes made all the din.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Don Quixote perceived what it was, he was struck dumb and rigid from
      head to foot. Sancho glanced at him and saw him with his head bent down
      upon his breast in manifest mortification; and Don Quixote glanced at
      Sancho and saw him with his cheeks puffed out and his mouth full of
      laughter, and evidently ready to explode with it, and in spite of his
      vexation he could not help laughing at the sight of him; and when Sancho
      saw his master begin he let go so heartily that he had to hold his sides
      with both hands to keep himself from bursting with laughter. Four times he
      stopped, and as many times did his laughter break out afresh with the same
      violence as at first, whereat Don Quixote grew furious, above all when he
      heard him say mockingly, "Thou must know, friend Sancho, that of Heaven's
      will I was born in this our iron age to revive in it the golden or age of
      gold; I am he for whom are reserved perils, mighty achievements, valiant
      deeds;" and here he went on repeating the words that Don Quixote uttered
      the first time they heard the awful strokes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote, then, seeing that Sancho was turning him into ridicule, was
      so mortified and vexed that he lifted up his pike and smote him two such
      blows that if, instead of catching them on his shoulders, he had caught
      them on his head there would have been no wages to pay, unless indeed to
      his heirs. Sancho seeing that he was getting an awkward return in earnest
      for his jest, and fearing his master might carry it still further, said to
      him very humbly, "Calm yourself, sir, for by God I am only joking."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, then, if you are joking I am not," replied Don Quixote. "Look here,
      my lively gentleman, if these, instead of being fulling hammers, had been
      some perilous adventure, have I not, think you, shown the courage required
      for the attempt and achievement? Am I, perchance, being, as I am, a
      gentleman, bound to know and distinguish sounds and tell whether they come
      from fulling mills or not; and that, when perhaps, as is the case, I have
      never in my life seen any as you have, low boor as you are, that have been
      born and bred among them? But turn me these six hammers into six giants,
      and bring them to beard me, one by one or all together, and if I do not
      knock them head over heels, then make what mockery you like of me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No more of that, senor," returned Sancho; "I own I went a little too far
      with the joke. But tell me, your worship, now that peace is made between
      us (and may God bring you out of all the adventures that may befall you as
      safe and sound as he has brought you out of this one), was it not a thing
      to laugh at, and is it not a good story, the great fear we were in?&mdash;at
      least that I was in; for as to your worship I see now that you neither
      know nor understand what either fear or dismay is."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not deny," said Don Quixote, "that what happened to us may be worth
      laughing at, but it is not worth making a story about, for it is not
      everyone that is shrewd enough to hit the right point of a thing."
    </p>
    <p>
      "At any rate," said Sancho, "your worship knew how to hit the right point
      with your pike, aiming at my head and hitting me on the shoulders, thanks
      be to God and my own smartness in dodging it. But let that pass; all will
      come out in the scouring; for I have heard say 'he loves thee well that
      makes thee weep;' and moreover that it is the way with great lords after
      any hard words they give a servant to give him a pair of breeches; though
      I do not know what they give after blows, unless it be that knights-errant
      after blows give islands, or kingdoms on the mainland."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It may be on the dice," said Don Quixote, "that all thou sayest will come
      true; overlook the past, for thou art shrewd enough to know that our first
      movements are not in our own control; and one thing for the future bear in
      mind, that thou curb and restrain thy loquacity in my company; for in all
      the books of chivalry that I have read, and they are innumerable, I never
      met with a squire who talked so much to his lord as thou dost to thine;
      and in fact I feel it to be a great fault of thine and of mine: of thine,
      that thou hast so little respect for me; of mine, that I do not make
      myself more respected. There was Gandalin, the squire of Amadis of Gaul,
      that was Count of the Insula Firme, and we read of him that he always
      addressed his lord with his cap in his hand, his head bowed down and his
      body bent double, more turquesco. And then, what shall we say of Gasabal,
      the squire of Galaor, who was so silent that in order to indicate to us
      the greatness of his marvellous taciturnity his name is only once
      mentioned in the whole of that history, as long as it is truthful? From
      all I have said thou wilt gather, Sancho, that there must be a difference
      between master and man, between lord and lackey, between knight and
      squire: so that from this day forward in our intercourse we must observe
      more respect and take less liberties, for in whatever way I may be
      provoked with you it will be bad for the pitcher. The favours and benefits
      that I have promised you will come in due time, and if they do not your
      wages at least will not be lost, as I have already told you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All that your worship says is very well," said Sancho, "but I should like
      to know (in case the time of favours should not come, and it might be
      necessary to fall back upon wages) how much did the squire of a
      knight-errant get in those days, and did they agree by the month, or by
      the day like bricklayers?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not believe," replied Don Quixote, "that such squires were ever on
      wages, but were dependent on favour; and if I have now mentioned thine in
      the sealed will I have left at home, it was with a view to what may
      happen; for as yet I know not how chivalry will turn out in these wretched
      times of ours, and I do not wish my soul to suffer for trifles in the
      other world; for I would have thee know, Sancho, that in this there is no
      condition more hazardous than that of adventurers."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said Sancho, "since the mere noise of the hammers of a
      fulling mill can disturb and disquiet the heart of such a valiant errant
      adventurer as your worship; but you may be sure I will not open my lips
      henceforward to make light of anything of your worship's, but only to
      honour you as my master and natural lord."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By so doing," replied Don Quixote, "shalt thou live long on the face of
      the earth; for next to parents, masters are to be respected as though they
      were parents."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c19e" id="c19e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c19e.jpg (33K)" src="images/c19e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch21" id="ch21"></a>CHAPTER XXI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TREATS OF THE EXALTED ADVENTURE AND RICH PRIZE OF MAMBRINO'S HELMET,
      TOGETHER WITH OTHER THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO OUR INVINCIBLE KNIGHT
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c20a" id="c20a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c20a.jpg (73K)" src="images/c20a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c20a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      It now began to rain a little, and Sancho was for going into the fulling
      mills, but Don Quixote had taken such an abhorrence to them on account of
      the late joke that he would not enter them on any account; so turning
      aside to right they came upon another road, different from that which they
      had taken the night before. Shortly afterwards Don Quixote perceived a man
      on horseback who wore on his head something that shone like gold, and the
      moment he saw him he turned to Sancho and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "I think, Sancho, there is no proverb that is not true, all being maxims
      drawn from experience itself, the mother of all the sciences, especially
      that one that says, 'Where one door shuts, another opens.' I say so
      because if last night fortune shut the door of the adventure we were
      looking for against us, cheating us with the fulling mills, it now opens
      wide another one for another better and more certain adventure, and if I
      do not contrive to enter it, it will be my own fault, and I cannot lay it
      to my ignorance of fulling mills, or the darkness of the night. I say this
      because, if I mistake not, there comes towards us one who wears on his
      head the helmet of Mambrino, concerning which I took the oath thou
      rememberest."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mind what you say, your worship, and still more what you do," said
      Sancho, "for I don't want any more fulling mills to finish off fulling and
      knocking our senses out."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The devil take thee, man," said Don Quixote; "what has a helmet to do
      with fulling mills?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know," replied Sancho, "but, faith, if I might speak as I used,
      perhaps I could give such reasons that your worship would see you were
      mistaken in what you say."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How can I be mistaken in what I say, unbelieving traitor?" returned Don
      Quixote; "tell me, seest thou not yonder knight coming towards us on a
      dappled grey steed, who has upon his head a helmet of gold?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "What I see and make out," answered Sancho, "is only a man on a grey ass
      like my own, who has something that shines on his head."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, that is the helmet of Mambrino," said Don Quixote; "stand to one
      side and leave me alone with him; thou shalt see how, without saying a
      word, to save time, I shall bring this adventure to an issue and possess
      myself of the helmet I have so longed for."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will take care to stand aside," said Sancho; "but God grant, I say once
      more, that it may be marjoram and not fulling mills."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have told thee, brother, on no account to mention those fulling mills
      to me again," said Don Quixote, "or I vow&mdash;and I say no more&mdash;I'll
      full the soul out of you."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho held his peace in dread lest his master should carry out the vow he
      had hurled like a bowl at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fact of the matter as regards the helmet, steed, and knight that Don
      Quixote saw, was this. In that neighbourhood there were two villages, one
      of them so small that it had neither apothecary's shop nor barber, which
      the other that was close to it had, so the barber of the larger served the
      smaller, and in it there was a sick man who required to be bled and
      another man who wanted to be shaved, and on this errand the barber was
      going, carrying with him a brass basin; but as luck would have it, as he
      was on the way it began to rain, and not to spoil his hat, which probably
      was a new one, he put the basin on his head, and being clean it glittered
      at half a league's distance. He rode upon a grey ass, as Sancho said, and
      this was what made it seem to Don Quixote to be a dapple-grey steed and a
      knight and a golden helmet; for everything he saw he made to fall in with
      his crazy chivalry and ill-errant notions; and when he saw the poor knight
      draw near, without entering into any parley with him, at Rocinante's top
      speed he bore down upon him with the pike pointed low, fully determined to
      run him through and through, and as he reached him, without checking the
      fury of his charge, he cried to him:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Defend thyself, miserable being, or yield me of thine own accord that
      which is so reasonably my due."
    </p>
    <p>
      The barber, who without any expectation or apprehension of it saw this
      apparition coming down upon him, had no other way of saving himself from
      the stroke of the lance but to let himself fall off his ass; and no sooner
      had he touched the ground than he sprang up more nimbly than a deer and
      sped away across the plain faster than the wind.
    </p>
    <p>
      He left the basin on the ground, with which Don Quixote contented himself,
      saying that the pagan had shown his discretion and imitated the beaver,
      which finding itself pressed by the hunters bites and cuts off with its
      teeth that for which, by its natural instinct, it knows it is pursued.
    </p>
    <p>
      He told Sancho to pick up the helmet, and he taking it in his hands said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "By God the basin is a good one, and worth a real of eight if it is worth
      a maravedis," and handed it to his master, who immediately put it on his
      head, turning it round, now this way, now that, in search of fitment, and
      not finding it he said, "Clearly the pagan to whose measure this famous
      head-piece was first forged must have had a very large head; but the worst
      of it is half of it is wanting."
    </p>
    <p>
      When Sancho heard him call the basin a headpiece he was unable to restrain
      his laughter, but remembering his master's wrath he checked himself in the
      midst of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What art thou laughing at, Sancho?" said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am laughing," said he, "to think of the great head the pagan must have
      had who owned this helmet, for it looks exactly like a regular barber's
      basin."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dost thou know what I suspect, Sancho?" said Don Quixote; "that this
      wonderful piece of this enchanted helmet must by some strange accident
      have come into the hands of some one who was unable to recognise or
      realise its value, and who, not knowing what he did, and seeing it to be
      of the purest gold, must have melted down one half for the sake of what it
      might be worth, and of the other made this which is like a barber's basin
      as thou sayest; but be it as it may, to me who recognise it, its
      transformation makes no difference, for I will set it to rights at the
      first village where there is a blacksmith, and in such style that that
      helmet the god of smithies forged for the god of battles shall not surpass
      it or even come up to it; and in the meantime I will wear it as well as I
      can, for something is better than nothing; all the more as it will be
      quite enough to protect me from any chance blow of a stone."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is," said Sancho, "if it is not shot with a sling as they were in
      the battle of the two armies, when they signed the cross on your worship's
      grinders and smashed the flask with that blessed draught that made me
      vomit my bowels up."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It does not grieve me much to have lost it," said Don Quixote, "for thou
      knowest, Sancho, that I have the receipt in my memory."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So have I," answered Sancho, "but if ever I make it, or try it again as
      long as I live, may this be my last hour; moreover, I have no intention of
      putting myself in the way of wanting it, for I mean, with all my five
      senses, to keep myself from being wounded or from wounding anyone: as to
      being blanketed again I say nothing, for it is hard to prevent mishaps of
      that sort, and if they come there is nothing for it but to squeeze our
      shoulders together, hold our breath, shut our eyes, and let ourselves go
      where luck and the blanket may send us."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art a bad Christian, Sancho," said Don Quixote on hearing this, "for
      once an injury has been done thee thou never forgettest it: but know that
      it is the part of noble and generous hearts not to attach importance to
      trifles. What lame leg hast thou got by it, what broken rib, what cracked
      head, that thou canst not forget that jest? For jest and sport it was,
      properly regarded, and had I not seen it in that light I would have
      returned and done more mischief in revenging thee than the Greeks did for
      the rape of Helen, who, if she were alive now, or if my Dulcinea had lived
      then, might depend upon it she would not be so famous for her beauty as
      she is;" and here he heaved a sigh and sent it aloft; and said Sancho,
      "Let it pass for a jest as it cannot be revenged in earnest, but I know
      what sort of jest and earnest it was, and I know it will never be rubbed
      out of my memory any more than off my shoulders. But putting that aside,
      will your worship tell me what are we to do with this dapple-grey steed
      that looks like a grey ass, which that Martino that your worship overthrew
      has left deserted here? for, from the way he took to his heels and bolted,
      he is not likely ever to come back for it; and by my beard but the grey is
      a good one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have never been in the habit," said Don Quixote, "of taking spoil of
      those whom I vanquish, nor is it the practice of chivalry to take away
      their horses and leave them to go on foot, unless indeed it be that the
      victor have lost his own in the combat, in which case it is lawful to take
      that of the vanquished as a thing won in lawful war; therefore, Sancho,
      leave this horse, or ass, or whatever thou wilt have it to be; for when
      its owner sees us gone hence he will come back for it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God knows I should like to take it," returned Sancho, "or at least to
      change it for my own, which does not seem to me as good a one: verily the
      laws of chivalry are strict, since they cannot be stretched to let one ass
      be changed for another; I should like to know if I might at least change
      trappings."
    </p>
    <p>
      "On that head I am not quite certain," answered Don Quixote, "and the
      matter being doubtful, pending better information, I say thou mayest
      change them, if so be thou hast urgent need of them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So urgent is it," answered Sancho, "that if they were for my own person I
      could not want them more;" and forthwith, fortified by this licence, he
      effected the mutatio capparum, rigging out his beast to the ninety-nines
      and making quite another thing of it. This done, they broke their fast on
      the remains of the spoils of war plundered from the sumpter mule, and
      drank of the brook that flowed from the fulling mills, without casting a
      look in that direction, in such loathing did they hold them for the alarm
      they had caused them; and, all anger and gloom removed, they mounted and,
      without taking any fixed road (not to fix upon any being the proper thing
      for true knights-errant), they set out, guided by Rocinante's will, which
      carried along with it that of his master, not to say that of the ass,
      which always followed him wherever he led, lovingly and sociably;
      nevertheless they returned to the high road, and pursued it at a venture
      without any other aim.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they went along, then, in this way Sancho said to his master, "Senor,
      would your worship give me leave to speak a little to you? For since you
      laid that hard injunction of silence on me several things have gone to rot
      in my stomach, and I have now just one on the tip of my tongue that I
      don't want to be spoiled."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Say, on, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and be brief in thy discourse, for
      there is no pleasure in one that is long."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then, senor," returned Sancho, "I say that for some days past I have
      been considering how little is got or gained by going in search of these
      adventures that your worship seeks in these wilds and cross-roads, where,
      even if the most perilous are victoriously achieved, there is no one to
      see or know of them, and so they must be left untold for ever, to the loss
      of your worship's object and the credit they deserve; therefore it seems
      to me it would be better (saving your worship's better judgment) if we
      were to go and serve some emperor or other great prince who may have some
      war on hand, in whose service your worship may prove the worth of your
      person, your great might, and greater understanding, on perceiving which
      the lord in whose service we may be will perforce have to reward us, each
      according to his merits; and there you will not be at a loss for some one
      to set down your achievements in writing so as to preserve their memory
      for ever. Of my own I say nothing, as they will not go beyond squirely
      limits, though I make bold to say that, if it be the practice in chivalry
      to write the achievements of squires, I think mine must not be left out."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou speakest not amiss, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "but before that
      point is reached it is requisite to roam the world, as it were on
      probation, seeking adventures, in order that, by achieving some, name and
      fame may be acquired, such that when he betakes himself to the court of
      some great monarch the knight may be already known by his deeds, and that
      the boys, the instant they see him enter the gate of the city, may all
      follow him and surround him, crying, 'This is the Knight of the Sun'-or
      the Serpent, or any other title under which he may have achieved great
      deeds. 'This,' they will say, 'is he who vanquished in single combat the
      gigantic Brocabruno of mighty strength; he who delivered the great
      Mameluke of Persia out of the long enchantment under which he had been for
      almost nine hundred years.' So from one to another they will go
      proclaiming his achievements; and presently at the tumult of the boys and
      the others the king of that kingdom will appear at the windows of his
      royal palace, and as soon as he beholds the knight, recognising him by his
      arms and the device on his shield, he will as a matter of course say,
      'What ho! Forth all ye, the knights of my court, to receive the flower of
      chivalry who cometh hither!' At which command all will issue forth, and he
      himself, advancing half-way down the stairs, will embrace him closely, and
      salute him, kissing him on the cheek, and will then lead him to the
      queen's chamber, where the knight will find her with the princess her
      daughter, who will be one of the most beautiful and accomplished damsels
      that could with the utmost pains be discovered anywhere in the known
      world. Straightway it will come to pass that she will fix her eyes upon
      the knight and he his upon her, and each will seem to the other something
      more divine than human, and, without knowing how or why they will be taken
      and entangled in the inextricable toils of love, and sorely distressed in
      their hearts not to see any way of making their pains and sufferings known
      by speech. Thence they will lead him, no doubt, to some richly adorned
      chamber of the palace, where, having removed his armour, they will bring
      him a rich mantle of scarlet wherewith to robe himself, and if he looked
      noble in his armour he will look still more so in a doublet. When night
      comes he will sup with the king, queen, and princess; and all the time he
      will never take his eyes off her, stealing stealthy glances, unnoticed by
      those present, and she will do the same, and with equal cautiousness,
      being, as I have said, a damsel of great discretion. The tables being
      removed, suddenly through the door of the hall there will enter a hideous
      and diminutive dwarf followed by a fair dame, between two giants, who
      comes with a certain adventure, the work of an ancient sage; and he who
      shall achieve it shall be deemed the best knight in the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The king will then command all those present to essay it, and none will
      bring it to an end and conclusion save the stranger knight, to the great
      enhancement of his fame, whereat the princess will be overjoyed and will
      esteem herself happy and fortunate in having fixed and placed her thoughts
      so high. And the best of it is that this king, or prince, or whatever he
      is, is engaged in a very bitter war with another as powerful as himself,
      and the stranger knight, after having been some days at his court,
      requests leave from him to go and serve him in the said war. The king will
      grant it very readily, and the knight will courteously kiss his hands for
      the favour done to him; and that night he will take leave of his lady the
      princess at the grating of the chamber where she sleeps, which looks upon
      a garden, and at which he has already many times conversed with her, the
      go-between and confidante in the matter being a damsel much trusted by the
      princess. He will sigh, she will swoon, the damsel will fetch water, much
      distressed because morning approaches, and for the honour of her lady he
      would not that they were discovered; at last the princess will come to
      herself and will present her white hands through the grating to the
      knight, who will kiss them a thousand and a thousand times, bathing them
      with his tears. It will be arranged between them how they are to inform
      each other of their good or evil fortunes, and the princess will entreat
      him to make his absence as short as possible, which he will promise to do
      with many oaths; once more he kisses her hands, and takes his leave in
      such grief that he is well-nigh ready to die. He betakes him thence to his
      chamber, flings himself on his bed, cannot sleep for sorrow at parting,
      rises early in the morning, goes to take leave of the king, queen, and
      princess, and, as he takes his leave of the pair, it is told him that the
      princess is indisposed and cannot receive a visit; the knight thinks it is
      from grief at his departure, his heart is pierced, and he is hardly able
      to keep from showing his pain. The confidante is present, observes all,
      goes to tell her mistress, who listens with tears and says that one of her
      greatest distresses is not knowing who this knight is, and whether he is
      of kingly lineage or not; the damsel assures her that so much courtesy,
      gentleness, and gallantry of bearing as her knight possesses could not
      exist in any save one who was royal and illustrious; her anxiety is thus
      relieved, and she strives to be of good cheer lest she should excite
      suspicion in her parents, and at the end of two days she appears in
      public. Meanwhile the knight has taken his departure; he fights in the
      war, conquers the king's enemy, wins many cities, triumphs in many
      battles, returns to the court, sees his lady where he was wont to see her,
      and it is agreed that he shall demand her in marriage of her parents as
      the reward of his services; the king is unwilling to give her, as he knows
      not who he is, but nevertheless, whether carried off or in whatever other
      way it may be, the princess comes to be his bride, and her father comes to
      regard it as very good fortune; for it so happens that this knight is
      proved to be the son of a valiant king of some kingdom, I know not what,
      for I fancy it is not likely to be on the map. The father dies, the
      princess inherits, and in two words the knight becomes king. And here
      comes in at once the bestowal of rewards upon his squire and all who have
      aided him in rising to so exalted a rank. He marries his squire to a
      damsel of the princess's, who will be, no doubt, the one who was
      confidante in their amour, and is daughter of a very great duke."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's what I want, and no mistake about it!" said Sancho. "That's what
      I'm waiting for; for all this, word for word, is in store for your worship
      under the title of the Knight of the Rueful Countenance."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou needst not doubt it, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "for in the same
      manner, and by the same steps as I have described here, knights-errant
      rise and have risen to be kings and emperors; all we want now is to find
      out what king, Christian or pagan, is at war and has a beautiful daughter;
      but there will be time enough to think of that, for, as I have told thee,
      fame must be won in other quarters before repairing to the court. There is
      another thing, too, that is wanting; for supposing we find a king who is
      at war and has a beautiful daughter, and that I have won incredible fame
      throughout the universe, I know not how it can be made out that I am of
      royal lineage, or even second cousin to an emperor; for the king will not
      be willing to give me his daughter in marriage unless he is first
      thoroughly satisfied on this point, however much my famous deeds may
      deserve it; so that by this deficiency I fear I shall lose what my arm has
      fairly earned. True it is I am a gentleman of known house, of estate and
      property, and entitled to the five hundred sueldos mulct; and it may be
      that the sage who shall write my history will so clear up my ancestry and
      pedigree that I may find myself fifth or sixth in descent from a king; for
      I would have thee know, Sancho, that there are two kinds of lineages in
      the world; some there be tracing and deriving their descent from kings and
      princes, whom time has reduced little by little until they end in a point
      like a pyramid upside down; and others who spring from the common herd and
      go on rising step by step until they come to be great lords; so that the
      difference is that the one were what they no longer are, and the others
      are what they formerly were not. And I may be of such that after
      investigation my origin may prove great and famous, with which the king,
      my father-in-law that is to be, ought to be satisfied; and should he not
      be, the princess will so love me that even though she well knew me to be
      the son of a water-carrier, she will take me for her lord and husband in
      spite of her father; if not, then it comes to seizing her and carrying her
      off where I please; for time or death will put an end to the wrath of her
      parents."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It comes to this, too," said Sancho, "what some naughty people say,
      'Never ask as a favour what thou canst take by force;' though it would fit
      better to say, 'A clear escape is better than good men's prayers.' I say
      so because if my lord the king, your worship's father-in-law, will not
      condescend to give you my lady the princess, there is nothing for it but,
      as your worship says, to seize her and transport her. But the mischief is
      that until peace is made and you come into the peaceful enjoyment of your
      kingdom, the poor squire is famishing as far as rewards go, unless it be
      that the confidante damsel that is to be his wife comes with the princess,
      and that with her he tides over his bad luck until Heaven otherwise orders
      things; for his master, I suppose, may as well give her to him at once for
      a lawful wife."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nobody can object to that," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then since that may be," said Sancho, "there is nothing for it but to
      commend ourselves to God, and let fortune take what course it will."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God guide it according to my wishes and thy wants," said Don Quixote,
      "and mean be he who thinks himself mean."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In God's name let him be so," said Sancho: "I am an old Christian, and to
      fit me for a count that's enough."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And more than enough for thee," said Don Quixote; "and even wert thou
      not, it would make no difference, because I being the king can easily give
      thee nobility without purchase or service rendered by thee, for when I
      make thee a count, then thou art at once a gentleman; and they may say
      what they will, but by my faith they will have to call thee 'your
      lordship,' whether they like it or not."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not a doubt of it; and I'll know how to support the tittle," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Title thou shouldst say, not tittle," said his master.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So be it," answered Sancho. "I say I will know how to behave, for once in
      my life I was beadle of a brotherhood, and the beadle's gown sat so well
      on me that all said I looked as if I was to be steward of the same
      brotherhood. What will it be, then, when I put a duke's robe on my back,
      or dress myself in gold and pearls like a count? I believe they'll come a
      hundred leagues to see me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou wilt look well," said Don Quixote, "but thou must shave thy beard
      often, for thou hast it so thick and rough and unkempt, that if thou dost
      not shave it every second day at least, they will see what thou art at the
      distance of a musket shot."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What more will it be," said Sancho, "than having a barber, and keeping
      him at wages in the house? and even if it be necessary, I will make him go
      behind me like a nobleman's equerry."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, how dost thou know that noblemen have equerries behind them?" asked
      Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will tell you," answered Sancho. "Years ago I was for a month at the
      capital and there I saw taking the air a very small gentleman who they
      said was a very great man, and a man following him on horseback in every
      turn he took, just as if he was his tail. I asked why this man did not
      join the other man, instead of always going behind him; they answered me
      that he was his equerry, and that it was the custom with nobles to have
      such persons behind them, and ever since then I know it, for I have never
      forgotten it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art right," said Don Quixote, "and in the same way thou mayest carry
      thy barber with thee, for customs did not come into use all together, nor
      were they all invented at once, and thou mayest be the first count to have
      a barber to follow him; and, indeed, shaving one's beard is a greater
      trust than saddling one's horse."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let the barber business be my look-out," said Sancho; "and your worship's
      be it to strive to become a king, and make me a count."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So it shall be," answered Don Quixote, and raising his eyes he saw what
      will be told in the following chapter.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c20e" id="c20e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c20e.jpg (18K)" src="images/c20e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch22" id="ch22"></a>CHAPTER XXII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE FREEDOM DON QUIXOTE CONFERRED ON SEVERAL UNFORTUNATES WHO AGAINST
      THEIR WILL WERE BEING CARRIED WHERE THEY HAD NO WISH TO GO
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c22a" id="c22a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c22a.jpg (178K)" src="images/c22a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c22a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Cid Hamete Benengeli, the Arab and Manchegan author, relates in this most
      grave, high-sounding, minute, delightful, and original history that after
      the discussion between the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha and his squire
      Sancho Panza which is set down at the end of chapter twenty-one, Don
      Quixote raised his eyes and saw coming along the road he was following
      some dozen men on foot strung together by the neck, like beads, on a great
      iron chain, and all with manacles on their hands. With them there came
      also two men on horseback and two on foot; those on horseback with
      wheel-lock muskets, those on foot with javelins and swords, and as soon as
      Sancho saw them he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is a chain of galley slaves, on the way to the galleys by force of
      the king's orders."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How by force?" asked Don Quixote; "is it possible that the king uses
      force against anyone?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not say that," answered Sancho, "but that these are people condemned
      for their crimes to serve by force in the king's galleys."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In fact," replied Don Quixote, "however it may be, these people are going
      where they are taking them by force, and not of their own will."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Just so," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then if so," said Don Quixote, "here is a case for the exercise of my
      office, to put down force and to succour and help the wretched."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Recollect, your worship," said Sancho, "Justice, which is the king
      himself, is not using force or doing wrong to such persons, but punishing
      them for their crimes."
    </p>
    <p>
      The chain of galley slaves had by this time come up, and Don Quixote in
      very courteous language asked those who were in custody of it to be good
      enough to tell him the reason or reasons for which they were conducting
      these people in this manner. One of the guards on horseback answered that
      they were galley slaves belonging to his majesty, that they were going to
      the galleys, and that was all that was to be said and all he had any
      business to know.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c22b" id="c22b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c22b.jpg (298K)" src="images/c22b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c22b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nevertheless," replied Don Quixote, "I should like to know from each of
      them separately the reason of his misfortune;" to this he added more to
      the same effect to induce them to tell him what he wanted so civilly that
      the other mounted guard said to him:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Though we have here the register and certificate of the sentence of every
      one of these wretches, this is no time to take them out or read them; come
      and ask themselves; they can tell if they choose, and they will, for these
      fellows take a pleasure in doing and talking about rascalities."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this permission, which Don Quixote would have taken even had they not
      granted it, he approached the chain and asked the first for what offences
      he was now in such a sorry case.
    </p>
    <p>
      He made answer that it was for being a lover.
    </p>
    <p>
      "For that only?" replied Don Quixote; "why, if for being lovers they send
      people to the galleys I might have been rowing in them long ago."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The love is not the sort your worship is thinking of," said the galley
      slave; "mine was that I loved a washerwoman's basket of clean linen so
      well, and held it so close in my embrace, that if the arm of the law had
      not forced it from me, I should never have let it go of my own will to
      this moment; I was caught in the act, there was no occasion for torture,
      the case was settled, they treated me to a hundred lashes on the back, and
      three years of gurapas besides, and that was the end of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What are gurapas?" asked Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Gurapas are galleys," answered the galley slave, who was a young man of
      about four-and-twenty, and said he was a native of Piedrahita.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote asked the same question of the second, who made no reply, so
      downcast and melancholy was he; but the first answered for him, and said,
      "He, sir, goes as a canary, I mean as a musician and a singer."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What!" said Don Quixote, "for being musicians and singers are people sent
      to the galleys too?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, sir," answered the galley slave, "for there is nothing worse than
      singing under suffering."
    </p>
    <p>
      "On the contrary, I have heard say," said Don Quixote, "that he who sings
      scares away his woes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Here it is the reverse," said the galley slave; "for he who sings once
      weeps all his life."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not understand it," said Don Quixote; but one of the guards said to
      him, "Sir, to sing under suffering means with the non sancta fraternity to
      confess under torture; they put this sinner to the torture and he
      confessed his crime, which was being a cuatrero, that is a cattle-stealer,
      and on his confession they sentenced him to six years in the galleys,
      besides two hundred lashes that he has already had on the back; and he is
      always dejected and downcast because the other thieves that were left
      behind and that march here ill-treat, and snub, and jeer, and despise him
      for confessing and not having spirit enough to say nay; for, say they,
      'nay' has no more letters in it than 'yea,' and a culprit is well off when
      life or death with him depends on his own tongue and not on that of
      witnesses or evidence; and to my thinking they are not very far out."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And I think so too," answered Don Quixote; then passing on to the third
      he asked him what he had asked the others, and the man answered very
      readily and unconcernedly, "I am going for five years to their ladyships
      the gurapas for the want of ten ducats."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will give twenty with pleasure to get you out of that trouble," said
      Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That," said the galley slave, "is like a man having money at sea when he
      is dying of hunger and has no way of buying what he wants; I say so
      because if at the right time I had had those twenty ducats that your
      worship now offers me, I would have greased the notary's pen and freshened
      up the attorney's wit with them, so that to-day I should be in the middle
      of the plaza of the Zocodover at Toledo, and not on this road coupled like
      a greyhound. But God is great; patience&mdash;there, that's enough of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote passed on to the fourth, a man of venerable aspect with a
      white beard falling below his breast, who on hearing himself asked the
      reason of his being there began to weep without answering a word, but the
      fifth acted as his tongue and said, "This worthy man is going to the
      galleys for four years, after having gone the rounds in ceremony and on
      horseback."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That means," said Sancho Panza, "as I take it, to have been exposed to
      shame in public."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Just so," replied the galley slave, "and the offence for which they gave
      him that punishment was having been an ear-broker, nay body-broker; I
      mean, in short, that this gentleman goes as a pimp, and for having besides
      a certain touch of the sorcerer about him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If that touch had not been thrown in," said Don Quixote, "he would not
      deserve, for mere pimping, to row in the galleys, but rather to command
      and be admiral of them; for the office of pimp is no ordinary one, being
      the office of persons of discretion, one very necessary in a well-ordered
      state, and only to be exercised by persons of good birth; nay, there ought
      to be an inspector and overseer of them, as in other offices, and
      recognised number, as with the brokers on change; in this way many of the
      evils would be avoided which are caused by this office and calling being
      in the hands of stupid and ignorant people, such as women more or less
      silly, and pages and jesters of little standing and experience, who on the
      most urgent occasions, and when ingenuity of contrivance is needed, let
      the crumbs freeze on the way to their mouths, and know not which is their
      right hand. I should like to go farther, and give reasons to show that it
      is advisable to choose those who are to hold so necessary an office in the
      state, but this is not the fit place for it; some day I will expound the
      matter to some one able to see to and rectify it; all I say now is, that
      the additional fact of his being a sorcerer has removed the sorrow it gave
      me to see these white hairs and this venerable countenance in so painful a
      position on account of his being a pimp; though I know well there are no
      sorceries in the world that can move or compel the will as some simple
      folk fancy, for our will is free, nor is there herb or charm that can
      force it. All that certain silly women and quacks do is to turn men mad
      with potions and poisons, pretending that they have power to cause love,
      for, as I say, it is an impossibility to compel the will."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is true," said the good old man, "and indeed, sir, as far as the
      charge of sorcery goes I was not guilty; as to that of being a pimp I
      cannot deny it; but I never thought I was doing any harm by it, for my
      only object was that all the world should enjoy itself and live in peace
      and quiet, without quarrels or troubles; but my good intentions were
      unavailing to save me from going where I never expect to come back from,
      with this weight of years upon me and a urinary ailment that never gives
      me a moment's ease;" and again he fell to weeping as before, and such
      compassion did Sancho feel for him that he took out a real of four from
      his bosom and gave it to him in alms.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote went on and asked another what his crime was, and the man
      answered with no less but rather much more sprightliness than the last
      one.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am here because I carried the joke too far with a couple of cousins of
      mine, and with a couple of other cousins who were none of mine; in short,
      I carried the joke so far with them all that it ended in such a
      complicated increase of kindred that no accountant could make it clear: it
      was all proved against me, I got no favour, I had no money, I was near
      having my neck stretched, they sentenced me to the galleys for six years,
      I accepted my fate, it is the punishment of my fault; I am a young man;
      let life only last, and with that all will come right. If you, sir, have
      anything wherewith to help the poor, God will repay it to you in heaven,
      and we on earth will take care in our petitions to him to pray for the
      life and health of your worship, that they may be as long and as good as
      your amiable appearance deserves."
    </p>
    <p>
      This one was in the dress of a student, and one of the guards said he was
      a great talker and a very elegant Latin scholar.
    </p>
    <p>
      Behind all these there came a man of thirty, a very personable fellow,
      except that when he looked, his eyes turned in a little one towards the
      other. He was bound differently from the rest, for he had to his leg a
      chain so long that it was wound all round his body, and two rings on his
      neck, one attached to the chain, the other to what they call a
      "keep-friend" or "friend's foot," from which hung two irons reaching to
      his waist with two manacles fixed to them in which his hands were secured
      by a big padlock, so that he could neither raise his hands to his mouth
      nor lower his head to his hands. Don Quixote asked why this man carried so
      many more chains than the others. The guard replied that it was because he
      alone had committed more crimes than all the rest put together, and was so
      daring and such a villain, that though they marched him in that fashion
      they did not feel sure of him, but were in dread of his making his escape.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What crimes can he have committed," said Don Quixote, "if they have not
      deserved a heavier punishment than being sent to the galleys?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He goes for ten years," replied the guard, "which is the same thing as
      civil death, and all that need be said is that this good fellow is the
      famous Gines de Pasamonte, otherwise called Ginesillo de Parapilla."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Gently, senor commissary," said the galley slave at this, "let us have no
      fixing of names or surnames; my name is Gines, not Ginesillo, and my
      family name is Pasamonte, not Parapilla as you say; let each one mind his
      own business, and he will be doing enough."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Speak with less impertinence, master thief of extra measure," replied the
      commissary, "if you don't want me to make you hold your tongue in spite of
      your teeth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is easy to see," returned the galley slave, "that man goes as God
      pleases, but some one shall know some day whether I am called Ginesillo de
      Parapilla or not."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Don't they call you so, you liar?" said the guard.
    </p>
    <p>
      "They do," returned Gines, "but I will make them give over calling me so,
      or I will be shaved, where, I only say behind my teeth. If you, sir, have
      anything to give us, give it to us at once, and God speed you, for you are
      becoming tiresome with all this inquisitiveness about the lives of others;
      if you want to know about mine, let me tell you I am Gines de Pasamonte,
      whose life is written by these fingers."
    </p>
    <p>
      "He says true," said the commissary, "for he has himself written his story
      as grand as you please, and has left the book in the prison in pawn for
      two hundred reals."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And I mean to take it out of pawn," said Gines, "though it were in for
      two hundred ducats."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is it so good?" said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So good is it," replied Gines, "that a fig for 'Lazarillo de Tormes,' and
      all of that kind that have been written, or shall be written compared with
      it: all I will say about it is that it deals with facts, and facts so neat
      and diverting that no lies could match them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And how is the book entitled?" asked Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The 'Life of Gines de Pasamonte,'" replied the subject of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And is it finished?" asked Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "How can it be finished," said the other, "when my life is not yet
      finished? All that is written is from my birth down to the point when they
      sent me to the galleys this last time."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then you have been there before?" said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the service of God and the king I have been there for four years
      before now, and I know by this time what the biscuit and courbash are
      like," replied Gines; "and it is no great grievance to me to go back to
      them, for there I shall have time to finish my book; I have still many
      things left to say, and in the galleys of Spain there is more than enough
      leisure; though I do not want much for what I have to write, for I have it
      by heart."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You seem a clever fellow," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And an unfortunate one," replied Gines, "for misfortune always persecutes
      good wit."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It persecutes rogues," said the commissary.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I told you already to go gently, master commissary," said Pasamonte;
      "their lordships yonder never gave you that staff to ill-treat us wretches
      here, but to conduct and take us where his majesty orders you; if not, by
      the life of-never mind-; it may be that some day the stains made in the
      inn will come out in the scouring; let everyone hold his tongue and behave
      well and speak better; and now let us march on, for we have had quite
      enough of this entertainment."
    </p>
    <p>
      The commissary lifted his staff to strike Pasamonte in return for his
      threats, but Don Quixote came between them, and begged him not to ill-use
      him, as it was not too much to allow one who had his hands tied to have
      his tongue a trifle free; and turning to the whole chain of them he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "From all you have told me, dear brethren, make out clearly that though
      they have punished you for your faults, the punishments you are about to
      endure do not give you much pleasure, and that you go to them very much
      against the grain and against your will, and that perhaps this one's want
      of courage under torture, that one's want of money, the other's want of
      advocacy, and lastly the perverted judgment of the judge may have been the
      cause of your ruin and of your failure to obtain the justice you had on
      your side. All which presents itself now to my mind, urging, persuading,
      and even compelling me to demonstrate in your case the purpose for which
      Heaven sent me into the world and caused me to make profession of the
      order of chivalry to which I belong, and the vow I took therein to give
      aid to those in need and under the oppression of the strong. But as I know
      that it is a mark of prudence not to do by foul means what may be done by
      fair, I will ask these gentlemen, the guards and commissary, to be so good
      as to release you and let you go in peace, as there will be no lack of
      others to serve the king under more favourable circumstances; for it seems
      to me a hard case to make slaves of those whom God and nature have made
      free. Moreover, sirs of the guard," added Don Quixote, "these poor fellows
      have done nothing to you; let each answer for his own sins yonder; there
      is a God in Heaven who will not forget to punish the wicked or reward the
      good; and it is not fitting that honest men should be the instruments of
      punishment to others, they being therein no way concerned. This request I
      make thus gently and quietly, that, if you comply with it, I may have
      reason for thanking you; and, if you will not voluntarily, this lance and
      sword together with the might of my arm shall compel you to comply with it
      by force."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nice nonsense!" said the commissary; "a fine piece of pleasantry he has
      come out with at last! He wants us to let the king's prisoners go, as if
      we had any authority to release them, or he to order us to do so! Go your
      way, sir, and good luck to you; put that basin straight that you've got on
      your head, and don't go looking for three feet on a cat."
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Tis you that are the cat, rat, and rascal," replied Don Quixote, and
      acting on the word he fell upon him so suddenly that without giving him
      time to defend himself he brought him to the ground sorely wounded with a
      lance-thrust; and lucky it was for him that it was the one that had the
      musket. The other guards stood thunderstruck and amazed at this unexpected
      event, but recovering presence of mind, those on horseback seized their
      swords, and those on foot their javelins, and attacked Don Quixote, who
      was waiting for them with great calmness; and no doubt it would have gone
      badly with him if the galley slaves, seeing the chance before them of
      liberating themselves, had not effected it by contriving to break the
      chain on which they were strung. Such was the confusion, that the guards,
      now rushing at the galley slaves who were breaking loose, now to attack
      Don Quixote who was waiting for them, did nothing at all that was of any
      use. Sancho, on his part, gave a helping hand to release Gines de
      Pasamonte, who was the first to leap forth upon the plain free and
      unfettered, and who, attacking the prostrate commissary, took from him his
      sword and the musket, with which, aiming at one and levelling at another,
      he, without ever discharging it, drove every one of the guards off the
      field, for they took to flight, as well to escape Pasamonte's musket, as
      the showers of stones the now released galley slaves were raining upon
      them. Sancho was greatly grieved at the affair, because he anticipated
      that those who had fled would report the matter to the Holy Brotherhood,
      who at the summons of the alarm-bell would at once sally forth in quest of
      the offenders; and he said so to his master, and entreated him to leave
      the place at once, and go into hiding in the sierra that was close by.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is all very well," said Don Quixote, "but I know what must be done
      now;" and calling together all the galley slaves, who were now running
      riot, and had stripped the commissary to the skin, he collected them round
      him to hear what he had to say, and addressed them as follows: "To be
      grateful for benefits received is the part of persons of good birth, and
      one of the sins most offensive to God is ingratitude; I say so because,
      sirs, ye have already seen by manifest proof the benefit ye have received
      of me; in return for which I desire, and it is my good pleasure that,
      laden with that chain which I have taken off your necks, ye at once set
      out and proceed to the city of El Toboso, and there present yourselves
      before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and say to her that her knight, he of
      the Rueful Countenance, sends to commend himself to her; and that ye
      recount to her in full detail all the particulars of this notable
      adventure, up to the recovery of your longed-for liberty; and this done ye
      may go where ye will, and good fortune attend you."
    </p>
    <p>
      Gines de Pasamonte made answer for all, saying, "That which you, sir, our
      deliverer, demand of us, is of all impossibilities the most impossible to
      comply with, because we cannot go together along the roads, but only
      singly and separate, and each one his own way, endeavouring to hide
      ourselves in the bowels of the earth to escape the Holy Brotherhood,
      which, no doubt, will come out in search of us. What your worship may do,
      and fairly do, is to change this service and tribute as regards the lady
      Dulcinea del Toboso for a certain quantity of ave-marias and credos which
      we will say for your worship's intention, and this is a condition that can
      be complied with by night as by day, running or resting, in peace or in
      war; but to imagine that we are going now to return to the flesh-pots of
      Egypt, I mean to take up our chain and set out for El Toboso, is to
      imagine that it is now night, though it is not yet ten in the morning, and
      to ask this of us is like asking pears of the elm tree."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then by all that's good," said Don Quixote (now stirred to wrath), "Don
      son of a bitch, Don Ginesillo de Paropillo, or whatever your name is, you
      will have to go yourself alone, with your tail between your legs and the
      whole chain on your back."
    </p>
    <p>
      Pasamonte, who was anything but meek (being by this time thoroughly
      convinced that Don Quixote was not quite right in his head as he had
      committed such a vagary as to set them free), finding himself abused in
      this fashion, gave the wink to his companions, and falling back they began
      to shower stones on Don Quixote at such a rate that he was quite unable to
      protect himself with his buckler, and poor Rocinante no more heeded the
      spur than if he had been made of brass. Sancho planted himself behind his
      ass, and with him sheltered himself from the hailstorm that poured on both
      of them. Don Quixote was unable to shield himself so well but that more
      pebbles than I could count struck him full on the body with such force
      that they brought him to the ground; and the instant he fell the student
      pounced upon him, snatched the basin from his head, and with it struck
      three or four blows on his shoulders, and as many more on the ground,
      knocking it almost to pieces. They then stripped him of a jacket that he
      wore over his armour, and they would have stripped off his stockings if
      his greaves had not prevented them. From Sancho they took his coat,
      leaving him in his shirt-sleeves; and dividing among themselves the
      remaining spoils of the battle, they went each one his own way, more
      solicitous about keeping clear of the Holy Brotherhood they dreaded, than
      about burdening themselves with the chain, or going to present themselves
      before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso. The ass and Rocinante, Sancho and Don
      Quixote, were all that were left upon the spot; the ass with drooping
      head, serious, shaking his ears from time to time as if he thought the
      storm of stones that assailed them was not yet over; Rocinante stretched
      beside his master, for he too had been brought to the ground by a stone;
      Sancho stripped, and trembling with fear of the Holy Brotherhood; and Don
      Quixote fuming to find himself so served by the very persons for whom he
      had done so much.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c22e" id="c22e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c22e.jpg (44K)" src="images/c22e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch23" id="ch23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE SIERRA MORENA, WHICH WAS ONE OF THE
      RAREST ADVENTURES RELATED IN THIS VERACIOUS HISTORY
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c23a" id="c23a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c23a.jpg (148K)" src="images/c23a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c23a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeing himself served in this way, Don Quixote said to his squire, "I have
      always heard it said, Sancho, that to do good to boors is to throw water
      into the sea. If I had believed thy words, I should have avoided this
      trouble; but it is done now, it is only to have patience and take warning
      for the future."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c23b" id="c23b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c23b.jpg (318K)" src="images/c23b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c23b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your worship will take warning as much as I am a Turk," returned Sancho;
      "but, as you say this mischief might have been avoided if you had believed
      me, believe me now, and a still greater one will be avoided; for I tell
      you chivalry is of no account with the Holy Brotherhood, and they don't
      care two maravedis for all the knights-errant in the world; and I can tell
      you I fancy I hear their arrows whistling past my ears this minute."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art a coward by nature, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "but lest thou
      shouldst say I am obstinate, and that I never do as thou dost advise, this
      once I will take thy advice, and withdraw out of reach of that fury thou
      so dreadest; but it must be on one condition, that never, in life or in
      death, thou art to say to anyone that I retired or withdrew from this
      danger out of fear, but only in compliance with thy entreaties; for if
      thou sayest otherwise thou wilt lie therein, and from this time to that,
      and from that to this, I give thee lie, and say thou liest and wilt lie
      every time thou thinkest or sayest it; and answer me not again; for at the
      mere thought that I am withdrawing or retiring from any danger, above all
      from this, which does seem to carry some little shadow of fear with it, I
      am ready to take my stand here and await alone, not only that Holy
      Brotherhood you talk of and dread, but the brothers of the twelve tribes
      of Israel, and the Seven Maccabees, and Castor and Pollux, and all the
      brothers and brotherhoods in the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor," replied Sancho, "to retire is not to flee, and there is no wisdom
      in waiting when danger outweighs hope, and it is the part of wise men to
      preserve themselves to-day for to-morrow, and not risk all in one day; and
      let me tell you, though I am a clown and a boor, I have got some notion of
      what they call safe conduct; so repent not of having taken my advice, but
      mount Rocinante if you can, and if not I will help you; and follow me, for
      my mother-wit tells me we have more need of legs than hands just now."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote mounted without replying, and, Sancho leading the way on his
      ass, they entered the side of the Sierra Morena, which was close by, as it
      was Sancho's design to cross it entirely and come out again at El Viso or
      Almodovar del Campo, and hide for some days among its crags so as to
      escape the search of the Brotherhood should they come to look for them. He
      was encouraged in this by perceiving that the stock of provisions carried
      by the ass had come safe out of the fray with the galley slaves, a
      circumstance that he regarded as a miracle, seeing how they pillaged and
      ransacked.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c23c" id="c23c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c23c.jpg (297K)" src="images/c23c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c23c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      That night they reached the very heart of the Sierra Morena, where it
      seemed prudent to Sancho to pass the night and even some days, at least as
      many as the stores he carried might last, and so they encamped between two
      rocks and among some cork trees; but fatal destiny, which, according to
      the opinion of those who have not the light of the true faith, directs,
      arranges, and settles everything in its own way, so ordered it that Gines
      de Pasamonte, the famous knave and thief who by the virtue and madness of
      Don Quixote had been released from the chain, driven by fear of the Holy
      Brotherhood, which he had good reason to dread, resolved to take hiding in
      the mountains; and his fate and fear led him to the same spot to which Don
      Quixote and Sancho Panza had been led by theirs, just in time to recognise
      them and leave them to fall asleep: and as the wicked are always
      ungrateful, and necessity leads to evildoing, and immediate advantage
      overcomes all considerations of the future, Gines, who was neither
      grateful nor well-principled, made up his mind to steal Sancho Panza's
      ass, not troubling himself about Rocinante, as being a prize that was no
      good either to pledge or sell. While Sancho slept he stole his ass, and
      before day dawned he was far out of reach.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c23d" id="c23d"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c23d.jpg (256K)" src="images/c23d.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c23d.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Aurora made her appearance bringing gladness to the earth but sadness to
      Sancho Panza, for he found that his Dapple was missing, and seeing himself
      bereft of him he began the saddest and most doleful lament in the world,
      so loud that Don Quixote awoke at his exclamations and heard him saying,
      "O son of my bowels, born in my very house, my children's plaything, my
      wife's joy, the envy of my neighbours, relief of my burdens, and lastly,
      half supporter of myself, for with the six-and-twenty maravedis thou didst
      earn me daily I met half my charges."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote, when he heard the lament and learned the cause, consoled
      Sancho with the best arguments he could, entreating him to be patient, and
      promising to give him a letter of exchange ordering three out of five
      ass-colts that he had at home to be given to him. Sancho took comfort at
      this, dried his tears, suppressed his sobs, and returned thanks for the
      kindness shown him by Don Quixote. He on his part was rejoiced to the
      heart on entering the mountains, as they seemed to him to be just the
      place for the adventures he was in quest of. They brought back to his
      memory the marvellous adventures that had befallen knights-errant in like
      solitudes and wilds, and he went along reflecting on these things, so
      absorbed and carried away by them that he had no thought for anything
      else.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c23e" id="c23e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c23e.jpg (280K)" src="images/c23e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c23e.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor had Sancho any other care (now that he fancied he was travelling in a
      safe quarter) than to satisfy his appetite with such remains as were left
      of the clerical spoils, and so he marched behind his master laden with
      what Dapple used to carry, emptying the sack and packing his paunch, and
      so long as he could go that way, he would not have given a farthing to
      meet with another adventure.
    </p>
    <p>
      While so engaged he raised his eyes and saw that his master had halted,
      and was trying with the point of his pike to lift some bulky object that
      lay upon the ground, on which he hastened to join him and help him if it
      were needful, and reached him just as with the point of the pike he was
      raising a saddle-pad with a valise attached to it, half or rather wholly
      rotten and torn; but so heavy were they that Sancho had to help to take
      them up, and his master directed him to see what the valise contained.
      Sancho did so with great alacrity, and though the valise was secured by a
      chain and padlock, from its torn and rotten condition he was able to see
      its contents, which were four shirts of fine holland, and other articles
      of linen no less curious than clean; and in a handkerchief he found a good
      lot of gold crowns, and as soon as he saw them he exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Blessed be all Heaven for sending us an adventure that is good for
      something!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Searching further he found a little memorandum book richly bound; this Don
      Quixote asked of him, telling him to take the money and keep it for
      himself. Sancho kissed his hands for the favour, and cleared the valise of
      its linen, which he stowed away in the provision sack. Considering the
      whole matter, Don Quixote observed:
    </p>
    <p>
      "It seems to me, Sancho&mdash;and it is impossible it can be otherwise&mdash;that
      some strayed traveller must have crossed this sierra and been attacked and
      slain by footpads, who brought him to this remote spot to bury him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That cannot be," answered Sancho, "because if they had been robbers they
      would not have left this money."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art right," said Don Quixote, "and I cannot guess or explain what
      this may mean; but stay; let us see if in this memorandum book there is
      anything written by which we may be able to trace out or discover what we
      want to know."
    </p>
    <p>
      He opened it, and the first thing he found in it, written roughly but in a
      very good hand, was a sonnet, and reading it aloud that Sancho might hear
      it, he found that it ran as follows:
    </p>
    <blockquote>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
SONNET

Or Love is lacking in intelligence,
  Or to the height of cruelty attains,
  Or else it is my doom to suffer pains
Beyond the measure due to my offence.
But if Love be a God, it follows thence
  That he knows all, and certain it remains
  No God loves cruelty; then who ordains
This penance that enthrals while it torments?
It were a falsehood, Chloe, thee to name;
  Such evil with such goodness cannot live;
And against Heaven I dare not charge the blame,
  I only know it is my fate to die.
  To him who knows not whence his malady
  A miracle alone a cure can give.
</pre>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c23f" id="c23f"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c23f.jpg (344K)" src="images/c23f.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c23f.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is nothing to be learned from that rhyme," said Sancho, "unless by
      that clue there's in it, one may draw out the ball of the whole matter."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What clue is there?" said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thought your worship spoke of a clue in it," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I only said Chloe," replied Don Quixote; "and that no doubt, is the name
      of the lady of whom the author of the sonnet complains; and, faith, he
      must be a tolerable poet, or I know little of the craft."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then your worship understands rhyming too?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And better than thou thinkest," replied Don Quixote, "as thou shalt see
      when thou carriest a letter written in verse from beginning to end to my
      lady Dulcinea del Toboso, for I would have thee know, Sancho, that all or
      most of the knights-errant in days of yore were great troubadours and
      great musicians, for both of these accomplishments, or more properly
      speaking gifts, are the peculiar property of lovers-errant: true it is
      that the verses of the knights of old have more spirit than neatness in
      them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Read more, your worship," said Sancho, "and you will find something that
      will enlighten us."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote turned the page and said, "This is prose and seems to be a
      letter."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A correspondence letter, senor?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "From the beginning it seems to be a love letter," replied Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then let your worship read it aloud," said Sancho, "for I am very fond of
      love matters."
    </p>
    <p>
      "With all my heart," said Don Quixote, and reading it aloud as Sancho had
      requested him, he found it ran thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      Thy false promise and my sure misfortune carry me to a place whence the
      news of my death will reach thy ears before the words of my complaint.
      Ungrateful one, thou hast rejected me for one more wealthy, but not more
      worthy; but if virtue were esteemed wealth I should neither envy the
      fortunes of others nor weep for misfortunes of my own. What thy beauty
      raised up thy deeds have laid low; by it I believed thee to be an angel,
      by them I know thou art a woman. Peace be with thee who hast sent war to
      me, and Heaven grant that the deceit of thy husband be ever hidden from
      thee, so that thou repent not of what thou hast done, and I reap not a
      revenge I would not have.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he had finished the letter, Don Quixote said, "There is less to be
      gathered from this than from the verses, except that he who wrote it is
      some rejected lover;" and turning over nearly all the pages of the book he
      found more verses and letters, some of which he could read, while others
      he could not; but they were all made up of complaints, laments,
      misgivings, desires and aversions, favours and rejections, some rapturous,
      some doleful. While Don Quixote examined the book, Sancho examined the
      valise, not leaving a corner in the whole of it or in the pad that he did
      not search, peer into, and explore, or seam that he did not rip, or tuft
      of wool that he did not pick to pieces, lest anything should escape for
      want of care and pains; so keen was the covetousness excited in him by the
      discovery of the crowns, which amounted to near a hundred; and though he
      found no more booty, he held the blanket flights, balsam vomits, stake
      benedictions, carriers' fisticuffs, missing alforjas, stolen coat, and all
      the hunger, thirst, and weariness he had endured in the service of his
      good master, cheap at the price; as he considered himself more than fully
      indemnified for all by the payment he received in the gift of the
      treasure-trove.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Knight of the Rueful Countenance was still very anxious to find out
      who the owner of the valise could be, conjecturing from the sonnet and
      letter, from the money in gold, and from the fineness of the shirts, that
      he must be some lover of distinction whom the scorn and cruelty of his
      lady had driven to some desperate course; but as in that uninhabited and
      rugged spot there was no one to be seen of whom he could inquire, he saw
      nothing else for it but to push on, taking whatever road Rocinante chose&mdash;which
      was where he could make his way&mdash;firmly persuaded that among these
      wilds he could not fail to meet some rare adventure. As he went along,
      then, occupied with these thoughts, he perceived on the summit of a height
      that rose before their eyes a man who went springing from rock to rock and
      from tussock to tussock with marvellous agility. As well as he could make
      out he was unclad, with a thick black beard, long tangled hair, and bare
      legs and feet, his thighs were covered by breeches apparently of tawny
      velvet but so ragged that they showed his skin in several places.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c23g" id="c23g"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c23g.jpg (360K)" src="images/c23g.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c23g.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      He was bareheaded, and notwithstanding the swiftness with which he passed
      as has been described, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance observed and
      noted all these trifles, and though he made the attempt, he was unable to
      follow him, for it was not granted to the feebleness of Rocinante to make
      way over such rough ground, he being, moreover, slow-paced and sluggish by
      nature. Don Quixote at once came to the conclusion that this was the owner
      of the saddle-pad and of the valise, and made up his mind to go in search
      of him, even though he should have to wander a year in those mountains
      before he found him, and so he directed Sancho to take a short cut over
      one side of the mountain, while he himself went by the other, and perhaps
      by this means they might light upon this man who had passed so quickly out
      of their sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I could not do that," said Sancho, "for when I separate from your worship
      fear at once lays hold of me, and assails me with all sorts of panics and
      fancies; and let what I now say be a notice that from this time forth I am
      not going to stir a finger's width from your presence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It shall be so," said he of the Rueful Countenance, "and I am very glad
      that thou art willing to rely on my courage, which will never fail thee,
      even though the soul in thy body fail thee; so come on now behind me
      slowly as well as thou canst, and make lanterns of thine eyes; let us make
      the circuit of this ridge; perhaps we shall light upon this man that we
      saw, who no doubt is no other than the owner of what we found."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Sancho made answer, "Far better would it be not to look for him,
      for, if we find him, and he happens to be the owner of the money, it is
      plain I must restore it; it would be better, therefore, that without
      taking this needless trouble, I should keep possession of it until in some
      other less meddlesome and officious way the real owner may be discovered;
      and perhaps that will be when I shall have spent it, and then the king
      will hold me harmless."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art wrong there, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for now that we have a
      suspicion who the owner is, and have him almost before us, we are bound to
      seek him and make restitution; and if we do not see him, the strong
      suspicion we have as to his being the owner makes us as guilty as if he
      were so; and so, friend Sancho, let not our search for him give thee any
      uneasiness, for if we find him it will relieve mine."
    </p>
    <p>
      And so saying he gave Rocinante the spur, and Sancho followed him on foot
      and loaded, and after having partly made the circuit of the mountain they
      found lying in a ravine, dead and half devoured by dogs and pecked by
      jackdaws, a mule saddled and bridled, all which still further strengthened
      their suspicion that he who had fled was the owner of the mule and the
      saddle-pad.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c23h" id="c23h"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c23h.jpg (381K)" src="images/c23h.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c23h.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      As they stood looking at it they heard a whistle like that of a shepherd
      watching his flock, and suddenly on their left there appeared a great
      number of goats and behind them on the summit of the mountain the goatherd
      in charge of them, a man advanced in years. Don Quixote called aloud to
      him and begged him to come down to where they stood. He shouted in return,
      asking what had brought them to that spot, seldom or never trodden except
      by the feet of goats, or of the wolves and other wild beasts that roamed
      around. Sancho in return bade him come down, and they would explain all to
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The goatherd descended, and reaching the place where Don Quixote stood, he
      said, "I will wager you are looking at that hack mule that lies dead in
      the hollow there, and, faith, it has been lying there now these six
      months; tell me, have you come upon its master about here?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "We have come upon nobody," answered Don Quixote, "nor on anything except
      a saddle-pad and a little valise that we found not far from this."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I found it too," said the goatherd, "but I would not lift it nor go near
      it for fear of some ill-luck or being charged with theft, for the devil is
      crafty, and things rise up under one's feet to make one fall without
      knowing why or wherefore."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's exactly what I say," said Sancho; "I found it too, and I would not
      go within a stone's throw of it; there I left it, and there it lies just
      as it was, for I don't want a dog with a bell."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell me, good man," said Don Quixote, "do you know who is the owner of
      this property?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "All I can tell you," said the goatherd, "is that about six months ago,
      more or less, there arrived at a shepherd's hut three leagues, perhaps,
      away from this, a youth of well-bred appearance and manners, mounted on
      that same mule which lies dead here, and with the same saddle-pad and
      valise which you say you found and did not touch. He asked us what part of
      this sierra was the most rugged and retired; we told him that it was where
      we now are; and so in truth it is, for if you push on half a league
      farther, perhaps you will not be able to find your way out; and I am
      wondering how you have managed to come here, for there is no road or path
      that leads to this spot. I say, then, that on hearing our answer the youth
      turned about and made for the place we pointed out to him, leaving us all
      charmed with his good looks, and wondering at his question and the haste
      with which we saw him depart in the direction of the sierra; and after
      that we saw him no more, until some days afterwards he crossed the path of
      one of our shepherds, and without saying a word to him, came up to him and
      gave him several cuffs and kicks, and then turned to the ass with our
      provisions and took all the bread and cheese it carried, and having done
      this made off back again into the sierra with extraordinary swiftness.
      When some of us goatherds learned this we went in search of him for about
      two days through the most remote portion of this sierra, at the end of
      which we found him lodged in the hollow of a large thick cork tree. He
      came out to meet us with great gentleness, with his dress now torn and his
      face so disfigured and burned by the sun, that we hardly recognised him
      but that his clothes, though torn, convinced us, from the recollection we
      had of them, that he was the person we were looking for. He saluted us
      courteously, and in a few well-spoken words he told us not to wonder at
      seeing him going about in this guise, as it was binding upon him in order
      that he might work out a penance which for his many sins had been imposed
      upon him. We asked him to tell us who he was, but we were never able to
      find out from him: we begged of him too, when he was in want of food,
      which he could not do without, to tell us where we should find him, as we
      would bring it to him with all good-will and readiness; or if this were
      not to his taste, at least to come and ask it of us and not take it by
      force from the shepherds. He thanked us for the offer, begged pardon for
      the late assault, and promised for the future to ask it in God's name
      without offering violence to anybody. As for fixed abode, he said he had
      no other than that which chance offered wherever night might overtake him;
      and his words ended in an outburst of weeping so bitter that we who
      listened to him must have been very stones had we not joined him in it,
      comparing what we saw of him the first time with what we saw now; for, as
      I said, he was a graceful and gracious youth, and in his courteous and
      polished language showed himself to be of good birth and courtly breeding,
      and rustics as we were that listened to him, even to our rusticity his
      gentle bearing sufficed to make it plain.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But in the midst of his conversation he stopped and became silent,
      keeping his eyes fixed upon the ground for some time, during which we
      stood still waiting anxiously to see what would come of this abstraction;
      and with no little pity, for from his behaviour, now staring at the ground
      with fixed gaze and eyes wide open without moving an eyelid, again closing
      them, compressing his lips and raising his eyebrows, we could perceive
      plainly that a fit of madness of some kind had come upon him; and before
      long he showed that what we imagined was the truth, for he arose in a fury
      from the ground where he had thrown himself, and attacked the first he
      found near him with such rage and fierceness that if we had not dragged
      him off him, he would have beaten or bitten him to death, all the while
      exclaiming, 'Oh faithless Fernando, here, here shalt thou pay the penalty
      of the wrong thou hast done me; these hands shall tear out that heart of
      thine, abode and dwelling of all iniquity, but of deceit and fraud above
      all; and to these he added other words all in effect upbraiding this
      Fernando and charging him with treachery and faithlessness.
    </p>
    <p>
      "We forced him to release his hold with no little difficulty, and without
      another word he left us, and rushing off plunged in among these brakes and
      brambles, so as to make it impossible for us to follow him; from this we
      suppose that madness comes upon him from time to time, and that some one
      called Fernando must have done him a wrong of a grievous nature such as
      the condition to which it had brought him seemed to show. All this has
      been since then confirmed on those occasions, and they have been many, on
      which he has crossed our path, at one time to beg the shepherds to give
      him some of the food they carry, at another to take it from them by force;
      for when there is a fit of madness upon him, even though the shepherds
      offer it freely, he will not accept it but snatches it from them by dint
      of blows; but when he is in his senses he begs it for the love of God,
      courteously and civilly, and receives it with many thanks and not a few
      tears. And to tell you the truth, sirs," continued the goatherd, "it was
      yesterday that we resolved, I and four of the lads, two of them our
      servants, and the other two friends of mine, to go in search of him until
      we find him, and when we do to take him, whether by force or of his own
      consent, to the town of Almodovar, which is eight leagues from this, and
      there strive to cure him (if indeed his malady admits of a cure), or learn
      when he is in his senses who he is, and if he has relatives to whom we may
      give notice of his misfortune. This, sirs, is all I can say in answer to
      what you have asked me; and be sure that the owner of the articles you
      found is he whom you saw pass by with such nimbleness and so naked."
    </p>
    <p>
      For Don Quixote had already described how he had seen the man go bounding
      along the mountain side, and he was now filled with amazement at what he
      heard from the goatherd, and more eager than ever to discover who the
      unhappy madman was; and in his heart he resolved, as he had done before,
      to search for him all over the mountain, not leaving a corner or cave
      unexamined until he had found him. But chance arranged matters better than
      he expected or hoped, for at that very moment, in a gorge on the mountain
      that opened where they stood, the youth he wished to find made his
      appearance, coming along talking to himself in a way that would have been
      unintelligible near at hand, much more at a distance. His garb was what
      has been described, save that as he drew near, Don Quixote perceived that
      a tattered doublet which he wore was amber-tanned, from which he concluded
      that one who wore such garments could not be of very low rank.
    </p>
    <p>
      Approaching them, the youth greeted them in a harsh and hoarse voice but
      with great courtesy. Don Quixote returned his salutation with equal
      politeness, and dismounting from Rocinante advanced with well-bred bearing
      and grace to embrace him, and held him for some time close in his arms as
      if he had known him for a long time. The other, whom we may call the
      Ragged One of the Sorry Countenance, as Don Quixote was of the Rueful,
      after submitting to the embrace pushed him back a little and, placing his
      hands on Don Quixote's shoulders, stood gazing at him as if seeking to see
      whether he knew him, not less amazed, perhaps, at the sight of the face,
      figure, and armour of Don Quixote than Don Quixote was at the sight of
      him. To be brief, the first to speak after embracing was the Ragged One,
      and he said what will be told farther on.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c23i" id="c23i"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c23i.jpg (53K)" src="images/c23i.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c23i.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch24" id="ch24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIERRA MORENA
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c24a" id="c24a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c24a.jpg (151K)" src="images/c24a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c24a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The history relates that it was with the greatest attention Don Quixote
      listened to the ragged knight of the Sierra, who began by saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of a surety, senor, whoever you are, for I know you not, I thank you for
      the proofs of kindness and courtesy you have shown me, and would I were in
      a condition to requite with something more than good-will that which you
      have displayed towards me in the cordial reception you have given me; but
      my fate does not afford me any other means of returning kindnesses done me
      save the hearty desire to repay them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mine," replied Don Quixote, "is to be of service to you, so much so that
      I had resolved not to quit these mountains until I had found you, and
      learned of you whether there is any kind of relief to be found for that
      sorrow under which from the strangeness of your life you seem to labour;
      and to search for you with all possible diligence, if search had been
      necessary. And if your misfortune should prove to be one of those that
      refuse admission to any sort of consolation, it was my purpose to join you
      in lamenting and mourning over it, so far as I could; for it is still some
      comfort in misfortune to find one who can feel for it. And if my good
      intentions deserve to be acknowledged with any kind of courtesy, I entreat
      you, senor, by that which I perceive you possess in so high a degree, and
      likewise conjure you by whatever you love or have loved best in life, to
      tell me who you are and the cause that has brought you to live or die in
      these solitudes like a brute beast, dwelling among them in a manner so
      foreign to your condition as your garb and appearance show. And I swear,"
      added Don Quixote, "by the order of knighthood which I have received, and
      by my vocation of knight-errant, if you gratify me in this, to serve you
      with all the zeal my calling demands of me, either in relieving your
      misfortune if it admits of relief, or in joining you in lamenting it as I
      promised to do."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Knight of the Thicket, hearing him of the Rueful Countenance talk in
      this strain, did nothing but stare at him, and stare at him again, and
      again survey him from head to foot; and when he had thoroughly examined
      him, he said to him:
    </p>
    <p>
      "If you have anything to give me to eat, for God's sake give it me, and
      after I have eaten I will do all you ask in acknowledgment of the goodwill
      you have displayed towards me."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho from his sack, and the goatherd from his pouch, furnished the
      Ragged One with the means of appeasing his hunger, and what they gave him
      he ate like a half-witted being, so hastily that he took no time between
      mouthfuls, gorging rather than swallowing; and while he ate neither he nor
      they who observed him uttered a word. As soon as he had done he made signs
      to them to follow him, which they did, and he led them to a green plot
      which lay a little farther off round the corner of a rock. On reaching it
      he stretched himself upon the grass, and the others did the same, all
      keeping silence, until the Ragged One, settling himself in his place,
      said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "If it is your wish, sirs, that I should disclose in a few words the
      surpassing extent of my misfortunes, you must promise not to break the
      thread of my sad story with any question or other interruption, for the
      instant you do so the tale I tell will come to an end."
    </p>
    <p>
      These words of the Ragged One reminded Don Quixote of the tale his squire
      had told him, when he failed to keep count of the goats that had crossed
      the river and the story remained unfinished; but to return to the Ragged
      One, he went on to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      "I give you this warning because I wish to pass briefly over the story of
      my misfortunes, for recalling them to memory only serves to add fresh
      ones, and the less you question me the sooner shall I make an end of the
      recital, though I shall not omit to relate anything of importance in order
      fully to satisfy your curiosity."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote gave the promise for himself and the others, and with this
      assurance he began as follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      "My name is Cardenio, my birthplace one of the best cities of this
      Andalusia, my family noble, my parents rich, my misfortune so great that
      my parents must have wept and my family grieved over it without being able
      by their wealth to lighten it; for the gifts of fortune can do little to
      relieve reverses sent by Heaven. In that same country there was a heaven
      in which love had placed all the glory I could desire; such was the beauty
      of Luscinda, a damsel as noble and as rich as I, but of happier fortunes,
      and of less firmness than was due to so worthy a passion as mine. This
      Luscinda I loved, worshipped, and adored from my earliest and tenderest
      years, and she loved me in all the innocence and sincerity of childhood.
      Our parents were aware of our feelings, and were not sorry to perceive
      them, for they saw clearly that as they ripened they must lead at last to
      a marriage between us, a thing that seemed almost prearranged by the
      equality of our families and wealth. We grew up, and with our growth grew
      the love between us, so that the father of Luscinda felt bound for
      propriety's sake to refuse me admission to his house, in this perhaps
      imitating the parents of that Thisbe so celebrated by the poets, and this
      refusal but added love to love and flame to flame; for though they
      enforced silence upon our tongues they could not impose it upon our pens,
      which can make known the heart's secrets to a loved one more freely than
      tongues; for many a time the presence of the object of love shakes the
      firmest will and strikes dumb the boldest tongue. Ah heavens! how many
      letters did I write her, and how many dainty modest replies did I receive!
      how many ditties and love-songs did I compose in which my heart declared
      and made known its feelings, described its ardent longings, revelled in
      its recollections and dallied with its desires! At length growing
      impatient and feeling my heart languishing with longing to see her, I
      resolved to put into execution and carry out what seemed to me the best
      mode of winning my desired and merited reward, to ask her of her father
      for my lawful wife, which I did. To this his answer was that he thanked me
      for the disposition I showed to do honour to him and to regard myself as
      honoured by the bestowal of his treasure; but that as my father was alive
      it was his by right to make this demand, for if it were not in accordance
      with his full will and pleasure, Luscinda was not to be taken or given by
      stealth. I thanked him for his kindness, reflecting that there was reason
      in what he said, and that my father would assent to it as soon as I should
      tell him, and with that view I went the very same instant to let him know
      what my desires were. When I entered the room where he was I found him
      with an open letter in his hand, which, before I could utter a word, he
      gave me, saying, 'By this letter thou wilt see, Cardenio, the disposition
      the Duke Ricardo has to serve thee.' This Duke Ricardo, as you, sirs,
      probably know already, is a grandee of Spain who has his seat in the best
      part of this Andalusia. I took and read the letter, which was couched in
      terms so flattering that even I myself felt it would be wrong in my father
      not to comply with the request the duke made in it, which was that he
      would send me immediately to him, as he wished me to become the companion,
      not servant, of his eldest son, and would take upon himself the charge of
      placing me in a position corresponding to the esteem in which he held me.
      On reading the letter my voice failed me, and still more when I heard my
      father say, 'Two days hence thou wilt depart, Cardenio, in accordance with
      the duke's wish, and give thanks to God who is opening a road to thee by
      which thou mayest attain what I know thou dost deserve; and to these words
      he added others of fatherly counsel. The time for my departure arrived; I
      spoke one night to Luscinda, I told her all that had occurred, as I did
      also to her father, entreating him to allow some delay, and to defer the
      disposal of her hand until I should see what the Duke Ricardo sought of
      me: he gave me the promise, and she confirmed it with vows and swoonings
      unnumbered. Finally, I presented myself to the duke, and was received and
      treated by him so kindly that very soon envy began to do its work, the old
      servants growing envious of me, and regarding the duke's inclination to
      show me favour as an injury to themselves. But the one to whom my arrival
      gave the greatest pleasure was the duke's second son, Fernando by name, a
      gallant youth, of noble, generous, and amorous disposition, who very soon
      made so intimate a friend of me that it was remarked by everybody; for
      though the elder was attached to me, and showed me kindness, he did not
      carry his affectionate treatment to the same length as Don Fernando. It so
      happened, then, that as between friends no secret remains unshared, and as
      the favour I enjoyed with Don Fernando had grown into friendship, he made
      all his thoughts known to me, and in particular a love affair which
      troubled his mind a little. He was deeply in love with a peasant girl, a
      vassal of his father's, the daughter of wealthy parents, and herself so
      beautiful, modest, discreet, and virtuous, that no one who knew her was
      able to decide in which of these respects she was most highly gifted or
      most excelled. The attractions of the fair peasant raised the passion of
      Don Fernando to such a point that, in order to gain his object and
      overcome her virtuous resolutions, he determined to pledge his word to her
      to become her husband, for to attempt it in any other way was to attempt
      an impossibility. Bound to him as I was by friendship, I strove by the
      best arguments and the most forcible examples I could think of to restrain
      and dissuade him from such a course; but perceiving I produced no effect I
      resolved to make the Duke Ricardo, his father, acquainted with the matter;
      but Don Fernando, being sharp-witted and shrewd, foresaw and apprehended
      this, perceiving that by my duty as a good servant I was bound not to keep
      concealed a thing so much opposed to the honour of my lord the duke; and
      so, to mislead and deceive me, he told me he could find no better way of
      effacing from his mind the beauty that so enslaved him than by absenting
      himself for some months, and that he wished the absence to be effected by
      our going, both of us, to my father's house under the pretence, which he
      would make to the duke, of going to see and buy some fine horses that
      there were in my city, which produces the best in the world. When I heard
      him say so, even if his resolution had not been so good a one I should
      have hailed it as one of the happiest that could be imagined, prompted by
      my affection, seeing what a favourable chance and opportunity it offered
      me of returning to see my Luscinda. With this thought and wish I commended
      his idea and encouraged his design, advising him to put it into execution
      as quickly as possible, as, in truth, absence produced its effect in spite
      of the most deeply rooted feelings. But, as afterwards appeared, when he
      said this to me he had already enjoyed the peasant girl under the title of
      husband, and was waiting for an opportunity of making it known with safety
      to himself, being in dread of what his father the duke would do when he
      came to know of his folly. It happened, then, that as with young men love
      is for the most part nothing more than appetite, which, as its final
      object is enjoyment, comes to an end on obtaining it, and that which
      seemed to be love takes to flight, as it cannot pass the limit fixed by
      nature, which fixes no limit to true love&mdash;what I mean is that after
      Don Fernando had enjoyed this peasant girl his passion subsided and his
      eagerness cooled, and if at first he feigned a wish to absent himself in
      order to cure his love, he was now in reality anxious to go to avoid
      keeping his promise.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The duke gave him permission, and ordered me to accompany him; we arrived
      at my city, and my father gave him the reception due to his rank; I saw
      Luscinda without delay, and, though it had not been dead or deadened, my
      love gathered fresh life. To my sorrow I told the story of it to Don
      Fernando, for I thought that in virtue of the great friendship he bore me
      I was bound to conceal nothing from him. I extolled her beauty, her
      gaiety, her wit, so warmly, that my praises excited in him a desire to see
      a damsel adorned by such attractions. To my misfortune I yielded to it,
      showing her to him one night by the light of a taper at a window where we
      used to talk to one another. As she appeared to him in her dressing-gown,
      she drove all the beauties he had seen until then out of his recollection;
      speech failed him, his head turned, he was spell-bound, and in the end
      love-smitten, as you will see in the course of the story of my misfortune;
      and to inflame still further his passion, which he hid from me and
      revealed to Heaven alone, it so happened that one day he found a note of
      hers entreating me to demand her of her father in marriage, so delicate,
      so modest, and so tender, that on reading it he told me that in Luscinda
      alone were combined all the charms of beauty and understanding that were
      distributed among all the other women in the world. It is true, and I own
      it now, that though I knew what good cause Don Fernando had to praise
      Luscinda, it gave me uneasiness to hear these praises from his mouth, and
      I began to fear, and with reason to feel distrust of him, for there was no
      moment when he was not ready to talk of Luscinda, and he would start the
      subject himself even though he dragged it in unseasonably, a circumstance
      that aroused in me a certain amount of jealousy; not that I feared any
      change in the constancy or faith of Luscinda; but still my fate led me to
      forebode what she assured me against. Don Fernando contrived always to
      read the letters I sent to Luscinda and her answers to me, under the
      pretence that he enjoyed the wit and sense of both. It so happened, then,
      that Luscinda having begged of me a book of chivalry to read, one that she
      was very fond of, Amadis of Gaul-"
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote no sooner heard a book of chivalry mentioned, than he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Had your worship told me at the beginning of your story that the Lady
      Luscinda was fond of books of chivalry, no other laudation would have been
      requisite to impress upon me the superiority of her understanding, for it
      could not have been of the excellence you describe had a taste for such
      delightful reading been wanting; so, as far as I am concerned, you need
      waste no more words in describing her beauty, worth, and intelligence;
      for, on merely hearing what her taste was, I declare her to be the most
      beautiful and the most intelligent woman in the world; and I wish your
      worship had, along with Amadis of Gaul, sent her the worthy Don Rugel of
      Greece, for I know the Lady Luscinda would greatly relish Daraida and
      Garaya, and the shrewd sayings of the shepherd Darinel, and the admirable
      verses of his bucolics, sung and delivered by him with such sprightliness,
      wit, and ease; but a time may come when this omission can be remedied, and
      to rectify it nothing more is needed than for your worship to be so good
      as to come with me to my village, for there I can give you more than three
      hundred books which are the delight of my soul and the entertainment of my
      life;&mdash;though it occurs to me that I have not got one of them now,
      thanks to the spite of wicked and envious enchanters;&mdash;but pardon me
      for having broken the promise we made not to interrupt your discourse; for
      when I hear chivalry or knights-errant mentioned, I can no more help
      talking about them than the rays of the sun can help giving heat, or those
      of the moon moisture; pardon me, therefore, and proceed, for that is more
      to the purpose now."
    </p>
    <p>
      While Don Quixote was saying this, Cardenio allowed his head to fall upon
      his breast, and seemed plunged in deep thought; and though twice Don
      Quixote bade him go on with his story, he neither looked up nor uttered a
      word in reply; but after some time he raised his head and said, "I cannot
      get rid of the idea, nor will anyone in the world remove it, or make me
      think otherwise&mdash;and he would be a blockhead who would hold or
      believe anything else than that that arrant knave Master Elisabad made
      free with Queen Madasima."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is not true, by all that's good," said Don Quixote in high wrath,
      turning upon him angrily, as his way was; "and it is a very great slander,
      or rather villainy. Queen Madasima was a very illustrious lady, and it is
      not to be supposed that so exalted a princess would have made free with a
      quack; and whoever maintains the contrary lies like a great scoundrel, and
      I will give him to know it, on foot or on horseback, armed or unarmed, by
      night or by day, or as he likes best."
    </p>
    <p>
      Cardenio was looking at him steadily, and his mad fit having now come upon
      him, he had no disposition to go on with his story, nor would Don Quixote
      have listened to it, so much had what he had heard about Madasima
      disgusted him. Strange to say, he stood up for her as if she were in
      earnest his veritable born lady; to such a pass had his unholy books
      brought him. Cardenio, then, being, as I said, now mad, when he heard
      himself given the lie, and called a scoundrel and other insulting names,
      not relishing the jest, snatched up a stone that he found near him, and
      with it delivered such a blow on Don Quixote's breast that he laid him on
      his back. Sancho Panza, seeing his master treated in this fashion,
      attacked the madman with his closed fist; but the Ragged One received him
      in such a way that with a blow of his fist he stretched him at his feet,
      and then mounting upon him crushed his ribs to his own satisfaction; the
      goatherd, who came to the rescue, shared the same fate; and having beaten
      and pummelled them all he left them and quietly withdrew to his
      hiding-place on the mountain. Sancho rose, and with the rage he felt at
      finding himself so belaboured without deserving it, ran to take vengeance
      on the goatherd, accusing him of not giving them warning that this man was
      at times taken with a mad fit, for if they had known it they would have
      been on their guard to protect themselves. The goatherd replied that he
      had said so, and that if he had not heard him, that was no fault of his.
      Sancho retorted, and the goatherd rejoined, and the altercation ended in
      their seizing each other by the beard, and exchanging such fisticuffs that
      if Don Quixote had not made peace between them, they would have knocked
      one another to pieces.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Leave me alone, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance," said Sancho,
      grappling with the goatherd, "for of this fellow, who is a clown like
      myself, and no dubbed knight, I can safely take satisfaction for the
      affront he has offered me, fighting with him hand to hand like an honest
      man."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said Don Quixote, "but I know that he is not to blame for
      what has happened."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this he pacified them, and again asked the goatherd if it would be
      possible to find Cardenio, as he felt the greatest anxiety to know the end
      of his story. The goatherd told him, as he had told him before, that there
      was no knowing of a certainty where his lair was; but that if he wandered
      about much in that neighbourhood he could not fail to fall in with him
      either in or out of his senses.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c24e" id="c24e"></a>
    </p>
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      <img alt="c24e.jpg (69K)" src="images/c24e.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <a href="images/c24e.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch25" id="ch25"></a>CHAPTER XXV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO THE STOUT KNIGHT OF LA
      MANCHA IN THE SIERRA MORENA, AND OF HIS IMITATION OF THE PENANCE OF
      BELTENEBROS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c25a" id="c25a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c25a.jpg (168K)" src="images/c25a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c25a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote took leave of the goatherd, and once more mounting Rocinante
      bade Sancho follow him, which he having no ass, did very discontentedly.
      They proceeded slowly, making their way into the most rugged part of the
      mountain, Sancho all the while dying to have a talk with his master, and
      longing for him to begin, so that there should be no breach of the
      injunction laid upon him; but unable to keep silence so long he said to
      him:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor Don Quixote, give me your worship's blessing and dismissal, for I'd
      like to go home at once to my wife and children with whom I can at any
      rate talk and converse as much as I like; for to want me to go through
      these solitudes day and night and not speak to you when I have a mind is
      burying me alive. If luck would have it that animals spoke as they did in
      the days of Guisopete, it would not be so bad, because I could talk to
      Rocinante about whatever came into my head, and so put up with my
      ill-fortune; but it is a hard case, and not to be borne with patience, to
      go seeking adventures all one's life and get nothing but kicks and
      blanketings, brickbats and punches, and with all this to have to sew up
      one's mouth without daring to say what is in one's heart, just as if one
      were dumb."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I understand thee, Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "thou art dying to have
      the interdict I placed upon thy tongue removed; consider it removed, and
      say what thou wilt while we are wandering in these mountains."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So be it," said Sancho; "let me speak now, for God knows what will happen
      by-and-by; and to take advantage of the permit at once, I ask, what made
      your worship stand up so for that Queen Majimasa, or whatever her name is,
      or what did it matter whether that abbot was a friend of hers or not? for
      if your worship had let that pass&mdash;and you were not a judge in the
      matter&mdash;it is my belief the madman would have gone on with his story,
      and the blow of the stone, and the kicks, and more than half a dozen cuffs
      would have been escaped."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In faith, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "if thou knewest as I do what an
      honourable and illustrious lady Queen Madasima was, I know thou wouldst
      say I had great patience that I did not break in pieces the mouth that
      uttered such blasphemies, for a very great blasphemy it is to say or
      imagine that a queen has made free with a surgeon. The truth of the story
      is that that Master Elisabad whom the madman mentioned was a man of great
      prudence and sound judgment, and served as governor and physician to the
      queen, but to suppose that she was his mistress is nonsense deserving very
      severe punishment; and as a proof that Cardenio did not know what he was
      saying, remember when he said it he was out of his wits."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is what I say," said Sancho; "there was no occasion for minding the
      words of a madman; for if good luck had not helped your worship, and he
      had sent that stone at your head instead of at your breast, a fine way we
      should have been in for standing up for my lady yonder, God confound her!
      And then, would not Cardenio have gone free as a madman?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Against men in their senses or against madmen," said Don Quixote, "every
      knight-errant is bound to stand up for the honour of women, whoever they
      may be, much more for queens of such high degree and dignity as Queen
      Madasima, for whom I have a particular regard on account of her amiable
      qualities; for, besides being extremely beautiful, she was very wise, and
      very patient under her misfortunes, of which she had many; and the counsel
      and society of the Master Elisabad were a great help and support to her in
      enduring her afflictions with wisdom and resignation; hence the ignorant
      and ill-disposed vulgar took occasion to say and think that she was his
      mistress; and they lie, I say it once more, and will lie two hundred times
      more, all who think and say so."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I neither say nor think so," said Sancho; "let them look to it; with
      their bread let them eat it; they have rendered account to God whether
      they misbehaved or not; I come from my vineyard, I know nothing; I am not
      fond of prying into other men's lives; he who buys and lies feels it in
      his purse; moreover, naked was I born, naked I find myself, I neither lose
      nor gain; but if they did, what is that to me? many think there are
      flitches where there are no hooks; but who can put gates to the open
      plain? moreover they said of God-"
    </p>
    <p>
      "God bless me," said Don Quixote, "what a set of absurdities thou art
      stringing together! What has what we are talking about got to do with the
      proverbs thou art threading one after the other? for God's sake hold thy
      tongue, Sancho, and henceforward keep to prodding thy ass and don't meddle
      in what does not concern thee; and understand with all thy five senses
      that everything I have done, am doing, or shall do, is well founded on
      reason and in conformity with the rules of chivalry, for I understand them
      better than all the world that profess them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor," replied Sancho, "is it a good rule of chivalry that we should go
      astray through these mountains without path or road, looking for a madman
      who when he is found will perhaps take a fancy to finish what he began,
      not his story, but your worship's head and my ribs, and end by breaking
      them altogether for us?"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c25b" id="c25b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c25b.jpg (330K)" src="images/c25b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c25b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Peace, I say again, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for let me tell thee it
      is not so much the desire of finding that madman that leads me into these
      regions as that which I have of performing among them an achievement
      wherewith I shall win eternal name and fame throughout the known world;
      and it shall be such that I shall thereby set the seal on all that can
      make a knight-errant perfect and famous."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And is it very perilous, this achievement?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No," replied he of the Rueful Countenance; "though it may be in the dice
      that we may throw deuce-ace instead of sixes; but all will depend on thy
      diligence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "On my diligence!" said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," said Don Quixote, "for if thou dost return soon from the place
      where I mean to send thee, my penance will be soon over, and my glory will
      soon begin. But as it is not right to keep thee any longer in suspense,
      waiting to see what comes of my words, I would have thee know, Sancho,
      that the famous Amadis of Gaul was one of the most perfect knights-errant&mdash;I
      am wrong to say he was one; he stood alone, the first, the only one, the
      lord of all that were in the world in his time. A fig for Don Belianis,
      and for all who say he equalled him in any respect, for, my oath upon it,
      they are deceiving themselves! I say, too, that when a painter desires to
      become famous in his art he endeavours to copy the originals of the rarest
      painters that he knows; and the same rule holds good for all the most
      important crafts and callings that serve to adorn a state; thus must he
      who would be esteemed prudent and patient imitate Ulysses, in whose person
      and labours Homer presents to us a lively picture of prudence and
      patience; as Virgil, too, shows us in the person of AEneas the virtue of a
      pious son and the sagacity of a brave and skilful captain; not
      representing or describing them as they were, but as they ought to be, so
      as to leave the example of their virtues to posterity. In the same way
      Amadis was the polestar, day-star, sun of valiant and devoted knights,
      whom all we who fight under the banner of love and chivalry are bound to
      imitate. This, then, being so, I consider, friend Sancho, that the
      knight-errant who shall imitate him most closely will come nearest to
      reaching the perfection of chivalry. Now one of the instances in which
      this knight most conspicuously showed his prudence, worth, valour,
      endurance, fortitude, and love, was when he withdrew, rejected by the Lady
      Oriana, to do penance upon the Pena Pobre, changing his name into that of
      Beltenebros, a name assuredly significant and appropriate to the life
      which he had voluntarily adopted. So, as it is easier for me to imitate
      him in this than in cleaving giants asunder, cutting off serpents' heads,
      slaying dragons, routing armies, destroying fleets, and breaking
      enchantments, and as this place is so well suited for a similar purpose, I
      must not allow the opportunity to escape which now so conveniently offers
      me its forelock."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What is it in reality," said Sancho, "that your worship means to do in
      such an out-of-the-way place as this?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Have I not told thee," answered Don Quixote, "that I mean to imitate
      Amadis here, playing the victim of despair, the madman, the maniac, so as
      at the same time to imitate the valiant Don Roland, when at the fountain
      he had evidence of the fair Angelica having disgraced herself with Medoro
      and through grief thereat went mad, and plucked up trees, troubled the
      waters of the clear springs, slew destroyed flocks, burned down huts,
      levelled houses, dragged mares after him, and perpetrated a hundred
      thousand other outrages worthy of everlasting renown and record? And
      though I have no intention of imitating Roland, or Orlando, or Rotolando
      (for he went by all these names), step by step in all the mad things he
      did, said, and thought, I will make a rough copy to the best of my power
      of all that seems to me most essential; but perhaps I shall content myself
      with the simple imitation of Amadis, who without giving way to any
      mischievous madness but merely to tears and sorrow, gained as much fame as
      the most famous."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It seems to me," said Sancho, "that the knights who behaved in this way
      had provocation and cause for those follies and penances; but what cause
      has your worship for going mad? What lady has rejected you, or what
      evidence have you found to prove that the lady Dulcinea del Toboso has
      been trifling with Moor or Christian?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is the point," replied Don Quixote, "and that is the beauty of this
      business of mine; no thanks to a knight-errant for going mad when he has
      cause; the thing is to turn crazy without any provocation, and let my lady
      know, if I do this in the dry, what I would do in the moist; moreover I
      have abundant cause in the long separation I have endured from my lady
      till death, Dulcinea del Toboso; for as thou didst hear that shepherd
      Ambrosio say the other day, in absence all ills are felt and feared; and
      so, friend Sancho, waste no time in advising me against so rare, so happy,
      and so unheard-of an imitation; mad I am, and mad I must be until thou
      returnest with the answer to a letter that I mean to send by thee to my
      lady Dulcinea; and if it be such as my constancy deserves, my insanity and
      penance will come to an end; and if it be to the opposite effect, I shall
      become mad in earnest, and, being so, I shall suffer no more; thus in
      whatever way she may answer I shall escape from the struggle and
      affliction in which thou wilt leave me, enjoying in my senses the boon
      thou bearest me, or as a madman not feeling the evil thou bringest me. But
      tell me, Sancho, hast thou got Mambrino's helmet safe? for I saw thee take
      it up from the ground when that ungrateful wretch tried to break it in
      pieces but could not, by which the fineness of its temper may be seen."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Sancho made answer, "By the living God, Sir Knight of the Rueful
      Countenance, I cannot endure or bear with patience some of the things that
      your worship says; and from them I begin to suspect that all you tell me
      about chivalry, and winning kingdoms and empires, and giving islands, and
      bestowing other rewards and dignities after the custom of knights-errant,
      must be all made up of wind and lies, and all pigments or figments, or
      whatever we may call them; for what would anyone think that heard your
      worship calling a barber's basin Mambrino's helmet without ever seeing the
      mistake all this time, but that one who says and maintains such things
      must have his brains addled? I have the basin in my sack all dinted, and I
      am taking it home to have it mended, to trim my beard in it, if, by God's
      grace, I am allowed to see my wife and children some day or other."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Look here, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "by him thou didst swear by just
      now I swear thou hast the most limited understanding that any squire in
      the world has or ever had. Is it possible that all this time thou hast
      been going about with me thou hast never found out that all things
      belonging to knights-errant seem to be illusions and nonsense and ravings,
      and to go always by contraries? And not because it really is so, but
      because there is always a swarm of enchanters in attendance upon us that
      change and alter everything with us, and turn things as they please, and
      according as they are disposed to aid or destroy us; thus what seems to
      thee a barber's basin seems to me Mambrino's helmet, and to another it
      will seem something else; and rare foresight it was in the sage who is on
      my side to make what is really and truly Mambrine's helmet seem a basin to
      everybody, for, being held in such estimation as it is, all the world
      would pursue me to rob me of it; but when they see it is only a barber's
      basin they do not take the trouble to obtain it; as was plainly shown by
      him who tried to break it, and left it on the ground without taking it,
      for, by my faith, had he known it he would never have left it behind. Keep
      it safe, my friend, for just now I have no need of it; indeed, I shall
      have to take off all this armour and remain as naked as I was born, if I
      have a mind to follow Roland rather than Amadis in my penance."
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus talking they reached the foot of a high mountain which stood like an
      isolated peak among the others that surrounded it. Past its base there
      flowed a gentle brook, all around it spread a meadow so green and
      luxuriant that it was a delight to the eyes to look upon it, and forest
      trees in abundance, and shrubs and flowers, added to the charms of the
      spot. Upon this place the Knight of the Rueful Countenance fixed his
      choice for the performance of his penance, and as he beheld it exclaimed
      in a loud voice as though he were out of his senses:
    </p>
    <p>
      "This is the place, oh, ye heavens, that I select and choose for bewailing
      the misfortune in which ye yourselves have plunged me: this is the spot
      where the overflowings of mine eyes shall swell the waters of yon little
      brook, and my deep and endless sighs shall stir unceasingly the leaves of
      these mountain trees, in testimony and token of the pain my persecuted
      heart is suffering. Oh, ye rural deities, whoever ye be that haunt this
      lone spot, give ear to the complaint of a wretched lover whom long absence
      and brooding jealousy have driven to bewail his fate among these wilds and
      complain of the hard heart of that fair and ungrateful one, the end and
      limit of all human beauty! Oh, ye wood nymphs and dryads, that dwell in
      the thickets of the forest, so may the nimble wanton satyrs by whom ye are
      vainly wooed never disturb your sweet repose, help me to lament my hard
      fate or at least weary not at listening to it! Oh, Dulcinea del Toboso,
      day of my night, glory of my pain, guide of my path, star of my fortune,
      so may Heaven grant thee in full all thou seekest of it, bethink thee of
      the place and condition to which absence from thee has brought me, and
      make that return in kindness that is due to my fidelity! Oh, lonely trees,
      that from this day forward shall bear me company in my solitude, give me
      some sign by the gentle movement of your boughs that my presence is not
      distasteful to you! Oh, thou, my squire, pleasant companion in my
      prosperous and adverse fortunes, fix well in thy memory what thou shalt
      see me do here, so that thou mayest relate and report it to the sole cause
      of all," and so saying he dismounted from Rocinante, and in an instant
      relieved him of saddle and bridle, and giving him a slap on the croup,
      said, "He gives thee freedom who is bereft of it himself, oh steed as
      excellent in deed as thou art unfortunate in thy lot; begone where thou
      wilt, for thou bearest written on thy forehead that neither Astolfo's
      hippogriff, nor the famed Frontino that cost Bradamante so dear, could
      equal thee in speed."
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeing this Sancho said, "Good luck to him who has saved us the trouble of
      stripping the pack-saddle off Dapple! By my faith he would not have gone
      without a slap on the croup and something said in his praise; though if he
      were here I would not let anyone strip him, for there would be no
      occasion, as he had nothing of the lover or victim of despair about him,
      inasmuch as his master, which I was while it was God's pleasure, was
      nothing of the sort; and indeed, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, if
      my departure and your worship's madness are to come off in earnest, it
      will be as well to saddle Rocinante again in order that he may supply the
      want of Dapple, because it will save me time in going and returning: for
      if I go on foot I don't know when I shall get there or when I shall get
      back, as I am, in truth, a bad walker."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I declare, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "it shall be as thou wilt, for
      thy plan does not seem to me a bad one, and three days hence thou wilt
      depart, for I wish thee to observe in the meantime what I do and say for
      her sake, that thou mayest be able to tell it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But what more have I to see besides what I have seen?" said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Much thou knowest about it!" said Don Quixote. "I have now got to tear up
      my garments, to scatter about my armour, knock my head against these
      rocks, and more of the same sort of thing, which thou must witness."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For the love of God," said Sancho, "be careful, your worship, how you
      give yourself those knocks on the head, for you may come across such a
      rock, and in such a way, that the very first may put an end to the whole
      contrivance of this penance; and I should think, if indeed knocks on the
      head seem necessary to you, and this business cannot be done without them,
      you might be content&mdash;as the whole thing is feigned, and counterfeit,
      and in joke&mdash;you might be content, I say, with giving them to
      yourself in the water, or against something soft, like cotton; and leave
      it all to me; for I'll tell my lady that your worship knocked your head
      against a point of rock harder than a diamond."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thank thee for thy good intentions, friend Sancho," answered Don
      Quixote, "but I would have thee know that all these things I am doing are
      not in joke, but very much in earnest, for anything else would be a
      transgression of the ordinances of chivalry, which forbid us to tell any
      lie whatever under the penalties due to apostasy; and to do one thing
      instead of another is just the same as lying; so my knocks on the head
      must be real, solid, and valid, without anything sophisticated or fanciful
      about them, and it will be needful to leave me some lint to dress my
      wounds, since fortune has compelled us to do without the balsam we lost."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was worse losing the ass," replied Sancho, "for with him lint and all
      were lost; but I beg of your worship not to remind me again of that
      accursed liquor, for my soul, not to say my stomach, turns at hearing the
      very name of it; and I beg of you, too, to reckon as past the three days
      you allowed me for seeing the mad things you do, for I take them as seen
      already and pronounced upon, and I will tell wonderful stories to my lady;
      so write the letter and send me off at once, for I long to return and take
      your worship out of this purgatory where I am leaving you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Purgatory dost thou call it, Sancho?" said Don Quixote, "rather call it
      hell, or even worse if there be anything worse."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For one who is in hell," said Sancho, "nulla est retentio, as I have
      heard say."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not understand what retentio means," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Retentio," answered Sancho, "means that whoever is in hell never comes
      nor can come out of it, which will be the opposite case with your worship
      or my legs will be idle, that is if I have spurs to enliven Rocinante: let
      me once get to El Toboso and into the presence of my lady Dulcinea, and I
      will tell her such things of the follies and madnesses (for it is all one)
      that your worship has done and is still doing, that I will manage to make
      her softer than a glove though I find her harder than a cork tree; and
      with her sweet and honeyed answer I will come back through the air like a
      witch, and take your worship out of this purgatory that seems to be hell
      but is not, as there is hope of getting out of it; which, as I have said,
      those in hell have not, and I believe your worship will not say anything
      to the contrary."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said he of the Rueful Countenance, "but how shall we
      manage to write the letter?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And the ass-colt order too," added Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "All shall be included," said Don Quixote; "and as there is no paper, it
      would be well done to write it on the leaves of trees, as the ancients
      did, or on tablets of wax; though that would be as hard to find just now
      as paper. But it has just occurred to me how it may be conveniently and
      even more than conveniently written, and that is in the note-book that
      belonged to Cardenio, and thou wilt take care to have it copied on paper,
      in a good hand, at the first village thou comest to where there is a
      schoolmaster, or if not, any sacristan will copy it; but see thou give it
      not to any notary to copy, for they write a law hand that Satan could not
      make out."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But what is to be done about the signature?" said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The letters of Amadis were never signed," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is all very well," said Sancho, "but the order must needs be signed,
      and if it is copied they will say the signature is false, and I shall be
      left without ass-colts."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The order shall go signed in the same book," said Don Quixote, "and on
      seeing it my niece will make no difficulty about obeying it; as to the
      loveletter thou canst put by way of signature, 'Yours till death, the
      Knight of the Rueful Countenance.' And it will be no great matter if it is
      in some other person's hand, for as well as I recollect Dulcinea can
      neither read nor write, nor in the whole course of her life has she seen
      handwriting or letter of mine, for my love and hers have been always
      platonic, not going beyond a modest look, and even that so seldom that I
      can safely swear I have not seen her four times in all these twelve years
      I have been loving her more than the light of these eyes that the earth
      will one day devour; and perhaps even of those four times she has not once
      perceived that I was looking at her: such is the retirement and seclusion
      in which her father Lorenzo Corchuelo and her mother Aldonza Nogales have
      brought her up."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So, so!" said Sancho; "Lorenzo Corchuelo's daughter is the lady Dulcinea
      del Toboso, otherwise called Aldonza Lorenzo?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "She it is," said Don Quixote, "and she it is that is worthy to be lady of
      the whole universe."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know her well," said Sancho, "and let me tell you she can fling a
      crowbar as well as the lustiest lad in all the town. Giver of all good!
      but she is a brave lass, and a right and stout one, and fit to be helpmate
      to any knight-errant that is or is to be, who may make her his lady: the
      whoreson wench, what sting she has and what a voice! I can tell you one
      day she posted herself on the top of the belfry of the village to call
      some labourers of theirs that were in a ploughed field of her father's,
      and though they were better than half a league off they heard her as well
      as if they were at the foot of the tower; and the best of her is that she
      is not a bit prudish, for she has plenty of affability, and jokes with
      everybody, and has a grin and a jest for everything. So, Sir Knight of the
      Rueful Countenance, I say you not only may and ought to do mad freaks for
      her sake, but you have a good right to give way to despair and hang
      yourself; and no one who knows of it but will say you did well, though the
      devil should take you; and I wish I were on my road already, simply to see
      her, for it is many a day since I saw her, and she must be altered by this
      time, for going about the fields always, and the sun and the air spoil
      women's looks greatly. But I must own the truth to your worship, Senor Don
      Quixote; until now I have been under a great mistake, for I believed truly
      and honestly that the lady Dulcinea must be some princess your worship was
      in love with, or some person great enough to deserve the rich presents you
      have sent her, such as the Biscayan and the galley slaves, and many more
      no doubt, for your worship must have won many victories in the time when I
      was not yet your squire. But all things considered, what good can it do
      the lady Aldonza Lorenzo, I mean the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, to have the
      vanquished your worship sends or will send coming to her and going down on
      their knees before her? Because may be when they came she'd be hackling
      flax or threshing on the threshing floor, and they'd be ashamed to see
      her, and she'd laugh, or resent the present."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have before now told thee many times, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that
      thou art a mighty great chatterer, and that with a blunt wit thou art
      always striving at sharpness; but to show thee what a fool thou art and
      how rational I am, I would have thee listen to a short story. Thou must
      know that a certain widow, fair, young, independent, and rich, and above
      all free and easy, fell in love with a sturdy strapping young lay-brother;
      his superior came to know of it, and one day said to the worthy widow by
      way of brotherly remonstrance, 'I am surprised, senora, and not without
      good reason, that a woman of such high standing, so fair, and so rich as
      you are, should have fallen in love with such a mean, low, stupid fellow
      as So-and-so, when in this house there are so many masters, graduates, and
      divinity students from among whom you might choose as if they were a lot
      of pears, saying this one I'll take, that I won't take;' but she replied
      to him with great sprightliness and candour, 'My dear sir, you are very
      much mistaken, and your ideas are very old-fashioned, if you think that I
      have made a bad choice in So-and-so, fool as he seems; because for all I
      want with him he knows as much and more philosophy than Aristotle.' In the
      same way, Sancho, for all I want with Dulcinea del Toboso she is just as
      good as the most exalted princess on earth. It is not to be supposed that
      all those poets who sang the praises of ladies under the fancy names they
      give them, had any such mistresses. Thinkest thou that the Amarillises,
      the Phillises, the Sylvias, the Dianas, the Galateas, the Filidas, and all
      the rest of them, that the books, the ballads, the barber's shops, the
      theatres are full of, were really and truly ladies of flesh and blood, and
      mistresses of those that glorify and have glorified them? Nothing of the
      kind; they only invent them for the most part to furnish a subject for
      their verses, and that they may pass for lovers, or for men valiant enough
      to be so; and so it suffices me to think and believe that the good Aldonza
      Lorenzo is fair and virtuous; and as to her pedigree it is very little
      matter, for no one will examine into it for the purpose of conferring any
      order upon her, and I, for my part, reckon her the most exalted princess
      in the world. For thou shouldst know, Sancho, if thou dost not know, that
      two things alone beyond all others are incentives to love, and these are
      great beauty and a good name, and these two things are to be found in
      Dulcinea in the highest degree, for in beauty no one equals her and in
      good name few approach her; and to put the whole thing in a nutshell, I
      persuade myself that all I say is as I say, neither more nor less, and I
      picture her in my imagination as I would have her to be, as well in beauty
      as in condition; Helen approaches her not nor does Lucretia come up to
      her, nor any other of the famous women of times past, Greek, Barbarian, or
      Latin; and let each say what he will, for if in this I am taken to task by
      the ignorant, I shall not be censured by the critical."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I say that your worship is entirely right," said Sancho, "and that I am
      an ass. But I know not how the name of ass came into my mouth, for a rope
      is not to be mentioned in the house of him who has been hanged; but now
      for the letter, and then, God be with you, I am off."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote took out the note-book, and, retiring to one side, very
      deliberately began to write the letter, and when he had finished it he
      called to Sancho, saying he wished to read it to him, so that he might
      commit it to memory, in case of losing it on the road; for with evil
      fortune like his anything might be apprehended. To which Sancho replied,
      "Write it two or three times there in the book and give it to me, and I
      will carry it very carefully, because to expect me to keep it in my memory
      is all nonsense, for I have such a bad one that I often forget my own
      name; but for all that repeat it to me, as I shall like to hear it, for
      surely it will run as if it was in print."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Listen," said Don Quixote, "this is what it says:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
"DON QUIXOTE'S LETTER TO DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO

"Sovereign and exalted Lady,&mdash;The pierced by the point of absence,
the wounded to the heart's core, sends thee, sweetest Dulcinea del
Toboso, the health that he himself enjoys not. If thy beauty
despises me, if thy worth is not for me, if thy scorn is my
affliction, though I be sufficiently long-suffering, hardly shall I
endure this anxiety, which, besides being oppressive, is protracted.
My good squire Sancho will relate to thee in full, fair ingrate,
dear enemy, the condition to which I am reduced on thy account: if
it be thy pleasure to give me relief, I am thine; if not, do as may be
pleasing to thee; for by ending my life I shall satisfy thy cruelty
and my desire.

"Thine till death,

"The Knight of the Rueful Countenance."
</pre>
    <p>
      "By the life of my father," said Sancho, when he heard the letter, "it is
      the loftiest thing I ever heard. Body of me! how your worship says
      everything as you like in it! And how well you fit in 'The Knight of the
      Rueful Countenance' into the signature. I declare your worship is indeed
      the very devil, and there is nothing you don't know."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Everything is needed for the calling I follow," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now then," said Sancho, "let your worship put the order for the three
      ass-colts on the other side, and sign it very plainly, that they may
      recognise it at first sight."
    </p>
    <p>
      "With all my heart," said Don Quixote, and as he had written it he read it
      to this effect:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mistress Niece,&mdash;By this first of ass-colts please pay to Sancho
      Panza, my squire, three of the five I left at home in your charge: said
      three ass-colts to be paid and delivered for the same number received here
      in hand, which upon this and upon his receipt shall be duly paid. Done in
      the heart of the Sierra Morena, the twenty-seventh of August of this
      present year."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That will do," said Sancho; "now let your worship sign it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no need to sign it," said Don Quixote, "but merely to put my
      flourish, which is the same as a signature, and enough for three asses, or
      even three hundred."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I can trust your worship," returned Sancho; "let me go and saddle
      Rocinante, and be ready to give me your blessing, for I mean to go at once
      without seeing the fooleries your worship is going to do; I'll say I saw
      you do so many that she will not want any more."
    </p>
    <p>
      "At any rate, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "I should like&mdash;and there is
      reason for it&mdash;I should like thee, I say, to see me stripped to the
      skin and performing a dozen or two of insanities, which I can get done in
      less than half an hour; for having seen them with thine own eyes, thou
      canst then safely swear to the rest that thou wouldst add; and I promise
      thee thou wilt not tell of as many as I mean to perform."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For the love of God, master mine," said Sancho, "let me not see your
      worship stripped, for it will sorely grieve me, and I shall not be able to
      keep from tears, and my head aches so with all I shed last night for
      Dapple, that I am not fit to begin any fresh weeping; but if it is your
      worship's pleasure that I should see some insanities, do them in your
      clothes, short ones, and such as come readiest to hand; for I myself want
      nothing of the sort, and, as I have said, it will be a saving of time for
      my return, which will be with the news your worship desires and deserves.
      If not, let the lady Dulcinea look to it; if she does not answer
      reasonably, I swear as solemnly as I can that I will fetch a fair answer
      out of her stomach with kicks and cuffs; for why should it be borne that a
      knight-errant as famous as your worship should go mad without rhyme or
      reason for a&mdash;? Her ladyship had best not drive me to say it, for by
      God I will speak out and let off everything cheap, even if it doesn't
      sell: I am pretty good at that! she little knows me; faith, if she knew me
      she'd be in awe of me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In faith, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "to all appearance thou art no
      sounder in thy wits than I."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am not so mad," answered Sancho, "but I am more peppery; but apart from
      all this, what has your worship to eat until I come back? Will you sally
      out on the road like Cardenio to force it from the shepherds?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let not that anxiety trouble thee," replied Don Quixote, "for even if I
      had it I should not eat anything but the herbs and the fruits which this
      meadow and these trees may yield me; the beauty of this business of mine
      lies in not eating, and in performing other mortifications."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do you know what I am afraid of?" said Sancho upon this; "that I shall
      not be able to find my way back to this spot where I am leaving you, it is
      such an out-of-the-way place."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Observe the landmarks well," said Don Quixote, "for I will try not to go
      far from this neighbourhood, and I will even take care to mount the
      highest of these rocks to see if I can discover thee returning; however,
      not to miss me and lose thyself, the best plan will be to cut some
      branches of the broom that is so abundant about here, and as thou goest to
      lay them at intervals until thou hast come out upon the plain; these will
      serve thee, after the fashion of the clue in the labyrinth of Theseus, as
      marks and signs for finding me on thy return."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So I will," said Sancho Panza, and having cut some, he asked his master's
      blessing, and not without many tears on both sides, took his leave of him,
      and mounting Rocinante, of whom Don Quixote charged him earnestly to have
      as much care as of his own person, he set out for the plain, strewing at
      intervals the branches of broom as his master had recommended him; and so
      he went his way, though Don Quixote still entreated him to see him do were
      it only a couple of mad acts. He had not gone a hundred paces, however,
      when he returned and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "I must say, senor, your worship said quite right, that in order to be
      able to swear without a weight on my conscience that I had seen you do mad
      things, it would be well for me to see if it were only one; though in your
      worship's remaining here I have seen a very great one."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c25c" id="c25c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c25c.jpg (261K)" src="images/c25c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c25c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did I not tell thee so?" said Don Quixote. "Wait, Sancho, and I will do
      them in the saying of a credo," and pulling off his breeches in all haste
      he stripped himself to his skin and his shirt, and then, without more ado,
      he cut a couple of gambados in the air, and a couple of somersaults, heels
      over head, making such a display that, not to see it a second time, Sancho
      wheeled Rocinante round, and felt easy, and satisfied in his mind that he
      could swear he had left his master mad; and so we will leave him to follow
      his road until his return, which was a quick one.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c25e" id="c25e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c25e.jpg (20K)" src="images/c25e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch26" id="ch26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE REFINEMENTS WHEREWITH DON QUIXOTE PLAYED THE
      PART OF A LOVER IN THE SIERRA MORENA
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c26a" id="c26a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c26a.jpg (111K)" src="images/c26a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c26a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Returning to the proceedings of him of the Rueful Countenance when he
      found himself alone, the history says that when Don Quixote had completed
      the performance of the somersaults or capers, naked from the waist down
      and clothed from the waist up, and saw that Sancho had gone off without
      waiting to see any more crazy feats, he climbed up to the top of a high
      rock, and there set himself to consider what he had several times before
      considered without ever coming to any conclusion on the point, namely
      whether it would be better and more to his purpose to imitate the
      outrageous madness of Roland, or the melancholy madness of Amadis; and
      communing with himself he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "What wonder is it if Roland was so good a knight and so valiant as
      everyone says he was, when, after all, he was enchanted, and nobody could
      kill him save by thrusting a corking pin into the sole of his foot, and he
      always wore shoes with seven iron soles? Though cunning devices did not
      avail him against Bernardo del Carpio, who knew all about them, and
      strangled him in his arms at Roncesvalles. But putting the question of his
      valour aside, let us come to his losing his wits, for certain it is that
      he did lose them in consequence of the proofs he discovered at the
      fountain, and the intelligence the shepherd gave him of Angelica having
      slept more than two siestas with Medoro, a little curly-headed Moor, and
      page to Agramante. If he was persuaded that this was true, and that his
      lady had wronged him, it is no wonder that he should have gone mad; but I,
      how am I to imitate him in his madness, unless I can imitate him in the
      cause of it? For my Dulcinea, I will venture to swear, never saw a Moor in
      her life, as he is, in his proper costume, and she is this day as the
      mother that bore her, and I should plainly be doing her a wrong if,
      fancying anything else, I were to go mad with the same kind of madness as
      Roland the Furious. On the other hand, I see that Amadis of Gaul, without
      losing his senses and without doing anything mad, acquired as a lover as
      much fame as the most famous; for, according to his history, on finding
      himself rejected by his lady Oriana, who had ordered him not to appear in
      her presence until it should be her pleasure, all he did was to retire to
      the Pena Pobre in company with a hermit, and there he took his fill of
      weeping until Heaven sent him relief in the midst of his great grief and
      need. And if this be true, as it is, why should I now take the trouble to
      strip stark naked, or do mischief to these trees which have done me no
      harm, or why am I to disturb the clear waters of these brooks which will
      give me to drink whenever I have a mind? Long live the memory of Amadis
      and let him be imitated so far as is possible by Don Quixote of La Mancha,
      of whom it will be said, as was said of the other, that if he did not
      achieve great things, he died in attempting them; and if I am not repulsed
      or rejected by my Dulcinea, it is enough for me, as I have said, to be
      absent from her. And so, now to business; come to my memory ye deeds of
      Amadis, and show me how I am to begin to imitate you. I know already that
      what he chiefly did was to pray and commend himself to God; but what am I
      to do for a rosary, for I have not got one?"
    </p>
    <p>
      And then it occurred to him how he might make one, and that was by tearing
      a great strip off the tail of his shirt which hung down, and making eleven
      knots on it, one bigger than the rest, and this served him for a rosary
      all the time he was there, during which he repeated countless ave-marias.
      But what distressed him greatly was not having another hermit there to
      confess him and receive consolation from; and so he solaced himself with
      pacing up and down the little meadow, and writing and carving on the bark
      of the trees and on the fine sand a multitude of verses all in harmony
      with his sadness, and some in praise of Dulcinea; but, when he was found
      there afterwards, the only ones completely legible that could be
      discovered were those that follow here:
    </p>
    <blockquote>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Ye on the mountain side that grow,
  Ye green things all, trees, shrubs, and bushes,
Are ye aweary of the woe
  That this poor aching bosom crushes?
If it disturb you, and I owe
    Some reparation, it may be a
Defence for me to let you know
Don Quixote's tears are on the flow,
    And all for distant Dulcinea
                         Del Toboso.

The lealest lover time can show,
  Doomed for a lady-love to languish,
Among these solitudes doth go,
  A prey to every kind of anguish.
Why Love should like a spiteful foe
  Thus use him, he hath no idea,
But hogsheads full&mdash;this doth he know&mdash;
Don Quixote's tears are on the flow,
    And all for distant Dulcinea
                       Del Toboso.

Adventure-seeking doth he go
  Up rugged heights, down rocky valleys,
But hill or dale, or high or low,
  Mishap attendeth all his sallies:
Love still pursues him to and fro,
  And plies his cruel scourge&mdash;ah me! a
Relentless fate, an endless woe;
Don Quixote's tears are on the flow,
    And all for distant Dulcinea
                       Del Toboso.
</pre>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      The addition of "Del Toboso" to Dulcinea's name gave rise to no little
      laughter among those who found the above lines, for they suspected Don
      Quixote must have fancied that unless he added "del Toboso" when he
      introduced the name of Dulcinea the verse would be unintelligible; which
      was indeed the fact, as he himself afterwards admitted. He wrote many
      more, but, as has been said, these three verses were all that could be
      plainly and perfectly deciphered. In this way, and in sighing and calling
      on the fauns and satyrs of the woods and the nymphs of the streams, and
      Echo, moist and mournful, to answer, console, and hear him, as well as in
      looking for herbs to sustain him, he passed his time until Sancho's
      return; and had that been delayed three weeks, as it was three days, the
      Knight of the Rueful Countenance would have worn such an altered
      countenance that the mother that bore him would not have known him: and
      here it will be well to leave him, wrapped up in sighs and verses, to
      relate how Sancho Panza fared on his mission.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for him, coming out upon the high road, he made for El Toboso, and the
      next day reached the inn where the mishap of the blanket had befallen him.
      As soon as he recognised it he felt as if he were once more living through
      the air, and he could not bring himself to enter it though it was an hour
      when he might well have done so, for it was dinner-time, and he longed to
      taste something hot as it had been all cold fare with him for many days
      past. This craving drove him to draw near to the inn, still undecided
      whether to go in or not, and as he was hesitating there came out two
      persons who at once recognised him, and said one to the other:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor licentiate, is not he on the horse there Sancho Panza who, our
      adventurer's housekeeper told us, went off with her master as esquire?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "So it is," said the licentiate, "and that is our friend Don Quixote's
      horse;" and if they knew him so well it was because they were the curate
      and the barber of his own village, the same who had carried out the
      scrutiny and sentence upon the books; and as soon as they recognised
      Sancho Panza and Rocinante, being anxious to hear of Don Quixote, they
      approached, and calling him by his name the curate said, "Friend Sancho
      Panza, where is your master?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho recognised them at once, and determined to keep secret the place
      and circumstances where and under which he had left his master, so he
      replied that his master was engaged in a certain quarter on a certain
      matter of great importance to him which he could not disclose for the eyes
      in his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, nay," said the barber, "if you don't tell us where he is, Sancho
      Panza, we will suspect as we suspect already, that you have murdered and
      robbed him, for here you are mounted on his horse; in fact, you must
      produce the master of the hack, or else take the consequences."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no need of threats with me," said Sancho, "for I am not a man to
      rob or murder anybody; let his own fate, or God who made him, kill each
      one; my master is engaged very much to his taste doing penance in the
      midst of these mountains;" and then, offhand and without stopping, he told
      them how he had left him, what adventures had befallen him, and how he was
      carrying a letter to the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, the daughter of Lorenzo
      Corchuelo, with whom he was over head and ears in love. They were both
      amazed at what Sancho Panza told them; for though they were aware of Don
      Quixote's madness and the nature of it, each time they heard of it they
      were filled with fresh wonder. They then asked Sancho Panza to show them
      the letter he was carrying to the lady Dulcinea del Toboso. He said it was
      written in a note-book, and that his master's directions were that he
      should have it copied on paper at the first village he came to. On this
      the curate said if he showed it to him, he himself would make a fair copy
      of it. Sancho put his hand into his bosom in search of the note-book but
      could not find it, nor, if he had been searching until now, could he have
      found it, for Don Quixote had kept it, and had never given it to him, nor
      had he himself thought of asking for it. When Sancho discovered he could
      not find the book his face grew deadly pale, and in great haste he again
      felt his body all over, and seeing plainly it was not to be found, without
      more ado he seized his beard with both hands and plucked away half of it,
      and then, as quick as he could and without stopping, gave himself half a
      dozen cuffs on the face and nose till they were bathed in blood.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeing this, the curate and the barber asked him what had happened him
      that he gave himself such rough treatment.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What should happen to me?" replied Sancho, "but to have lost from one hand
      to the other, in a moment, three ass-colts, each of them like a castle?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "How is that?" said the barber.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have lost the note-book," said Sancho, "that contained the letter to
      Dulcinea, and an order signed by my master in which he directed his niece
      to give me three ass-colts out of four or five he had at home;" and he
      then told them about the loss of Dapple.
    </p>
    <p>
      The curate consoled him, telling him that when his master was found he
      would get him to renew the order, and make a fresh draft on paper, as was
      usual and customary; for those made in notebooks were never accepted or
      honoured.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho comforted himself with this, and said if that were so the loss of
      Dulcinea's letter did not trouble him much, for he had it almost by heart,
      and it could be taken down from him wherever and whenever they liked.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Repeat it then, Sancho," said the barber, "and we will write it down
      afterwards."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho Panza stopped to scratch his head to bring back the letter to his
      memory, and balanced himself now on one foot, now the other, one moment
      staring at the ground, the next at the sky, and after having half gnawed
      off the end of a finger and kept them in suspense waiting for him to
      begin, he said, after a long pause, "By God, senor licentiate, devil a
      thing can I recollect of the letter; but it said at the beginning,
      'Exalted and scrubbing Lady.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It cannot have said 'scrubbing,'" said the barber, "but 'superhuman' or
      'sovereign.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is it," said Sancho; "then, as well as I remember, it went on, 'The
      wounded, and wanting of sleep, and the pierced, kisses your worship's
      hands, ungrateful and very unrecognised fair one; and it said something or
      other about health and sickness that he was sending her; and from that it
      went tailing off until it ended with 'Yours till death, the Knight of the
      Rueful Countenance."
    </p>
    <p>
      It gave them no little amusement, both of them, to see what a good memory
      Sancho had, and they complimented him greatly upon it, and begged him to
      repeat the letter a couple of times more, so that they too might get it by
      heart to write it out by-and-by. Sancho repeated it three times, and as he
      did, uttered three thousand more absurdities; then he told them more about
      his master but he never said a word about the blanketing that had befallen
      himself in that inn, into which he refused to enter. He told them,
      moreover, how his lord, if he brought him a favourable answer from the
      lady Dulcinea del Toboso, was to put himself in the way of endeavouring to
      become an emperor, or at least a monarch; for it had been so settled
      between them, and with his personal worth and the might of his arm it was
      an easy matter to come to be one: and how on becoming one his lord was to
      make a marriage for him (for he would be a widower by that time, as a
      matter of course) and was to give him as a wife one of the damsels of the
      empress, the heiress of some rich and grand state on the mainland, having
      nothing to do with islands of any sort, for he did not care for them now.
      All this Sancho delivered with so much composure&mdash;wiping his nose
      from time to time&mdash;and with so little common-sense that his two
      hearers were again filled with wonder at the force of Don Quixote's
      madness that could run away with this poor man's reason. They did not care
      to take the trouble of disabusing him of his error, as they considered
      that since it did not in any way hurt his conscience it would be better to
      leave him in it, and they would have all the more amusement in listening
      to his simplicities; and so they bade him pray to God for his lord's
      health, as it was a very likely and a very feasible thing for him in
      course of time to come to be an emperor, as he said, or at least an
      archbishop or some other dignitary of equal rank.
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Sancho made answer, "If fortune, sirs, should bring things about
      in such a way that my master should have a mind, instead of being an
      emperor, to be an archbishop, I should like to know what
      archbishops-errant commonly give their squires?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "They commonly give them," said the curate, some simple benefice or cure,
      or some place as sacristan which brings them a good fixed income, not
      counting the altar fees, which may be reckoned at as much more."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But for that," said Sancho, "the squire must be unmarried, and must know,
      at any rate, how to help at mass, and if that be so, woe is me, for I am
      married already and I don't know the first letter of the A B C. What will
      become of me if my master takes a fancy to be an archbishop and not an
      emperor, as is usual and customary with knights-errant?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be not uneasy, friend Sancho," said the barber, "for we will entreat your
      master, and advise him, even urging it upon him as a case of conscience,
      to become an emperor and not an archbishop, because it will be easier for
      him as he is more valiant than lettered."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So I have thought," said Sancho; "though I can tell you he is fit for
      anything: what I mean to do for my part is to pray to our Lord to place
      him where it may be best for him, and where he may be able to bestow most
      favours upon me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You speak like a man of sense," said the curate, "and you will be acting
      like a good Christian; but what must now be done is to take steps to coax
      your master out of that useless penance you say he is performing; and we
      had best turn into this inn to consider what plan to adopt, and also to
      dine, for it is now time."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho said they might go in, but that he would wait there outside, and
      that he would tell them afterwards the reason why he was unwilling, and
      why it did not suit him to enter it; but he begged them to bring him out
      something to eat, and to let it be hot, and also to bring barley for
      Rocinante. They left him and went in, and presently the barber brought him
      out something to eat. By-and-by, after they had between them carefully
      thought over what they should do to carry out their object, the curate hit
      upon an idea very well adapted to humour Don Quixote, and effect their
      purpose; and his notion, which he explained to the barber, was that he
      himself should assume the disguise of a wandering damsel, while the other
      should try as best he could to pass for a squire, and that they should
      thus proceed to where Don Quixote was, and he, pretending to be an
      aggrieved and distressed damsel, should ask a favour of him, which as a
      valiant knight-errant he could not refuse to grant; and the favour he
      meant to ask him was that he should accompany her whither she would
      conduct him, in order to redress a wrong which a wicked knight had done
      her, while at the same time she should entreat him not to require her to
      remove her mask, nor ask her any question touching her circumstances until
      he had righted her with the wicked knight. And he had no doubt that Don
      Quixote would comply with any request made in these terms, and that in
      this way they might remove him and take him to his own village, where they
      would endeavour to find out if his extraordinary madness admitted of any
      kind of remedy.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c26e" id="c26e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c26e.jpg (48K)" src="images/c26e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch27" id="ch27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF HOW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER PROCEEDED WITH THEIR SCHEME; TOGETHER
      WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF RECORD IN THIS GREAT HISTORY
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c27a" id="c27a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c27a.jpg (169K)" src="images/c27a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c27a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The curate's plan did not seem a bad one to the barber, but on the
      contrary so good that they immediately set about putting it in execution.
      They begged a petticoat and hood of the landlady, leaving her in pledge a
      new cassock of the curate's; and the barber made a beard out of a
      grey-brown or red ox-tail in which the landlord used to stick his comb.
      The landlady asked them what they wanted these things for, and the curate
      told her in a few words about the madness of Don Quixote, and how this
      disguise was intended to get him away from the mountain where he then was.
      The landlord and landlady immediately came to the conclusion that the
      madman was their guest, the balsam man and master of the blanketed squire,
      and they told the curate all that had passed between him and them, not
      omitting what Sancho had been so silent about. Finally the landlady
      dressed up the curate in a style that left nothing to be desired; she put
      on him a cloth petticoat with black velvet stripes a palm broad, all
      slashed, and a bodice of green velvet set off by a binding of white satin,
      which as well as the petticoat must have been made in the time of king
      Wamba. The curate would not let them hood him, but put on his head a
      little quilted linen cap which he used for a night-cap, and bound his
      forehead with a strip of black silk, while with another he made a mask
      with which he concealed his beard and face very well. He then put on his
      hat, which was broad enough to serve him for an umbrella, and enveloping
      himself in his cloak seated himself woman-fashion on his mule, while the
      barber mounted his with a beard down to the waist of mingled red and
      white, for it was, as has been said, the tail of a clay-red ox.
    </p>
    <p>
      They took leave of all, and of the good Maritornes, who, sinner as she
      was, promised to pray a rosary of prayers that God might grant them
      success in such an arduous and Christian undertaking as that they had in
      hand. But hardly had he sallied forth from the inn when it struck the
      curate that he was doing wrong in rigging himself out in that fashion, as
      it was an indecorous thing for a priest to dress himself that way even
      though much might depend upon it; and saying so to the barber he begged
      him to change dresses, as it was fitter he should be the distressed
      damsel, while he himself would play the squire's part, which would be less
      derogatory to his dignity; otherwise he was resolved to have nothing more
      to do with the matter, and let the devil take Don Quixote. Just at this
      moment Sancho came up, and on seeing the pair in such a costume he was
      unable to restrain his laughter; the barber, however, agreed to do as the
      curate wished, and, altering their plan, the curate went on to instruct
      him how to play his part and what to say to Don Quixote to induce and
      compel him to come with them and give up his fancy for the place he had
      chosen for his idle penance. The barber told him he could manage it
      properly without any instruction, and as he did not care to dress himself
      up until they were near where Don Quixote was, he folded up the garments,
      and the curate adjusted his beard, and they set out under the guidance of
      Sancho Panza, who went along telling them of the encounter with the madman
      they met in the Sierra, saying nothing, however, about the finding of the
      valise and its contents; for with all his simplicity the lad was a trifle
      covetous.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day they reached the place where Sancho had laid the
      broom-branches as marks to direct him to where he had left his master, and
      recognising it he told them that here was the entrance, and that they
      would do well to dress themselves, if that was required to deliver his
      master; for they had already told him that going in this guise and
      dressing in this way were of the highest importance in order to rescue his
      master from the pernicious life he had adopted; and they charged him
      strictly not to tell his master who they were, or that he knew them, and
      should he ask, as ask he would, if he had given the letter to Dulcinea, to
      say that he had, and that, as she did not know how to read, she had given
      an answer by word of mouth, saying that she commanded him, on pain of her
      displeasure, to come and see her at once; and it was a very important
      matter for himself, because in this way and with what they meant to say to
      him they felt sure of bringing him back to a better mode of life and
      inducing him to take immediate steps to become an emperor or monarch, for
      there was no fear of his becoming an archbishop. All this Sancho listened
      to and fixed it well in his memory, and thanked them heartily for
      intending to recommend his master to be an emperor instead of an
      archbishop, for he felt sure that in the way of bestowing rewards on their
      squires emperors could do more than archbishops-errant. He said, too, that
      it would be as well for him to go on before them to find him, and give him
      his lady's answer; for that perhaps might be enough to bring him away from
      the place without putting them to all this trouble. They approved of what
      Sancho proposed, and resolved to wait for him until he brought back word
      of having found his master.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho pushed on into the glens of the Sierra, leaving them in one through
      which there flowed a little gentle rivulet, and where the rocks and trees
      afforded a cool and grateful shade. It was an August day with all the heat
      of one, and the heat in those parts is intense, and the hour was three in
      the afternoon, all which made the spot the more inviting and tempted them
      to wait there for Sancho's return, which they did. They were reposing,
      then, in the shade, when a voice unaccompanied by the notes of any
      instrument, but sweet and pleasing in its tone, reached their ears, at
      which they were not a little astonished, as the place did not seem to them
      likely quarters for one who sang so well; for though it is often said that
      shepherds of rare voice are to be found in the woods and fields, this is
      rather a flight of the poet's fancy than the truth. And still more
      surprised were they when they perceived that what they heard sung were the
      verses not of rustic shepherds, but of the polished wits of the city; and
      so it proved, for the verses they heard were these:
    </p>
    <blockquote>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
What makes my quest of happiness seem vain?
    Disdain.
What bids me to abandon hope of ease?
    Jealousies.
What holds my heart in anguish of suspense?
    Absence.
  If that be so, then for my grief
  Where shall I turn to seek relief,
  When hope on every side lies slain
  By Absence, Jealousies, Disdain?

What the prime cause of all my woe doth prove?
    Love.
What at my glory ever looks askance?
    Chance.
Whence is permission to afflict me given?
    Heaven.
  If that be so, I but await
  The stroke of a resistless fate,
  Since, working for my woe, these three,
  Love, Chance and Heaven, in league I see.

What must I do to find a remedy?
    Die.
What is the lure for love when coy and strange?
    Change.
What, if all fail, will cure the heart of sadness?
    Madness.
  If that be so, it is but folly
  To seek a cure for melancholy:
  Ask where it lies; the answer saith
  In Change, in Madness, or in Death.
</pre>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      The hour, the summer season, the solitary place, the voice and skill of
      the singer, all contributed to the wonder and delight of the two
      listeners, who remained still waiting to hear something more; finding,
      however, that the silence continued some little time, they resolved to go
      in search of the musician who sang with so fine a voice; but just as they
      were about to do so they were checked by the same voice, which once more
      fell upon their ears, singing this
    </p>
    <blockquote>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
SONNET

When heavenward, holy Friendship, thou didst go
  Soaring to seek thy home beyond the sky,
  And take thy seat among the saints on high,
It was thy will to leave on earth below
Thy semblance, and upon it to bestow
  Thy veil, wherewith at times hypocrisy,
  Parading in thy shape, deceives the eye,
And makes its vileness bright as virtue show.
Friendship, return to us, or force the cheat
  That wears it now, thy livery to restore,
    By aid whereof sincerity is slain.
If thou wilt not unmask thy counterfeit,
  This earth will be the prey of strife once more,
    As when primaeval discord held its reign.

</pre>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      The song ended with a deep sigh, and again the listeners remained waiting
      attentively for the singer to resume; but perceiving that the music had
      now turned to sobs and heart-rending moans they determined to find out who
      the unhappy being could be whose voice was as rare as his sighs were
      piteous, and they had not proceeded far when on turning the corner of a
      rock they discovered a man of the same aspect and appearance as Sancho had
      described to them when he told them the story of Cardenio. He, showing no
      astonishment when he saw them, stood still with his head bent down upon
      his breast like one in deep thought, without raising his eyes to look at
      them after the first glance when they suddenly came upon him. The curate,
      who was aware of his misfortune and recognised him by the description,
      being a man of good address, approached him and in a few sensible words
      entreated and urged him to quit a life of such misery, lest he should end
      it there, which would be the greatest of all misfortunes. Cardenio was
      then in his right mind, free from any attack of that madness which so
      frequently carried him away, and seeing them dressed in a fashion so
      unusual among the frequenters of those wilds, could not help showing some
      surprise, especially when he heard them speak of his case as if it were a
      well-known matter (for the curate's words gave him to understand as much)
      so he replied to them thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      "I see plainly, sirs, whoever you may be, that Heaven, whose care it is to
      succour the good, and even the wicked very often, here, in this remote
      spot, cut off from human intercourse, sends me, though I deserve it not,
      those who seek to draw me away from this to some better retreat, showing
      me by many and forcible arguments how unreasonably I act in leading the
      life I do; but as they know, that if I escape from this evil I shall fall
      into another still greater, perhaps they will set me down as a weak-minded
      man, or, what is worse, one devoid of reason; nor would it be any wonder,
      for I myself can perceive that the effect of the recollection of my
      misfortunes is so great and works so powerfully to my ruin, that in spite
      of myself I become at times like a stone, without feeling or
      consciousness; and I come to feel the truth of it when they tell me and
      show me proofs of the things I have done when the terrible fit overmasters
      me; and all I can do is bewail my lot in vain, and idly curse my destiny,
      and plead for my madness by telling how it was caused, to any that care to
      hear it; for no reasonable beings on learning the cause will wonder at the
      effects; and if they cannot help me at least they will not blame me, and
      the repugnance they feel at my wild ways will turn into pity for my woes.
      If it be, sirs, that you are here with the same design as others have come
      wah, before you proceed with your wise arguments, I entreat you to hear
      the story of my countless misfortunes, for perhaps when you have heard it
      you will spare yourselves the trouble you would take in offering
      consolation to grief that is beyond the reach of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      As they, both of them, desired nothing more than to hear from his own lips
      the cause of his suffering, they entreated him to tell it, promising not
      to do anything for his relief or comfort that he did not wish; and
      thereupon the unhappy gentleman began his sad story in nearly the same
      words and manner in which he had related it to Don Quixote and the
      goatherd a few days before, when, through Master Elisabad, and Don
      Quixote's scrupulous observance of what was due to chivalry, the tale was
      left unfinished, as this history has already recorded; but now fortunately
      the mad fit kept off, allowed him to tell it to the end; and so, coming to
      the incident of the note which Don Fernando had found in the volume of
      "Amadis of Gaul," Cardenio said that he remembered it perfectly and that
      it was in these words:
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p>
        "Luscinda to Cardenio.
      </p>
      <p>
        "Every day I discover merits in you that oblige and compel me to hold
        you in higher estimation; so if you desire to relieve me of this
        obligation without cost to my honour, you may easily do so. I have a
        father who knows you and loves me dearly, who without putting any
        constraint on my inclination will grant what will be reasonable for you
        to have, if it be that you value me as you say and as I believe you do."
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      "By this letter I was induced, as I told you, to demand Luscinda for my
      wife, and it was through it that Luscinda came to be regarded by Don
      Fernando as one of the most discreet and prudent women of the day, and
      this letter it was that suggested his design of ruining me before mine
      could be carried into effect. I told Don Fernando that all Luscinda's
      father was waiting for was that mine should ask her of him, which I did
      not dare to suggest to him, fearing that he would not consent to do so;
      not because he did not know perfectly well the rank, goodness, virtue, and
      beauty of Luscinda, and that she had qualities that would do honour to any
      family in Spain, but because I was aware that he did not wish me to marry
      so soon, before seeing what the Duke Ricardo would do for me. In short, I
      told him I did not venture to mention it to my father, as well on account
      of that difficulty, as of many others that discouraged me though I knew
      not well what they were, only that it seemed to me that what I desired was
      never to come to pass. To all this Don Fernando answered that he would
      take it upon himself to speak to my father, and persuade him to speak to
      Luscinda's father. O, ambitious Marius! O, cruel Catiline! O, wicked
      Sylla! O, perfidious Ganelon! O, treacherous Vellido! O, vindictive
      Julian! O, covetous Judas! Traitor, cruel, vindictive, and perfidious,
      wherein had this poor wretch failed in his fidelity, who with such
      frankness showed thee the secrets and the joys of his heart? What offence
      did I commit? What words did I utter, or what counsels did I give that had
      not the furtherance of thy honour and welfare for their aim? But, woe is
      me, wherefore do I complain? for sure it is that when misfortunes spring
      from the stars, descending from on high they fall upon us with such fury
      and violence that no power on earth can check their course nor human
      device stay their coming. Who could have thought that Don Fernando, a
      highborn gentleman, intelligent, bound to me by gratitude for my services,
      one that could win the object of his love wherever he might set his
      affections, could have become so obdurate, as they say, as to rob me of my
      one ewe lamb that was not even yet in my possession? But laying aside
      these useless and unavailing reflections, let us take up the broken thread
      of my unhappy story.
    </p>
    <p>
      "To proceed, then: Don Fernando finding my presence an obstacle to the
      execution of his treacherous and wicked design, resolved to send me to his
      elder brother under the pretext of asking money from him to pay for six
      horses which, purposely, and with the sole object of sending me away that
      he might the better carry out his infernal scheme, he had purchased the
      very day he offered to speak to my father, and the price of which he now
      desired me to fetch. Could I have anticipated this treachery? Could I by
      any chance have suspected it? Nay; so far from that, I offered with the
      greatest pleasure to go at once, in my satisfaction at the good bargain
      that had been made. That night I spoke with Luscinda, and told her what
      had been agreed upon with Don Fernando, and how I had strong hopes of our
      fair and reasonable wishes being realised. She, as unsuspicious as I was
      of the treachery of Don Fernando, bade me try to return speedily, as she
      believed the fulfilment of our desires would be delayed only so long as my
      father put off speaking to hers. I know not why it was that on saying this
      to me her eyes filled with tears, and there came a lump in her throat that
      prevented her from uttering a word of many more that it seemed to me she
      was striving to say to me. I was astonished at this unusual turn, which I
      never before observed in her. for we always conversed, whenever good
      fortune and my ingenuity gave us the chance, with the greatest gaiety and
      cheerfulness, mingling tears, sighs, jealousies, doubts, or fears with our
      words; it was all on my part a eulogy of my good fortune that Heaven
      should have given her to me for my mistress; I glorified her beauty, I
      extolled her worth and her understanding; and she paid me back by praising
      in me what in her love for me she thought worthy of praise; and besides we
      had a hundred thousand trifles and doings of our neighbours and
      acquaintances to talk about, and the utmost extent of my boldness was to
      take, almost by force, one of her fair white hands and carry it to my
      lips, as well as the closeness of the low grating that separated us
      allowed me. But the night before the unhappy day of my departure she wept,
      she moaned, she sighed, and she withdrew leaving me filled with perplexity
      and amazement, overwhelmed at the sight of such strange and affecting
      signs of grief and sorrow in Luscinda; but not to dash my hopes I ascribed
      it all to the depth of her love for me and the pain that separation gives
      those who love tenderly. At last I took my departure, sad and dejected, my
      heart filled with fancies and suspicions, but not knowing well what it was
      I suspected or fancied; plain omens pointing to the sad event and
      misfortune that was awaiting me.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I reached the place whither I had been sent, gave the letter to Don
      Fernando's brother, and was kindly received but not promptly dismissed,
      for he desired me to wait, very much against my will, eight days in some
      place where the duke his father was not likely to see me, as his brother
      wrote that the money was to be sent without his knowledge; all of which
      was a scheme of the treacherous Don Fernando, for his brother had no want
      of money to enable him to despatch me at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The command was one that exposed me to the temptation of disobeying it,
      as it seemed to me impossible to endure life for so many days separated
      from Luscinda, especially after leaving her in the sorrowful mood I have
      described to you; nevertheless as a dutiful servant I obeyed, though I
      felt it would be at the cost of my well-being. But four days later there
      came a man in quest of me with a letter which he gave me, and which by the
      address I perceived to be from Luscinda, as the writing was hers. I opened
      it with fear and trepidation, persuaded that it must be something serious
      that had impelled her to write to me when at a distance, as she seldom did
      so when I was near. Before reading it I asked the man who it was that had
      given it to him, and how long he had been upon the road; he told me that
      as he happened to be passing through one of the streets of the city at the
      hour of noon, a very beautiful lady called to him from a window, and with
      tears in her eyes said to him hurriedly, 'Brother, if you are, as you seem
      to be, a Christian, for the love of God I entreat you to have this letter
      despatched without a moment's delay to the place and person named in the
      address, all which is well known, and by this you will render a great
      service to our Lord; and that you may be at no inconvenience in doing so
      take what is in this handkerchief;' and said he, 'with this she threw me a
      handkerchief out of the window in which were tied up a hundred reals and
      this gold ring which I bring here together with the letter I have given
      you. And then without waiting for any answer she left the window, though
      not before she saw me take the letter and the handkerchief, and I had by
      signs let her know that I would do as she bade me; and so, seeing myself
      so well paid for the trouble I would have in bringing it to you, and
      knowing by the address that it was to you it was sent (for, senor, I know
      you very well), and also unable to resist that beautiful lady's tears, I
      resolved to trust no one else, but to come myself and give it to you, and
      in sixteen hours from the time when it was given me I have made the
      journey, which, as you know, is eighteen leagues.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "All the while the good-natured improvised courier was telling me this, I
      hung upon his words, my legs trembling under me so that I could scarcely
      stand. However, I opened the letter and read these words:
    </p>
    <p>
      "'The promise Don Fernando gave you to urge your father to speak to mine,
      he has fulfilled much more to his own satisfaction than to your advantage.
      I have to tell you, senor, that he has demanded me for a wife, and my
      father, led away by what he considers Don Fernando's superiority over you,
      has favoured his suit so cordially, that in two days hence the betrothal
      is to take place with such secrecy and so privately that the only
      witnesses are to be the Heavens above and a few of the household. Picture
      to yourself the state I am in; judge if it be urgent for you to come; the
      issue of the affair will show you whether I love you or not. God grant
      this may come to your hand before mine shall be forced to link itself with
      his who keeps so ill the faith that he has pledged.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Such, in brief, were the words of the letter, words that made me set out
      at once without waiting any longer for reply or money; for I now saw
      clearly that it was not the purchase of horses but of his own pleasure
      that had made Don Fernando send me to his brother. The exasperation I felt
      against Don Fernando, joined with the fear of losing the prize I had won
      by so many years of love and devotion, lent me wings; so that almost
      flying I reached home the same day, by the hour which served for speaking
      with Luscinda. I arrived unobserved, and left the mule on which I had come
      at the house of the worthy man who had brought me the letter, and fortune
      was pleased to be for once so kind that I found Luscinda at the grating
      that was the witness of our loves. She recognised me at once, and I her,
      but not as she ought to have recognised me, or I her. But who is there in
      the world that can boast of having fathomed or understood the wavering
      mind and unstable nature of a woman? Of a truth no one. To proceed: as
      soon as Luscinda saw me she said, 'Cardenio, I am in my bridal dress, and
      the treacherous Don Fernando and my covetous father are waiting for me in
      the hall with the other witnesses, who shall be the witnesses of my death
      before they witness my betrothal. Be not distressed, my friend, but
      contrive to be present at this sacrifice, and if that cannot be prevented
      by my words, I have a dagger concealed which will prevent more deliberate
      violence, putting an end to my life and giving thee a first proof of the
      love I have borne and bear thee.' I replied to her distractedly and
      hastily, in fear lest I should not have time to reply, 'May thy words be
      verified by thy deeds, lady; and if thou hast a dagger to save thy honour,
      I have a sword to defend thee or kill myself if fortune be against us.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "I think she could not have heard all these words, for I perceived that
      they called her away in haste, as the bridegroom was waiting. Now the
      night of my sorrow set in, the sun of my happiness went down, I felt my
      eyes bereft of sight, my mind of reason. I could not enter the house, nor
      was I capable of any movement; but reflecting how important it was that I
      should be present at what might take place on the occasion, I nerved
      myself as best I could and went in, for I well knew all the entrances and
      outlets; and besides, with the confusion that in secret pervaded the house
      no one took notice of me, so, without being seen, I found an opportunity
      of placing myself in the recess formed by a window of the hall itself, and
      concealed by the ends and borders of two tapestries, from between which I
      could, without being seen, see all that took place in the room. Who could
      describe the agitation of heart I suffered as I stood there&mdash;the
      thoughts that came to me&mdash;the reflections that passed through my
      mind? They were such as cannot be, nor were it well they should be, told.
      Suffice it to say that the bridegroom entered the hall in his usual dress,
      without ornament of any kind; as groomsman he had with him a cousin of
      Luscinda's and except the servants of the house there was no one else in
      the chamber. Soon afterwards Luscinda came out from an antechamber,
      attended by her mother and two of her damsels, arrayed and adorned as
      became her rank and beauty, and in full festival and ceremonial attire. My
      anxiety and distraction did not allow me to observe or notice particularly
      what she wore; I could only perceive the colours, which were crimson and
      white, and the glitter of the gems and jewels on her head dress and
      apparel, surpassed by the rare beauty of her lovely auburn hair that vying
      with the precious stones and the light of the four torches that stood in
      the hall shone with a brighter gleam than all. Oh memory, mortal foe of my
      peace! why bring before me now the incomparable beauty of that adored
      enemy of mine? Were it not better, cruel memory, to remind me and recall
      what she then did, that stirred by a wrong so glaring I may seek, if not
      vengeance now, at least to rid myself of life? Be not weary, sirs, of
      listening to these digressions; my sorrow is not one of those that can or
      should be told tersely and briefly, for to me each incident seems to call
      for many words."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this the curate replied that not only were they not weary of listening
      to him, but that the details he mentioned interested them greatly, being
      of a kind by no means to be omitted and deserving of the same attention as
      the main story.
    </p>
    <p>
      "To proceed, then," continued Cardenio: "all being assembled in the hall,
      the priest of the parish came in and as he took the pair by the hand to
      perform the requisite ceremony, at the words, 'Will you, Senora Luscinda,
      take Senor Don Fernando, here present, for your lawful husband, as the
      holy Mother Church ordains?' I thrust my head and neck out from between
      the tapestries, and with eager ears and throbbing heart set myself to
      listen to Luscinda's answer, awaiting in her reply the sentence of death
      or the grant of life. Oh, that I had but dared at that moment to rush
      forward crying aloud, 'Luscinda, Luscinda! have a care what thou dost;
      remember what thou owest me; bethink thee thou art mine and canst not be
      another's; reflect that thy utterance of "Yes" and the end of my life will
      come at the same instant. O, treacherous Don Fernando! robber of my glory,
      death of my life! What seekest thou? Remember that thou canst not as a
      Christian attain the object of thy wishes, for Luscinda is my bride, and I
      am her husband!' Fool that I am! now that I am far away, and out of
      danger, I say I should have done what I did not do: now that I have
      allowed my precious treasure to be robbed from me, I curse the robber, on
      whom I might have taken vengeance had I as much heart for it as I have for
      bewailing my fate; in short, as I was then a coward and a fool, little
      wonder is it if I am now dying shame-stricken, remorseful, and mad.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The priest stood waiting for the answer of Luscinda, who for a long time
      withheld it; and just as I thought she was taking out the dagger to save
      her honour, or struggling for words to make some declaration of the truth
      on my behalf, I heard her say in a faint and feeble voice, 'I will:' Don
      Fernando said the same, and giving her the ring they stood linked by a
      knot that could never be loosed. The bridegroom then approached to embrace
      his bride; and she, pressing her hand upon her heart, fell fainting in her
      mother's arms. It only remains now for me to tell you the state I was in
      when in that consent that I heard I saw all my hopes mocked, the words and
      promises of Luscinda proved falsehoods, and the recovery of the prize I
      had that instant lost rendered impossible for ever. I stood stupefied,
      wholly abandoned, it seemed, by Heaven, declared the enemy of the earth
      that bore me, the air refusing me breath for my sighs, the water moisture
      for my tears; it was only the fire that gathered strength so that my whole
      frame glowed with rage and jealousy. They were all thrown into confusion
      by Luscinda's fainting, and as her mother was unlacing her to give her air
      a sealed paper was discovered in her bosom which Don Fernando seized at
      once and began to read by the light of one of the torches. As soon as he
      had read it he seated himself in a chair, leaning his cheek on his hand in
      the attitude of one deep in thought, without taking any part in the
      efforts that were being made to recover his bride from her fainting fit.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Seeing all the household in confusion, I ventured to come out regardless
      whether I were seen or not, and determined, if I were, to do some frenzied
      deed that would prove to all the world the righteous indignation of my
      breast in the punishment of the treacherous Don Fernando, and even in that
      of the fickle fainting traitress. But my fate, doubtless reserving me for
      greater sorrows, if such there be, so ordered it that just then I had
      enough and to spare of that reason which has since been wanting to me; and
      so, without seeking to take vengeance on my greatest enemies (which might
      have been easily taken, as all thought of me was so far from their minds),
      I resolved to take it upon myself, and on myself to inflict the pain they
      deserved, perhaps with even greater severity than I should have dealt out
      to them had I then slain them; for sudden pain is soon over, but that
      which is protracted by tortures is ever slaying without ending life. In a
      word, I quitted the house and reached that of the man with whom I had left
      my mule; I made him saddle it for me, mounted without bidding him
      farewell, and rode out of the city, like another Lot, not daring to turn
      my head to look back upon it; and when I found myself alone in the open
      country, screened by the darkness of the night, and tempted by the
      stillness to give vent to my grief without apprehension or fear of being
      heard or seen, then I broke silence and lifted up my voice in maledictions
      upon Luscinda and Don Fernando, as if I could thus avenge the wrong they
      had done me. I called her cruel, ungrateful, false, thankless, but above
      all covetous, since the wealth of my enemy had blinded the eyes of her
      affection, and turned it from me to transfer it to one to whom fortune had
      been more generous and liberal. And yet, in the midst of this outburst of
      execration and upbraiding, I found excuses for her, saying it was no
      wonder that a young girl in the seclusion of her parents' house, trained
      and schooled to obey them always, should have been ready to yield to their
      wishes when they offered her for a husband a gentleman of such
      distinction, wealth, and noble birth, that if she had refused to accept
      him she would have been thought out of her senses, or to have set her
      affection elsewhere, a suspicion injurious to her fair name and fame. But
      then again, I said, had she declared I was her husband, they would have
      seen that in choosing me she had not chosen so ill but that they might
      excuse her, for before Don Fernando had made his offer, they themselves
      could not have desired, if their desires had been ruled by reason, a more
      eligible husband for their daughter than I was; and she, before taking the
      last fatal step of giving her hand, might easily have said that I had
      already given her mine, for I should have come forward to support any
      assertion of hers to that effect. In short, I came to the conclusion that
      feeble love, little reflection, great ambition, and a craving for rank,
      had made her forget the words with which she had deceived me, encouraged
      and supported by my firm hopes and honourable passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thus soliloquising and agitated, I journeyed onward for the remainder of
      the night, and by daybreak I reached one of the passes of these mountains,
      among which I wandered for three days more without taking any path or
      road, until I came to some meadows lying on I know not which side of the
      mountains, and there I inquired of some herdsmen in what direction the
      most rugged part of the range lay. They told me that it was in this
      quarter, and I at once directed my course hither, intending to end my life
      here; but as I was making my way among these crags, my mule dropped dead
      through fatigue and hunger, or, as I think more likely, in order to have
      done with such a worthless burden as it bore in me. I was left on foot,
      worn out, famishing, without anyone to help me or any thought of seeking
      help: and so thus I lay stretched on the ground, how long I know not,
      after which I rose up free from hunger, and found beside me some
      goatherds, who no doubt were the persons who had relieved me in my need,
      for they told me how they had found me, and how I had been uttering
      ravings that showed plainly I had lost my reason; and since then I am
      conscious that I am not always in full possession of it, but at times so
      deranged and crazed that I do a thousand mad things, tearing my clothes,
      crying aloud in these solitudes, cursing my fate, and idly calling on the
      dear name of her who is my enemy, and only seeking to end my life in
      lamentation; and when I recover my senses I find myself so exhausted and
      weary that I can scarcely move. Most commonly my dwelling is the hollow of
      a cork tree large enough to shelter this miserable body; the herdsmen and
      goatherds who frequent these mountains, moved by compassion, furnish me
      with food, leaving it by the wayside or on the rocks, where they think I
      may perhaps pass and find it; and so, even though I may be then out of my
      senses, the wants of nature teach me what is required to sustain me, and
      make me crave it and eager to take it. At other times, so they tell me
      when they find me in a rational mood, I sally out upon the road, and
      though they would gladly give it me, I snatch food by force from the
      shepherds bringing it from the village to their huts. Thus do pass the
      wretched life that remains to me, until it be Heaven's will to bring it to
      a close, or so to order my memory that I no longer recollect the beauty
      and treachery of Luscinda, or the wrong done me by Don Fernando; for if it
      will do this without depriving me of life, I will turn my thoughts into
      some better channel; if not, I can only implore it to have full mercy on
      my soul, for in myself I feel no power or strength to release my body from
      this strait in which I have of my own accord chosen to place it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Such, sirs, is the dismal story of my misfortune: say if it be one that
      can be told with less emotion than you have seen in me; and do not trouble
      yourselves with urging or pressing upon me what reason suggests as likely
      to serve for my relief, for it will avail me as much as the medicine
      prescribed by a wise physician avails the sick man who will not take it. I
      have no wish for health without Luscinda; and since it is her pleasure to
      be another's, when she is or should be mine, let it be mine to be a prey
      to misery when I might have enjoyed happiness. She by her fickleness
      strove to make my ruin irretrievable; I will strive to gratify her wishes
      by seeking destruction; and it will show generations to come that I alone
      was deprived of that of which all others in misfortune have a
      superabundance, for to them the impossibility of being consoled is itself
      a consolation, while to me it is the cause of greater sorrows and
      sufferings, for I think that even in death there will not be an end of
      them."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Cardenio brought to a close his long discourse and story, as full of
      misfortune as it was of love; but just as the curate was going to address
      some words of comfort to him, he was stopped by a voice that reached his
      ear, saying in melancholy tones what will be told in the Fourth Part of
      this narrative; for at this point the sage and sagacious historian, Cid
      Hamete Benengeli, brought the Third to a conclusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c27e" id="c27e"></a>
    </p>
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    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch28" id="ch28"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE AND DELIGHTFUL ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL THE
      CURATE AND THE BARBER IN THE SAME SIERRA
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c28a" id="c28a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c28a.jpg (159K)" src="images/c28a.jpg" width="100%" />
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      <a href="images/c28a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Happy and fortunate were the times when that most daring knight Don
      Quixote of La Mancha was sent into the world; for by reason of his having
      formed a resolution so honourable as that of seeking to revive and restore
      to the world the long-lost and almost defunct order of knight-errantry, we
      now enjoy in this age of ours, so poor in light entertainment, not only
      the charm of his veracious history, but also of the tales and episodes
      contained in it which are, in a measure, no less pleasing, ingenious, and
      truthful, than the history itself; which, resuming its thread, carded,
      spun, and wound, relates that just as the curate was going to offer
      consolation to Cardenio, he was interrupted by a voice that fell upon his
      ear saying in plaintive tones:
    </p>
    <p>
      "O God! is it possible I have found a place that may serve as a secret
      grave for the weary load of this body that I support so unwillingly? If
      the solitude these mountains promise deceives me not, it is so; ah! woe is
      me! how much more grateful to my mind will be the society of these rocks
      and brakes that permit me to complain of my misfortune to Heaven, than
      that of any human being, for there is none on earth to look to for counsel
      in doubt, comfort in sorrow, or relief in distress!"
    </p>
    <p>
      All this was heard distinctly by the curate and those with him, and as it
      seemed to them to be uttered close by, as indeed it was, they got up to
      look for the speaker, and before they had gone twenty paces they
      discovered behind a rock, seated at the foot of an ash tree, a youth in
      the dress of a peasant, whose face they were unable at the moment to see
      as he was leaning forward, bathing his feet in the brook that flowed past.
      They approached so silently that he did not perceive them, being fully
      occupied in bathing his feet, which were so fair that they looked like two
      pieces of shining crystal brought forth among the other stones of the
      brook. The whiteness and beauty of these feet struck them with surprise,
      for they did not seem to have been made to crush clods or to follow the
      plough and the oxen as their owner's dress suggested; and so, finding they
      had not been noticed, the curate, who was in front, made a sign to the
      other two to conceal themselves behind some fragments of rock that lay
      there; which they did, observing closely what the youth was about. He had
      on a loose double-skirted dark brown jacket bound tight to his body with a
      white cloth; he wore besides breeches and gaiters of brown cloth, and on
      his head a brown montera; and he had the gaiters turned up as far as the
      middle of the leg, which verily seemed to be of pure alabaster.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c28b" id="c28b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c28b.jpg (339K)" src="images/c28b.jpg" width="100%" />
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      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as he had done bathing his beautiful feet, he wiped them with a
      towel he took from under the montera, on taking off which he raised his
      face, and those who were watching him had an opportunity of seeing a
      beauty so exquisite that Cardenio said to the curate in a whisper:
    </p>
    <p>
      "As this is not Luscinda, it is no human creature but a divine being."
    </p>
    <p>
      The youth then took off the montera, and shaking his head from side to
      side there broke loose and spread out a mass of hair that the beams of the
      sun might have envied; by this they knew that what had seemed a peasant
      was a lovely woman, nay the most beautiful the eyes of two of them had
      ever beheld, or even Cardenio's if they had not seen and known Luscinda,
      for he afterwards declared that only the beauty of Luscinda could compare
      with this. The long auburn tresses not only covered her shoulders, but
      such was their length and abundance, concealed her all round beneath their
      masses, so that except the feet nothing of her form was visible. She now
      used her hands as a comb, and if her feet had seemed like bits of crystal
      in the water, her hands looked like pieces of driven snow among her locks;
      all which increased not only the admiration of the three beholders, but
      their anxiety to learn who she was. With this object they resolved to show
      themselves, and at the stir they made in getting upon their feet the fair
      damsel raised her head, and parting her hair from before her eyes with
      both hands, she looked to see who had made the noise, and the instant she
      perceived them she started to her feet, and without waiting to put on her
      shoes or gather up her hair, hastily snatched up a bundle as though of
      clothes that she had beside her, and, scared and alarmed, endeavoured to
      take flight; but before she had gone six paces she fell to the ground, her
      delicate feet being unable to bear the roughness of the stones; seeing
      which, the three hastened towards her, and the curate addressing her first
      said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Stay, senora, whoever you may be, for those whom you see here only desire
      to be of service to you; you have no need to attempt a flight so heedless,
      for neither can your feet bear it, nor we allow it."
    </p>
    <p>
      Taken by surprise and bewildered, she made no reply to these words. They,
      however, came towards her, and the curate taking her hand went on to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      "What your dress would hide, senora, is made known to us by your hair; a
      clear proof that it can be no trifling cause that has disguised your
      beauty in a garb so unworthy of it, and sent it into solitudes like these
      where we have had the good fortune to find you, if not to relieve your
      distress, at least to offer you comfort; for no distress, so long as life
      lasts, can be so oppressive or reach such a height as to make the sufferer
      refuse to listen to comfort offered with good intention. And so, senora,
      or senor, or whatever you prefer to be, dismiss the fears that our
      appearance has caused you and make us acquainted with your good or evil
      fortunes, for from all of us together, or from each one of us, you will
      receive sympathy in your trouble."
    </p>
    <p>
      While the curate was speaking, the disguised damsel stood as if
      spell-bound, looking at them without opening her lips or uttering a word,
      just like a village rustic to whom something strange that he has never
      seen before has been suddenly shown; but on the curate addressing some
      further words to the same effect to her, sighing deeply she broke silence
      and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Since the solitude of these mountains has been unable to conceal me, and
      the escape of my dishevelled tresses will not allow my tongue to deal in
      falsehoods, it would be idle for me now to make any further pretence of
      what, if you were to believe me, you would believe more out of courtesy
      than for any other reason. This being so, I say I thank you, sirs, for the
      offer you have made me, which places me under the obligation of complying
      with the request you have made of me; though I fear the account I shall
      give you of my misfortunes will excite in you as much concern as
      compassion, for you will be unable to suggest anything to remedy them or
      any consolation to alleviate them. However, that my honour may not be left
      a matter of doubt in your minds, now that you have discovered me to be a
      woman, and see that I am young, alone, and in this dress, things that
      taken together or separately would be enough to destroy any good name, I
      feel bound to tell what I would willingly keep secret if I could."
    </p>
    <p>
      All this she who was now seen to be a lovely woman delivered without any
      hesitation, with so much ease and in so sweet a voice that they were not
      less charmed by her intelligence than by her beauty, and as they again
      repeated their offers and entreaties to her to fulfil her promise, she
      without further pressing, first modestly covering her feet and gathering
      up her hair, seated herself on a stone with the three placed around her,
      and, after an effort to restrain some tears that came to her eyes, in a
      clear and steady voice began her story thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      "In this Andalusia there is a town from which a duke takes a title which
      makes him one of those that are called Grandees of Spain. This nobleman
      has two sons, the elder heir to his dignity and apparently to his good
      qualities; the younger heir to I know not what, unless it be the treachery
      of Vellido and the falsehood of Ganelon. My parents are this lord's
      vassals, lowly in origin, but so wealthy that if birth had conferred as
      much on them as fortune, they would have had nothing left to desire, nor
      should I have had reason to fear trouble like that in which I find myself
      now; for it may be that my ill fortune came of theirs in not having been
      nobly born. It is true they are not so low that they have any reason to be
      ashamed of their condition, but neither are they so high as to remove from
      my mind the impression that my mishap comes of their humble birth. They
      are, in short, peasants, plain homely people, without any taint of
      disreputable blood, and, as the saying is, old rusty Christians, but so
      rich that by their wealth and free-handed way of life they are coming by
      degrees to be considered gentlefolk by birth, and even by position; though
      the wealth and nobility they thought most of was having me for their
      daughter; and as they have no other child to make their heir, and are
      affectionate parents, I was one of the most indulged daughters that ever
      parents indulged.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was the mirror in which they beheld themselves, the staff of their old
      age, and the object in which, with submission to Heaven, all their wishes
      centred, and mine were in accordance with theirs, for I knew their worth;
      and as I was mistress of their hearts, so was I also of their possessions.
      Through me they engaged or dismissed their servants; through my hands
      passed the accounts and returns of what was sown and reaped; the
      oil-mills, the wine-presses, the count of the flocks and herds, the
      beehives, all in short that a rich farmer like my father has or can have,
      I had under my care, and I acted as steward and mistress with an assiduity
      on my part and satisfaction on theirs that I cannot well describe to you.
      The leisure hours left to me after I had given the requisite orders to the
      head-shepherds, overseers, and other labourers, I passed in such
      employments as are not only allowable but necessary for young girls, those
      that the needle, embroidery cushion, and spinning wheel usually afford,
      and if to refresh my mind I quitted them for a while, I found recreation
      in reading some devotional book or playing the harp, for experience taught
      me that music soothes the troubled mind and relieves weariness of spirit.
      Such was the life I led in my parents' house and if I have depicted it
      thus minutely, it is not out of ostentation, or to let you know that I am
      rich, but that you may see how, without any fault of mine, I have fallen
      from the happy condition I have described, to the misery I am in at
      present. The truth is, that while I was leading this busy life, in a
      retirement that might compare with that of a monastery, and unseen as I
      thought by any except the servants of the house (for when I went to Mass
      it was so early in the morning, and I was so closely attended by my mother
      and the women of the household, and so thickly veiled and so shy, that my
      eyes scarcely saw more ground than I trod on), in spite of all this, the
      eyes of love, or idleness, more properly speaking, that the lynx's cannot
      rival, discovered me, with the help of the assiduity of Don Fernando; for
      that is the name of the younger son of the duke I told of."
    </p>
    <p>
      The moment the speaker mentioned the name of Don Fernando, Cardenio
      changed colour and broke into a sweat, with such signs of emotion that the
      curate and the barber, who observed it, feared that one of the mad fits
      which they heard attacked him sometimes was coming upon him; but Cardenio
      showed no further agitation and remained quiet, regarding the peasant girl
      with fixed attention, for he began to suspect who she was. She, however,
      without noticing the excitement of Cardenio, continuing her story, went on
      to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      "And they had hardly discovered me, when, as he owned afterwards, he was
      smitten with a violent love for me, as the manner in which it displayed
      itself plainly showed. But to shorten the long recital of my woes, I will
      pass over in silence all the artifices employed by Don Fernando for
      declaring his passion for me. He bribed all the household, he gave and
      offered gifts and presents to my parents; every day was like a holiday or
      a merry-making in our street; by night no one could sleep for the music;
      the love letters that used to come to my hand, no one knew how, were
      innumerable, full of tender pleadings and pledges, containing more
      promises and oaths than there were letters in them; all which not only did
      not soften me, but hardened my heart against him, as if he had been my
      mortal enemy, and as if everything he did to make me yield were done with
      the opposite intention. Not that the high-bred bearing of Don Fernando was
      disagreeable to me, or that I found his importunities wearisome; for it
      gave me a certain sort of satisfaction to find myself so sought and prized
      by a gentleman of such distinction, and I was not displeased at seeing my
      praises in his letters (for however ugly we women may be, it seems to me
      it always pleases us to hear ourselves called beautiful) but that my own
      sense of right was opposed to all this, as well as the repeated advice of
      my parents, who now very plainly perceived Don Fernando's purpose, for he
      cared very little if all the world knew it. They told me they trusted and
      confided their honour and good name to my virtue and rectitude alone, and
      bade me consider the disparity between Don Fernando and myself, from which
      I might conclude that his intentions, whatever he might say to the
      contrary, had for their aim his own pleasure rather than my advantage; and
      if I were at all desirous of opposing an obstacle to his unreasonable
      suit, they were ready, they said, to marry me at once to anyone I
      preferred, either among the leading people of our own town, or of any of
      those in the neighbourhood; for with their wealth and my good name, a
      match might be looked for in any quarter. This offer, and their sound
      advice strengthened my resolution, and I never gave Don Fernando a word in
      reply that could hold out to him any hope of success, however remote.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c28c" id="c28c"></a>
    </p>
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      <img alt="c28c.jpg (279K)" src="images/c28c.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <a href="images/c28c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "All this caution of mine, which he must have taken for coyness, had
      apparently the effect of increasing his wanton appetite&mdash;for that is
      the name I give to his passion for me; had it been what he declared it to
      be, you would not know of it now, because there would have been no
      occasion to tell you of it. At length he learned that my parents were
      contemplating marriage for me in order to put an end to his hopes of
      obtaining possession of me, or at least to secure additional protectors to
      watch over me, and this intelligence or suspicion made him act as you
      shall hear. One night, as I was in my chamber with no other companion than
      a damsel who waited on me, with the doors carefully locked lest my honour
      should be imperilled through any carelessness, I know not nor can conceive
      how it happened, but, with all this seclusion and these precautions, and
      in the solitude and silence of my retirement, I found him standing before
      me, a vision that so astounded me that it deprived my eyes of sight, and
      my tongue of speech. I had no power to utter a cry, nor, I think, did he
      give me time to utter one, as he immediately approached me, and taking me
      in his arms (for, overwhelmed as I was, I was powerless, I say, to help
      myself), he began to make such professions to me that I know not how
      falsehood could have had the power of dressing them up to seem so like
      truth; and the traitor contrived that his tears should vouch for his
      words, and his sighs for his sincerity.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I, a poor young creature alone, ill versed among my people in cases such
      as this, began, I know not how, to think all these lying protestations
      true, though without being moved by his sighs and tears to anything more
      than pure compassion; and so, as the first feeling of bewilderment passed
      away, and I began in some degree to recover myself, I said to him with
      more courage than I thought I could have possessed, 'If, as I am now in
      your arms, senor, I were in the claws of a fierce lion, and my deliverance
      could be procured by doing or saying anything to the prejudice of my
      honour, it would no more be in my power to do it or say it, than it would
      be possible that what was should not have been; so then, if you hold my
      body clasped in your arms, I hold my soul secured by virtuous intentions,
      very different from yours, as you will see if you attempt to carry them
      into effect by force. I am your vassal, but I am not your slave; your
      nobility neither has nor should have any right to dishonour or degrade my
      humble birth; and low-born peasant as I am, I have my self-respect as much
      as you, a lord and gentleman: with me your violence will be to no purpose,
      your wealth will have no weight, your words will have no power to deceive
      me, nor your sighs or tears to soften me: were I to see any of the things
      I speak of in him whom my parents gave me as a husband, his will should be
      mine, and mine should be bounded by his; and my honour being preserved
      even though my inclinations were not would willingly yield him what you,
      senor, would now obtain by force; and this I say lest you should suppose
      that any but my lawful husband shall ever win anything of me.' 'If that,'
      said this disloyal gentleman, 'be the only scruple you feel, fairest
      Dorothea' (for that is the name of this unhappy being), 'see here I give
      you my hand to be yours, and let Heaven, from which nothing is hid, and
      this image of Our Lady you have here, be witnesses of this pledge.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c28d" id="c28d"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c28d.jpg (289K)" src="images/c28d.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c28d.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      When Cardenio heard her say she was called Dorothea, he showed fresh
      agitation and felt convinced of the truth of his former suspicion, but he
      was unwilling to interrupt the story, and wished to hear the end of what
      he already all but knew, so he merely said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "What! is Dorothea your name, senora? I have heard of another of the same
      name who can perhaps match your misfortunes. But proceed; by-and-by I may
      tell you something that will astonish you as much as it will excite your
      compassion."
    </p>
    <p>
      Dorothea was struck by Cardenio's words as well as by his strange and
      miserable attire, and begged him if he knew anything concerning her to
      tell it to her at once, for if fortune had left her any blessing it was
      courage to bear whatever calamity might fall upon her, as she felt sure
      that none could reach her capable of increasing in any degree what she
      endured already.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would not let the occasion pass, senora," replied Cardenio, "of telling
      you what I think, if what I suspect were the truth, but so far there has
      been no opportunity, nor is it of any importance to you to know it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be it as it may," replied Dorothea, "what happened in my story was that
      Don Fernando, taking an image that stood in the chamber, placed it as a
      witness of our betrothal, and with the most binding words and extravagant
      oaths gave me his promise to become my husband; though before he had made
      an end of pledging himself I bade him consider well what he was doing, and
      think of the anger his father would feel at seeing him married to a
      peasant girl and one of his vassals; I told him not to let my beauty, such
      as it was, blind him, for that was not enough to furnish an excuse for his
      transgression; and if in the love he bore me he wished to do me any
      kindness, it would be to leave my lot to follow its course at the level my
      condition required; for marriages so unequal never brought happiness, nor
      did they continue long to afford the enjoyment they began with.
    </p>
    <p>
      "All this that I have now repeated I said to him, and much more which I
      cannot recollect; but it had no effect in inducing him to forego his
      purpose; he who has no intention of paying does not trouble himself about
      difficulties when he is striking the bargain. At the same time I argued
      the matter briefly in my own mind, saying to myself, 'I shall not be the
      first who has risen through marriage from a lowly to a lofty station, nor
      will Don Fernando be the first whom beauty or, as is more likely, a blind
      attachment, has led to mate himself below his rank. Then, since I am
      introducing no new usage or practice, I may as well avail myself of the
      honour that chance offers me, for even though his inclination for me
      should not outlast the attainment of his wishes, I shall be, after all,
      his wife before God. And if I strive to repel him by scorn, I can see
      that, fair means failing, he is in a mood to use force, and I shall be
      left dishonoured and without any means of proving my innocence to those
      who cannot know how innocently I have come to be in this position; for
      what arguments would persuade my parents that this gentleman entered my
      chamber without my consent?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "All these questions and answers passed through my mind in a moment; but
      the oaths of Don Fernando, the witnesses he appealed to, the tears he
      shed, and lastly the charms of his person and his high-bred grace, which,
      accompanied by such signs of genuine love, might well have conquered a
      heart even more free and coy than mine&mdash;these were the things that
      more than all began to influence me and lead me unawares to my ruin. I
      called my waiting-maid to me, that there might be a witness on earth
      besides those in Heaven, and again Don Fernando renewed and repeated his
      oaths, invoked as witnesses fresh saints in addition to the former ones,
      called down upon himself a thousand curses hereafter should he fail to
      keep his promise, shed more tears, redoubled his sighs and pressed me
      closer in his arms, from which he had never allowed me to escape; and so I
      was left by my maid, and ceased to be one, and he became a traitor and a
      perjured man.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The day which followed the night of my misfortune did not come so
      quickly, I imagine, as Don Fernando wished, for when desire has attained
      its object, the greatest pleasure is to fly from the scene of pleasure. I
      say so because Don Fernando made all haste to leave me, and by the
      adroitness of my maid, who was indeed the one who had admitted him, gained
      the street before daybreak; but on taking leave of me he told me, though
      not with as much earnestness and fervour as when he came, that I might
      rest assured of his faith and of the sanctity and sincerity of his oaths;
      and to confirm his words he drew a rich ring off his finger and placed it
      upon mine. He then took his departure and I was left, I know not whether
      sorrowful or happy; all I can say is, I was left agitated and troubled in
      mind and almost bewildered by what had taken place, and I had not the
      spirit, or else it did not occur to me, to chide my maid for the treachery
      she had been guilty of in concealing Don Fernando in my chamber; for as
      yet I was unable to make up my mind whether what had befallen me was for
      good or evil. I told Don Fernando at parting, that as I was now his, he
      might see me on other nights in the same way, until it should be his
      pleasure to let the matter become known; but, except the following night,
      he came no more, nor for more than a month could I catch a glimpse of him
      in the street or in church, while I wearied myself with watching for one;
      although I knew he was in the town, and almost every day went out hunting,
      a pastime he was very fond of. I remember well how sad and dreary those
      days and hours were to me; I remember well how I began to doubt as they
      went by, and even to lose confidence in the faith of Don Fernando; and I
      remember, too, how my maid heard those words in reproof of her audacity
      that she had not heard before, and how I was forced to put a constraint on
      my tears and on the expression of my countenance, not to give my parents
      cause to ask me why I was so melancholy, and drive me to invent falsehoods
      in reply. But all this was suddenly brought to an end, for the time came
      when all such considerations were disregarded, and there was no further
      question of honour, when my patience gave way and the secret of my heart
      became known abroad. The reason was, that a few days later it was reported
      in the town that Don Fernando had been married in a neighbouring city to a
      maiden of rare beauty, the daughter of parents of distinguished position,
      though not so rich that her portion would entitle her to look for so
      brilliant a match; it was said, too, that her name was Luscinda, and that
      at the betrothal some strange things had happened."
    </p>
    <p>
      Cardenio heard the name of Luscinda, but he only shrugged his shoulders,
      bit his lips, bent his brows, and before long two streams of tears escaped
      from his eyes. Dorothea, however, did not interrupt her story, but went on
      in these words:
    </p>
    <p>
      "This sad intelligence reached my ears, and, instead of being struck with
      a chill, with such wrath and fury did my heart burn that I scarcely
      restrained myself from rushing out into the streets, crying aloud and
      proclaiming openly the perfidy and treachery of which I was the victim;
      but this transport of rage was for the time checked by a resolution I
      formed, to be carried out the same night, and that was to assume this
      dress, which I got from a servant of my father's, one of the zagals, as
      they are called in farmhouses, to whom I confided the whole of my
      misfortune, and whom I entreated to accompany me to the city where I heard
      my enemy was. He, though he remonstrated with me for my boldness, and
      condemned my resolution, when he saw me bent upon my purpose, offered to
      bear me company, as he said, to the end of the world. I at once packed up
      in a linen pillow-case a woman's dress, and some jewels and money to
      provide for emergencies, and in the silence of the night, without letting
      my treacherous maid know, I sallied forth from the house, accompanied by
      my servant and abundant anxieties, and on foot set out for the city, but
      borne as it were on wings by my eagerness to reach it, if not to prevent
      what I presumed to be already done, at least to call upon Don Fernando to
      tell me with what conscience he had done it. I reached my destination in
      two days and a half, and on entering the city inquired for the house of
      Luscinda's parents. The first person I asked gave me more in reply than I
      sought to know; he showed me the house, and told me all that had occurred
      at the betrothal of the daughter of the family, an affair of such
      notoriety in the city that it was the talk of every knot of idlers in the
      street. He said that on the night of Don Fernando's betrothal with
      Luscinda, as soon as she had consented to be his bride by saying 'Yes,'
      she was taken with a sudden fainting fit, and that on the bridegroom
      approaching to unlace the bosom of her dress to give her air, he found a
      paper in her own handwriting, in which she said and declared that she
      could not be Don Fernando's bride, because she was already Cardenio's,
      who, according to the man's account, was a gentleman of distinction of the
      same city; and that if she had accepted Don Fernando, it was only in
      obedience to her parents. In short, he said, the words of the paper made
      it clear she meant to kill herself on the completion of the betrothal, and
      gave her reasons for putting an end to herself all which was confirmed, it
      was said, by a dagger they found somewhere in her clothes. On seeing this,
      Don Fernando, persuaded that Luscinda had befooled, slighted, and trifled
      with him, assailed her before she had recovered from her swoon, and tried
      to stab her with the dagger that had been found, and would have succeeded
      had not her parents and those who were present prevented him. It was said,
      moreover, that Don Fernando went away at once, and that Luscinda did not
      recover from her prostration until the next day, when she told her parents
      how she was really the bride of that Cardenio I have mentioned. I learned
      besides that Cardenio, according to report, had been present at the
      betrothal; and that upon seeing her betrothed contrary to his expectation,
      he had quitted the city in despair, leaving behind him a letter declaring
      the wrong Luscinda had done him, and his intention of going where no one
      should ever see him again. All this was a matter of notoriety in the city,
      and everyone spoke of it; especially when it became known that Luscinda
      was missing from her father's house and from the city, for she was not to
      be found anywhere, to the distraction of her parents, who knew not what
      steps to take to recover her. What I learned revived my hopes, and I was
      better pleased not to have found Don Fernando than to find him married,
      for it seemed to me that the door was not yet entirely shut upon relief in
      my case, and I thought that perhaps Heaven had put this impediment in the
      way of the second marriage, to lead him to recognise his obligations under
      the former one, and reflect that as a Christian he was bound to consider
      his soul above all human objects. All this passed through my mind, and I
      strove to comfort myself without comfort, indulging in faint and distant
      hopes of cherishing that life that I now abhor.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But while I was in the city, uncertain what to do, as I could not find
      Don Fernando, I heard notice given by the public crier offering a great
      reward to anyone who should find me, and giving the particulars of my age
      and of the very dress I wore; and I heard it said that the lad who came
      with me had taken me away from my father's house; a thing that cut me to
      the heart, showing how low my good name had fallen, since it was not
      enough that I should lose it by my flight, but they must add with whom I
      had fled, and that one so much beneath me and so unworthy of my
      consideration. The instant I heard the notice I quitted the city with my
      servant, who now began to show signs of wavering in his fidelity to me,
      and the same night, for fear of discovery, we entered the most thickly
      wooded part of these mountains. But, as is commonly said, one evil calls
      up another and the end of one misfortune is apt to be the beginning of one
      still greater, and so it proved in my case; for my worthy servant, until
      then so faithful and trusty when he found me in this lonely spot, moved
      more by his own villainy than by my beauty, sought to take advantage of
      the opportunity which these solitudes seemed to present him, and with
      little shame and less fear of God and respect for me, began to make
      overtures to me; and finding that I replied to the effrontery of his
      proposals with justly severe language, he laid aside the entreaties which
      he had employed at first, and began to use violence.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c28e" id="c28e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c28e.jpg (324K)" src="images/c28e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c28e.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "But just Heaven, that seldom fails to watch over and aid good intentions,
      so aided mine that with my slight strength and with little exertion I
      pushed him over a precipice, where I left him, whether dead or alive I
      know not; and then, with greater speed than seemed possible in my terror
      and fatigue, I made my way into the mountains, without any other thought
      or purpose save that of hiding myself among them, and escaping my father
      and those despatched in search of me by his orders. It is now I know not
      how many months since with this object I came here, where I met a herdsman
      who engaged me as his servant at a place in the heart of this Sierra, and
      all this time I have been serving him as herd, striving to keep always
      afield to hide these locks which have now unexpectedly betrayed me. But
      all my care and pains were unavailing, for my master made the discovery
      that I was not a man, and harboured the same base designs as my servant;
      and as fortune does not always supply a remedy in cases of difficulty, and
      I had no precipice or ravine at hand down which to fling the master and
      cure his passion, as I had in the servant's case, I thought it a lesser
      evil to leave him and again conceal myself among these crags, than make
      trial of my strength and argument with him. So, as I say, once more I went
      into hiding to seek for some place where I might with sighs and tears
      implore Heaven to have pity on my misery, and grant me help and strength
      to escape from it, or let me die among the solitudes, leaving no trace of
      an unhappy being who, by no fault of hers, has furnished matter for talk
      and scandal at home and abroad."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c28f" id="c28f"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c28f.jpg (42K)" src="images/c28f.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch29" id="ch29"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TREATS OF THE DROLL DEVICE AND METHOD ADOPTED TO EXTRICATE OUR
      LOVE-STRICKEN KNIGHT FROM THE SEVERE PENANCE HE HAD IMPOSED UPON HIMSELF
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c29a" id="c29a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c29a.jpg (99K)" src="images/c29a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c29a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Such, sirs, is the true story of my sad adventures; judge for yourselves
      now whether the sighs and lamentations you heard, and the tears that
      flowed from my eyes, had not sufficient cause even if I had indulged in
      them more freely; and if you consider the nature of my misfortune you will
      see that consolation is idle, as there is no possible remedy for it. All I
      ask of you is, what you may easily and reasonably do, to show me where I
      may pass my life unharassed by the fear and dread of discovery by those
      who are in search of me; for though the great love my parents bear me
      makes me feel sure of being kindly received by them, so great is my
      feeling of shame at the mere thought that I cannot present myself before
      them as they expect, that I had rather banish myself from their sight for
      ever than look them in the face with the reflection that they beheld mine
      stripped of that purity they had a right to expect in me."
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words she became silent, and the colour that overspread her
      face showed plainly the pain and shame she was suffering at heart. In
      theirs the listeners felt as much pity as wonder at her misfortunes; but
      as the curate was just about to offer her some consolation and advice
      Cardenio forestalled him, saying, "So then, senora, you are the fair
      Dorothea, the only daughter of the rich Clenardo?" Dorothea was astonished
      at hearing her father's name, and at the miserable appearance of him who
      mentioned it, for it has been already said how wretchedly clad Cardenio
      was; so she said to him:
    </p>
    <p>
      "And who may you be, brother, who seem to know my father's name so well?
      For so far, if I remember rightly, I have not mentioned it in the whole
      story of my misfortunes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am that unhappy being, senora," replied Cardenio, "whom, as you have
      said, Luscinda declared to be her husband; I am the unfortunate Cardenio,
      whom the wrong-doing of him who has brought you to your present condition
      has reduced to the state you see me in, bare, ragged, bereft of all human
      comfort, and what is worse, of reason, for I only possess it when Heaven
      is pleased for some short space to restore it to me. I, Dorothea, am he
      who witnessed the wrong done by Don Fernando, and waited to hear the 'Yes'
      uttered by which Luscinda owned herself his betrothed: I am he who had not
      courage enough to see how her fainting fit ended, or what came of the
      paper that was found in her bosom, because my heart had not the fortitude
      to endure so many strokes of ill-fortune at once; and so losing patience I
      quitted the house, and leaving a letter with my host, which I entreated
      him to place in Luscinda's hands, I betook myself to these solitudes,
      resolved to end here the life I hated as if it were my mortal enemy. But
      fate would not rid me of it, contenting itself with robbing me of my
      reason, perhaps to preserve me for the good fortune I have had in meeting
      you; for if that which you have just told us be true, as I believe it to
      be, it may be that Heaven has yet in store for both of us a happier
      termination to our misfortunes than we look for; because seeing that
      Luscinda cannot marry Don Fernando, being mine, as she has herself so
      openly declared, and that Don Fernando cannot marry her as he is yours, we
      may reasonably hope that Heaven will restore to us what is ours, as it is
      still in existence and not yet alienated or destroyed. And as we have this
      consolation springing from no very visionary hope or wild fancy, I entreat
      you, senora, to form new resolutions in your better mind, as I mean to do
      in mine, preparing yourself to look forward to happier fortunes; for I
      swear to you by the faith of a gentleman and a Christian not to desert you
      until I see you in possession of Don Fernando, and if I cannot by words
      induce him to recognise his obligation to you, in that case to avail
      myself of the right which my rank as a gentleman gives me, and with just
      cause challenge him on account of the injury he has done you, not
      regarding my own wrongs, which I shall leave to Heaven to avenge, while I
      on earth devote myself to yours."
    </p>
    <p>
      Cardenio's words completed the astonishment of Dorothea, and not knowing
      how to return thanks for such an offer, she attempted to kiss his feet;
      but Cardenio would not permit it, and the licentiate replied for both,
      commended the sound reasoning of Cardenio, and lastly, begged, advised,
      and urged them to come with him to his village, where they might furnish
      themselves with what they needed, and take measures to discover Don
      Fernando, or restore Dorothea to her parents, or do what seemed to them
      most advisable. Cardenio and Dorothea thanked him, and accepted the kind
      offer he made them; and the barber, who had been listening to all
      attentively and in silence, on his part some kindly words also, and with
      no less good-will than the curate offered his services in any way that
      might be of use to them. He also explained to them in a few words the
      object that had brought them there, and the strange nature of Don
      Quixote's madness, and how they were waiting for his squire, who had gone
      in search of him. Like the recollection of a dream, the quarrel he had had
      with Don Quixote came back to Cardenio's memory, and he described it to
      the others; but he was unable to say what the dispute was about.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c29b" id="c29b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c29b.jpg (351K)" src="images/c29b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c29b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment they heard a shout, and recognised it as coming from Sancho
      Panza, who, not finding them where he had left them, was calling aloud to
      them. They went to meet him, and in answer to their inquiries about Don
      Quixote, he told them how he had found him stripped to his shirt, lank,
      yellow, half dead with hunger, and sighing for his lady Dulcinea; and
      although he had told him that she commanded him to quit that place and
      come to El Toboso, where she was expecting him, he had answered that he
      was determined not to appear in the presence of her beauty until he had
      done deeds to make him worthy of her favour; and if this went on, Sancho
      said, he ran the risk of not becoming an emperor as in duty bound, or even
      an archbishop, which was the least he could be; for which reason they
      ought to consider what was to be done to get him away from there. The
      licentiate in reply told him not to be uneasy, for they would fetch him
      away in spite of himself. He then told Cardenio and Dorothea what they had
      proposed to do to cure Don Quixote, or at any rate take him home; upon
      which Dorothea said that she could play the distressed damsel better than
      the barber; especially as she had there the dress in which to do it to the
      life, and that they might trust to her acting the part in every particular
      requisite for carrying out their scheme, for she had read a great many
      books of chivalry, and knew exactly the style in which afflicted damsels
      begged boons of knights-errant.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In that case," said the curate, "there is nothing more required than to
      set about it at once, for beyond a doubt fortune is declaring itself in
      our favour, since it has so unexpectedly begun to open a door for your
      relief, and smoothed the way for us to our object."
    </p>
    <p>
      Dorothea then took out of her pillow-case a complete petticoat of some
      rich stuff, and a green mantle of some other fine material, and a necklace
      and other ornaments out of a little box, and with these in an instant she
      so arrayed herself that she looked like a great and rich lady. All this,
      and more, she said, she had taken from home in case of need, but that
      until then she had had no occasion to make use of it. They were all highly
      delighted with her grace, air, and beauty, and declared Don Fernando to be
      a man of very little taste when he rejected such charms. But the one who
      admired her most was Sancho Panza, for it seemed to him (what indeed was
      true) that in all the days of his life he had never seen such a lovely
      creature; and he asked the curate with great eagerness who this beautiful
      lady was, and what she wanted in these out-of-the-way quarters.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This fair lady, brother Sancho," replied the curate, "is no less a
      personage than the heiress in the direct male line of the great kingdom of
      Micomicon, who has come in search of your master to beg a boon of him,
      which is that he redress a wrong or injury that a wicked giant has done
      her; and from the fame as a good knight which your master has acquired far
      and wide, this princess has come from Guinea to seek him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A lucky seeking and a lucky finding!" said Sancho Panza at this;
      "especially if my master has the good fortune to redress that injury, and
      right that wrong, and kill that son of a bitch of a giant your worship
      speaks of; as kill him he will if he meets him, unless, indeed, he happens
      to be a phantom; for my master has no power at all against phantoms. But
      one thing among others I would beg of you, senor licentiate, which is,
      that, to prevent my master taking a fancy to be an archbishop, for that is
      what I'm afraid of, your worship would recommend him to marry this
      princess at once; for in this way he will be disabled from taking
      archbishop's orders, and will easily come into his empire, and I to the
      end of my desires; I have been thinking over the matter carefully, and by
      what I can make out I find it will not do for me that my master should
      become an archbishop, because I am no good for the Church, as I am
      married; and for me now, having as I have a wife and children, to set
      about obtaining dispensations to enable me to hold a place of profit under
      the Church, would be endless work; so that, senor, it all turns on my
      master marrying this lady at once&mdash;for as yet I do not know her
      grace, and so I cannot call her by her name."
    </p>
    <p>
      "She is called the Princess Micomicona," said the curate; "for as her
      kingdom is Micomicon, it is clear that must be her name."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There's no doubt of that," replied Sancho, "for I have known many to take
      their name and title from the place where they were born and call
      themselves Pedro of Alcala, Juan of Ubeda, and Diego of Valladolid; and it
      may be that over there in Guinea queens have the same way of taking the
      names of their kingdoms."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So it may," said the curate; "and as for your master's marrying, I will
      do all in my power towards it:" with which Sancho was as much pleased as
      the curate was amazed at his simplicity and at seeing what a hold the
      absurdities of his master had taken of his fancy, for he had evidently
      persuaded himself that he was going to be an emperor.
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time Dorothea had seated herself upon the curate's mule, and the
      barber had fitted the ox-tail beard to his face, and they now told Sancho
      to conduct them to where Don Quixote was, warning him not to say that he
      knew either the licentiate or the barber, as his master's becoming an
      emperor entirely depended on his not recognising them; neither the curate
      nor Cardenio, however, thought fit to go with them; Cardenio lest he
      should remind Don Quixote of the quarrel he had with him, and the curate
      as there was no necessity for his presence just yet, so they allowed the
      others to go on before them, while they themselves followed slowly on
      foot. The curate did not forget to instruct Dorothea how to act, but she
      said they might make their minds easy, as everything would be done exactly
      as the books of chivalry required and described.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c29c" id="c29c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c29c.jpg (286K)" src="images/c29c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c29c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      They had gone about three-quarters of a league when they discovered Don
      Quixote in a wilderness of rocks, by this time clothed, but without his
      armour; and as soon as Dorothea saw him and was told by Sancho that that
      was Don Quixote, she whipped her palfrey, the well-bearded barber
      following her, and on coming up to him her squire sprang from his mule and
      came forward to receive her in his arms, and she dismounting with great
      ease of manner advanced to kneel before the feet of Don Quixote; and
      though he strove to raise her up, she without rising addressed him in this
      fashion:
    </p>
    <p>
      "From this spot I will not rise, valiant and doughty knight, until your
      goodness and courtesy grant me a boon, which will redound to the honour
      and renown of your person and render a service to the most disconsolate
      and afflicted damsel the sun has seen; and if the might of your strong arm
      corresponds to the repute of your immortal fame, you are bound to aid the
      helpless being who, led by the savour of your renowned name, hath come
      from far distant lands to seek your aid in her misfortunes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will not answer a word, beauteous lady," replied Don Quixote, "nor will
      I listen to anything further concerning you, until you rise from the
      earth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will not rise, senor," answered the afflicted damsel, "unless of your
      courtesy the boon I ask is first granted me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I grant and accord it," said Don Quixote, "provided without detriment or
      prejudice to my king, my country, or her who holds the key of my heart and
      freedom, it may be complied with."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It will not be to the detriment or prejudice of any of them, my worthy
      lord," said the afflicted damsel; and here Sancho Panza drew close to his
      master's ear and said to him very softly, "Your worship may very safely
      grant the boon she asks; it's nothing at all; only to kill a big giant;
      and she who asks it is the exalted Princess Micomicona, queen of the great
      kingdom of Micomicon of Ethiopia."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let her be who she may," replied Don Quixote, "I will do what is my
      bounden duty, and what my conscience bids me, in conformity with what I
      have professed;" and turning to the damsel he said, "Let your great beauty
      rise, for I grant the boon which you would ask of me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then what I ask," said the damsel, "is that your magnanimous person
      accompany me at once whither I will conduct you, and that you promise not
      to engage in any other adventure or quest until you have avenged me of a
      traitor who against all human and divine law, has usurped my kingdom."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I repeat that I grant it," replied Don Quixote; "and so, lady, you may
      from this day forth lay aside the melancholy that distresses you, and let
      your failing hopes gather new life and strength, for with the help of God
      and of my arm you will soon see yourself restored to your kingdom, and
      seated upon the throne of your ancient and mighty realm, notwithstanding
      and despite of the felons who would gainsay it; and now hands to the work,
      for in delay there is apt to be danger."
    </p>
    <p>
      The distressed damsel strove with much pertinacity to kiss his hands; but
      Don Quixote, who was in all things a polished and courteous knight, would
      by no means allow it, but made her rise and embraced her with great
      courtesy and politeness, and ordered Sancho to look to Rocinante's girths,
      and to arm him without a moment's delay. Sancho took down the armour,
      which was hung up on a tree like a trophy, and having seen to the girths
      armed his master in a trice, who as soon as he found himself in his armour
      exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let us be gone in the name of God to bring aid to this great lady."
    </p>
    <p>
      The barber was all this time on his knees at great pains to hide his
      laughter and not let his beard fall, for had it fallen maybe their fine
      scheme would have come to nothing; but now seeing the boon granted, and
      the promptitude with which Don Quixote prepared to set out in compliance
      with it, he rose and took his lady's hand, and between them they placed
      her upon the mule. Don Quixote then mounted Rocinante, and the barber
      settled himself on his beast, Sancho being left to go on foot, which made
      him feel anew the loss of his Dapple, finding the want of him now. But he
      bore all with cheerfulness, being persuaded that his master had now fairly
      started and was just on the point of becoming an emperor; for he felt no
      doubt at all that he would marry this princess, and be king of Micomicon
      at least. The only thing that troubled him was the reflection that this
      kingdom was in the land of the blacks, and that the people they would give
      him for vassals would be all black; but for this he soon found a remedy in
      his fancy, and said he to himself, "What is it to me if my vassals are
      blacks? What more have I to do than make a cargo of them and carry them to
      Spain, where I can sell them and get ready money for them, and with it buy
      some title or some office in which to live at ease all the days of my
      life? Not unless you go to sleep and haven't the wit or skill to turn
      things to account and sell three, six, or ten thousand vassals while you
      would be talking about it! By God I will stir them up, big and little, or
      as best I can, and let them be ever so black I'll turn them into white or
      yellow. Come, come, what a fool I am!" And so he jogged on, so occupied
      with his thoughts and easy in his mind that he forgot all about the
      hardship of travelling on foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cardenio and the curate were watching all this from among some bushes, not
      knowing how to join company with the others; but the curate, who was very
      fertile in devices, soon hit upon a way of effecting their purpose, and
      with a pair of scissors he had in a case he quickly cut off Cardenio's
      beard, and putting on him a grey jerkin of his own he gave him a black
      cloak, leaving himself in his breeches and doublet, while Cardenio's
      appearance was so different from what it had been that he would not have
      known himself had he seen himself in a mirror. Having effected this,
      although the others had gone on ahead while they were disguising
      themselves, they easily came out on the high road before them, for the
      brambles and awkward places they encountered did not allow those on
      horseback to go as fast as those on foot. They then posted themselves on
      the level ground at the outlet of the Sierra, and as soon as Don Quixote
      and his companions emerged from it the curate began to examine him very
      deliberately, as though he were striving to recognise him, and after
      having stared at him for some time he hastened towards him with open arms
      exclaiming, "A happy meeting with the mirror of chivalry, my worthy
      compatriot Don Quixote of La Mancha, the flower and cream of high
      breeding, the protection and relief of the distressed, the quintessence of
      knights-errant!" And so saying he clasped in his arms the knee of Don
      Quixote's left leg. He, astonished at the stranger's words and behaviour,
      looked at him attentively, and at length recognised him, very much
      surprised to see him there, and made great efforts to dismount. This,
      however, the curate would not allow, on which Don Quixote said, "Permit
      me, senor licentiate, for it is not fitting that I should be on horseback
      and so reverend a person as your worship on foot."
    </p>
    <p>
      "On no account will I allow it," said the curate; "your mightiness must
      remain on horseback, for it is on horseback you achieve the greatest deeds
      and adventures that have been beheld in our age; as for me, an unworthy
      priest, it will serve me well enough to mount on the haunches of one of
      the mules of these gentlefolk who accompany your worship, if they have no
      objection, and I will fancy I am mounted on the steed Pegasus, or on the
      zebra or charger that bore the famous Moor, Muzaraque, who to this day
      lies enchanted in the great hill of Zulema, a little distance from the
      great Complutum."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nor even that will I consent to, senor licentiate," answered Don Quixote,
      "and I know it will be the good pleasure of my lady the princess, out of
      love for me, to order her squire to give up the saddle of his mule to your
      worship, and he can sit behind if the beast will bear it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It will, I am sure," said the princess, "and I am sure, too, that I need
      not order my squire, for he is too courteous and considerate to allow a
      Churchman to go on foot when he might be mounted."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That he is," said the barber, and at once alighting, he offered his
      saddle to the curate, who accepted it without much entreaty; but
      unfortunately as the barber was mounting behind, the mule, being as it
      happened a hired one, which is the same thing as saying ill-conditioned,
      lifted its hind hoofs and let fly a couple of kicks in the air, which
      would have made Master Nicholas wish his expedition in quest of Don
      Quixote at the devil had they caught him on the breast or head. As it was,
      they so took him by surprise that he came to the ground, giving so little
      heed to his beard that it fell off, and all he could do when he found
      himself without it was to cover his face hastily with both his hands and
      moan that his teeth were knocked out. Don Quixote when he saw all that
      bundle of beard detached, without jaws or blood, from the face of the
      fallen squire, exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      "By the living God, but this is a great miracle! it has knocked off and
      plucked away the beard from his face as if it had been shaved off
      designedly."
    </p>
    <p>
      The curate, seeing the danger of discovery that threatened his scheme, at
      once pounced upon the beard and hastened with it to where Master Nicholas
      lay, still uttering moans, and drawing his head to his breast had it on in
      an instant, muttering over him some words which he said were a certain
      special charm for sticking on beards, as they would see; and as soon as he
      had it fixed he left him, and the squire appeared well bearded and whole
      as before, whereat Don Quixote was beyond measure astonished, and begged
      the curate to teach him that charm when he had an opportunity, as he was
      persuaded its virtue must extend beyond the sticking on of beards, for it
      was clear that where the beard had been stripped off the flesh must have
      remained torn and lacerated, and when it could heal all that it must be
      good for more than beards.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And so it is," said the curate, and he promised to teach it to him on the
      first opportunity. They then agreed that for the present the curate should
      mount, and that the three should ride by turns until they reached the inn,
      which might be about six leagues from where they were.
    </p>
    <p>
      Three then being mounted, that is to say, Don Quixote, the princess, and
      the curate, and three on foot, Cardenio, the barber, and Sancho Panza, Don
      Quixote said to the damsel:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let your highness, lady, lead on whithersoever is most pleasing to you;"
      but before she could answer the licentiate said:
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c29d" id="c29d"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c29d.jpg (345K)" src="images/c29d.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c29d.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Towards what kingdom would your ladyship direct our course? Is it
      perchance towards that of Micomicon? It must be, or else I know little
      about kingdoms."
    </p>
    <p>
      She, being ready on all points, understood that she was to answer "Yes,"
      so she said "Yes, senor, my way lies towards that kingdom."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In that case," said the curate, "we must pass right through my village,
      and there your worship will take the road to Cartagena, where you will be
      able to embark, fortune favouring; and if the wind be fair and the sea
      smooth and tranquil, in somewhat less than nine years you may come in
      sight of the great lake Meona, I mean Meotides, which is little more than
      a hundred days' journey this side of your highness's kingdom."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c29e" id="c29e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c29e.jpg (318K)" src="images/c29e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c29e.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your worship is mistaken, senor," said she; "for it is not two years
      since I set out from it, and though I never had good weather, nevertheless
      I am here to behold what I so longed for, and that is my lord Don Quixote
      of La Mancha, whose fame came to my ears as soon as I set foot in Spain
      and impelled me to go in search of him, to commend myself to his courtesy,
      and entrust the justice of my cause to the might of his invincible arm."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Enough; no more praise," said Don Quixote at this, "for I hate all
      flattery; and though this may not be so, still language of the kind is
      offensive to my chaste ears. I will only say, senora, that whether it has
      might or not, that which it may or may not have shall be devoted to your
      service even to death; and now, leaving this to its proper season, I would
      ask the senor licentiate to tell me what it is that has brought him into
      these parts, alone, unattended, and so lightly clad that I am filled with
      amazement."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will answer that briefly," replied the curate; "you must know then,
      Senor Don Quixote, that Master Nicholas, our friend and barber, and I were
      going to Seville to receive some money that a relative of mine who went to
      the Indies many years ago had sent me, and not such a small sum but that
      it was over sixty thousand pieces of eight, full weight, which is
      something; and passing by this place yesterday we were attacked by four
      footpads, who stripped us even to our beards, and them they stripped off
      so that the barber found it necessary to put on a false one, and even this
      young man here"&mdash;pointing to Cardenio&mdash;"they completely
      transformed. But the best of it is, the story goes in the neighbourhood
      that those who attacked us belong to a number of galley slaves who, they
      say, were set free almost on the very same spot by a man of such valour
      that, in spite of the commissary and of the guards, he released the whole
      of them; and beyond all doubt he must have been out of his senses, or he
      must be as great a scoundrel as they, or some man without heart or
      conscience to let the wolf loose among the sheep, the fox among the hens,
      the fly among the honey. He has defrauded justice, and opposed his king
      and lawful master, for he opposed his just commands; he has, I say, robbed
      the galleys of their feet, stirred up the Holy Brotherhood which for many
      years past has been quiet, and, lastly, has done a deed by which his soul
      may be lost without any gain to his body." Sancho had told the curate and
      the barber of the adventure of the galley slaves, which, so much to his
      glory, his master had achieved, and hence the curate in alluding to it
      made the most of it to see what would be said or done by Don Quixote; who
      changed colour at every word, not daring to say that it was he who had
      been the liberator of those worthy people. "These, then," said the curate,
      "were they who robbed us; and God in his mercy pardon him who would not
      let them go to the punishment they deserved."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c29f" id="c29f"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c29f.jpg (53K)" src="images/c29f.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c29f.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch30" id="ch30"></a>CHAPTER XXX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TREATS OF ADDRESS DISPLAYED BY THE FAIR DOROTHEA, WITH OTHER MATTERS
      PLEASANT AND AMUSING
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c30a" id="c30a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c30a.jpg (147K)" src="images/c30a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c30a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The curate had hardly ceased speaking, when Sancho said, "In faith, then,
      senor licentiate, he who did that deed was my master; and it was not for
      want of my telling him beforehand and warning him to mind what he was
      about, and that it was a sin to set them at liberty, as they were all on
      the march there because they were special scoundrels."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Blockhead!" said Don Quixote at this, "it is no business or concern of
      knights-errant to inquire whether any persons in affliction, in chains, or
      oppressed that they may meet on the high roads go that way and suffer as
      they do because of their faults or because of their misfortunes. It only
      concerns them to aid them as persons in need of help, having regard to
      their sufferings and not to their rascalities. I encountered a chaplet or
      string of miserable and unfortunate people, and did for them what my sense
      of duty demands of me, and as for the rest be that as it may; and whoever
      takes objection to it, saving the sacred dignity of the senor licentiate
      and his honoured person, I say he knows little about chivalry and lies
      like a whoreson villain, and this I will give him to know to the fullest
      extent with my sword;" and so saying he settled himself in his stirrups
      and pressed down his morion; for the barber's basin, which according to
      him was Mambrino's helmet, he carried hanging at the saddle-bow until he
      could repair the damage done to it by the galley slaves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dorothea, who was shrewd and sprightly, and by this time thoroughly
      understood Don Quixote's crazy turn, and that all except Sancho Panza were
      making game of him, not to be behind the rest said to him, on observing
      his irritation, "Sir Knight, remember the boon you have promised me, and
      that in accordance with it you must not engage in any other adventure, be
      it ever so pressing; calm yourself, for if the licentiate had known that
      the galley slaves had been set free by that unconquered arm he would have
      stopped his mouth thrice over, or even bitten his tongue three times
      before he would have said a word that tended towards disrespect of your
      worship."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I swear heartily," said the curate, "and I would have even plucked
      off a moustache."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will hold my peace, senora," said Don Quixote, "and I will curb the
      natural anger that had arisen in my breast, and will proceed in peace and
      quietness until I have fulfilled my promise; but in return for this
      consideration I entreat you to tell me, if you have no objection to do so,
      what is the nature of your trouble, and how many, who, and what are the
      persons of whom I am to require due satisfaction, and on whom I am to take
      vengeance on your behalf?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I will do with all my heart," replied Dorothea, "if it will not be
      wearisome to you to hear of miseries and misfortunes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It will not be wearisome, senora," said Don Quixote; to which Dorothea
      replied, "Well, if that be so, give me your attention." As soon as she
      said this, Cardenio and the barber drew close to her side, eager to hear
      what sort of story the quick-witted Dorothea would invent for herself; and
      Sancho did the same, for he was as much taken in by her as his master; and
      she having settled herself comfortably in the saddle, and with the help of
      coughing and other preliminaries taken time to think, began with great
      sprightliness of manner in this fashion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "First of all, I would have you know, sirs, that my name is-" and here she
      stopped for a moment, for she forgot the name the curate had given her;
      but he came to her relief, seeing what her difficulty was, and said, "It
      is no wonder, senora, that your highness should be confused and
      embarrassed in telling the tale of your misfortunes; for such afflictions
      often have the effect of depriving the sufferers of memory, so that they
      do not even remember their own names, as is the case now with your
      ladyship, who has forgotten that she is called the Princess Micomicona,
      lawful heiress of the great kingdom of Micomicon; and with this cue your
      highness may now recall to your sorrowful recollection all you may wish to
      tell us."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is the truth," said the damsel; "but I think from this on I shall
      have no need of any prompting, and I shall bring my true story safe into
      port, and here it is. The king my father, who was called Tinacrio the
      Sapient, was very learned in what they call magic arts, and became aware
      by his craft that my mother, who was called Queen Jaramilla, was to die
      before he did, and that soon after he too was to depart this life, and I
      was to be left an orphan without father or mother. But all this, he
      declared, did not so much grieve or distress him as his certain knowledge
      that a prodigious giant, the lord of a great island close to our kingdom,
      Pandafilando of the Scowl by name--for it is averred that, though his eyes
      are properly placed and straight, he always looks askew as if he squinted,
      and this he does out of malignity, to strike fear and terror into those he
      looks at--that he knew, I say, that this giant on becoming aware of my
      orphan condition would overrun my kingdom with a mighty force and strip me
      of all, not leaving me even a small village to shelter me; but that I
      could avoid all this ruin and misfortune if I were willing to marry him;
      however, as far as he could see, he never expected that I would consent to
      a marriage so unequal; and he said no more than the truth in this, for it
      has never entered my mind to marry that giant, or any other, let him be
      ever so great or enormous. My father said, too, that when he was dead, and
      I saw Pandafilando about to invade my kingdom, I was not to wait and
      attempt to defend myself, for that would be destructive to me, but that I
      should leave the kingdom entirely open to him if I wished to avoid the
      death and total destruction of my good and loyal vassals, for there would
      be no possibility of defending myself against the giant's devilish power;
      and that I should at once with some of my followers set out for Spain,
      where I should obtain relief in my distress on finding a certain
      knight-errant whose fame by that time would extend over the whole kingdom,
      and who would be called, if I remember rightly, Don Azote or Don Gigote."
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Don Quixote,' he must have said, senora," observed Sancho at this,
      "otherwise called the Knight of the Rueful Countenance."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is it," said Dorothea; "he said, moreover, that he would be tall of
      stature and lank featured; and that on his right side under the left
      shoulder, or thereabouts, he would have a grey mole with hairs like
      bristles."
    </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this, Don Quixote said to his squire, "Here, Sancho my son,
      bear a hand and help me to strip, for I want to see if I am the knight
      that sage king foretold."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What does your worship want to strip for?" said Dorothea.
    </p>
    <p>
      "To see if I have that mole your father spoke of," answered Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no occasion to strip," said Sancho; "for I know your worship has
      just such a mole on the middle of your backbone, which is the mark of a
      strong man."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is enough," said Dorothea, "for with friends we must not look too
      closely into trifles; and whether it be on the shoulder or on the backbone
      matters little; it is enough if there is a mole, be it where it may, for
      it is all the same flesh; no doubt my good father hit the truth in every
      particular, and I have made a lucky hit in commending myself to Don
      Quixote; for he is the one my father spoke of, as the features of his
      countenance correspond with those assigned to this knight by that wide
      fame he has acquired not only in Spain but in all La Mancha; for I had
      scarcely landed at Osuna when I heard such accounts of his achievements,
      that at once my heart told me he was the very one I had come in search
      of."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But how did you land at Osuna, senora," asked Don Quixote, "when it is
      not a seaport?"
    </p>
    <p>
      But before Dorothea could reply the curate anticipated her, saying, "The
      princess meant to say that after she had landed at Malaga the first place
      where she heard of your worship was Osuna."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is what I meant to say," said Dorothea.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And that would be only natural," said the curate. "Will your majesty
      please proceed?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no more to add," said Dorothea, "save that in finding Don
      Quixote I have had such good fortune, that I already reckon and regard
      myself queen and mistress of my entire dominions, since of his courtesy
      and magnanimity he has granted me the boon of accompanying me
      whithersoever I may conduct him, which will be only to bring him face to
      face with Pandafilando of the Scowl, that he may slay him and restore to
      me what has been unjustly usurped by him: for all this must come to pass
      satisfactorily since my good father Tinacrio the Sapient foretold it, who
      likewise left it declared in writing in Chaldee or Greek characters (for I
      cannot read them), that if this predicted knight, after having cut the
      giant's throat, should be disposed to marry me I was to offer myself at
      once without demur as his lawful wife, and yield him possession of my
      kingdom together with my person."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What thinkest thou now, friend Sancho?" said Don Quixote at this.
      "Hearest thou that? Did I not tell thee so? See how we have already got a
      kingdom to govern and a queen to marry!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "On my oath it is so," said Sancho; "and foul fortune to him who won't
      marry after slitting Senor Pandahilado's windpipe! And then, how
      illfavoured the queen is! I wish the fleas in my bed were that sort!"
    </p>
    <p>
      And so saying he cut a couple of capers in the air with every sign of
      extreme satisfaction, and then ran to seize the bridle of Dorothea's mule,
      and checking it fell on his knees before her, begging her to give him her
      hand to kiss in token of his acknowledgment of her as his queen and
      mistress. Which of the bystanders could have helped laughing to see the
      madness of the master and the simplicity of the servant? Dorothea
      therefore gave her hand, and promised to make him a great lord in her
      kingdom, when Heaven should be so good as to permit her to recover and
      enjoy it, for which Sancho returned thanks in words that set them all
      laughing again.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This, sirs," continued Dorothea, "is my story; it only remains to tell
      you that of all the attendants I took with me from my kingdom I have none
      left except this well-bearded squire, for all were drowned in a great
      tempest we encountered when in sight of port; and he and I came to land on
      a couple of planks as if by a miracle; and indeed the whole course of my
      life is a miracle and a mystery as you may have observed; and if I have
      been over minute in any respect or not as precise as I ought, let it be
      accounted for by what the licentiate said at the beginning of my tale,
      that constant and excessive troubles deprive the sufferers of their
      memory."
    </p>
    <p>
      "They shall not deprive me of mine, exalted and worthy princess," said Don
      Quixote, "however great and unexampled those which I shall endure in your
      service may be; and here I confirm anew the boon I have promised you, and
      I swear to go with you to the end of the world until I find myself in the
      presence of your fierce enemy, whose haughty head I trust by the aid of my
      arm to cut off with the edge of this--I will not say good sword, thanks to
      Gines de Pasamonte who carried away mine"--(this he said between his
      teeth, and then continued), "and when it has been cut off and you have
      been put in peaceful possession of your realm it shall be left to your own
      decision to dispose of your person as may be most pleasing to you; for so
      long as my memory is occupied, my will enslaved, and my understanding
      enthralled by her--I say no more--it is impossible for me for a moment to
      contemplate marriage, even with a Phoenix."
    </p>
    <p>
      The last words of his master about not wanting to marry were so
      disagreeable to Sancho that raising his voice he exclaimed with great
      irritation:
    </p>
    <p>
      "By my oath, Senor Don Quixote, you are not in your right senses; for how
      can your worship possibly object to marrying such an exalted princess as
      this? Do you think Fortune will offer you behind every stone such a piece
      of luck as is offered you now? Is my lady Dulcinea fairer, perchance? Not
      she; nor half as fair; and I will even go so far as to say she does not
      come up to the shoe of this one here. A poor chance I have of getting that
      county I am waiting for if your worship goes looking for dainties in the
      bottom of the sea. In the devil's name, marry, marry, and take this
      kingdom that comes to hand without any trouble, and when you are king make
      me a marquis or governor of a province, and for the rest let the devil
      take it all."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote, when he heard such blasphemies uttered against his lady
      Dulcinea, could not endure it, and lifting his pike, without saying
      anything to Sancho or uttering a word, he gave him two such thwacks that
      he brought him to the ground; and had it not been that Dorothea cried out
      to him to spare him he would have no doubt taken his life on the spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do you think," he said to him after a pause, "you scurvy clown, that you
      are to be always interfering with me, and that you are to be always
      offending and I always pardoning? Don't fancy it, impious scoundrel, for
      that beyond a doubt thou art, since thou hast set thy tongue going against
      the peerless Dulcinea. Know you not, lout, vagabond, beggar, that were it
      not for the might that she infuses into my arm I should not have strength
      enough to kill a flea? Say, scoffer with a viper's tongue, what think you
      has won this kingdom and cut off this giant's head and made you a marquis
      (for all this I count as already accomplished and decided), but the might
      of Dulcinea, employing my arm as the instrument of her achievements? She
      fights in me and conquers in me, and I live and breathe in her, and owe my
      life and being to her. O whoreson scoundrel, how ungrateful you are, you
      see yourself raised from the dust of the earth to be a titled lord, and
      the return you make for so great a benefit is to speak evil of her who has
      conferred it upon you!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho was not so stunned but that he heard all his master said, and
      rising with some degree of nimbleness he ran to place himself behind
      Dorothea's palfrey, and from that position he said to his master:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell me, senor; if your worship is resolved not to marry this great
      princess, it is plain the kingdom will not be yours; and not being so, how
      can you bestow favours upon me? That is what I complain of. Let your
      worship at any rate marry this queen, now that we have got her here as if
      showered down from heaven, and afterwards you may go back to my lady
      Dulcinea; for there must have been kings in the world who kept mistresses.
      As to beauty, I have nothing to do with it; and if the truth is to be
      told, I like them both; though I have never seen the lady Dulcinea."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How! never seen her, blasphemous traitor!" exclaimed Don Quixote; "hast
      thou not just now brought me a message from her?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I mean," said Sancho, "that I did not see her so much at my leisure that
      I could take particular notice of her beauty, or of her charms piecemeal;
      but taken in the lump I like her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now I forgive thee," said Don Quixote; "and do thou forgive me the injury
      I have done thee; for our first impulses are not in our control."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I see," replied Sancho, "and with me the wish to speak is always the
      first impulse, and I cannot help saying, once at any rate, what I have on
      the tip of my tongue."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For all that, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "take heed of what thou sayest,
      for the pitcher goes so often to the well--I need say no more to thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, well," said Sancho, "God is in heaven, and sees all tricks, and
      will judge who does most harm, I in not speaking right, or your worship in
      not doing it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is enough," said Dorothea; "run, Sancho, and kiss your lord's hand
      and beg his pardon, and henceforward be more circumspect with your praise
      and abuse; and say nothing in disparagement of that lady Toboso, of whom I
      know nothing save that I am her servant; and put your trust in God, for
      you will not fail to obtain some dignity so as to live like a prince."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho advanced hanging his head and begged his master's hand, which Don
      Quixote with dignity presented to him, giving him his blessing as soon as
      he had kissed it; he then bade him go on ahead a little, as he had
      questions to ask him and matters of great importance to discuss with him.
      Sancho obeyed, and when the two had gone some distance in advance Don
      Quixote said to him, "Since thy return I have had no opportunity or time
      to ask thee many particulars touching thy mission and the answer thou hast
      brought back, and now that chance has granted us the time and opportunity,
      deny me not the happiness thou canst give me by such good news."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let your worship ask what you will," answered Sancho, "for I shall find a
      way out of all as I found a way in; but I implore you, senor, not
      to be so revengeful in future."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why dost thou say that, Sancho?" said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I say it," he returned, "because those blows just now were more because
      of the quarrel the devil stirred up between us both the other night, than
      for what I said against my lady Dulcinea, whom I love and reverence as I
      would a relic--though there is nothing of that about her--merely as
      something belonging to your worship."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Say no more on that subject for thy life, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for
      it is displeasing to me; I have already pardoned thee for that, and thou
      knowest the common saying, 'for a fresh sin a fresh penance.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      While this was going on they saw coming along the road they were following
      a man mounted on an ass, who when he came close seemed to be a gipsy; but
      Sancho Panza, whose eyes and heart were there wherever he saw asses, no
      sooner beheld the man than he knew him to be Gines de Pasamonte; and by
      the thread of the gipsy he got at the ball, his ass, for it was, in fact,
      Dapple that carried Pasamonte, who to escape recognition and to sell the
      ass had disguised himself as a gipsy, being able to speak the gipsy
      language, and many more, as well as if they were his own. Sancho saw him
      and recognised him, and the instant he did so he shouted to him,
      "Ginesillo, you thief, give up my treasure, release my life, embarrass
      thyself not with my repose, quit my ass, leave my delight, be off, rip,
      get thee gone, thief, and give up what is not thine."
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no necessity for so many words or objurgations, for at the first
      one Gines jumped down, and at a like racing speed made off and got clear
      of them all. Sancho hastened to his Dapple, and embracing him he said,
      "How hast thou fared, my blessing, Dapple of my eyes, my comrade?" all the
      while kissing him and caressing him as if he were a human being. The ass
      held his peace, and let himself be kissed and caressed by Sancho without
      answering a single word. They all came up and congratulated him on having
      found Dapple, Don Quixote especially, who told him that notwithstanding
      this he would not cancel the order for the three ass-colts, for which
      Sancho thanked him.
    </p>
    <p>
      While the two had been going along conversing in this fashion, the curate
      observed to Dorothea that she had shown great cleverness, as well in the
      story itself as in its conciseness, and the resemblance it bore to those
      of the books of chivalry. She said that she had many times amused herself
      reading them; but that she did not know the situation of the provinces or
      seaports, and so she had said at haphazard that she had landed at Osuna.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So I saw," said the curate, "and for that reason I made haste to say what
      I did, by which it was all set right. But is it not a strange thing to see
      how readily this unhappy gentleman believes all these figments and lies,
      simply because they are in the style and manner of the absurdities of his
      books?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "So it is," said Cardenio; "and so uncommon and unexampled, that were one
      to attempt to invent and concoct it in fiction, I doubt if there be any
      wit keen enough to imagine it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But another strange thing about it," said the curate, "is that, apart
      from the silly things which this worthy gentleman says in connection with
      his craze, when other subjects are dealt with, he can discuss them in a
      perfectly rational manner, showing that his mind is quite clear and
      composed; so that, provided his chivalry is not touched upon, no one would
      take him to be anything but a man of thoroughly sound understanding."
    </p>
    <p>
      While they were holding this conversation Don Quixote continued his with
      Sancho, saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Friend Panza, let us forgive and forget as to our quarrels, and tell me
      now, dismissing anger and irritation, where, how, and when didst thou find
      Dulcinea? What was she doing? What didst thou say to her? What did she
      answer? How did she look when she was reading my letter? Who copied it out
      for thee? and everything in the matter that seems to thee worth knowing,
      asking, and learning; neither adding nor falsifying to give me pleasure,
      nor yet curtailing lest you should deprive me of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor," replied Sancho, "if the truth is to be told, nobody copied out
      the letter for me, for I carried no letter at all."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is as thou sayest," said Don Quixote, "for the note-book in which I
      wrote it I found in my own possession two days after thy departure, which
      gave me very great vexation, as I knew not what thou wouldst do on finding
      thyself without any letter; and I made sure thou wouldst return from the
      place where thou didst first miss it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So I should have done," said Sancho, "if I had not got it by heart when
      your worship read it to me, so that I repeated it to a sacristan, who
      copied it out for me from hearing it, so exactly that he said in all the
      days of his life, though he had read many a letter of excommunication, he
      had never seen or read so pretty a letter as that."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And hast thou got it still in thy memory, Sancho?" said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, senor," replied Sancho, "for as soon as I had repeated it, seeing
      there was no further use for it, I set about forgetting it; and if I
      recollect any of it, it is that about 'Scrubbing,'I mean to say 'Sovereign
      Lady,' and the end 'Yours till death, the Knight of the Rueful
      Countenance;' and between these two I put into it more than three hundred
      'my souls' and 'my life's' and 'my eyes."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c30e" id="c30e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c30e.jpg (13K)" src="images/c30e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch31" id="ch31"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE DELECTABLE DISCUSSION BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO PANZA, HIS
      SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c31a" id="c31a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c31a.jpg (151K)" src="images/c31a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c31a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "All that is not unsatisfactory to me," said Don Quixote. "Go on; thou
      didst reach her; and what was that queen of beauty doing? Surely thou
      didst find her stringing pearls, or embroidering some device in gold
      thread for this her enslaved knight."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I did not," said Sancho, "but I found her winnowing two bushels of wheat
      in the yard of her house."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then depend upon it," said Don Quixote, "the grains of that wheat were
      pearls when touched by her hands; and didst thou look, friend? was it
      white wheat or brown?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was neither, but red," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then I promise thee," said Don Quixote, "that, winnowed by her hands,
      beyond a doubt the bread it made was of the whitest; but go on; when thou
      gavest her my letter, did she kiss it? Did she place it on her head? Did
      she perform any ceremony befitting it, or what did she do?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "When I went to give it to her," replied Sancho, "she was hard at it
      swaying from side to side with a lot of wheat she had in the sieve, and
      she said to me, 'Lay the letter, friend, on the top of that sack, for I
      cannot read it until I have done sifting all this."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Discreet lady!" said Don Quixote; "that was in order to read it at her
      leisure and enjoy it; proceed, Sancho; while she was engaged in her
      occupation what converse did she hold with thee? What did she ask about
      me, and what answer didst thou give? Make haste; tell me all, and let not
      an atom be left behind in the ink-bottle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "She asked me nothing," said Sancho; "but I told her how your worship was
      left doing penance in her service, naked from the waist up, in among these
      mountains like a savage, sleeping on the ground, not eating bread off a
      tablecloth nor combing your beard, weeping and cursing your fortune."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In saying I cursed my fortune thou saidst wrong," said Don Quixote; "for
      rather do I bless it and shall bless it all the days of my life for having
      made me worthy of aspiring to love so lofty a lady as Dulcinea del
      Toboso."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And so lofty she is," said Sancho, "that she overtops me by more than a
      hand's-breadth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What! Sancho," said Don Quixote, "didst thou measure with her?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I measured in this way," said Sancho; "going to help her to put a sack of
      wheat on the back of an ass, we came so close together that I could see
      she stood more than a good palm over me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well!" said Don Quixote, "and doth she not of a truth accompany and adorn
      this greatness with a thousand million charms of mind! But one thing thou
      wilt not deny, Sancho; when thou camest close to her didst thou not
      perceive a Sabaean odour, an aromatic fragrance, a, I know not what,
      delicious, that I cannot find a name for; I mean a redolence, an
      exhalation, as if thou wert in the shop of some dainty glover?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "All I can say is," said Sancho, "that I did perceive a little odour,
      something goaty; it must have been that she was all in a sweat with hard
      work."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It could not be that," said Don Quixote, "but thou must have been
      suffering from cold in the head, or must have smelt thyself; for I know
      well what would be the scent of that rose among thorns, that lily of the
      field, that dissolved amber."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Maybe so," replied Sancho; "there often comes from myself that same odour
      which then seemed to me to come from her grace the lady Dulcinea; but
      that's no wonder, for one devil is like another."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then," continued Don Quixote, "now she has done sifting the corn and
      sent it to the mill; what did she do when she read the letter?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "As for the letter," said Sancho, "she did not read it, for she said she
      could neither read nor write; instead of that she tore it up into small
      pieces, saying that she did not want to let anyone read it lest her
      secrets should become known in the village, and that what I had told her
      by word of mouth about the love your worship bore her, and the
      extraordinary penance you were doing for her sake, was enough; and, to
      make an end of it, she told me to tell your worship that she kissed your
      hands, and that she had a greater desire to see you than to write to you;
      and that therefore she entreated and commanded you, on sight of this
      present, to come out of these thickets, and to have done with carrying on
      absurdities, and to set out at once for El Toboso, unless something else
      of greater importance should happen, for she had a great desire to see
      your worship. She laughed greatly when I told her how your worship was
      called The Knight of the Rueful Countenance; I asked her if that Biscayan
      the other day had been there; and she told me he had, and that he was an
      honest fellow; I asked her too about the galley slaves, but she said she
      had not seen any as yet."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So far all goes well," said Don Quixote; "but tell me what jewel was it
      that she gave thee on taking thy leave, in return for thy tidings of me?
      For it is a usual and ancient custom with knights and ladies errant to
      give the squires, damsels, or dwarfs who bring tidings of their ladies to
      the knights, or of their knights to the ladies, some rich jewel as a
      guerdon for good news,' and acknowledgment of the message."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is very likely," said Sancho, "and a good custom it was, to my mind;
      but that must have been in days gone by, for now it would seem to be the
      custom only to give a piece of bread and cheese; because that was what my
      lady Dulcinea gave me over the top of the yard-wall when I took leave of
      her; and more by token it was sheep's-milk cheese."
    </p>
    <p>
      "She is generous in the extreme," said Don Quixote, "and if she did not
      give thee a jewel of gold, no doubt it must have been because she had not
      one to hand there to give thee; but sleeves are good after Easter; I shall
      see her and all shall be made right. But knowest thou what amazes me,
      Sancho? It seems to me thou must have gone and come through the air, for
      thou hast taken but little more than three days to go to El Toboso and
      return, though it is more than thirty leagues from here to there. From
      which I am inclined to think that the sage magician who is my friend, and
      watches over my interests (for of necessity there is and must be one, or
      else I should not be a right knight-errant), that this same, I say, must
      have helped thee to travel without thy knowledge; for some of these sages
      will catch up a knight-errant sleeping in his bed, and without his knowing
      how or in what way it happened, he wakes up the next day more than a
      thousand leagues away from the place where he went to sleep. And if it
      were not for this, knights-errant would not be able to give aid to one
      another in peril, as they do at every turn. For a knight, maybe, is
      fighting in the mountains of Armenia with some dragon, or fierce serpent,
      or another knight, and gets the worst of the battle, and is at the point
      of death; but when he least looks for it, there appears over against him
      on a cloud, or chariot of fire, another knight, a friend of his, who just
      before had been in England, and who takes his part, and delivers him from
      death; and at night he finds himself in his own quarters supping very much
      to his satisfaction; and yet from one place to the other will have been
      two or three thousand leagues. And all this is done by the craft and skill
      of the sage enchanters who take care of those valiant knights; so that,
      friend Sancho, I find no difficulty in believing that thou mayest have
      gone from this place to El Toboso and returned in such a short time,
      since, as I have said, some friendly sage must have carried thee through
      the air without thee perceiving it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That must have been it," said Sancho, "for indeed Rocinante went like a
      gipsy's ass with quicksilver in his ears."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Quicksilver!" said Don Quixote, "aye and what is more, a legion of
      devils, folk that can travel and make others travel without being weary,
      exactly as the whim seizes them. But putting this aside, what thinkest
      thou I ought to do about my lady's command to go and see her? For though I
      feel that I am bound to obey her mandate, I feel too that I am debarred by
      the boon I have accorded to the princess that accompanies us, and the law
      of chivalry compels me to have regard for my word in preference to my
      inclination; on the one hand the desire to see my lady pursues and
      harasses me, on the other my solemn promise and the glory I shall win in
      this enterprise urge and call me; but what I think I shall do is to travel
      with all speed and reach quickly the place where this giant is, and on my
      arrival I shall cut off his head, and establish the princess peacefully in
      her realm, and forthwith I shall return to behold the light that lightens
      my senses, to whom I shall make such excuses that she will be led to
      approve of my delay, for she will see that it entirely tends to increase
      her glory and fame; for all that I have won, am winning, or shall win by
      arms in this life, comes to me of the favour she extends to me, and
      because I am hers."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah! what a sad state your worship's brains are in!" said Sancho. "Tell
      me, senor, do you mean to travel all that way for nothing, and to let slip
      and lose so rich and great a match as this where they give as a portion a
      kingdom that in sober truth I have heard say is more than twenty thousand
      leagues round about, and abounds with all things necessary to support
      human life, and is bigger than Portugal and Castile put together? Peace,
      for the love of God! Blush for what you have said, and take my advice, and
      forgive me, and marry at once in the first village where there is a
      curate; if not, here is our licentiate who will do the business
      beautifully; remember, I am old enough to give advice, and this I am
      giving comes pat to the purpose; for a sparrow in the hand is better than
      a vulture on the wing, and he who has the good to his hand and chooses the
      bad, that the good he complains of may not come to him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Look here, Sancho," said Don Quixote. "If thou art advising me to marry,
      in order that immediately on slaying the giant I may become king, and be
      able to confer favours on thee, and give thee what I have promised, let me
      tell thee I shall be able very easily to satisfy thy desires without
      marrying; for before going into battle I will make it a stipulation that,
      if I come out of it victorious, even I do not marry, they shall give me a
      portion of the kingdom, that I may bestow it upon whomsoever I
      choose, and when they give it to me upon whom wouldst thou have me bestow
      it but upon thee?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is plain speaking," said Sancho; "but let your worship take care to
      choose it on the seacoast, so that if I don't like the life, I may be able
      to ship off my black vassals and deal with them as I have said; don't mind
      going to see my lady Dulcinea now, but go and kill this giant and let us
      finish off this business; for by God it strikes me it will be one of great
      honour and great profit."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I hold thou art in the right of it, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and I
      will take thy advice as to accompanying the princess before going to see
      Dulcinea; but I counsel thee not to say anything to any one, or to those
      who are with us, about what we have considered and discussed, for as
      Dulcinea is so decorous that she does not wish her thoughts to be known it
      is not right that I or anyone for me should disclose them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then, if that be so," said Sancho, "how is it that your worship
      makes all those you overcome by your arm go to present themselves before
      my lady Dulcinea, this being the same thing as signing your name to it
      that you love her and are her lover? And as those who go must perforce
      kneel before her and say they come from your worship to submit themselves
      to her, how can the thoughts of both of you be hid?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "O, how silly and simple thou art!" said Don Quixote; "seest thou not,
      Sancho, that this tends to her greater exaltation? For thou must know that
      according to our way of thinking in chivalry, it is a high honour to a
      lady to have many knights-errant in her service, whose thoughts never go
      beyond serving her for her own sake, and who look for no other reward for
      their great and true devotion than that she should be willing to accept
      them as her knights."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is with that kind of love," said Sancho, "I have heard preachers say
      we ought to love our Lord, for himself alone, without being moved by the
      hope of glory or the fear of punishment; though for my part, I would
      rather love and serve him for what he could do."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The devil take thee for a clown!" said Don Quixote, "and what shrewd
      things thou sayest at times! One would think thou hadst studied."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In faith, then, I cannot even read."
    </p>
    <p>
      Master Nicholas here called out to them to wait a while, as they wanted to
      halt and drink at a little spring there was there. Don Quixote drew up,
      not a little to the satisfaction of Sancho, for he was by this time weary
      of telling so many lies, and in dread of his master catching him tripping,
      for though he knew that Dulcinea was a peasant girl of El Toboso, he had
      never seen her in all his life. Cardenio had now put on the clothes which
      Dorothea was wearing when they found her, and though they were not very
      good, they were far better than those he put off. They dismounted together
      by the side of the spring, and with what the curate had provided himself
      with at the inn they appeased, though not very well, the keen appetite
      they all of them brought with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      While they were so employed there happened to come by a youth passing on
      his way, who stopping to examine the party at the spring, the next moment
      ran to Don Quixote and clasping him round the legs, began to weep freely,
      saying, "O, senor, do you not know me? Look at me well; I am that lad
      Andres that your worship released from the oak-tree where I was tied."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote recognised him, and taking his hand he turned to those present
      and said: "That your worships may see how important it is to have
      knights-errant to redress the wrongs and injuries done by tyrannical and
      wicked men in this world, I may tell you that some days ago passing
      through a wood, I heard cries and piteous complaints as of a person in
      pain and distress; I immediately hastened, impelled by my bounden duty, to
      the quarter whence the plaintive accents seemed to me to proceed, and I
      found tied to an oak this lad who now stands before you, which in my heart
      I rejoice at, for his testimony will not permit me to depart from the
      truth in any particular. He was, I say, tied to an oak, naked from the
      waist up, and a clown, whom I afterwards found to be his master, was
      scarifying him by lashes with the reins of his mare. As soon as I saw him
      I asked the reason of so cruel a flagellation. The boor replied that he
      was flogging him because he was his servant and because of carelessness
      that proceeded rather from dishonesty than stupidity; on which this boy
      said, 'Senor, he flogs me only because I ask for my wages.' The master
      made I know not what speeches and explanations, which, though I listened
      to them, I did not accept. In short, I compelled the clown to unbind him,
      and to swear he would take him with him, and pay him real by real, and
      perfumed into the bargain. Is not all this true, Andres my son? Didst thou
      not mark with what authority I commanded him, and with what humility he
      promised to do all I enjoined, specified, and required of him? Answer
      without hesitation; tell these gentlemen what took place, that they may
      see that it is as great an advantage as I say to have knights-errant
      abroad."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All that your worship has said is quite true," answered the lad; "but the
      end of the business turned out just the opposite of what your worship
      supposes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How! the opposite?" said Don Quixote; "did not the clown pay thee then?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not only did he not pay me," replied the lad, "but as soon as your
      worship had passed out of the wood and we were alone, he tied me up again
      to the same oak and gave me a fresh flogging, that left me like a flayed
      Saint Bartholomew; and every stroke he gave me he followed up with some
      jest or gibe about having made a fool of your worship, and but for the
      pain I was suffering I should have laughed at the things he said. In short
      he left me in such a condition that I have been until now in a hospital
      getting cured of the injuries which that rascally clown inflicted on me
      then; for all which your worship is to blame; for if you had gone your own
      way and not come where there was no call for you, nor meddled in other
      people's affairs, my master would have been content with giving me one or
      two dozen lashes, and would have then loosed me and paid me what he owed
      me; but when your worship abused him so out of measure, and gave him so
      many hard words, his anger was kindled; and as he could not revenge
      himself on you, as soon as he saw you had left him the storm burst upon me
      in such a way, that I feel as if I should never be a man again."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The mischief," said Don Quixote, "lay in my going away; for I should not
      have gone until I had seen thee paid; because I ought to have known well
      by long experience that there is no clown who will keep his word if he
      finds it will not suit him to keep it; but thou rememberest, Andres, that
      I swore if he did not pay thee I would go and seek him, and find him
      though he were to hide himself in the whale's belly."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said Andres; "but it was of no use."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou shalt see now whether it is of use or not," said Don Quixote; and so
      saying, he got up hastily and bade Sancho bridle Rocinante, who was
      browsing while they were eating. Dorothea asked him what he meant to do.
      He replied that he meant to go in search of this clown and chastise him
      for such iniquitous conduct, and see Andres paid to the last maravedi,
      despite and in the teeth of all the clowns in the world. To which she
      replied that he must remember that in accordance with his promise he could
      not engage in any enterprise until he had concluded hers; and that as he
      knew this better than anyone, he should restrain his ardour until his
      return from her kingdom.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said Don Quixote, "and Andres must have patience until my
      return as you say, senora; but I once more swear and promise not to stop
      until I have seen him avenged and paid."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have no faith in those oaths," said Andres; "I would rather have now
      something to help me to get to Seville than all the revenges in the world;
      if you have here anything to eat that I can take with me, give it me, and
      God be with your worship and all knights-errant; and may their errands
      turn out as well for themselves as they have for me."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho took out from his store a piece of bread and another of cheese, and
      giving them to the lad he said, "Here, take this, brother Andres, for we
      have all of us a share in your misfortune."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, what share have you got?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "This share of bread and cheese I am giving you," answered Sancho; "and
      God knows whether I shall feel the want of it myself or not; for I would
      have you know, friend, that we squires to knights-errant have to bear a
      great deal of hunger and hard fortune, and even other things more easily
      felt than told."
    </p>
    <p>
      Andres seized his bread and cheese, and seeing that nobody gave him
      anything more, bent his head, and took hold of the road, as the saying is.
      However, before leaving he said, "For the love of God, sir knight-errant,
      if you ever meet me again, though you may see them cutting me to pieces,
      give me no aid or succour, but leave me to my misfortune, which will not
      be so great but that a greater will come to me by being helped by your
      worship, on whom and all the knights-errant that have ever been born God
      send his curse."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote was getting up to chastise him, but he took to his heels at
      such a pace that no one attempted to follow him; and mightily chapfallen
      was Don Quixote at Andres' story, and the others had to take great care to
      restrain their laughter so as not to put him entirely out of countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c31e" id="c31e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c31e.jpg (32K)" src="images/c31e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch32" id="ch32"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TREATS OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE'S PARTY AT THE INN
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c32a" id="c32a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c32a.jpg (132K)" src="images/c32a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c32a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Their dainty repast being finished, they saddled at once, and without any
      adventure worth mentioning they reached next day the inn, the object of
      Sancho Panza's fear and dread; but though he would have rather not entered
      it, there was no help for it. The landlady, the landlord, their daughter,
      and Maritornes, when they saw Don Quixote and Sancho coming, went out to
      welcome them with signs of hearty satisfaction, which Don Quixote received
      with dignity and gravity, and bade them make up a better bed for him than
      the last time: to which the landlady replied that if he paid better than
      he did the last time she would give him one fit for a prince. Don Quixote
      said he would, so they made up a tolerable one for him in the same garret
      as before; and he lay down at once, being sorely shaken and in want of
      sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      No sooner was the door shut upon him than the landlady made at the barber,
      and seizing him by the beard, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "By my faith you are not going to make a beard of my tail any longer; you
      must give me back tail, for it is a shame the way that thing of my
      husband's goes tossing about on the floor; I mean the comb that I used to
      stick in my good tail."
    </p>
    <p>
      But for all she tugged at it the barber would not give it up until the
      licentiate told him to let her have it, as there was now no further
      occasion for that stratagem, because he might declare himself and appear
      in his own character, and tell Don Quixote that he had fled to this inn
      when those thieves the galley slaves robbed him; and should he ask for the
      princess's squire, they could tell him that she had sent him on before her
      to give notice to the people of her kingdom that she was coming, and
      bringing with her the deliverer of them all. On this the barber cheerfully
      restored the tail to the landlady, and at the same time they returned all
      the accessories they had borrowed to effect Don Quixote's deliverance. All
      the people of the inn were struck with astonishment at the beauty of
      Dorothea, and even at the comely figure of the shepherd Cardenio. The
      curate made them get ready such fare as there was in the inn, and the
      landlord, in hope of better payment, served them up a tolerably good
      dinner. All this time Don Quixote was asleep, and they thought it best not
      to waken him, as sleeping would now do him more good than eating.
    </p>
    <p>
      While at dinner, the company consisting of the landlord, his wife, their
      daughter, Maritornes, and all the travellers, they discussed the strange
      craze of Don Quixote and the manner in which he had been found; and the
      landlady told them what had taken place between him and the carrier; and
      then, looking round to see if Sancho was there, when she saw he was not,
      she gave them the whole story of his blanketing, which they received with
      no little amusement. But on the curate observing that it was the books of
      chivalry which Don Quixote had read that had turned his brain, the
      landlord said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cannot understand how that can be, for in truth to my mind there is no
      better reading in the world, and I have here two or three of them, with
      other writings that are the very life, not only of myself but of plenty
      more; for when it is harvest-time, the reapers flock here on holidays, and
      there is always one among them who can read and who takes up one of these
      books, and we gather round him, thirty or more of us, and stay listening
      to him with a delight that makes our grey hairs grow young again. At least
      I can say for myself that when I hear of what furious and terrible blows
      the knights deliver, I am seized with the longing to do the same, and I
      would like to be hearing about them night and day."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And I just as much," said the landlady, "because I never have a quiet
      moment in my house except when you are listening to some one reading; for
      then you are so taken up that for the time being you forget to scold."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said Maritornes; "and, faith, I relish hearing these
      things greatly too, for they are very pretty; especially when they
      describe some lady or another in the arms of her knight under the orange
      trees, and the duenna who is keeping watch for them half dead with envy
      and fright; all this I say is as good as honey."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And you, what do you think, young lady?" said the curate turning to the
      landlord's daughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know indeed, senor," said she; "I listen too, and to tell the
      truth, though I do not understand it, I like hearing it; but it is not the
      blows that my father likes that I like, but the laments the knights utter
      when they are separated from their ladies; and indeed they sometimes make
      me weep with the pity I feel for them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then you would console them if it was for you they wept, young lady?"
      said Dorothea.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know what I should do," said the girl; "I only know that there
      are some of those ladies so cruel that they call their knights tigers and
      lions and a thousand other foul names: and Jesus! I don't know what sort
      of folk they can be, so unfeeling and heartless, that rather than bestow a
      glance upon a worthy man they leave him to die or go mad. I don't know
      what is the good of such prudery; if it is for honour's sake, why not
      marry them? That's all they want."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hush, child," said the landlady; "it seems to me thou knowest a great
      deal about these things, and it is not fit for girls to know or talk so
      much."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As the gentleman asked me, I could not help answering him," said the
      girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then," said the curate, "bring me these books, senor landlord, for I
      should like to see them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "With all my heart," said he, and going into his own room he brought out
      an old valise secured with a little chain, on opening which the curate
      found in it three large books and some manuscripts written in a very good
      hand. The first that he opened he found to be "Don Cirongilio of Thrace,"
      and the second "Don Felixmarte of Hircania," and the other the "History of
      the Great Captain Gonzalo Hernandez de Cordova, with the Life of Diego
      Garcia de Paredes."
    </p>
    <p>
      When the curate read the two first titles he looked over at the barber and
      said, "We want my friend's housekeeper and niece here now."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay," said the barber, "I can do just as well to carry them to the yard
      or to the hearth, and there is a very good fire there."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What! your worship would burn my books!" said the landlord.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Only these two," said the curate, "Don Cirongilio, and Felixmarte."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Are my books, then, heretics or phlegmaties that you want to burn them?"
      said the landlord.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Schismatics you mean, friend," said the barber, "not phlegmatics."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's it," said the landlord; "but if you want to burn any, let it be
      that about the Great Captain and that Diego Garcia; for I would rather
      have a child of mine burnt than either of the others."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Brother," said the curate, "those two books are made up of lies, and are
      full of folly and nonsense; but this of the Great Captain is a true
      history, and contains the deeds of Gonzalo Hernandez of Cordova, who by
      his many and great achievements earned the title all over the world of the
      Great Captain, a famous and illustrious name, and deserved by him alone;
      and this Diego Garcia de Paredes was a distinguished knight of the city of
      Trujillo in Estremadura, a most gallant soldier, and of such bodily
      strength that with one finger he stopped a mill-wheel in full motion; and
      posted with a two-handed sword at the foot of a bridge he kept the whole
      of an immense army from passing over it, and achieved such other exploits
      that if, instead of his relating them himself with the modesty of a knight
      and of one writing his own history, some free and unbiased writer had
      recorded them, they would have thrown into the shade all the deeds of the
      Hectors, Achilleses, and Rolands."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c32b" id="c32b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c32b.jpg (395K)" src="images/c32b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c32b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell that to my father," said the landlord. "There's a thing to be
      astonished at! Stopping a mill-wheel! By God your worship should read what
      I have read of Felixmarte of Hircania, how with one single backstroke he
      cleft five giants asunder through the middle as if they had been made of
      bean-pods like the little friars the children make; and another time he
      attacked a very great and powerful army, in which there were more than a
      million six hundred thousand soldiers, all armed from head to foot, and he
      routed them all as if they had been flocks of sheep."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c32c" id="c32c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c32c.jpg (341K)" src="images/c32c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c32c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "And then, what do you say to the good Cirongilio of Thrace, that was so
      stout and bold; as may be seen in the book, where it is related that as he
      was sailing along a river there came up out of the midst of the water
      against him a fiery serpent, and he, as soon as he saw it, flung himself
      upon it and got astride of its scaly shoulders, and squeezed its throat
      with both hands with such force that the serpent, finding he was
      throttling it, had nothing for it but to let itself sink to the bottom of
      the river, carrying with it the knight who would not let go his hold; and
      when they got down there he found himself among palaces and gardens so
      pretty that it was a wonder to see; and then the serpent changed itself
      into an old ancient man, who told him such things as were never heard.
      Hold your peace, senor; for if you were to hear this you would go mad with
      delight. A couple of figs for your Great Captain and your Diego Garcia!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Hearing this Dorothea said in a whisper to Cardenio, "Our landlord is
      almost fit to play a second part to Don Quixote."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I think so," said Cardenio, "for, as he shows, he accepts it as a
      certainty that everything those books relate took place exactly as it is
      written down; and the barefooted friars themselves would not persuade him
      to the contrary."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But consider, brother," said the curate once more, "there never was any
      Felixmarte of Hircania in the world, nor any Cirongilio of Thrace, or any
      of the other knights of the same sort, that the books of chivalry talk of;
      the whole thing is the fabrication and invention of idle wits, devised by
      them for the purpose you describe of beguiling the time, as your reapers
      do when they read; for I swear to you in all seriousness there never were
      any such knights in the world, and no such exploits or nonsense ever
      happened anywhere."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Try that bone on another dog," said the landlord; "as if I did not know
      how many make five, and where my shoe pinches me; don't think to feed me
      with pap, for by God I am no fool. It is a good joke for your worship to
      try and persuade me that everything these good books say is nonsense and
      lies, and they printed by the license of the Lords of the Royal Council,
      as if they were people who would allow such a lot of lies to be printed
      all together, and so many battles and enchantments that they take away
      one's senses."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have told you, friend," said the curate, "that this is done to divert
      our idle thoughts; and as in well-ordered states games of chess, fives,
      and billiards are allowed for the diversion of those who do not care, or
      are not obliged, or are unable to work, so books of this kind are allowed
      to be printed, on the supposition that, what indeed is the truth, there
      can be nobody so ignorant as to take any of them for true stories; and if
      it were permitted me now, and the present company desired it, I could say
      something about the qualities books of chivalry should possess to be good
      ones, that would be to the advantage and even to the taste of some; but I
      hope the time will come when I can communicate my ideas to some one who
      may be able to mend matters; and in the meantime, senor landlord, believe
      what I have said, and take your books, and make up your mind about their
      truth or falsehood, and much good may they do you; and God grant you may
      not fall lame of the same foot your guest Don Quixote halts on."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No fear of that," returned the landlord; "I shall not be so mad as to
      make a knight-errant of myself; for I see well enough that things are not
      now as they used to be in those days, when they say those famous knights
      roamed about the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho had made his appearance in the middle of this conversation, and he
      was very much troubled and cast down by what he heard said about
      knights-errant being now no longer in vogue, and all books of chivalry
      being folly and lies; and he resolved in his heart to wait and see what
      came of this journey of his master's, and if it did not turn out as
      happily as his master expected, he determined to leave him and go back to
      his wife and children and his ordinary labour.
    </p>
    <p>
      The landlord was carrying away the valise and the books, but the curate
      said to him, "Wait; I want to see what those papers are that are written
      in such a good hand." The landlord taking them out handed them to him to
      read, and he perceived they were a work of about eight sheets of
      manuscript, with, in large letters at the beginning, the title of "Novel
      of the Ill-advised Curiosity." The curate read three or four lines to
      himself, and said, "I must say the title of this novel does not seem to me
      a bad one, and I feel an inclination to read it all." To which the
      landlord replied, "Then your reverence will do well to read it, for I can
      tell you that some guests who have read it here have been much pleased
      with it, and have begged it of me very earnestly; but I would not give it,
      meaning to return it to the person who forgot the valise, books, and
      papers here, for maybe he will return here some time or other; and though
      I know I shall miss the books, faith I mean to return them; for though I
      am an innkeeper, still I am a Christian."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are very right, friend," said the curate; "but for all that, if the
      novel pleases me you must let me copy it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "With all my heart," replied the host.
    </p>
    <p>
      While they were talking Cardenio had taken up the novel and begun to read
      it, and forming the same opinion of it as the curate, he begged him to
      read it so that they might all hear it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would read it," said the curate, "if the time would not be better spent
      in sleeping."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It will be rest enough for me," said Dorothea, "to while away the time by
      listening to some tale, for my spirits are not yet tranquil enough to let
      me sleep when it would be seasonable."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then, in that case," said the curate, "I will read it, if it were
      only out of curiosity; perhaps it may contain something pleasant."
    </p>
    <p>
      Master Nicholas added his entreaties to the same effect, and Sancho too;
      seeing which, and considering that he would give pleasure to all, and
      receive it himself, the curate said, "Well then, attend to me everyone,
      for the novel begins thus."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c32e" id="c32e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c32e.jpg (11K)" src="images/c32e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch33" id="ch33"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH IS RELATED THE NOVEL OF "THE ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY"
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      In Florence, a rich and famous city of Italy in the province called
      Tuscany, there lived two gentlemen of wealth and quality, Anselmo and
      Lothario, such great friends that by way of distinction they were called
      by all that knew them "The Two Friends." They were unmarried, young, of
      the same age and of the same tastes, which was enough to account for the
      reciprocal friendship between them. Anselmo, it is true, was somewhat more
      inclined to seek pleasure in love than Lothario, for whom the pleasures of
      the chase had more attraction; but on occasion Anselmo would forego his
      own tastes to yield to those of Lothario, and Lothario would surrender his
      to fall in with those of Anselmo, and in this way their inclinations kept
      pace one with the other with a concord so perfect that the best regulated
      clock could not surpass it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Anselmo was deep in love with a high-born and beautiful maiden of the same
      city, the daughter of parents so estimable, and so estimable herself, that
      he resolved, with the approval of his friend Lothario, without whom he did
      nothing, to ask her of them in marriage, and did so, Lothario being the
      bearer of the demand, and conducting the negotiation so much to the
      satisfaction of his friend that in a short time he was in possession of
      the object of his desires, and Camilla so happy in having won Anselmo for
      her husband, that she gave thanks unceasingly to heaven and to Lothario,
      by whose means such good fortune had fallen to her. The first few days,
      those of a wedding being usually days of merry-making, Lothario frequented
      his friend Anselmo's house as he had been wont, striving to do honour to
      him and to the occasion, and to gratify him in every way he could; but
      when the wedding days were over and the succession of visits and
      congratulations had slackened, he began purposely to leave off going to
      the house of Anselmo, for it seemed to him, as it naturally would to all
      men of sense, that friends' houses ought not to be visited after marriage
      with the same frequency as in their masters' bachelor days: because,
      though true and genuine friendship cannot and should not be in any way
      suspicious, still a married man's honour is a thing of such delicacy that
      it is held liable to injury from brothers, much more from friends. Anselmo
      remarked the cessation of Lothario's visits, and complained of it to him,
      saying that if he had known that marriage was to keep him from enjoying
      his society as he used, he would have never married; and that, if by the
      thorough harmony that subsisted between them while he was a bachelor they
      had earned such a sweet name as that of "The Two Friends," he should not
      allow a title so rare and so delightful to be lost through a needless
      anxiety to act circumspectly; and so he entreated him, if such a phrase
      was allowable between them, to be once more master of his house and to
      come in and go out as formerly, assuring him that his wife Camilla had no
      other desire or inclination than that which he would wish her to have, and
      that knowing how sincerely they loved one another she was grieved to see
      such coldness in him.
    </p>
    <p>
      To all this and much more that Anselmo said to Lothario to persuade him to
      come to his house as he had been in the habit of doing, Lothario replied
      with so much prudence, sense, and judgment, that Anselmo was satisfied of
      his friend's good intentions, and it was agreed that on two days in the
      week, and on holidays, Lothario should come to dine with him; but though
      this arrangement was made between them Lothario resolved to observe it no
      further than he considered to be in accordance with the honour of his
      friend, whose good name was more to him than his own. He said, and justly,
      that a married man upon whom heaven had bestowed a beautiful wife should
      consider as carefully what friends he brought to his house as what female
      friends his wife associated with, for what cannot be done or arranged in
      the market-place, in church, at public festivals or at stations
      (opportunities that husbands cannot always deny their wives), may be
      easily managed in the house of the female friend or relative in whom most
      confidence is reposed. Lothario said, too, that every married man should
      have some friend who would point out to him any negligence he might be
      guilty of in his conduct, for it will sometimes happen that owing to the
      deep affection the husband bears his wife either he does not caution her,
      or, not to vex her, refrains from telling her to do or not to do certain
      things, doing or avoiding which may be a matter of honour or reproach to
      him; and errors of this kind he could easily correct if warned by a
      friend. But where is such a friend to be found as Lothario would have, so
      judicious, so loyal, and so true?
    </p>
    <p>
      Of a truth I know not; Lothario alone was such a one, for with the utmost
      care and vigilance he watched over the honour of his friend, and strove to
      diminish, cut down, and reduce the number of days for going to his house
      according to their agreement, lest the visits of a young man, wealthy,
      high-born, and with the attractions he was conscious of possessing, at the
      house of a woman so beautiful as Camilla, should be regarded with
      suspicion by the inquisitive and malicious eyes of the idle public. For
      though his integrity and reputation might bridle slanderous tongues, still
      he was unwilling to hazard either his own good name or that of his friend;
      and for this reason most of the days agreed upon he devoted to some other
      business which he pretended was unavoidable; so that a great portion of
      the day was taken up with complaints on one side and excuses on the other.
      It happened, however, that on one occasion when the two were strolling
      together outside the city, Anselmo addressed the following words to
      Lothario.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou mayest suppose, Lothario my friend, that I am unable to give
      sufficient thanks for the favours God has rendered me in making me the son
      of such parents as mine were, and bestowing upon me with no niggard hand
      what are called the gifts of nature as well as those of fortune, and above
      all for what he has done in giving me thee for a friend and Camilla for a
      wife&mdash;two treasures that I value, if not as highly as I ought, at
      least as highly as I am able. And yet, with all these good things, which
      are commonly all that men need to enable them to live happily, I am the
      most discontented and dissatisfied man in the whole world; for, I know not
      how long since, I have been harassed and oppressed by a desire so strange
      and so unusual, that I wonder at myself and blame and chide myself when I
      am alone, and strive to stifle it and hide it from my own thoughts, and
      with no better success than if I were endeavouring deliberately to publish
      it to all the world; and as, in short, it must come out, I would confide
      it to thy safe keeping, feeling sure that by this means, and by thy
      readiness as a true friend to afford me relief, I shall soon find myself
      freed from the distress it causes me, and that thy care will give me
      happiness in the same degree as my own folly has caused me misery."
    </p>
    <p>
      The words of Anselmo struck Lothario with astonishment, unable as he was
      to conjecture the purport of such a lengthy preamble; and though he strove
      to imagine what desire it could be that so troubled his friend, his
      conjectures were all far from the truth, and to relieve the anxiety which
      this perplexity was causing him, he told him he was doing a flagrant
      injustice to their great friendship in seeking circuitous methods of
      confiding to him his most hidden thoughts, for he well knew he might
      reckon upon his counsel in diverting them, or his help in carrying them
      into effect.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is the truth," replied Anselmo, "and relying upon that I will tell
      thee, friend Lothario, that the desire which harasses me is that of
      knowing whether my wife Camilla is as good and as perfect as I think her
      to be; and I cannot satisfy myself of the truth on this point except by
      testing her in such a way that the trial may prove the purity of her
      virtue as the fire proves that of gold; because I am persuaded, my friend,
      that a woman is virtuous only in proportion as she is or is not tempted;
      and that she alone is strong who does not yield to the promises, gifts,
      tears, and importunities of earnest lovers; for what thanks does a woman
      deserve for being good if no one urges her to be bad, and what wonder is
      it that she is reserved and circumspect to whom no opportunity is given of
      going wrong and who knows she has a husband that will take her life the
      first time he detects her in an impropriety? I do not therefore hold her
      who is virtuous through fear or want of opportunity in the same estimation
      as her who comes out of temptation and trial with a crown of victory; and
      so, for these reasons and many others that I could give thee to justify
      and support the opinion I hold, I am desirous that my wife Camilla should
      pass this crisis, and be refined and tested by the fire of finding herself
      wooed and by one worthy to set his affections upon her; and if she comes
      out, as I know she will, victorious from this struggle, I shall look upon
      my good fortune as unequalled, I shall be able to say that the cup of my
      desire is full, and that the virtuous woman of whom the sage says 'Who
      shall find her?' has fallen to my lot. And if the result be the contrary
      of what I expect, in the satisfaction of knowing that I have been right in
      my opinion, I shall bear without complaint the pain which my so dearly
      bought experience will naturally cause me. And, as nothing of all thou
      wilt urge in opposition to my wish will avail to keep me from carrying it
      into effect, it is my desire, friend Lothario, that thou shouldst consent
      to become the instrument for effecting this purpose that I am bent upon,
      for I will afford thee opportunities to that end, and nothing shall be
      wanting that I may think necessary for the pursuit of a virtuous,
      honourable, modest and high-minded woman. And among other reasons, I am
      induced to entrust this arduous task to thee by the consideration that if
      Camilla be conquered by thee the conquest will not be pushed to extremes,
      but only far enough to account that accomplished which from a sense of
      honour will be left undone; thus I shall not be wronged in anything more
      than intention, and my wrong will remain buried in the integrity of thy
      silence, which I know well will be as lasting as that of death in what
      concerns me. If, therefore, thou wouldst have me enjoy what can be called
      life, thou wilt at once engage in this love struggle, not lukewarmly nor
      slothfully, but with the energy and zeal that my desire demands, and with
      the loyalty our friendship assures me of."
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were the words Anselmo addressed to Lothario, who listened to them
      with such attention that, except to say what has been already mentioned,
      he did not open his lips until the other had finished. Then perceiving
      that he had no more to say, after regarding him for awhile, as one would
      regard something never before seen that excited wonder and amazement, he
      said to him, "I cannot persuade myself, Anselmo my friend, that what thou
      hast said to me is not in jest; if I thought that thou wert speaking
      seriously I would not have allowed thee to go so far; so as to put a stop
      to thy long harangue by not listening to thee I verily suspect that either
      thou dost not know me, or I do not know thee; but no, I know well thou art
      Anselmo, and thou knowest that I am Lothario; the misfortune is, it seems
      to me, that thou art not the Anselmo thou wert, and must have thought that
      I am not the Lothario I should be; for the things that thou hast said to
      me are not those of that Anselmo who was my friend, nor are those that
      thou demandest of me what should be asked of the Lothario thou knowest.
      True friends will prove their friends and make use of them, as a poet has
      said, usque ad aras; whereby he meant that they will not make use of their
      friendship in things that are contrary to God's will. If this, then, was a
      heathen's feeling about friendship, how much more should it be a
      Christian's, who knows that the divine must not be forfeited for the sake
      of any human friendship? And if a friend should go so far as to put aside
      his duty to Heaven to fulfil his duty to his friend, it should not be in
      matters that are trifling or of little moment, but in such as affect the
      friend's life and honour. Now tell me, Anselmo, in which of these two art
      thou imperilled, that I should hazard myself to gratify thee, and do a
      thing so detestable as that thou seekest of me? Neither forsooth; on the
      contrary, thou dost ask of me, so far as I understand, to strive and
      labour to rob thee of honour and life, and to rob myself of them at the
      same time; for if I take away thy honour it is plain I take away thy life,
      as a man without honour is worse than dead; and being the instrument, as
      thou wilt have it so, of so much wrong to thee, shall not I, too, be left
      without honour, and consequently without life? Listen to me, Anselmo my
      friend, and be not impatient to answer me until I have said what occurs to
      me touching the object of thy desire, for there will be time enough left
      for thee to reply and for me to hear."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be it so," said Anselmo, "say what thou wilt."
    </p>
    <p>
      Lothario then went on to say, "It seems to me, Anselmo, that thine is just
      now the temper of mind which is always that of the Moors, who can never be
      brought to see the error of their creed by quotations from the Holy
      Scriptures, or by reasons which depend upon the examination of the
      understanding or are founded upon the articles of faith, but must have
      examples that are palpable, easy, intelligible, capable of proof, not
      admitting of doubt, with mathematical demonstrations that cannot be
      denied, like, 'If equals be taken from equals, the remainders are equal:'
      and if they do not understand this in words, and indeed they do not, it
      has to be shown to them with the hands, and put before their eyes, and
      even with all this no one succeeds in convincing them of the truth of our
      holy religion. This same mode of proceeding I shall have to adopt with
      thee, for the desire which has sprung up in thee is so absurd and remote
      from everything that has a semblance of reason, that I feel it would be a
      waste of time to employ it in reasoning with thy simplicity, for at
      present I will call it by no other name; and I am even tempted to leave
      thee in thy folly as a punishment for thy pernicious desire; but the
      friendship I bear thee, which will not allow me to desert thee in such
      manifest danger of destruction, keeps me from dealing so harshly by thee.
      And that thou mayest clearly see this, say, Anselmo, hast thou not told me
      that I must force my suit upon a modest woman, decoy one that is virtuous,
      make overtures to one that is pure-minded, pay court to one that is
      prudent? Yes, thou hast told me so. Then, if thou knowest that thou hast a
      wife, modest, virtuous, pure-minded and prudent, what is it that thou
      seekest? And if thou believest that she will come forth victorious from
      all my attacks&mdash;as doubtless she would&mdash;what higher titles than
      those she possesses now dost thou think thou canst upon her then, or in
      what will she be better then than she is now? Either thou dost not hold
      her to be what thou sayest, or thou knowest not what thou dost demand. If
      thou dost not hold her to be what thou sayest, why dost thou seek to prove her
      instead of treating her as guilty in the way that may seem best to thee?
      but if she be as virtuous as thou believest, it is an uncalled-for
      proceeding to make trial of truth itself, for, after trial, it will but be
      in the same estimation as before. Thus, then, it is conclusive that to
      attempt things from which harm rather than advantage may come to us is the
      part of unreasoning and reckless minds, more especially when they are
      things which we are not forced or compelled to attempt, and which show
      from afar that it is plainly madness to attempt them.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Difficulties are attempted either for the sake of God or for the sake of
      the world, or for both; those undertaken for God's sake are those which
      the saints undertake when they attempt to live the lives of angels in
      human bodies; those undertaken for the sake of the world are those of the
      men who traverse such a vast expanse of water, such a variety of climates,
      so many strange countries, to acquire what are called the blessings of
      fortune; and those undertaken for the sake of God and the world together
      are those of brave soldiers, who no sooner do they see in the enemy's wall
      a breach as wide as a cannon ball could make, than, casting aside all
      fear, without hesitating, or heeding the manifest peril that threatens
      them, borne onward by the desire of defending their faith, their country,
      and their king, they fling themselves dauntlessly into the midst of the
      thousand opposing deaths that await them. Such are the things that men are
      wont to attempt, and there is honour, glory, gain, in attempting them,
      however full of difficulty and peril they may be; but that which thou
      sayest it is thy wish to attempt and carry out will not win thee the glory
      of God nor the blessings of fortune nor fame among men; for even if the
      issue be as thou wouldst have it, thou wilt be no happier, richer, or more
      honoured than thou art this moment; and if it be otherwise thou wilt be
      reduced to misery greater than can be imagined, for then it will avail
      thee nothing to reflect that no one is aware of the misfortune that has
      befallen thee; it will suffice to torture and crush thee that thou knowest
      it thyself. And in confirmation of the truth of what I say, let me repeat
      to thee a stanza made by the famous poet Luigi Tansillo at the end of the
      first part of his 'Tears of Saint Peter,' which says thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      The anguish and the shame but greater grew In Peter's heart as morning
      slowly came; No eye was there to see him, well he knew, Yet he himself was
      to himself a shame; Exposed to all men's gaze, or screened from view, A
      noble heart will feel the pang the same; A prey to shame the sinning soul
      will be, Though none but heaven and earth its shame can see.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus by keeping it secret thou wilt not escape thy sorrow, but rather thou
      wilt shed tears unceasingly, if not tears of the eyes, tears of blood from
      the heart, like those shed by that simple doctor our poet tells us of,
      that tried the test of the cup, which the wise Rinaldo, better advised,
      refused to do; for though this may be a poetic fiction it contains a moral
      lesson worthy of attention and study and imitation. Moreover by what I am
      about to say to thee thou wilt be led to see the great error thou wouldst
      commit.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell me, Anselmo, if Heaven or good fortune had made thee master and
      lawful owner of a diamond of the finest quality, with the excellence and
      purity of which all the lapidaries that had seen it had been satisfied,
      saying with one voice and common consent that in purity, quality, and
      fineness, it was all that a stone of the kind could possibly be, thou
      thyself too being of the same belief, as knowing nothing to the contrary,
      would it be reasonable in thee to desire to take that diamond and place it
      between an anvil and a hammer, and by mere force of blows and strength of
      arm try if it were as hard and as fine as they said? And if thou didst,
      and if the stone should resist so silly a test, that would add nothing to
      its value or reputation; and if it were broken, as it might be, would not
      all be lost? Undoubtedly it would, leaving its owner to be rated as a fool
      in the opinion of all. Consider, then, Anselmo my friend, that Camilla is
      a diamond of the finest quality as well in thy estimation as in that of
      others, and that it is contrary to reason to expose her to the risk of
      being broken; for if she remains intact she cannot rise to a higher value
      than she now possesses; and if she give way and be unable to resist,
      bethink thee now how thou wilt be deprived of her, and with what good
      reason thou wilt complain of thyself for having been the cause of her ruin
      and thine own. Remember there is no jewel in the world so precious as a
      chaste and virtuous woman, and that the whole honour of women consists in
      reputation; and since thy wife's is of that high excellence that thou
      knowest, wherefore shouldst thou seek to call that truth in question?
      Remember, my friend, that woman is an imperfect animal, and that
      impediments are not to be placed in her way to make her trip and fall, but
      that they should be removed, and her path left clear of all obstacles, so
      that without hindrance she may run her course freely to attain the desired
      perfection, which consists in being virtuous. Naturalists tell us that the
      ermine is a little animal which has a fur of purest white, and that when
      the hunters wish to take it, they make use of this artifice. Having
      ascertained the places which it frequents and passes, they stop the way to
      them with mud, and then rousing it, drive it towards the spot, and as soon
      as the ermine comes to the mud it halts, and allows itself to be taken
      captive rather than pass through the mire, and spoil and sully its
      whiteness, which it values more than life and liberty. The virtuous and
      chaste woman is an ermine, and whiter and purer than snow is the virtue of
      modesty; and he who wishes her not to lose it, but to keep and preserve
      it, must adopt a course different from that employed with the ermine; he
      must not put before her the mire of the gifts and attentions of
      persevering lovers, because perhaps&mdash;and even without a perhaps&mdash;she
      may not have sufficient virtue and natural strength in herself to pass
      through and tread under foot these impediments; they must be removed, and
      the brightness of virtue and the beauty of a fair fame must be put before
      her. A virtuous woman, too, is like a mirror, of clear shining crystal,
      liable to be tarnished and dimmed by every breath that touches it. She
      must be treated as relics are; adored, not touched. She must be protected
      and prized as one protects and prizes a fair garden full of roses and
      flowers, the owner of which allows no one to trespass or pluck a blossom;
      enough for others that from afar and through the iron grating they may
      enjoy its fragrance and its beauty. Finally let me repeat to thee some
      verses that come to my mind; I heard them in a modern comedy, and it seems
      to me they bear upon the point we are discussing. A prudent old man was
      giving advice to another, the father of a young girl, to lock her up,
      watch over her and keep her in seclusion, and among other arguments he
      used these:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 Woman is a thing of glass;
   But her brittleness 'tis best
   Not too curiously to test:
 Who knows what may come to pass?

 Breaking is an easy matter,
   And it's folly to expose
   What you cannot mend to blows;
 What you can't make whole to shatter.

 This, then, all may hold as true,
   And the reason's plain to see;
   For if Danaes there be,
 There are golden showers too."
</pre>
    <p>
      "All that I have said to thee so far, Anselmo, has had reference to what
      concerns thee; now it is right that I should say something of what regards
      myself; and if I be prolix, pardon me, for the labyrinth into which thou
      hast entered and from which thou wouldst have me extricate thee makes it
      necessary.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou dost reckon me thy friend, and thou wouldst rob me of honour, a
      thing wholly inconsistent with friendship; and not only dost thou aim at
      this, but thou wouldst have me rob thee of it also. That thou wouldst rob
      me of it is clear, for when Camilla sees that I pay court to her as thou
      requirest, she will certainly regard me as a man without honour or right
      feeling, since I attempt and do a thing so much opposed to what I owe to
      my own position and thy friendship. That thou wouldst have me rob thee of
      it is beyond a doubt, for Camilla, seeing that I press my suit upon her,
      will suppose that I have perceived in her something light that has
      encouraged me to make known to her my base desire; and if she holds
      herself dishonoured, her dishonour touches thee as belonging to her; and
      hence arises what so commonly takes place, that the husband of the
      adulterous woman, though he may not be aware of or have given any cause
      for his wife's failure in her duty, or (being careless or negligent) have
      had it in his power to prevent his dishonour, nevertheless is stigmatised
      by a vile and reproachful name, and in a manner regarded with eyes of
      contempt instead of pity by all who know of his wife's guilt, though they
      see that he is unfortunate not by his own fault, but by the lust of a
      vicious consort. But I will tell thee why with good reason dishonour
      attaches to the husband of the unchaste wife, though he know not that she
      is so, nor be to blame, nor have done anything, or given any provocation
      to make her so; and be not weary with listening to me, for it will be for
      thy good.
    </p>
    <p>
      "When God created our first parent in the earthly paradise, the Holy
      Scripture says that he infused sleep into Adam and while he slept took a
      rib from his left side of which he formed our mother Eve, and when Adam
      awoke and beheld her he said, 'This is flesh of my flesh, and bone of my
      bone.' And God said 'For this shall a man leave his father and his mother,
      and they shall be two in one flesh; and then was instituted the divine
      sacrament of marriage, with such ties that death alone can loose them. And
      such is the force and virtue of this miraculous sacrament that it makes
      two different persons one and the same flesh; and even more than this when
      the virtuous are married; for though they have two souls they have but one
      will. And hence it follows that as the flesh of the wife is one and the
      same with that of her husband the stains that may come upon it, or the
      injuries it incurs fall upon the husband's flesh, though he, as has been
      said, may have given no cause for them; for as the pain of the foot or any
      member of the body is felt by the whole body, because all is one flesh, as
      the head feels the hurt to the ankle without having caused it, so the
      husband, being one with her, shares the dishonour of the wife; and as all
      worldly honour or dishonour comes of flesh and blood, and the erring
      wife's is of that kind, the husband must needs bear his part of it and be
      held dishonoured without knowing it. See, then, Anselmo, the peril thou
      art encountering in seeking to disturb the peace of thy virtuous consort;
      see for what an empty and ill-advised curiosity thou wouldst rouse up
      passions that now repose in quiet in the breast of thy chaste wife;
      reflect that what thou art staking all to win is little, and what thou
      wilt lose so much that I leave it undescribed, not having the words to
      express it. But if all I have said be not enough to turn thee from thy
      vile purpose, thou must seek some other instrument for thy dishonour and
      misfortune; for such I will not consent to be, though I lose thy
      friendship, the greatest loss that I can conceive."
    </p>
    <p>
      Having said this, the wise and virtuous Lothario was silent, and Anselmo,
      troubled in mind and deep in thought, was unable for a while to utter a
      word in reply; but at length he said, "I have listened, Lothario my
      friend, attentively, as thou hast seen, to what thou hast chosen to say to
      me, and in thy arguments, examples, and comparisons I have seen that high
      intelligence thou dost possess, and the perfection of true friendship thou
      hast reached; and likewise I see and confess that if I am not guided by
      thy opinion, but follow my own, I am flying from the good and pursuing the
      evil. This being so, thou must remember that I am now labouring under that
      infirmity which women sometimes suffer from, when the craving seizes them
      to eat clay, plaster, charcoal, and things even worse, disgusting to look
      at, much more to eat; so that it will be necessary to have recourse to
      some artifice to cure me; and this can be easily effected if only thou
      wilt make a beginning, even though it be in a lukewarm and make-believe
      fashion, to pay court to Camilla, who will not be so yielding that her
      virtue will give way at the first attack: with this mere attempt I shall
      rest satisfied, and thou wilt have done what our friendship binds thee to
      do, not only in giving me life, but in persuading me not to discard my
      honour. And this thou art bound to do for one reason alone, that, being,
      as I am, resolved to apply this test, it is not for thee to permit me to
      reveal my weakness to another, and so imperil that honour thou art
      striving to keep me from losing; and if thine may not stand as high as it
      ought in the estimation of Camilla while thou art paying court to her,
      that is of little or no importance, because ere long, on finding in her
      that constancy which we expect, thou canst tell her the plain truth as
      regards our stratagem, and so regain thy place in her esteem; and as thou
      art venturing so little, and by the venture canst afford me so much
      satisfaction, refuse not to undertake it, even if further difficulties
      present themselves to thee; for, as I have said, if thou wilt only make a
      beginning I will acknowledge the issue decided."
    </p>
    <p>
      Lothario seeing the fixed determination of Anselmo, and not knowing what
      further examples to offer or arguments to urge in order to dissuade him
      from it, and perceiving that he threatened to confide his pernicious
      scheme to some one else, to avoid a greater evil resolved to gratify him
      and do what he asked, intending to manage the business so as to satisfy
      Anselmo without corrupting the mind of Camilla; so in reply he told him
      not to communicate his purpose to any other, for he would undertake the
      task himself, and would begin it as soon as he pleased. Anselmo embraced
      him warmly and affectionately, and thanked him for his offer as if he had
      bestowed some great favour upon him; and it was agreed between them to set
      about it the next day, Anselmo affording opportunity and time to Lothario
      to converse alone with Camilla, and furnishing him with money and jewels
      to offer and present to her. He suggested, too, that he should treat her
      to music, and write verses in her praise, and if he was unwilling to take
      the trouble of composing them, he offered to do it himself. Lothario
      agreed to all with an intention very different from what Anselmo supposed,
      and with this understanding they returned to Anselmo's house, where they
      found Camilla awaiting her husband anxiously and uneasily, for he was
      later than usual in returning that day. Lothario repaired to his own
      house, and Anselmo remained in his, as well satisfied as Lothario was
      troubled in mind; for he could see no satisfactory way out of this
      ill-advised business. That night, however, he thought of a plan by which
      he might deceive Anselmo without any injury to Camilla. The next day he
      went to dine with his friend, and was welcomed by Camilla, who received
      and treated him with great cordiality, knowing the affection her husband
      felt for him. When dinner was over and the cloth removed, Anselmo told
      Lothario to stay there with Camilla while he attended to some pressing
      business, as he would return in an hour and a half. Camilla begged him not
      to go, and Lothario offered to accompany him, but nothing could persuade
      Anselmo, who on the contrary pressed Lothario to remain waiting for him as
      he had a matter of great importance to discuss with him. At the same time
      he bade Camilla not to leave Lothario alone until he came back. In short
      he contrived to put so good a face on the reason, or the folly, of his
      absence that no one could have suspected it was a pretence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Anselmo took his departure, and Camilla and Lothario were left alone at
      the table, for the rest of the household had gone to dinner. Lothario saw
      himself in the lists according to his friend's wish, and facing an enemy
      that could by her beauty alone vanquish a squadron of armed knights; judge
      whether he had good reason to fear; but what he did was to lean his elbow
      on the arm of the chair, and his cheek upon his hand, and, asking
      Camilla's pardon for his ill manners, he said he wished to take a little
      sleep until Anselmo returned. Camilla in reply said he could repose more
      at his ease in the reception-room than in his chair, and begged of him to
      go in and sleep there; but Lothario declined, and there he remained asleep
      until the return of Anselmo, who finding Camilla in her own room, and
      Lothario asleep, imagined that he had stayed away so long as to have
      afforded them time enough for conversation and even for sleep, and was all
      impatience until Lothario should wake up, that he might go out with him
      and question him as to his success. Everything fell out as he wished;
      Lothario awoke, and the two at once left the house, and Anselmo asked what
      he was anxious to know, and Lothario in answer told him that he had not
      thought it advisable to declare himself entirely the first time, and
      therefore had only extolled the charms of Camilla, telling her that all
      the city spoke of nothing else but her beauty and wit, for this seemed to
      him an excellent way of beginning to gain her good-will and render her
      disposed to listen to him with pleasure the next time, thus availing
      himself of the device the devil has recourse to when he would deceive one
      who is on the watch; for he being the angel of darkness transforms himself
      into an angel of light, and, under cover of a fair seeming, discloses
      himself at length, and effects his purpose if at the beginning his wiles
      are not discovered. All this gave great satisfaction to Anselmo, and he
      said he would afford the same opportunity every day, but without leaving
      the house, for he would find things to do at home so that Camilla should
      not detect the plot.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus, then, several days went by, and Lothario, without uttering a word to
      Camilla, reported to Anselmo that he had talked with her and that he had
      never been able to draw from her the slightest indication of consent to
      anything dishonourable, nor even a sign or shadow of hope; on the
      contrary, he said she would inform her husband of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So far well," said Anselmo; "Camilla has thus far resisted words; we must
      now see how she will resist deeds. I will give you to-morrow two thousand
      crowns in gold for you to offer or even present, and as many more to buy
      jewels to lure her, for women are fond of being becomingly attired and
      going gaily dressed, and all the more so if they are beautiful, however
      chaste they may be; and if she resists this temptation, I will rest
      satisfied and will give you no more trouble."
    </p>
    <p>
      Lothario replied that now he had begun he would carry on the undertaking
      to the end, though he perceived he was to come out of it wearied and
      vanquished. The next day he received the four thousand crowns, and with
      them four thousand perplexities, for he knew not what to say by way of a
      new falsehood; but in the end he made up his mind to tell him that Camilla
      stood as firm against gifts and promises as against words, and that there
      was no use in taking any further trouble, for the time was all spent to no
      purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      But chance, directing things in a different manner, so ordered it that
      Anselmo, having left Lothario and Camilla alone as on other occasions,
      shut himself into a chamber and posted himself to watch and listen through
      the keyhole to what passed between them, and perceived that for more than
      half an hour Lothario did not utter a word to Camilla, nor would utter a
      word though he were to be there for an age; and he came to the conclusion
      that what his friend had told him about the replies of Camilla was all
      invention and falsehood, and to ascertain if it were so, he came out, and
      calling Lothario aside asked him what news he had and in what humour
      Camilla was. Lothario replied that he was not disposed to go on with the
      business, for she had answered him so angrily and harshly that he had no
      heart to say anything more to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, Lothario, Lothario," said Anselmo, "how ill dost thou meet thy
      obligations to me, and the great confidence I repose in thee! I have been
      just now watching through this keyhole, and I have seen that thou hast not
      said a word to Camilla, whence I conclude that on the former occasions
      thou hast not spoken to her either, and if this be so, as no doubt it is,
      why dost thou deceive me, or wherefore seekest thou by craft to deprive me
      of the means I might find of attaining my desire?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Anselmo said no more, but he had said enough to cover Lothario with shame
      and confusion, and he, feeling as it were his honour touched by having
      been detected in a lie, swore to Anselmo that he would from that moment
      devote himself to satisfying him without any deception, as he would see if
      he had the curiosity to watch; though he need not take the trouble, for
      the pains he would take to satisfy him would remove all suspicions from
      his mind. Anselmo believed him, and to afford him an opportunity more free
      and less liable to surprise, he resolved to absent himself from his house
      for eight days, betaking himself to that of a friend of his who lived in a
      village not far from the city; and, the better to account for his
      departure to Camilla, he so arranged it that the friend should send him a
      very pressing invitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unhappy, shortsighted Anselmo, what art thou doing, what art thou
      plotting, what art thou devising? Bethink thee thou art working against
      thyself, plotting thine own dishonour, devising thine own ruin. Thy wife
      Camilla is virtuous, thou dost possess her in peace and quietness, no one
      assails thy happiness, her thoughts wander not beyond the walls of thy
      house, thou art her heaven on earth, the object of her wishes, the
      fulfilment of her desires, the measure wherewith she measures her will,
      making it conform in all things to thine and Heaven's. If, then, the mine
      of her honour, beauty, virtue, and modesty yields thee without labour all
      the wealth it contains and thou canst wish for, why wilt thou dig the
      earth in search of fresh veins, of new unknown treasure, risking the
      collapse of all, since it but rests on the feeble props of her weak
      nature? Bethink thee that from him who seeks impossibilities that which is
      possible may with justice be withheld, as was better expressed by a poet
      who said:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
'Tis mine to seek for life in death,
   Health in disease seek I,
I seek in prison freedom's breath,
   In traitors loyalty.
So Fate that ever scorns to grant
   Or grace or boon to me,
Since what can never be I want,
   Denies me what might be.
</pre>
    <p>
      The next day Anselmo took his departure for the village, leaving
      instructions with Camilla that during his absence Lothario would come to
      look after his house and to dine with her, and that she was to treat him
      as she would himself. Camilla was distressed, as a discreet and
      right-minded woman would be, at the orders her husband left her, and bade
      him remember that it was not becoming that anyone should occupy his seat
      at the table during his absence, and if he acted thus from not feeling
      confidence that she would be able to manage his house, let him try her
      this time, and he would find by experience that she was equal to greater
      responsibilities. Anselmo replied that it was his pleasure to have it so,
      and that she had only to submit and obey. Camilla said she would do so,
      though against her will.
    </p>
    <p>
      Anselmo went, and the next day Lothario came to his house, where he was
      received by Camilla with a friendly and modest welcome; but she never
      suffered Lothario to see her alone, for she was always attended by her men
      and women servants, especially by a handmaid of hers, Leonela by name, to
      whom she was much attached (for they had been brought up together from
      childhood in her father's house), and whom she had kept with her after her
      marriage with Anselmo. The first three days Lothario did not speak to her,
      though he might have done so when they removed the cloth and the servants
      retired to dine hastily; for such were Camilla's orders; nay more, Leonela
      had directions to dine earlier than Camilla and never to leave her side.
      She, however, having her thoughts fixed upon other things more to her
      taste, and wanting that time and opportunity for her own pleasures, did
      not always obey her mistress's commands, but on the contrary left them
      alone, as if they had ordered her to do so; but the modest bearing of
      Camilla, the calmness of her countenance, the composure of her aspect were
      enough to bridle the tongue of Lothario. But the influence which the many
      virtues of Camilla exerted in imposing silence on Lothario's tongue proved
      mischievous for both of them, for if his tongue was silent his thoughts
      were busy, and could dwell at leisure upon the perfections of Camilla's
      goodness and beauty one by one, charms enough to warm with love a marble
      statue, not to say a heart of flesh. Lothario gazed upon her when he might
      have been speaking to her, and thought how worthy of being loved she was;
      and thus reflection began little by little to assail his allegiance to
      Anselmo, and a thousand times he thought of withdrawing from the city and
      going where Anselmo should never see him nor he see Camilla. But already
      the delight he found in gazing on her interposed and held him fast. He put
      a constraint upon himself, and struggled to repel and repress the pleasure
      he found in contemplating Camilla; when alone he blamed himself for his
      weakness, called himself a bad friend, nay a bad Christian; then he argued
      the matter and compared himself with Anselmo; always coming to the
      conclusion that the folly and rashness of Anselmo had been worse than his
      faithlessness, and that if he could excuse his intentions as easily before
      God as with man, he had no reason to fear any punishment for his offence.
    </p>
    <p>
      In short the beauty and goodness of Camilla, joined with the opportunity
      which the blind husband had placed in his hands, overthrew the loyalty of
      Lothario; and giving heed to nothing save the object towards which his
      inclinations led him, after Anselmo had been three days absent, during
      which he had been carrying on a continual struggle with his passion, he
      began to make love to Camilla with so much vehemence and warmth of
      language that she was overwhelmed with amazement, and could only rise from
      her place and retire to her room without answering him a word. But the
      hope which always springs up with love was not weakened in Lothario by
      this repelling demeanour; on the contrary his passion for Camilla
      increased, and she discovering in him what she had never expected, knew
      not what to do; and considering it neither safe nor right to give him the
      chance or opportunity of speaking to her again, she resolved to send, as
      she did that very night, one of her servants with a letter to Anselmo, in
      which she addressed the following words to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch34" id="ch34"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE NOVEL OF "THE ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY"
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is commonly said that an army looks ill without its general and a
      castle without its castellan, and I say that a young married woman looks
      still worse without her husband unless there are very good reasons for it.
      I find myself so ill at ease without you, and so incapable of enduring
      this separation, that unless you return quickly I shall have to go for
      relief to my parents' house, even if I leave yours without a protector;
      for the one you left me, if indeed he deserved that title, has, I think,
      more regard to his own pleasure than to what concerns you: as you are
      possessed of discernment I need say no more to you, nor indeed is it
      fitting I should say more."
    </p>
    <p>
      Anselmo received this letter, and from it he gathered that Lothario had
      already begun his task and that Camilla must have replied to him as he
      would have wished; and delighted beyond measure at such intelligence he
      sent word to her not to leave his house on any account, as he would very
      shortly return. Camilla was astonished at Anselmo's reply, which placed
      her in greater perplexity than before, for she neither dared to remain in
      her own house, nor yet to go to her parents'; for in remaining her virtue
      was imperilled, and in going she was opposing her husband's commands.
      Finally she decided upon what was the worse course for her, to remain,
      resolving not to fly from the presence of Lothario, that she might not
      give food for gossip to her servants; and she now began to regret having
      written as she had to her husband, fearing he might imagine that Lothario
      had perceived in her some lightness which had impelled him to lay aside
      the respect he owed her; but confident of her rectitude she put her trust
      in God and in her own virtuous intentions, with which she hoped to resist
      in silence all the solicitations of Lothario, without saying anything to
      her husband so as not to involve him in any quarrel or trouble; and she
      even began to consider how to excuse Lothario to Anselmo when he should
      ask her what it was that induced her to write that letter. With these
      resolutions, more honourable than judicious or effectual, she remained the
      next day listening to Lothario, who pressed his suit so strenuously that
      Camilla's firmness began to waver, and her virtue had enough to do to come
      to the rescue of her eyes and keep them from showing signs of a certain
      tender compassion which the tears and appeals of Lothario had awakened in
      her bosom. Lothario observed all this, and it inflamed him all the more.
      In short he felt that while Anselmo's absence afforded time and
      opportunity he must press the siege of the fortress, and so he assailed
      her self-esteem with praises of her beauty, for there is nothing that more
      quickly reduces and levels the castle towers of fair women's vanity than
      vanity itself upon the tongue of flattery. In fact with the utmost
      assiduity he undermined the rock of her purity with such engines that had
      Camilla been of brass she must have fallen. He wept, he entreated, he
      promised, he flattered, he importuned, he pretended with so much feeling
      and apparent sincerity, that he overthrew the virtuous resolves of Camilla
      and won the triumph he least expected and most longed for. Camilla
      yielded, Camilla fell; but what wonder if the friendship of Lothario could
      not stand firm? A clear proof to us that the passion of love is to be
      conquered only by flying from it, and that no one should engage in a
      struggle with an enemy so mighty; for divine strength is needed to
      overcome his human power. Leonela alone knew of her mistress's weakness,
      for the two false friends and new lovers were unable to conceal it.
      Lothario did not care to tell Camilla the object Anselmo had in view, nor
      that he had afforded him the opportunity of attaining such a result, lest
      she should undervalue his love and think that it was by chance and without
      intending it and not of his own accord that he had made love to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few days later Anselmo returned to his house and did not perceive what
      it had lost, that which he so lightly treated and so highly prized. He
      went at once to see Lothario, and found him at home; they embraced each
      other, and Anselmo asked for the tidings of his life or his death.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The tidings I have to give thee, Anselmo my friend," said Lothario, "are
      that thou dost possess a wife that is worthy to be the pattern and crown
      of all good wives. The words that I have addressed to her were borne away
      on the wind, my promises have been despised, my presents have been
      refused, such feigned tears as I shed have been turned into open ridicule.
      In short, as Camilla is the essence of all beauty, so is she the
      treasure-house where purity dwells, and gentleness and modesty abide with
      all the virtues that can confer praise, honour, and happiness upon a
      woman. Take back thy money, my friend; here it is, and I have had no need
      to touch it, for the chastity of Camilla yields not to things so base as
      gifts or promises. Be content, Anselmo, and refrain from making further
      proof; and as thou hast passed dryshod through the sea of those doubts and
      suspicions that are and may be entertained of women, seek not to plunge
      again into the deep ocean of new embarrassments, or with another pilot
      make trial of the goodness and strength of the bark that Heaven has
      granted thee for thy passage across the sea of this world; but reckon
      thyself now safe in port, moor thyself with the anchor of sound
      reflection, and rest in peace until thou art called upon to pay that debt
      which no nobility on earth can escape paying."
    </p>
    <p>
      Anselmo was completely satisfied by the words of Lothario, and believed
      them as fully as if they had been spoken by an oracle; nevertheless he
      begged of him not to relinquish the undertaking, were it but for the sake
      of curiosity and amusement; though thenceforward he need not make use of
      the same earnest endeavours as before; all he wished him to do was to
      write some verses to her, praising her under the name of Chloris, for he
      himself would give her to understand that he was in love with a lady to
      whom he had given that name to enable him to sing her praises with the
      decorum due to her modesty; and if Lothario were unwilling to take the
      trouble of writing the verses he would compose them himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That will not be necessary," said Lothario, "for the muses are not such
      enemies of mine but that they visit me now and then in the course of the
      year. Do thou tell Camilla what thou hast proposed about a pretended amour
      of mine; as for the verses I will make them, and if not as good as the
      subject deserves, they shall be at least the best I can produce." An
      agreement to this effect was made between the friends, the ill-advised one
      and the treacherous, and Anselmo returning to his house asked Camilla the
      question she already wondered he had not asked before&mdash;what it was
      that had caused her to write the letter she had sent him. Camilla replied
      that it had seemed to her that Lothario looked at her somewhat more freely
      than when he had been at home; but that now she was undeceived and
      believed it to have been only her own imagination, for Lothario now
      avoided seeing her, or being alone with her. Anselmo told her she might be
      quite easy on the score of that suspicion, for he knew that Lothario was
      in love with a damsel of rank in the city whom he celebrated under the
      name of Chloris, and that even if he were not, his fidelity and their
      great friendship left no room for fear. Had not Camilla, however, been
      informed beforehand by Lothario that this love for Chloris was a pretence,
      and that he himself had told Anselmo of it in order to be able sometimes
      to give utterance to the praises of Camilla herself, no doubt she would
      have fallen into the despairing toils of jealousy; but being forewarned
      she received the startling news without uneasiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day as the three were at table Anselmo asked Lothario to recite
      something of what he had composed for his mistress Chloris; for as Camilla
      did not know her, he might safely say what he liked.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Even did she know her," returned Lothario, "I would hide nothing, for
      when a lover praises his lady's beauty, and charges her with cruelty, he
      casts no imputation upon her fair name; at any rate, all I can say is that
      yesterday I made a sonnet on the ingratitude of this Chloris, which goes
      thus:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
SONNET

At midnight, in the silence, when the eyes
  Of happier mortals balmy slumbers close,
  The weary tale of my unnumbered woes
To Chloris and to Heaven is wont to rise.
And when the light of day returning dyes
  The portals of the east with tints of rose,
  With undiminished force my sorrow flows
In broken accents and in burning sighs.
And when the sun ascends his star-girt throne,
  And on the earth pours down his midday beams,
  Noon but renews my wailing and my tears;
And with the night again goes up my moan.
  Yet ever in my agony it seems
  To me that neither Heaven nor Chloris hears."
</pre>
    <p>
      The sonnet pleased Camilla, and still more Anselmo, for he praised it and
      said the lady was excessively cruel who made no return for sincerity so
      manifest. On which Camilla said, "Then all that love-smitten poets say is
      true?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "As poets they do not tell the truth," replied Lothario; "but as lovers
      they are not more defective in expression than they are truthful."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no doubt of that," observed Anselmo, anxious to support and
      uphold Lothario's ideas with Camilla, who was as regardless of his design
      as she was deep in love with Lothario; and so taking delight in anything
      that was his, and knowing that his thoughts and writings had her for their
      object, and that she herself was the real Chloris, she asked him to repeat
      some other sonnet or verses if he recollected any.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do," replied Lothario, "but I do not think it as good as the first one,
      or, more correctly speaking, less bad; but you can easily judge, for it is
      this.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
SONNET

I know that I am doomed; death is to me
  As certain as that thou, ungrateful fair,
  Dead at thy feet shouldst see me lying, ere
My heart repented of its love for thee.
If buried in oblivion I should be,
  Bereft of life, fame, favour, even there
  It would be found that I thy image bear
Deep graven in my breast for all to see.
This like some holy relic do I prize
  To save me from the fate my truth entails,
    Truth that to thy hard heart its vigour owes.
Alas for him that under lowering skies,
  In peril o'er a trackless ocean sails,
    Where neither friendly port nor pole-star shows."
</pre>
    <p>
      Anselmo praised this second sonnet too, as he had praised the first; and
      so he went on adding link after link to the chain with which he was
      binding himself and making his dishonour secure; for when Lothario was
      doing most to dishonour him he told him he was most honoured; and thus
      each step that Camilla descended towards the depths of her abasement, she
      mounted, in his opinion, towards the summit of virtue and fair fame.
    </p>
    <p>
      It so happened that finding herself on one occasion alone with her maid,
      Camilla said to her, "I am ashamed to think, my dear Leonela, how lightly
      I have valued myself that I did not compel Lothario to purchase by at
      least some expenditure of time that full possession of me that I so
      quickly yielded him of my own free will. I fear that he will think ill of
      my pliancy or lightness, not considering the irresistible influence he
      brought to bear upon me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let not that trouble you, my lady," said Leonela, "for it does not take
      away the value of the thing given or make it the less precious to give it
      quickly if it be really valuable and worthy of being prized; nay, they are
      wont to say that he who gives quickly gives twice."
    </p>
    <p>
      "They say also," said Camilla, "that what costs little is valued less."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That saying does not hold good in your case," replied Leonela, "for love,
      as I have heard say, sometimes flies and sometimes walks; with this one it
      runs, with that it moves slowly; some it cools, others it burns; some it
      wounds, others it slays; it begins the course of its desires, and at the
      same moment completes and ends it; in the morning it will lay siege to a
      fortress and by night will have taken it, for there is no power that can
      resist it; so what are you in dread of, what do you fear, when the same
      must have befallen Lothario, love having chosen the absence of my lord as
      the instrument for subduing you? and it was absolutely necessary to
      complete then what love had resolved upon, without affording the time to
      let Anselmo return and by his presence compel the work to be left
      unfinished; for love has no better agent for carrying out his designs than
      opportunity; and of opportunity he avails himself in all his feats,
      especially at the outset. All this I know well myself, more by experience
      than by hearsay, and some day, senora, I will enlighten you on the
      subject, for I am of your flesh and blood too. Moreover, lady Camilla, you
      did not surrender yourself or yield so quickly but that first you saw
      Lothario's whole soul in his eyes, in his sighs, in his words, his
      promises and his gifts, and by it and his good qualities perceived how
      worthy he was of your love. This, then, being the case, let not these
      scrupulous and prudish ideas trouble your imagination, but be assured that
      Lothario prizes you as you do him, and rest content and satisfied that as
      you are caught in the noose of love it is one of worth and merit that has
      taken you, and one that has not only the four S's that they say true
      lovers ought to have, but a complete alphabet; only listen to me and you
      will see how I can repeat it by rote. He is to my eyes and thinking,
      Amiable, Brave, Courteous, Distinguished, Elegant, Fond, Gay, Honourable,
      Illustrious, Loyal, Manly, Noble, Open, Polite, Quickwitted, Rich, and the
      S's according to the saying, and then Tender, Veracious: X does not suit
      him, for it is a rough letter; Y has been given already; and Z Zealous for
      your honour."
    </p>
    <p>
      Camilla laughed at her maid's alphabet, and perceived her to be more
      experienced in love affairs than she said, which she admitted, confessing
      to Camilla that she had love passages with a young man of good birth of
      the same city. Camilla was uneasy at this, dreading lest it might prove
      the means of endangering her honour, and asked whether her intrigue had
      gone beyond words, and she with little shame and much effrontery said it
      had; for certain it is that ladies' imprudences make servants shameless,
      who, when they see their mistresses make a false step, think nothing of
      going astray themselves, or of its being known. All that Camilla could do
      was to entreat Leonela to say nothing about her doings to him whom she
      called her lover, and to conduct her own affairs secretly lest they should
      come to the knowledge of Anselmo or of Lothario. Leonela said she would,
      but kept her word in such a way that she confirmed Camilla's apprehension
      of losing her reputation through her means; for this abandoned and bold
      Leonela, as soon as she perceived that her mistress's demeanour was not
      what it was wont to be, had the audacity to introduce her lover into the
      house, confident that even if her mistress saw him she would not dare to
      expose him; for the sins of mistresses entail this mischief among others;
      they make themselves the slaves of their own servants, and are obliged to
      hide their laxities and depravities; as was the case with Camilla, who
      though she perceived, not once but many times, that Leonela was with her
      lover in some room of the house, not only did not dare to chide her, but
      afforded her opportunities for concealing him and removed all
      difficulties, lest he should be seen by her husband. She was unable,
      however, to prevent him from being seen on one occasion, as he sallied
      forth at daybreak, by Lothario, who, not knowing who he was, at first took
      him for a spectre; but, as soon as he saw him hasten away, muffling his
      face with his cloak and concealing himself carefully and cautiously, he
      rejected this foolish idea, and adopted another, which would have been the
      ruin of all had not Camilla found a remedy. It did not occur to Lothario
      that this man he had seen issuing at such an untimely hour from Anselmo's
      house could have entered it on Leonela's account, nor did he even remember
      there was such a person as Leonela; all he thought was that as Camilla had
      been light and yielding with him, so she had been with another; for this
      further penalty the erring woman's sin brings with it, that her honour is
      distrusted even by him to whose overtures and persuasions she has yielded;
      and he believes her to have surrendered more easily to others, and gives
      implicit credence to every suspicion that comes into his mind. All
      Lothario's good sense seems to have failed him at this juncture; all his
      prudent maxims escaped his memory; for without once reflecting rationally,
      and without more ado, in his impatience and in the blindness of the
      jealous rage that gnawed his heart, and dying to revenge himself upon
      Camilla, who had done him no wrong, before Anselmo had risen he hastened
      to him and said to him, "Know, Anselmo, that for several days past I have
      been struggling with myself, striving to withhold from thee what it is no
      longer possible or right that I should conceal from thee. Know that
      Camilla's fortress has surrendered and is ready to submit to my will; and
      if I have been slow to reveal this fact to thee, it was in order to see if
      it were some light caprice of hers, or if she sought to try me and
      ascertain if the love I began to make to her with thy permission was made
      with a serious intention. I thought, too, that she, if she were what she
      ought to be, and what we both believed her, would have ere this given thee
      information of my addresses; but seeing that she delays, I believe the
      truth of the promise she has given me that the next time thou art absent
      from the house she will grant me an interview in the closet where thy
      jewels are kept (and it was true that Camilla used to meet him there); but
      I do not wish thee to rush precipitately to take vengeance, for the sin is
      as yet only committed in intention, and Camilla's may change perhaps
      between this and the appointed time, and repentance spring up in its
      place. As hitherto thou hast always followed my advice wholly or in part,
      follow and observe this that I will give thee now, so that, without
      mistake, and with mature deliberation, thou mayest satisfy thyself as to
      what may seem the best course; pretend to absent thyself for two or three
      days as thou hast been wont to do on other occasions, and contrive to hide
      thyself in the closet; for the tapestries and other things there afford
      great facilities for thy concealment, and then thou wilt see with thine
      own eyes and I with mine what Camilla's purpose may be. And if it be a
      guilty one, which may be feared rather than expected, with silence,
      prudence, and discretion thou canst thyself become the instrument of
      punishment for the wrong done thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      Anselmo was amazed, overwhelmed, and astounded at the words of Lothario,
      which came upon him at a time when he least expected to hear them, for he
      now looked upon Camilla as having triumphed over the pretended attacks of
      Lothario, and was beginning to enjoy the glory of her victory. He remained
      silent for a considerable time, looking on the ground with fixed gaze, and
      at length said, "Thou hast behaved, Lothario, as I expected of thy
      friendship: I will follow thy advice in everything; do as thou wilt, and
      keep this secret as thou seest it should be kept in circumstances so
      unlooked for."
    </p>
    <p>
      Lothario gave him his word, but after leaving him he repented altogether
      of what he had said to him, perceiving how foolishly he had acted, as he
      might have revenged himself upon Camilla in some less cruel and degrading
      way. He cursed his want of sense, condemned his hasty resolution, and knew
      not what course to take to undo the mischief or find some ready escape
      from it. At last he decided upon revealing all to Camilla, and, as there
      was no want of opportunity for doing so, he found her alone the same day;
      but she, as soon as she had the chance of speaking to him, said, "Lothario
      my friend, I must tell thee I have a sorrow in my heart which fills it so
      that it seems ready to burst; and it will be a wonder if it does not; for
      the audacity of Leonela has now reached such a pitch that every night she
      conceals a gallant of hers in this house and remains with him till
      morning, at the expense of my reputation; inasmuch as it is open to anyone
      to question it who may see him quitting my house at such unseasonable
      hours; but what distresses me is that I cannot punish or chide her, for
      her privity to our intrigue bridles my mouth and keeps me silent about
      hers, while I am dreading that some catastrophe will come of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      As Camilla said this Lothario at first imagined it was some device to
      delude him into the idea that the man he had seen going out was Leonela's
      lover and not hers; but when he saw how she wept and suffered, and begged
      him to help her, he became convinced of the truth, and the conviction
      completed his confusion and remorse; however, he told Camilla not to
      distress herself, as he would take measures to put a stop to the insolence
      of Leonela. At the same time he told her what, driven by the fierce rage
      of jealousy, he had said to Anselmo, and how he had arranged to hide
      himself in the closet that he might there see plainly how little she
      preserved her fidelity to him; and he entreated her pardon for this
      madness, and her advice as to how to repair it, and escape safely from the
      intricate labyrinth in which his imprudence had involved him. Camilla was
      struck with alarm at hearing what Lothario said, and with much anger, and
      great good sense, she reproved him and rebuked his base design and the
      foolish and mischievous resolution he had made; but as woman has by nature
      a nimbler wit than man for good and for evil, though it is apt to fail
      when she sets herself deliberately to reason, Camilla on the spur of the
      moment thought of a way to remedy what was to all appearance irremediable,
      and told Lothario to contrive that the next day Anselmo should conceal
      himself in the place he mentioned, for she hoped from his concealment to
      obtain the means of their enjoying themselves for the future without any
      apprehension; and without revealing her purpose to him entirely she
      charged him to be careful, as soon as Anselmo was concealed, to come to
      her when Leonela should call him, and to all she said to him to answer as
      he would have answered had he not known that Anselmo was listening.
      Lothario pressed her to explain her intention fully, so that he might with
      more certainty and precaution take care to do what he saw to be needful.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I tell you," said Camilla, "there is nothing to take care of except to
      answer me what I shall ask you;" for she did not wish to explain to him
      beforehand what she meant to do, fearing lest he should be unwilling to
      follow out an idea which seemed to her such a good one, and should try or
      devise some other less practicable plan.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lothario then retired, and the next day Anselmo, under pretence of going
      to his friend's country house, took his departure, and then returned to
      conceal himself, which he was able to do easily, as Camilla and Leonela
      took care to give him the opportunity; and so he placed himself in hiding
      in the state of agitation that it may be imagined he would feel who
      expected to see the vitals of his honour laid bare before his eyes, and
      found himself on the point of losing the supreme blessing he thought he
      possessed in his beloved Camilla. Having made sure of Anselmo's being in
      his hiding-place, Camilla and Leonela entered the closet, and the instant
      she set foot within it Camilla said, with a deep sigh, "Ah! dear Leonela,
      would it not be better, before I do what I am unwilling you should know
      lest you should seek to prevent it, that you should take Anselmo's dagger
      that I have asked of you and with it pierce this vile heart of mine? But
      no; there is no reason why I should suffer the punishment of another's
      fault. I will first know what it is that the bold licentious eyes of
      Lothario have seen in me that could have encouraged him to reveal to me a
      design so base as that which he has disclosed regardless of his friend and
      of my honour. Go to the window, Leonela, and call him, for no doubt he is
      in the street waiting to carry out his vile project; but mine, cruel it
      may be, but honourable, shall be carried out first."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, senora," said the crafty Leonela, who knew her part, "what is it you
      want to do with this dagger? Can it be that you mean to take your own
      life, or Lothario's? for whichever you mean to do, it will lead to the
      loss of your reputation and good name. It is better to dissemble your
      wrong and not give this wicked man the chance of entering the house now
      and finding us alone; consider, senora, we are weak women and he is a man,
      and determined, and as he comes with such a base purpose, blind and urged
      by passion, perhaps before you can put yours into execution he may do what
      will be worse for you than taking your life. Ill betide my master,
      Anselmo, for giving such authority in his house to this shameless fellow!
      And supposing you kill him, senora, as I suspect you mean to do, what
      shall we do with him when he is dead?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "What, my friend?" replied Camilla, "we shall leave him for Anselmo to
      bury him; for in reason it will be to him a light labour to hide his own
      infamy under ground. Summon him, make haste, for all the time I delay in
      taking vengeance for my wrong seems to me an offence against the loyalty I
      owe my husband."
    </p>
    <p>
      Anselmo was listening to all this, and every word that Camilla uttered
      made him change his mind; but when he heard that it was resolved to kill
      Lothario his first impulse was to come out and show himself to avert such
      a disaster; but in his anxiety to see the issue of a resolution so bold
      and virtuous he restrained himself, intending to come forth in time to
      prevent the deed. At this moment Camilla, throwing herself upon a bed that
      was close by, swooned away, and Leonela began to weep bitterly,
      exclaiming, "Woe is me! that I should be fated to have dying here in my
      arms the flower of virtue upon earth, the crown of true wives, the pattern
      of chastity!" with more to the same effect, so that anyone who heard her
      would have taken her for the most tender-hearted and faithful handmaid in
      the world, and her mistress for another persecuted Penelope.
    </p>
    <p>
      Camilla was not long in recovering from her fainting fit and on coming to
      herself she said, "Why do you not go, Leonela, to call hither that friend,
      the falsest to his friend the sun ever shone upon or night concealed?
      Away, run, haste, speed! lest the fire of my wrath burn itself out with
      delay, and the righteous vengeance that I hope for melt away in menaces
      and maledictions."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am just going to call him, senora," said Leonela; "but you must first
      give me that dagger, lest while I am gone you should by means of it give
      cause to all who love you to weep all their lives."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Go in peace, dear Leonela, I will not do so," said Camilla, "for rash and
      foolish as I may be, to your mind, in defending my honour, I am not going
      to be so much so as that Lucretia who they say killed herself without
      having done anything wrong, and without having first killed him on whom
      the guilt of her misfortune lay. I shall die, if I am to die; but it must
      be after full vengeance upon him who has brought me here to weep over
      audacity that no fault of mine gave birth to."
    </p>
    <p>
      Leonela required much pressing before she would go to summon Lothario, but
      at last she went, and while awaiting her return Camilla continued, as if
      speaking to herself, "Good God! would it not have been more prudent to
      have repulsed Lothario, as I have done many a time before, than to allow
      him, as I am now doing, to think me unchaste and vile, even for the short
      time I must wait until I undeceive him? No doubt it would have been
      better; but I should not be avenged, nor the honour of my husband
      vindicated, should he find so clear and easy an escape from the strait
      into which his depravity has led him. Let the traitor pay with his life
      for the temerity of his wanton wishes, and let the world know (if haply it
      shall ever come to know) that Camilla not only preserved her allegiance to
      her husband, but avenged him of the man who dared to wrong him. Still, I
      think it might be better to disclose this to Anselmo. But then I have
      called his attention to it in the letter I wrote to him in the country,
      and, if he did nothing to prevent the mischief I there pointed out to him,
      I suppose it was that from pure goodness of heart and trustfulness he
      would not and could not believe that any thought against his honour could
      harbour in the breast of so stanch a friend; nor indeed did I myself
      believe it for many days, nor should I have ever believed it if his
      insolence had not gone so far as to make it manifest by open presents,
      lavish promises, and ceaseless tears. But why do I argue thus? Does a bold
      determination stand in need of arguments? Surely not. Then traitors
      avaunt! Vengeance to my aid! Let the false one come, approach, advance,
      die, yield up his life, and then befall what may. Pure I came to him whom
      Heaven bestowed upon me, pure I shall leave him; and at the worst bathed
      in my own chaste blood and in the foul blood of the falsest friend that
      friendship ever saw in the world;" and as she uttered these words she
      paced the room holding the unsheathed dagger, with such irregular and
      disordered steps, and such gestures that one would have supposed her to
      have lost her senses, and taken her for some violent desperado instead of
      a delicate woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Anselmo, hidden behind some tapestries where he had concealed himself,
      beheld and was amazed at all, and already felt that what he had seen and
      heard was a sufficient answer to even greater suspicions; and he would
      have been now well pleased if the proof afforded by Lothario's coming were
      dispensed with, as he feared some sudden mishap; but as he was on the
      point of showing himself and coming forth to embrace and undeceive his
      wife he paused as he saw Leonela returning, leading Lothario. Camilla when
      she saw him, drawing a long line in front of her on the floor with the
      dagger, said to him, "Lothario, pay attention to what I say to thee: if by
      any chance thou darest to cross this line thou seest, or even approach it,
      the instant I see thee attempt it that same instant will I pierce my bosom
      with this dagger that I hold in my hand; and before thou answerest me a
      word desire thee to listen to a few from me, and afterwards thou shalt
      reply as may please thee. First, I desire thee to tell me, Lothario, if
      thou knowest my husband Anselmo, and in what light thou regardest him; and
      secondly I desire to know if thou knowest me too. Answer me this, without
      embarrassment or reflecting deeply what thou wilt answer, for they are no
      riddles I put to thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      Lothario was not so dull but that from the first moment when Camilla
      directed him to make Anselmo hide himself he understood what she intended
      to do, and therefore he fell in with her idea so readily and promptly that
      between them they made the imposture look more true than truth; so he
      answered her thus: "I did not think, fair Camilla, that thou wert calling
      me to ask questions so remote from the object with which I come; but if it
      is to defer the promised reward thou art doing so, thou mightst have put
      it off still longer, for the longing for happiness gives the more distress
      the nearer comes the hope of gaining it; but lest thou shouldst say that I
      do not answer thy questions, I say that I know thy husband Anselmo, and
      that we have known each other from our earliest years; I will not speak of
      what thou too knowest, of our friendship, that I may not compel myself to
      testify against the wrong that love, the mighty excuse for greater errors,
      makes me inflict upon him. Thee I know and hold in the same estimation as
      he does, for were it not so I had not for a lesser prize acted in
      opposition to what I owe to my station and the holy laws of true
      friendship, now broken and violated by me through that powerful enemy,
      love."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If thou dost confess that," returned Camilla, "mortal enemy of all that
      rightly deserves to be loved, with what face dost thou dare to come before
      one whom thou knowest to be the mirror wherein he is reflected on whom
      thou shouldst look to see how unworthily thou wrongest him? But, woe is me, I now
      comprehend what has made thee give so little heed to what thou owest to
      thyself; it must have been some freedom of mine, for I will not call it
      immodesty, as it did not proceed from any deliberate intention, but from
      some heedlessness such as women are guilty of through inadvertence when
      they think they have no occasion for reserve. But tell me, traitor, when
      did I by word or sign give a reply to thy prayers that could awaken in
      thee a shadow of hope of attaining thy base wishes? When were not thy
      professions of love sternly and scornfully rejected and rebuked? When were
      thy frequent pledges and still more frequent gifts believed or accepted?
      But as I am persuaded that no one can long persevere in the attempt to win
      love unsustained by some hope, I am willing to attribute to myself the
      blame of thy assurance, for no doubt some thoughtlessness of mine has all
      this time fostered thy hopes; and therefore will I punish myself and
      inflict upon myself the penalty thy guilt deserves. And that thou mayest
      see that being so relentless to myself I cannot possibly be otherwise to
      thee, I have summoned thee to be a witness of the sacrifice I mean to
      offer to the injured honour of my honoured husband, wronged by thee with
      all the assiduity thou wert capable of, and by me too through want of
      caution in avoiding every occasion, if I have given any, of encouraging
      and sanctioning thy base designs. Once more I say the suspicion in my mind
      that some imprudence of mine has engendered these lawless thoughts in
      thee, is what causes me most distress and what I desire most to punish
      with my own hands, for were any other instrument of punishment employed my
      error might become perhaps more widely known; but before I do so, in my
      death I mean to inflict death, and take with me one that will fully
      satisfy my longing for the revenge I hope for and have; for I shall see,
      wheresoever it may be that I go, the penalty awarded by inflexible,
      unswerving justice on him who has placed me in a position so desperate."
    </p>
    <p>
      As she uttered these words, with incredible energy and swiftness she flew
      upon Lothario with the naked dagger, so manifestly bent on burying it in
      his breast that he was almost uncertain whether these demonstrations were
      real or feigned, for he was obliged to have recourse to all his skill and
      strength to prevent her from striking him; and with such reality did she
      act this strange farce and mystification that, to give it a colour of
      truth, she determined to stain it with her own blood; for perceiving, or
      pretending, that she could not wound Lothario, she said, "Fate, it seems,
      will not grant my just desire complete satisfaction, but it will not be
      able to keep me from satisfying it partially at least;" and making an
      effort to free the hand with the dagger which Lothario held in his grasp,
      she released it, and directing the point to a place where it could not
      inflict a deep wound, she plunged it into her left side high up close to
      the shoulder, and then allowed herself to fall to the ground as if in a
      faint.
    </p>
    <p>
      Leonela and Lothario stood amazed and astounded at the catastrophe, and
      seeing Camilla stretched on the ground and bathed in her blood they were
      still uncertain as to the true nature of the act. Lothario, terrified and
      breathless, ran in haste to pluck out the dagger; but when he saw how
      slight the wound was he was relieved of his fears and once more admired
      the subtlety, coolness, and ready wit of the fair Camilla; and the better
      to support the part he had to play he began to utter profuse and doleful
      lamentations over her body as if she were dead, invoking maledictions not
      only on himself but also on him who had been the means of placing him in
      such a position: and knowing that his friend Anselmo heard him he spoke in
      such a way as to make a listener feel much more pity for him than for
      Camilla, even though he supposed her dead. Leonela took her up in her arms
      and laid her on the bed, entreating Lothario to go in quest of some one to
      attend to her wound in secret, and at the same time asking his advice and
      opinion as to what they should say to Anselmo about his lady's wound if he
      should chance to return before it was healed. He replied they might say
      what they liked, for he was not in a state to give advice that would be of
      any use; all he could tell her was to try and stanch the blood, as he was
      going where he should never more be seen; and with every appearance of
      deep grief and sorrow he left the house; but when he found himself alone,
      and where there was nobody to see him, he crossed himself unceasingly,
      lost in wonder at the adroitness of Camilla and the consistent acting of
      Leonela. He reflected how convinced Anselmo would be that he had a second
      Portia for a wife, and he looked forward anxiously to meeting him in order
      to rejoice together over falsehood and truth the most craftily veiled that
      could be imagined.
    </p>
    <p>
      Leonela, as he told her, stanched her lady's blood, which was no more than
      sufficed to support her deception; and washing the wound with a little
      wine she bound it up to the best of her skill, talking all the time she
      was tending her in a strain that, even if nothing else had been said
      before, would have been enough to assure Anselmo that he had in Camilla a
      model of purity. To Leonela's words Camilla added her own, calling herself
      cowardly and wanting in spirit, since she had not enough at the time she
      had most need of it to rid herself of the life she so much loathed. She
      asked her attendant's advice as to whether or not she ought to inform her
      beloved husband of all that had happened, but the other bade her say
      nothing about it, as she would lay upon him the obligation of taking
      vengeance on Lothario, which he could not do but at great risk to himself;
      and it was the duty of a true wife not to give her husband provocation to
      quarrel, but, on the contrary, to remove it as far as possible from him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Camilla replied that she believed she was right and that she would follow
      her advice, but at any rate it would be well to consider how she was to
      explain the wound to Anselmo, for he could not help seeing it; to which
      Leonela answered that she did not know how to tell a lie even in jest.
    </p>
    <p>
      "How then can I know, my dear?" said Camilla, "for I should not dare to
      forge or keep up a falsehood if my life depended on it. If we can think of
      no escape from this difficulty, it will be better to tell him the plain
      truth than that he should find us out in an untrue story."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be not uneasy, senora," said Leonela; "between this and to-morrow I will
      think of what we must say to him, and perhaps the wound being where it is
      it can be hidden from his sight, and Heaven will be pleased to aid us in a
      purpose so good and honourable. Compose yourself, senora, and endeavour to
      calm your excitement lest my lord find you agitated; and leave the rest to
      my care and God's, who always supports good intentions."
    </p>
    <p>
      Anselmo had with the deepest attention listened to and seen played out the
      tragedy of the death of his honour, which the performers acted with such
      wonderfully effective truth that it seemed as if they had become the
      realities of the parts they played. He longed for night and an opportunity
      of escaping from the house to go and see his good friend Lothario, and
      with him give vent to his joy over the precious pearl he had gained in
      having established his wife's purity. Both mistress and maid took care to
      give him time and opportunity to get away, and taking advantage of it he
      made his escape, and at once went in quest of Lothario, and it would be
      impossible to describe how he embraced him when he found him, and the
      things he said to him in the joy of his heart, and the praises he bestowed
      upon Camilla; all which Lothario listened to without being able to show
      any pleasure, for he could not forget how deceived his friend was, and how
      dishonourably he had wronged him; and though Anselmo could see that
      Lothario was not glad, still he imagined it was only because he had left
      Camilla wounded and had been himself the cause of it; and so among other
      things he told him not to be distressed about Camilla's accident, for, as
      they had agreed to hide it from him, the wound was evidently trifling; and
      that being so, he had no cause for fear, but should henceforward be of
      good cheer and rejoice with him, seeing that by his means and adroitness
      he found himself raised to the greatest height of happiness that he could
      have ventured to hope for, and desired no better pastime than making
      verses in praise of Camilla that would preserve her name for all time to
      come. Lothario commended his purpose, and promised on his own part to aid
      him in raising a monument so glorious.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so Anselmo was left the most charmingly hoodwinked man there could be
      in the world. He himself, persuaded he was conducting the instrument of
      his glory, led home by the hand of him who had been the utter destruction of
      his good name; whom Camilla received with averted countenance, though with
      smiles in her heart. The deception was carried on for some time, until at
      the end of a few months Fortune turned her wheel and the guilt which had
      been until then so skilfully concealed was published abroad, and Anselmo
      paid with his life the penalty of his ill-advised curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch35" id="ch35"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TREATS OF THE HEROIC AND PRODIGIOUS BATTLE DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH
      CERTAIN SKINS OF RED WINE, AND BRINGS THE NOVEL OF "THE ILL-ADVISED
      CURIOSITY" TO A CLOSE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      There remained but little more of the novel to be read, when Sancho Panza
      burst forth in wild excitement from the garret where Don Quixote was
      lying, shouting, "Run, sirs! quick; and help my master, who is in the
      thick of the toughest and stiffest battle I ever laid eyes on. By the
      living God he has given the giant, the enemy of my lady the Princess
      Micomicona, such a slash that he has sliced his head clean off as if it
      were a turnip."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What are you talking about, brother?" said the curate, pausing as he was
      about to read the remainder of the novel. "Are you in your senses, Sancho?
      How the devil can it be as you say, when the giant is two thousand leagues
      away?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Here they heard a loud noise in the chamber, and Don Quixote shouting out,
      "Stand, thief, brigand, villain; now I have got thee, and thy scimitar
      shall not avail thee!" And then it seemed as though he were slashing
      vigorously at the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Don't stop to listen," said Sancho, "but go in and part them or help my
      master: though there is no need of that now, for no doubt the giant is
      dead by this time and giving account to God of his past wicked life; for I
      saw the blood flowing on the ground, and the head cut off and fallen on
      one side, and it is as big as a large wine-skin."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May I die," said the landlord at this, "if Don Quixote or Don Devil has
      not been slashing some of the skins of red wine that stand full at his
      bed's head, and the spilt wine must be what this good fellow takes for
      blood;" and so saying he went into the room and the rest after him, and
      there they found Don Quixote in the strangest costume in the world. He was
      in his shirt, which was not long enough in front to cover his thighs
      completely and was six fingers shorter behind; his legs were very long and
      lean, covered with hair, and anything but clean; on his head he had a
      little greasy red cap that belonged to the host, round his left arm he had
      rolled the blanket of the bed, to which Sancho, for reasons best known to
      himself, owed a grudge, and in his right hand he held his unsheathed
      sword, with which he was slashing about on all sides, uttering
      exclamations as if he were actually fighting some giant: and the best of
      it was his eyes were not open, for he was fast asleep, and dreaming that
      he was doing battle with the giant. For his imagination was so wrought
      upon by the adventure he was going to accomplish, that it made him dream
      he had already reached the kingdom of Micomicon, and was engaged in combat
      with his enemy; and believing he was laying on the giant, he had given so
      many sword cuts to the skins that the whole room was full of wine. On
      seeing this the landlord was so enraged that he fell on Don Quixote, and
      with his clenched fist began to pummel him in such a way, that if Cardenio
      and the curate had not dragged him off, he would have brought the war of
      the giant to an end. But in spite of all the poor gentleman never woke
      until the barber brought a great pot of cold water from the well and flung
      it with one dash all over his body, on which Don Quixote woke up, but not
      so completely as to understand what was the matter. Dorothea, seeing how
      short and slight his attire was, would not go in to witness the battle
      between her champion and her opponent. As for Sancho, he went searching
      all over the floor for the head of the giant, and not finding it he said,
      "I see now that it's all enchantment in this house; for the last time, on
      this very spot where I am now, I got ever so many thumps without knowing
      who gave them to me, or being able to see anybody; and now this head is
      not to be seen anywhere about, though I saw it cut off with my own eyes
      and the blood running from the body as if from a fountain."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What blood and fountains are you talking about, enemy of God and his
      saints?" said the landlord. "Don't you see, you thief, that the blood and
      the fountain are only these skins here that have been stabbed and the red
      wine swimming all over the room?&mdash;and I wish I saw the soul of him
      that stabbed them swimming in hell."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know nothing about that," said Sancho; "all I know is it will be my bad
      luck that through not finding this head my county will melt away like salt
      in water;"&mdash;for Sancho awake was worse than his master asleep, so
      much had his master's promises addled his wits.
    </p>
    <p>
      The landlord was beside himself at the coolness of the squire and the
      mischievous doings of the master, and swore it should not be like the last
      time when they went without paying; and that their privileges of chivalry
      should not hold good this time to let one or other of them off without
      paying, even to the cost of the plugs that would have to be put to the
      damaged wine-skins. The curate was holding Don Quixote's hands, who,
      fancying he had now ended the adventure and was in the presence of the
      Princess Micomicona, knelt before the curate and said, "Exalted and
      beauteous lady, your highness may live from this day forth fearless of any
      harm this base being could do you; and I too from this day forth am
      released from the promise I gave you, since by the help of God on high and
      by the favour of her by whom I live and breathe, I have fulfilled it so
      successfully."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did not I say so?" said Sancho on hearing this. "You see I wasn't drunk;
      there you see my master has already salted the giant; there's no doubt
      about the bulls; my county is all right!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Who could have helped laughing at the absurdities of the pair, master and
      man? And laugh they did, all except the landlord, who cursed himself; but
      at length the barber, Cardenio, and the curate contrived with no small
      trouble to get Don Quixote on the bed, and he fell asleep with every
      appearance of excessive weariness. They left him to sleep, and came out to
      the gate of the inn to console Sancho Panza on not having found the head
      of the giant; but much more work had they to appease the landlord, who was
      furious at the sudden death of his wine-skins; and said the landlady half
      scolding, half crying, "At an evil moment and in an unlucky hour he came
      into my house, this knight-errant&mdash;would that I had never set eyes on
      him, for dear he has cost me; the last time he went off with the overnight
      score against him for supper, bed, straw, and barley, for himself and his
      squire and a hack and an ass, saying he was a knight adventurer&mdash;God
      send unlucky adventures to him and all the adventurers in the world&mdash;and
      therefore not bound to pay anything, for it was so settled by the
      knight-errantry tariff: and then, all because of him, came the other
      gentleman and carried off my tail, and gives it back more than two
      cuartillos the worse, all stripped of its hair, so that it is no use for
      my husband's purpose; and then, for a finishing touch to all, to burst my
      wine-skins and spill my wine! I wish I saw his own blood spilt! But let
      him not deceive himself, for, by the bones of my father and the shade of
      my mother, they shall pay me down every quarts; or my name is not what it
      is, and I am not my father's daughter." All this and more to the same
      effect the landlady delivered with great irritation, and her good maid
      Maritornes backed her up, while the daughter held her peace and smiled
      from time to time. The curate smoothed matters by promising to make good
      all losses to the best of his power, not only as regarded the wine-skins
      but also the wine, and above all the depreciation of the tail which they
      set such store by. Dorothea comforted Sancho, telling him that she pledged
      herself, as soon as it should appear certain that his master had
      decapitated the giant, and she found herself peacefully established in her
      kingdom, to bestow upon him the best county there was in it. With this
      Sancho consoled himself, and assured the princess she might rely upon it
      that he had seen the head of the giant, and more by token it had a beard
      that reached to the girdle, and that if it was not to be seen now it was
      because everything that happened in that house went by enchantment, as he
      himself had proved the last time he had lodged there. Dorothea said she
      fully believed it, and that he need not be uneasy, for all would go well
      and turn out as he wished. All therefore being appeased, the curate was
      anxious to go on with the novel, as he saw there was but little more left
      to read. Dorothea and the others begged him to finish it, and he, as he
      was willing to please them, and enjoyed reading it himself, continued the
      tale in these words:
    </p>
    <p>
      The result was, that from the confidence Anselmo felt in Camilla's virtue,
      he lived happy and free from anxiety, and Camilla purposely looked coldly
      on Lothario, that Anselmo might suppose her feelings towards him to be the
      opposite of what they were; and the better to support the position,
      Lothario begged to be excused from coming to the house, as the displeasure
      with which Camilla regarded his presence was plain to be seen. But the
      befooled Anselmo said he would on no account allow such a thing, and so in
      a thousand ways he became the author of his own dishonour, while he
      believed he was insuring his happiness. Meanwhile the satisfaction with
      which Leonela saw herself empowered to carry on her amour reached such a
      height that, regardless of everything else, she followed her inclinations
      unrestrainedly, feeling confident that her mistress would screen her, and
      even show her how to manage it safely. At last one night Anselmo heard
      footsteps in Leonela's room, and on trying to enter to see who it was, he
      found that the door was held against him, which made him all the more
      determined to open it; and exerting his strength he forced it open, and
      entered the room in time to see a man leaping through the window into the
      street. He ran quickly to seize him or discover who he was, but he was
      unable to effect either purpose, for Leonela flung her arms round him
      crying, "Be calm, senor; do not give way to passion or follow him who has
      escaped from this; he belongs to me, and in fact he is my husband."
    </p>
    <p>
      Anselmo would not believe it, but blind with rage drew a dagger and
      threatened to stab Leonela, bidding her tell the truth or he would kill
      her. She, in her fear, not knowing what she was saying, exclaimed, "Do not
      kill me, senor, for I can tell you things more important than any you can
      imagine."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell me then at once or thou diest," said Anselmo.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It would be impossible for me now," said Leonela, "I am so agitated:
      leave me till to-morrow, and then you shall hear from me what will fill
      you with astonishment; but rest assured that he who leaped through the
      window is a young man of this city, who has given me his promise to become
      my husband."
    </p>
    <p>
      Anselmo was appeased with this, and was content to wait the time she asked
      of him, for he never expected to hear anything against Camilla, so
      satisfied and sure of her virtue was he; and so he quitted the room, and
      left Leonela locked in, telling her she should not come out until she had
      told him all she had to make known to him. He went at once to see Camilla,
      and tell her, as he did, all that had passed between him and her handmaid,
      and the promise she had given him to inform him matters of serious
      importance.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is no need of saying whether Camilla was agitated or not, for so
      great was her fear and dismay, that, making sure, as she had good reason
      to do, that Leonela would tell Anselmo all she knew of her faithlessness,
      she had not the courage to wait and see if her suspicions were confirmed;
      and that same night, as soon as she thought that Anselmo was asleep, she
      packed up the most valuable jewels she had and some money, and without
      being observed by anybody escaped from the house and betook herself to
      Lothario's, to whom she related what had occurred, imploring him to convey
      her to some place of safety or fly with her where they might be safe from
      Anselmo. The state of perplexity to which Camilla reduced Lothario was
      such that he was unable to utter a word in reply, still less to decide
      upon what he should do. At length he resolved to conduct her to a convent
      of which a sister of his was prioress; Camilla agreed to this, and with
      the speed which the circumstances demanded, Lothario took her to the
      convent and left her there, and then himself quitted the city without
      letting anyone know of his departure.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as daylight came Anselmo, without missing Camilla from his side,
      rose eager to learn what Leonela had to tell him, and hastened to the room
      where he had locked her in. He opened the door, entered, but found no
      Leonela; all he found was some sheets knotted to the window, a plain proof
      that she had let herself down from it and escaped. He returned, uneasy, to
      tell Camilla, but not finding her in bed or anywhere in the house he was
      lost in amazement. He asked the servants of the house about her, but none
      of them could give him any explanation. As he was going in search of
      Camilla it happened by chance that he observed her boxes were lying open,
      and that the greater part of her jewels were gone; and now he became fully
      aware of his disgrace, and that Leonela was not the cause of his
      misfortune; and, just as he was, without delaying to dress himself
      completely, he repaired, sad at heart and dejected, to his friend Lothario
      to make known his sorrow to him; but when he failed to find him and the
      servants reported that he had been absent from his house all night and had
      taken with him all the money he had, he felt as though he were losing his
      senses; and to make all complete on returning to his own house he found it
      deserted and empty, not one of all his servants, male or female, remaining
      in it. He knew not what to think, or say, or do, and his reason seemed to
      be deserting him little by little. He reviewed his position, and saw
      himself in a moment left without wife, friend, or servants, abandoned, he
      felt, by the heaven above him, and more than all robbed of his honour, for
      in Camilla's disappearance he saw his own ruin. After long reflection he
      resolved at last to go to his friend's village, where he had been staying
      when he afforded opportunities for the contrivance of this complication of
      misfortune. He locked the doors of his house, mounted his horse, and with
      a broken spirit set out on his journey; but he had hardly gone half-way
      when, harassed by his reflections, he had to dismount and tie his horse to
      a tree, at the foot of which he threw himself, giving vent to piteous
      heartrending sighs; and there he remained till nearly nightfall, when he
      observed a man approaching on horseback from the city, of whom, after
      saluting him, he asked what was the news in Florence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The citizen replied, "The strangest that have been heard for many a day;
      for it is reported abroad that Lothario, the great friend of the wealthy
      Anselmo, who lived at San Giovanni, carried off last night Camilla, the
      wife of Anselmo, who also has disappeared. All this has been told by a
      maid-servant of Camilla's, whom the governor found last night lowering
      herself by a sheet from the windows of Anselmo's house. I know not indeed,
      precisely, how the affair came to pass; all I know is that the whole city
      is wondering at the occurrence, for no one could have expected a thing of
      the kind, seeing the great and intimate friendship that existed between
      them, so great, they say, that they were called 'The Two Friends.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is it known at all," said Anselmo, "what road Lothario and Camilla took?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not in the least," said the citizen, "though the governor has been very
      active in searching for them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God speed you, senor," said Anselmo.
    </p>
    <p>
      "God be with you," said the citizen and went his way.
    </p>
    <p>
      This disastrous intelligence almost robbed Anselmo not only of his senses
      but of his life. He got up as well as he was able and reached the house of
      his friend, who as yet knew nothing of his misfortune, but seeing him come
      pale, worn, and haggard, perceived that he was suffering some heavy
      affliction. Anselmo at once begged to be allowed to retire to rest, and to
      be given writing materials. His wish was complied with and he was left
      lying down and alone, for he desired this, and even that the door should
      be locked. Finding himself alone he so took to heart the thought of his
      misfortune that by the signs of death he felt within him he knew well his
      life was drawing to a close, and therefore he resolved to leave behind him
      a declaration of the cause of his strange end. He began to write, but
      before he had put down all he meant to say, his breath failed him and he
      yielded up his life, a victim to the suffering which his ill-advised
      curiosity had entailed upon him. The master of the house observing that it
      was now late and that Anselmo did not call, determined to go in and
      ascertain if his indisposition was increasing, and found him lying on his
      face, his body partly in the bed, partly on the writing-table, on which he
      lay with the written paper open and the pen still in his hand. Having
      first called to him without receiving any answer, his host approached him,
      and taking him by the hand, found that it was cold, and saw that he was
      dead. Greatly surprised and distressed he summoned the household to
      witness the sad fate which had befallen Anselmo; and then he read the
      paper, the handwriting of which he recognised as his, and which contained
      these words:
    </p>
    <p>
      "A foolish and ill-advised desire has robbed me of life. If the news of my
      death should reach the ears of Camilla, let her know that I forgive her,
      for she was not bound to perform miracles, nor ought I to have required
      her to perform them; and since I have been the author of my own dishonour,
      there is no reason why-"
    </p>
    <p>
      So far Anselmo had written, and thus it was plain that at this point,
      before he could finish what he had to say, his life came to an end. The
      next day his friend sent intelligence of his death to his relatives, who
      had already ascertained his misfortune, as well as the convent where
      Camilla lay almost on the point of accompanying her husband on that
      inevitable journey, not on account of the tidings of his death, but
      because of those she received of her lover's departure. Although she saw
      herself a widow, it is said she refused either to quit the convent or take
      the veil, until, not long afterwards, intelligence reached her that
      Lothario had been killed in a battle in which M. de Lautrec had been
      recently engaged with the Great Captain Gonzalo Fernandez de Cordova in
      the kingdom of Naples, whither her too late repentant lover had repaired.
      On learning this Camilla took the veil, and shortly afterwards died, worn
      out by grief and melancholy. This was the end of all three, an end that
      came of a thoughtless beginning.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I like this novel," said the curate; "but I cannot persuade myself of its
      truth; and if it has been invented, the author's invention is faulty, for
      it is impossible to imagine any husband so foolish as to try such a costly
      experiment as Anselmo's. If it had been represented as occurring between a
      gallant and his mistress it might pass; but between husband and wife there
      is something of an impossibility about it. As to the way in which the
      story is told, however, I have no fault to find."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch36" id="ch36"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED AT THE INN
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c36a" id="c36a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c36a.jpg (124K)" src="images/c36a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c36a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Just at that instant the landlord, who was standing at the gate of the
      inn, exclaimed, "Here comes a fine troop of guests; if they stop here we
      may say gaudeamus."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What are they?" said Cardenio.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Four men," said the landlord, "riding a la jineta, with lances and
      bucklers, and all with black veils, and with them there is a woman in
      white on a side-saddle, whose face is also veiled, and two attendants on
      foot."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Are they very near?" said the curate.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So near," answered the landlord, "that here they come."
    </p>
    <p>
      Hearing this Dorothea covered her face, and Cardenio retreated into Don
      Quixote's room, and they hardly had time to do so before the whole party
      the host had described entered the inn, and the four that were on
      horseback, who were of highbred appearance and bearing, dismounted, and
      came forward to take down the woman who rode on the side-saddle, and one
      of them taking her in his arms placed her in a chair that stood at the
      entrance of the room where Cardenio had hidden himself. All this time
      neither she nor they had removed their veils or spoken a word, only on
      sitting down on the chair the woman gave a deep sigh and let her arms fall
      like one that was ill and weak. The attendants on foot then led the horses
      away to the stable. Observing this the curate, curious to know who these
      people in such a dress and preserving such silence were, went to where the
      servants were standing and put the question to one of them, who answered
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Faith, sir, I cannot tell you who they are, I only know they seem to be
      people of distinction, particularly he who advanced to take the lady you
      saw in his arms; and I say so because all the rest show him respect, and
      nothing is done except what he directs and orders."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And the lady, who is she?" asked the curate.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I cannot tell you either," said the servant, "for I have not seen
      her face all the way: I have indeed heard her sigh many times and utter
      such groans that she seems to be giving up the ghost every time; but it is
      no wonder if we do not know more than we have told you, as my comrade and
      I have only been in their company two days, for having met us on the road
      they begged and persuaded us to accompany them to Andalusia, promising to
      pay us well."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And have you heard any of them called by his name?" asked the curate.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, indeed," replied the servant; "they all preserve a marvellous silence
      on the road, for not a sound is to be heard among them except the poor
      lady's sighs and sobs, which make us pity her; and we feel sure that
      wherever it is she is going, it is against her will, and as far as one can
      judge from her dress she is a nun or, what is more likely, about to become
      one; and perhaps it is because taking the vows is not of her own free
      will, that she is so unhappy as she seems to be."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That may well be," said the curate, and leaving them he returned to where
      Dorothea was, who, hearing the veiled lady sigh, moved by natural
      compassion drew near to her and said, "What are you suffering from,
      senora? If it be anything that women are accustomed and know how to
      relieve, I offer you my services with all my heart."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this the unhappy lady made no reply; and though Dorothea repeated her
      offers more earnestly she still kept silence, until the gentleman with the
      veil, who, the servant said, was obeyed by the rest, approached and said
      to Dorothea, "Do not give yourself the trouble, senora, of making any
      offers to that woman, for it is her way to give no thanks for anything
      that is done for her; and do not try to make her answer unless you want to
      hear some lie from her lips."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have never told a lie," was the immediate reply of her who had been
      silent until now; "on the contrary, it is because I am so truthful and so
      ignorant of lying devices that I am now in this miserable condition; and
      this I call you yourself to witness, for it is my unstained truth that has
      made you false and a liar."
    </p>
    <p>
      Cardenio heard these words clearly and distinctly, being quite close to
      the speaker, for there was only the door of Don Quixote's room between
      them, and the instant he did so, uttering a loud exclamation he cried,
      "Good God! what is this I hear? What voice is this that has reached my
      ears?" Startled at the voice the lady turned her head; and not seeing the
      speaker she stood up and attempted to enter the room; observing which the
      gentleman held her back, preventing her from moving a step. In her
      agitation and sudden movement the silk with which she had covered her face
      fell off and disclosed a countenance of incomparable and marvellous
      beauty, but pale and terrified; for she kept turning her eyes, everywhere
      she could direct her gaze, with an eagerness that made her look as if she
      had lost her senses, and so marked that it excited the pity of Dorothea
      and all who beheld her, though they knew not what caused it. The gentleman
      grasped her firmly by the shoulders, and being so fully occupied with
      holding her back, he was unable to put a hand to his veil which was
      falling off, as it did at length entirely, and Dorothea, who was holding
      the lady in her arms, raising her eyes saw that he who likewise held her
      was her husband, Don Fernando. The instant she recognised him, with a
      prolonged plaintive cry drawn from the depths of her heart, she fell
      backwards fainting, and but for the barber being close by to catch her in
      his arms, she would have fallen completely to the ground. The curate at
      once hastened to uncover her face and throw water on it, and as he did so
      Don Fernando, for he it was who held the other in his arms, recognised her
      and stood as if death-stricken by the sight; not, however, relaxing his
      grasp of Luscinda, for it was she that was struggling to release herself
      from his hold, having recognised Cardenio by his voice, as he had
      recognised her. Cardenio also heard Dorothea's cry as she fell fainting,
      and imagining that it came from his Luscinda burst forth in terror from
      the room, and the first thing he saw was Don Fernando with Luscinda in his
      arms. Don Fernando, too, knew Cardenio at once; and all three, Luscinda,
      Cardenio, and Dorothea, stood in silent amazement scarcely knowing what
      had happened to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      They gazed at one another without speaking, Dorothea at Don Fernando, Don
      Fernando at Cardenio, Cardenio at Luscinda, and Luscinda at Cardenio. The
      first to break silence was Luscinda, who thus addressed Don Fernando:
      "Leave me, Senor Don Fernando, for the sake of what you owe to yourself;
      if no other reason will induce you, leave me 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 have been able to detach
      me. See how Heaven, by ways strange and hidden from our sight, has brought
      me face to face with my true husband; and well you know by dear-bought
      experience that death alone will be able to efface him from my memory. May
      this plain declaration, then, lead you, as you can do nothing else, to
      turn your love into rage, your affection into resentment, and so to take
      my life; for if I yield it up in the presence of my beloved husband I
      count it well bestowed; it may be by my death he will be convinced that I
      kept my faith to him to the last moment of life."
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Dorothea had come to herself, and had heard Luscinda's words, by
      means of which she divined who she was; but seeing that Don Fernando did
      not yet release her or reply to her, summoning up her resolution as well
      as she could she rose and knelt at his feet, and with a flood of bright
      and touching tears addressed him thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      "If, my lord, the beams of that sun that thou holdest eclipsed in thine
      arms did not dazzle and rob thine eyes of sight thou wouldst have seen by
      this time that she who kneels at thy feet is, so long as thou wilt have it
      so, the unhappy and unfortunate Dorothea. I am that lowly peasant girl
      whom thou in thy goodness or for thy pleasure wouldst raise high enough to
      call herself thine; I am she who in the seclusion of innocence led a
      contented life until at the voice of thy importunity, and thy true and
      tender passion, as it seemed, she opened the gates of her modesty and
      surrendered to thee the keys of her liberty; a gift received by thee but
      thanklessly, as is clearly shown by my forced retreat to the place where
      thou dost find me, and by thy appearance under the circumstances in which
      I see thee. Nevertheless, I would not have thee suppose that I have come
      here driven by my shame; it is only grief and sorrow at seeing myself
      forgotten by thee that have led me. It was thy will to make me thine, and
      thou didst so follow thy will, that now, even though thou repentest, thou
      canst not help being mine. Bethink thee, my lord, the unsurpassable
      affection I bear thee may compensate for the beauty and noble birth for
      which thou wouldst desert me. Thou canst not be the fair Luscinda's
      because thou art mine, nor can she be thine because she is Cardenio's; and
      it will be easier, remember, to bend thy will to love one who adores thee,
      than to lead one to love thee who abhors thee now. Thou didst address
      thyself to my simplicity, thou didst lay siege to my virtue, thou wert not
      ignorant of my station, well dost thou know how I yielded wholly to thy
      will; there is no ground or reason for thee to plead deception, and if it
      be so, as it is, and if thou art a Christian as thou art a gentleman, why
      dost thou by such subterfuges put off making me as happy at last as thou
      didst at first? And if thou wilt not have me for what I am, thy true and
      lawful wife, at least take and accept me as thy slave, for so long as I am
      thine I will count myself happy and fortunate. Do not by deserting me let
      my shame become the talk of the gossips in the streets; make not the old
      age of my parents miserable; for the loyal services they as faithful
      vassals have ever rendered thine are not deserving of such a return; and
      if thou thinkest it will debase thy blood to mingle it with mine, reflect
      that there is little or no nobility in the world that has not travelled
      the same road, and that in illustrious lineages it is not the woman's
      blood that is of account; and, moreover, that true nobility consists in
      virtue, and if thou art wanting in that, refusing me what in justice thou
      owest me, then even I have higher claims to nobility than thine. To make
      an end, senor, these are my last words to thee: whether thou wilt, or wilt
      not, I am thy wife; witness thy words, which must not and ought not to be
      false, if thou dost pride thyself on that for want of which thou scornest
      me; witness the pledge which thou didst give me, and witness Heaven, which
      thou thyself didst call to witness the promise thou hadst made me; and if
      all this fail, thy own conscience will not fail to lift up its silent
      voice in the midst of all thy gaiety, and vindicate the truth of what I
      say and mar thy highest pleasure and enjoyment."
    </p>
    <p>
      All this and more the injured Dorothea delivered with such earnest feeling
      and such tears that all present, even those who came with Don Fernando,
      were constrained to join her in them. Don Fernando listened to her without
      replying, until, ceasing to speak, she gave way to such sobs and sighs
      that it must have been a heart of brass that was not softened by the sight
      of so great sorrow. Luscinda stood regarding her with no less compassion
      for her sufferings than admiration for her intelligence and beauty, and
      would have gone to her to say some words of comfort to her, but was
      prevented by Don Fernando's grasp which held her fast. He, overwhelmed
      with confusion and astonishment, after regarding Dorothea for some moments
      with a fixed gaze, opened his arms, and, releasing Luscinda, exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou hast conquered, fair Dorothea, thou hast conquered, for it is
      impossible to have the heart to deny the united force of so many truths."
    </p>
    <p>
      Luscinda in her feebleness was on the point of falling to the ground when
      Don Fernando released her, but Cardenio, who stood near, having retreated
      behind Don Fernando to escape recognition, casting fear aside and
      regardless of what might happen, ran forward to support her, and said as
      he clasped her in his arms, "If Heaven in its compassion is willing to let
      thee rest at last, mistress of my heart, true, constant, and fair, nowhere
      canst thou rest more safely than in these arms that now receive thee, and
      received thee before when fortune permitted me to call thee mine."
    </p>
    <p>
      At these words Luscinda looked up at Cardenio, at first beginning to
      recognise him by his voice and then satisfying herself by her eyes that it
      was he, and hardly knowing what she did, and heedless of all
      considerations of decorum, she flung her arms around his neck and pressing
      her face close to his, said, "Yes, my dear lord, you are the true master
      of this your slave, even though adverse fate interpose again, and fresh
      dangers threaten this life that hangs on yours."
    </p>
    <p>
      A strange sight was this for Don Fernando and those that stood around,
      filled with surprise at an incident so unlooked for. Dorothea fancied that
      Don Fernando changed colour and looked as though he meant to take
      vengeance on Cardenio, for she observed him put his hand to his sword; and
      the instant the idea struck her, with wonderful quickness she clasped him
      round the knees, and kissing them and holding him so as to prevent his
      moving, she said, while her tears continued to flow, "What is it thou
      wouldst do, my only refuge, in this unforeseen event? Thou hast thy wife
      at thy feet, and she whom thou wouldst have for thy wife is in the arms of
      her husband: reflect whether it will be right for thee, whether it will be
      possible for thee to undo what Heaven has done, or whether it will be
      becoming in thee to seek to raise her to be thy mate who in spite of every
      obstacle, and strong in her truth and constancy, is before thine eyes,
      bathing with the tears of love the face and bosom of her lawful husband.
      For God's sake I entreat of thee, for thine own I implore thee, let not
      this open manifestation rouse thy anger; but rather so calm it as to allow
      these two lovers to live in peace and quiet without any interference from
      thee so long as Heaven permits them; and in so doing thou wilt prove the
      generosity of thy lofty noble spirit, and the world shall see that with
      thee reason has more influence than passion."
    </p>
    <p>
      All the time Dorothea was speaking, Cardenio, though he held Luscinda in
      his arms, never took his eyes off Don Fernando, determined, if he saw him
      make any hostile movement, to try and defend himself and resist as best he
      could all who might assail him, though it should cost him his life. But
      now Don Fernando's friends, as well as the curate and the barber, who had
      been present all the while, not forgetting the worthy Sancho Panza, ran
      forward and gathered round Don Fernando, entreating him to have regard for
      the tears of Dorothea, and not suffer her reasonable hopes to be
      disappointed, since, as they firmly believed, what she said was but the
      truth; and bidding him observe that it was not, as it might seem, by
      accident, but by a special disposition of Providence that they had all met
      in a place where no one could have expected a meeting. And the curate bade
      him remember that only death could part Luscinda from Cardenio; that even
      if some sword were to separate them they would think their death most
      happy; and that in a case that admitted of no remedy his wisest course
      was, by conquering and putting a constraint upon himself, to show a
      generous mind, and of his own accord suffer these two to enjoy the
      happiness Heaven had granted them. He bade him, too, turn his eyes upon
      the beauty of Dorothea and he would see that few if any could equal much
      less excel her; while to that beauty should be added her modesty and the
      surpassing love she bore him. But besides all this, he reminded him that
      if he prided himself on being a gentleman and a Christian, he could not do
      otherwise than keep his plighted word; and that in doing so he would obey
      God and meet the approval of all sensible people, who know and recognised
      it to be the privilege of beauty, even in one of humble birth, provided
      virtue accompany it, to be able to raise itself to the level of any rank,
      without any slur upon him who places it upon an equality with himself; and
      furthermore that when the potent sway of passion asserts itself, so long
      as there be no mixture of sin in it, he is not to be blamed who gives way
      to it.
    </p>
    <p>
      To be brief, they added to these such other forcible arguments that Don
      Fernando's manly heart, being after all nourished by noble blood, was
      touched, and yielded to the truth which, even had he wished it, he could
      not gainsay; and he showed his submission, and acceptance of the good
      advice that had been offered to him, by stooping down and embracing
      Dorothea, saying to her, "Rise, dear lady, it is not right that what I
      hold in my heart should be kneeling at my feet; and if until now I have
      shown no sign of what I own, it may have been by Heaven's decree in order
      that, seeing the constancy with which you love me, I may learn to value
      you as you deserve. What I entreat of you is that you reproach me not with
      my transgression and grievous wrong-doing; for the same cause and force
      that drove me to make you mine impelled me to struggle against being
      yours; and to prove this, turn and look at the eyes of the now happy
      Luscinda, and you will see in them an excuse for all my errors: and as she
      has found and gained the object of her desires, and I have found in you
      what satisfies all my wishes, may she live in peace and contentment as
      many happy years with her Cardenio, as on my knees I pray Heaven to allow
      me to live with my Dorothea;" and with these words he once more embraced
      her and pressed his face to hers with so much tenderness that he had to
      take great heed to keep his tears from completing the proof of his love
      and repentance in the sight of all. Not so Luscinda, and Cardenio, and
      almost all the others, for they shed so many tears, some in their own
      happiness, some at that of the others, that one would have supposed a
      heavy calamity had fallen upon them all. Even Sancho Panza was weeping;
      though afterwards he said he only wept because he saw that Dorothea was
      not as he fancied the queen Micomicona, of whom he expected such great
      favours. Their wonder as well as their weeping lasted some time, and then
      Cardenio and Luscinda went and fell on their knees before Don Fernando,
      returning him thanks for the favour he had rendered them in language so
      grateful that he knew not how to answer them, and raising them up embraced
      them with every mark of affection and courtesy.
    </p>
    <p>
      He then asked Dorothea how she had managed to reach a place so far removed
      from her own home, and she in a few fitting words told all that she had
      previously related to Cardenio, with which Don Fernando and his companions
      were so delighted that they wished the story had been longer; so
      charmingly did Dorothea describe her misadventures. When she had finished
      Don Fernando recounted what had befallen him in the city after he had
      found in Luscinda's bosom the paper in which she declared that she was
      Cardenio's wife, and never could be his. He said he meant to kill her, and
      would have done so had he not been prevented by her parents, and that he
      quitted the house full of rage and shame, and resolved to avenge himself
      when a more convenient opportunity should offer. The next day he learned
      that Luscinda had disappeared from her father's house, and that no one
      could tell whither she had gone. Finally, at the end of some months he
      ascertained that she was in a convent and meant to remain there all the
      rest of her life, if she were not to share it with Cardenio; and as soon
      as he had learned this, taking these three gentlemen as his companions, he
      arrived at the place where she was, but avoided speaking to her, fearing
      that if it were known he was there stricter precautions would be taken in
      the convent; and watching a time when the porter's lodge was open he left
      two to guard the gate, and he and the other entered the convent in quest
      of Luscinda, whom they found in the cloisters in conversation with one of
      the nuns, and carrying her off without giving her time to resist, they
      reached a place with her where they provided themselves with what they
      required for taking her away; all which they were able to do in complete
      safety, as the convent was in the country at a considerable distance from
      the city. He added that when Luscinda found herself in his power she lost
      all consciousness, and after returning to herself did nothing but weep and
      sigh without speaking a word; and thus in silence and tears they reached
      that inn, which for him was reaching heaven where all the mischances of
      earth are over and at an end.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c36b" id="c36b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c36b.jpg (319K)" src="images/c36b.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <a href="images/c36b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c36e" id="c36e"></a>
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      <img alt="c36e.jpg (36K)" src="images/c36e.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch37" id="ch37"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE STORY OF THE FAMOUS PRINCESS MICOMICONA, WITH
      OTHER DROLL ADVENTURES
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c37a" id="c37a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c37a.jpg (159K)" src="images/c37a.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <a href="images/c37a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      To all this Sancho listened with no little sorrow at heart to see how his
      hopes of dignity were fading away and vanishing in smoke, and how the fair
      Princess Micomicona had turned into Dorothea, and the giant into Don
      Fernando, while his master was sleeping tranquilly, totally unconscious of
      all that had come to pass. Dorothea was unable to persuade herself that
      her present happiness was not all a dream; Cardenio was in a similar state
      of mind, and Luscinda's thoughts ran in the same direction. Don Fernando
      gave thanks to Heaven for the favour shown to him and for having been
      rescued from the intricate labyrinth in which he had been brought so near
      the destruction of his good name and of his soul; and in short everybody
      in the inn was full of contentment and satisfaction at the happy issue of
      such a complicated and hopeless business. The curate as a sensible man
      made sound reflections upon the whole affair, and congratulated each upon
      his good fortune; but the one that was in the highest spirits and good
      humour was the landlady, because of the promise Cardenio and the curate
      had given her to pay for all the losses and damage she had sustained
      through Don Quixote's means. Sancho, as has been already said, was the
      only one who was distressed, unhappy, and dejected; and so with a long
      face he went in to his master, who had just awoke, and said to him:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sir Rueful Countenance, your worship may as well sleep on as much as you
      like, without troubling yourself about killing any giant or restoring her
      kingdom to the princess; for that is all over and settled now."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I should think it was," replied Don Quixote, "for I have had the most
      prodigious and stupendous battle with the giant that I ever remember
      having had all the days of my life; and with one back-stroke&mdash;swish!&mdash;I
      brought his head tumbling to the ground, and so much blood gushed forth
      from him that it ran in rivulets over the earth like water."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Like red wine, your worship had better say," replied Sancho; "for I would
      have you know, if you don't know it, that the dead giant is a hacked
      wine-skin, and the blood four-and-twenty gallons of red wine that it had
      in its belly, and the cut-off head is the bitch that bore me; and the
      devil take it all."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What art thou talking about, fool?" said Don Quixote; "art thou in thy
      senses?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let your worship get up," said Sancho, "and you will see the nice
      business you have made of it, and what we have to pay; and you will see
      the queen turned into a private lady called Dorothea, and other things
      that will astonish you, if you understand them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I shall not be surprised at anything of the kind," returned Don Quixote;
      "for if thou dost remember the last time we were here I told thee that
      everything that happened here was a matter of enchantment, and it would be
      no wonder if it were the same now."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I could believe all that," replied Sancho, "if my blanketing was the same
      sort of thing also; only it wasn't, but real and genuine; for I saw the
      landlord, Who is here to-day, holding one end of the blanket and jerking
      me up to the skies very neatly and smartly, and with as much laughter as
      strength; and when it comes to be a case of knowing people, I hold for my
      part, simple and sinner as I am, that there is no enchantment about it at
      all, but a great deal of bruising and bad luck."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, well, God will give a remedy," said Don Quixote; "hand me my
      clothes and let me go out, for I want to see these transformations and
      things thou speakest of."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho fetched him his clothes; and while he was dressing, the curate gave
      Don Fernando and the others present an account of Don Quixote's madness
      and of the stratagem they had made use of to withdraw him from that Pena
      Pobre where he fancied himself stationed because of his lady's scorn. He
      described to them also nearly all the adventures that Sancho had
      mentioned, at which they marvelled and laughed not a little, thinking it,
      as all did, the strangest form of madness a crazy intellect could be
      capable of. But now, the curate said, that the lady Dorothea's good
      fortune prevented her from proceeding with their purpose, it would be
      necessary to devise or discover some other way of getting him home.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cardenio proposed to carry out the scheme they had begun, and suggested
      that Luscinda would act and support Dorothea's part sufficiently well.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No," said Don Fernando, "that must not be, for I want Dorothea to follow
      out this idea of hers; and if the worthy gentleman's village is not very
      far off, I shall be happy if I can do anything for his relief."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is not more than two days' journey from this," said the curate.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Even if it were more," said Don Fernando, "I would gladly travel so far
      for the sake of doing so good a work.
    </p>
    <p>
      "At this moment Don Quixote came out in full panoply, with Mambrino's
      helmet, all dinted as it was, on his head, his buckler on his arm, and
      leaning on his staff or pike. The strange figure he presented filled Don
      Fernando and the rest with amazement as they contemplated his lean yellow
      face half a league long, his armour of all sorts, and the solemnity of his
      deportment. They stood silent waiting to see what he would say, and he,
      fixing his eyes on the fair Dorothea, addressed her with great gravity and
      composure:
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am informed, fair lady, by my squire here that your greatness has been
      annihilated and your being abolished, since, from a queen and lady of high
      degree as you used to be, you have been turned into a private maiden. If
      this has been done by the command of the magician king your father,
      through fear that I should not afford you the aid you need and are
      entitled to, I may tell you he did not know and does not know half the
      mass, and was little versed in the annals of chivalry; for, if he had read
      and gone through them as attentively and deliberately as I have, he would
      have found at every turn that knights of less renown than mine have
      accomplished things more difficult: it is no great matter to kill a whelp
      of a giant, however arrogant he may be; for it is not many hours since I
      myself was engaged with one, and&mdash;I will not speak of it, that they
      may not say I am lying; time, however, that reveals all, will tell the
      tale when we least expect it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You were engaged with a couple of wine-skins, and not a giant," said the
      landlord at this; but Don Fernando told him to hold his tongue and on no
      account interrupt Don Quixote, who continued, "I say in conclusion, high
      and disinherited lady, that if your father has brought about this
      metamorphosis in your person for the reason I have mentioned, you ought
      not to attach any importance to it; for there is no peril on earth through
      which my sword will not force a way, and with it, before many days are
      over, I will bring your enemy's head to the ground and place on yours the
      crown of your kingdom."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote said no more, and waited for the reply of the princess, who
      aware of Don Fernando's determination to carry on the deception until Don
      Quixote had been conveyed to his home, with great ease of manner and
      gravity made answer, "Whoever told you, valiant Knight of the Rueful
      Countenance, that I had undergone any change or transformation did not
      tell you the truth, for I am the same as I was yesterday. It is true that
      certain strokes of good fortune, that have given me more than I could have
      hoped for, have made some alteration in me; but I have not therefore
      ceased to be what I was before, or to entertain the same desire I have had
      all through of availing myself of the might of your valiant and invincible
      arm. And so, senor, let your goodness reinstate the father that begot me
      in your good opinion, and be assured that he was a wise and prudent man,
      since by his craft he found out such a sure and easy way of remedying my
      misfortune; for I believe, senor, that had it not been for you I should
      never have lit upon the good fortune I now possess; and in this I am
      saying what is perfectly true; as most of these gentlemen who are present
      can fully testify. All that remains is to set out on our journey
      to-morrow, for to-day we could not make much way; and for the rest of the
      happy result I am looking forward to, I trust to God and the valour of
      your heart."
    </p>
    <p>
      So said the sprightly Dorothea, and on hearing her Don Quixote turned to
      Sancho, and said to him, with an angry air, "I declare now, little Sancho,
      thou art the greatest little villain in Spain. Say, thief and vagabond,
      hast thou not just now told me that this princess had been turned into a
      maiden called Dorothea, and that the head which I am persuaded I cut off
      from a giant was the bitch that bore thee, and other nonsense that put me
      in the greatest perplexity I have ever been in all my life? I vow" (and
      here he looked to heaven and ground his teeth) "I have a mind to play the
      mischief with thee, in a way that will teach sense for the future to all
      lying squires of knights-errant in the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let your worship be calm, senor," returned Sancho, "for it may well be
      that I have been mistaken as to the change of the lady princess
      Micomicona; but as to the giant's head, or at least as to the piercing of
      the wine-skins, and the blood being red wine, I make no mistake, as sure
      as there is a God; because the wounded skins are there at the head of your
      worship's bed, and the wine has made a lake of the room; if not you will
      see when the eggs come to be fried; I mean when his worship the landlord
      calls for all the damages: for the rest, I am heartily glad that her
      ladyship the queen is as she was, for it concerns me as much as anyone."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I tell thee again, Sancho, thou art a fool," said Don Quixote; "forgive
      me, and that will do."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That will do," said Don Fernando; "let us say no more about it; and as
      her ladyship the princess proposes to set out to-morrow because it is too
      late to-day, so be it, and we will pass the night in pleasant
      conversation, and to-morrow we will all accompany Senor Don Quixote; for
      we wish to witness the valiant and unparalleled achievements he is about
      to perform in the course of this mighty enterprise which he has
      undertaken."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is I who shall wait upon and accompany you," said Don Quixote; "and I
      am much gratified by the favour that is bestowed upon me, and the good
      opinion entertained of me, which I shall strive to justify or it shall
      cost me my life, or even more, if it can possibly cost me more."
    </p>
    <p>
      Many were the compliments and expressions of politeness that passed
      between Don Quixote and Don Fernando; but they were brought to an end by a
      traveller who at this moment entered the inn, and who seemed from his
      attire to be a Christian lately come from the country of the Moors, for he
      was dressed in a short-skirted coat of blue cloth with half-sleeves and
      without a collar; his breeches were also of blue cloth, and his cap of the
      same colour, and he wore yellow buskins and had a Moorish cutlass slung
      from a baldric across his breast. Behind him, mounted upon an ass, there
      came a woman dressed in Moorish fashion, with her face veiled and a scarf
      on her head, and wearing a little brocaded cap, and a mantle that covered
      her from her shoulders to her feet. The man was of a robust and
      well-proportioned frame, in age a little over forty, rather swarthy in
      complexion, with long moustaches and a full beard, and, in short, his
      appearance was such that if he had been well dressed he would have been
      taken for a person of quality and good birth. On entering he asked for a
      room, and when they told him there was none in the inn he seemed
      distressed, and approaching her who by her dress seemed to be a Moor, he took
      her down from the saddle in his arms. Luscinda, Dorothea, the landlady, her
      daughter and Maritornes, attracted by the strange, and to them entirely
      new costume, gathered round her; and Dorothea, who was always kindly,
      courteous, and quick-witted, perceiving that both she and the man who had
      brought her were annoyed at not finding a room, said to her, "Do not be
      put out, senora, by the discomfort and want of luxuries here, for it is
      the way of road-side inns to be without them; still, if you will be
      pleased to share our lodging with us (pointing to Luscinda) perhaps you
      will have found worse accommodation in the course of your journey."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this the veiled lady made no reply; all she did was to rise from her
      seat, crossing her hands upon her bosom, bowing her head and bending her
      body as a sign that she returned thanks. From her silence they concluded
      that she must be a Moor and unable to speak a Christian tongue.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment the captive came up, having been until now otherwise
      engaged, and seeing that they all stood round his companion and that she
      made no reply to what they addressed to her, he said, "Ladies, this damsel
      hardly understands my language and can speak none but that of her own
      country, for which reason she does not and cannot answer what has been
      asked of her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nothing has been asked of her," returned Luscinda; "she has only been
      offered our company for this evening and a share of the quarters we
      occupy, where she shall be made as comfortable as the circumstances allow,
      with the good-will we are bound to show all strangers that stand in need
      of it, especially if it be a woman to whom the service is rendered."
    </p>
    <p>
      "On her part and my own, senora," replied the captive, "I kiss your hands,
      and I esteem highly, as I ought, the favour you have offered, which, on
      such an occasion and coming from persons of your appearance, is, it is
      plain to see, a very great one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell me, senor," said Dorothea, "is this lady a Christian or a Moor? for
      her dress and her silence lead us to imagine that she is what we could
      wish she was not."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In dress and outwardly," said he, "she is a Moor, but at heart she is a
      thoroughly good Christian, for she has the greatest desire to become one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then she has not been baptised?" returned Luscinda.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There has been no opportunity for that," replied the captive, "since she
      left Algiers, her native country and home; and up to the present she has
      not found herself in any such imminent danger of death as to make it
      necessary to baptise her before she has been instructed in all the
      ceremonies our holy mother Church ordains; but, please God, ere long she
      shall be baptised with the solemnity befitting her which is higher than
      her dress or mine indicates."
    </p>
    <p>
      By these words he excited a desire in all who heard him, to know who the
      Moorish lady and the captive were, but no one liked to ask just then,
      seeing that it was a fitter moment for helping them to rest themselves
      than for questioning them about their lives. Dorothea took the Moorish
      lady by the hand and leading her to a seat beside herself, requested her
      to remove her veil. She looked at the captive as if to ask him what they
      meant and what she was to do. He said to her in Arabic that they asked her
      to take off her veil, and thereupon she removed it and disclosed a
      countenance so lovely, that to Dorothea she seemed more beautiful than
      Luscinda, and to Luscinda more beautiful than Dorothea, and all the
      bystanders felt that if any beauty could compare with theirs it was the
      Moorish lady's, and there were even those who were inclined to give it
      somewhat the preference. And as it is the privilege and charm of beauty to
      win the heart and secure good-will, all forthwith became eager to show
      kindness and attention to the lovely Moor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Fernando asked the captive what her name was, and he replied that it
      was Lela Zoraida; but the instant she heard him, she guessed what the
      Christian had asked, and said hastily, with some displeasure and energy,
      "No, not Zoraida; Maria, Maria!" giving them to understand that she was
      called "Maria" and not "Zoraida." These words, and the touching
      earnestness with which she uttered them, drew more than one tear from some
      of the listeners, particularly the women, who are by nature tender-hearted
      and compassionate. Luscinda embraced her affectionately, saying, "Yes,
      yes, Maria, Maria," to which the Moor replied, "Yes, yes, Maria; Zoraida
      macange," which means "not Zoraida."
    </p>
    <p>
      Night was now approaching, and by the orders of those who accompanied Don
      Fernando the landlord had taken care and pains to prepare for them the
      best supper that was in his power. The hour therefore having arrived they
      all took their seats at a long table like a refectory one, for round or
      square table there was none in the inn, and the seat of honour at the head
      of it, though he was for refusing it, they assigned to Don Quixote, who
      desired the lady Micomicona to place herself by his side, as he was her
      protector. Luscinda and Zoraida took their places next her, opposite to
      them were Don Fernando and Cardenio, and next the captive and the other
      gentlemen, and by the side of the ladies, the curate and the barber. And
      so they supped in high enjoyment, which was increased when they observed
      Don Quixote leave off eating, and, moved by an impulse like that which
      made him deliver himself at such length when he supped with the goatherds,
      begin to address them:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Verily, gentlemen, if we reflect upon it, great and marvellous are the
      things they see, who make profession of the order of knight-errantry. Say,
      what being is there in this world, who entering the gate of this castle at
      this moment, and seeing us as we are here, would suppose or imagine us to
      be what we are? Who would say that this lady who is beside me was the
      great queen that we all know her to be, or that I am that Knight of the
      Rueful Countenance, trumpeted far and wide by the mouth of Fame? Now,
      there can be no doubt that this art and calling surpasses all those that
      mankind has invented, and is the more deserving of being held in honour in
      proportion as it is the more exposed to peril. Away with those who assert
      that letters have the preeminence over arms; I will tell them, whosoever
      they may be, that they know not what they say. For the reason which such
      persons commonly assign, and upon which they chiefly rest, is, that the
      labours of the mind are greater than those of the body, and that arms give
      employment to the body alone; as if the calling were a porter's trade, for
      which nothing more is required than sturdy strength; or as if, in what we
      who profess them call arms, there were not included acts of vigour for the
      execution of which high intelligence is requisite; or as if the soul of
      the warrior, when he has an army, or the defence of a city under his care,
      did not exert itself as much by mind as by body. Nay; see whether by
      bodily strength it be possible to learn or divine the intentions of the
      enemy, his plans, stratagems, or obstacles, or to ward off impending
      mischief; for all these are the work of the mind, and in them the body has
      no share whatever. Since, therefore, arms have need of the mind, as much
      as letters, let us see now which of the two minds, that of the man of
      letters or that of the warrior, has most to do; and this will be seen by
      the end and goal that each seeks to attain; for that purpose is the more
      estimable which has for its aim the nobler object. The end and goal of
      letters&mdash;I am not speaking now of divine letters, the aim of which is
      to raise and direct the soul to Heaven; for with an end so infinite no
      other can be compared&mdash;I speak of human letters, the end of which is
      to establish distributive justice, give to every man that which is his,
      and see and take care that good laws are observed: an end undoubtedly
      noble, lofty, and deserving of high praise, but not such as should be
      given to that sought by arms, which have for their end and object peace,
      the greatest boon that men can desire in this life. The first good news
      the world and mankind received was that which the angels announced on the
      night that was our day, when they sang in the air, 'Glory to God in the
      highest, and peace on earth to men of good-will;' and the salutation which
      the great Master of heaven and earth taught his disciples and chosen
      followers when they entered any house, was to say, 'Peace be on this
      house;' and many other times he said to them, 'My peace I give unto you,
      my peace I leave you, peace be with you;' a jewel and a precious gift
      given and left by such a hand: a jewel without which there can be no
      happiness either on earth or in heaven. This peace is the true end of war;
      and war is only another name for arms. This, then, being admitted, that
      the end of war is peace, and that so far it has the advantage of the end
      of letters, let us turn to the bodily labours of the man of letters, and
      those of him who follows the profession of arms, and see which are the
      greater."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote delivered his discourse in such a manner and in such correct
      language, that for the time being he made it impossible for any of his
      hearers to consider him a madman; on the contrary, as they were mostly
      gentlemen, to whom arms are an appurtenance by birth, they listened to him
      with great pleasure as he continued: "Here, then, I say is what the
      student has to undergo; first of all poverty: not that all are poor, but
      to put the case as strongly as possible: and when I have said that he
      endures poverty, I think nothing more need be said about his hard fortune,
      for he who is poor has no share of the good things of life. This poverty
      he suffers from in various ways, hunger, or cold, or nakedness, or all
      together; but for all that it is not so extreme but that he gets something
      to eat, though it may be at somewhat unseasonable hours and from the
      leavings of the rich; for the greatest misery of the student is what they
      themselves call 'going out for soup,' and there is always some neighbour's
      brazier or hearth for them, which, if it does not warm, at least tempers
      the cold to them, and lastly, they sleep comfortably at night under a
      roof. I will not go into other particulars, as for example want of shirts,
      and no superabundance of shoes, thin and threadbare garments, and gorging
      themselves to surfeit in their voracity when good luck has treated them to
      a banquet of some sort. By this road that I have described, rough and
      hard, stumbling here, falling there, getting up again to fall again, they
      reach the rank they desire, and that once attained, we have seen many who
      have passed these Syrtes and Scyllas and Charybdises, as if borne flying
      on the wings of favouring fortune; we have seen them, I say, ruling and
      governing the world from a chair, their hunger turned into satiety, their
      cold into comfort, their nakedness into fine raiment, their sleep on a mat
      into repose in holland and damask, the justly earned reward of their
      virtue; but, contrasted and compared with what the warrior undergoes, all
      they have undergone falls far short of it, as I am now about to show."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c37e" id="c37e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c37e.jpg (13K)" src="images/c37e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch38" id="ch38"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TREATS OF THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE DON QUIXOTE DELIVERED ON ARMS AND
      LETTERS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c38a" id="c38a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c38a.jpg (180K)" src="images/c38a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c38a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Continuing his discourse Don Quixote said: "As we began in the student's
      case with poverty and its accompaniments, let us see now if the soldier is
      richer, and we shall find that in poverty itself there is no one poorer;
      for he is dependent on his miserable pay, which comes late or never, or
      else on what he can plunder, seriously imperilling his life and
      conscience; and sometimes his nakedness will be so great that a slashed
      doublet serves him for uniform and shirt, and in the depth of winter he
      has to defend himself against the inclemency of the weather in the open
      field with nothing better than the breath of his mouth, which I need not
      say, coming from an empty place, must come out cold, contrary to the laws
      of nature. To be sure he looks forward to the approach of night to make up
      for all these discomforts on the bed that awaits him, which, unless by
      some fault of his, never sins by being over narrow, for he can easily
      measure out on the ground as he likes, and roll himself about in it to his
      heart's content without any fear of the sheets slipping away from him.
      Then, after all this, suppose the day and hour for taking his degree in
      his calling to have come; suppose the day of battle to have arrived, when
      they invest him with the doctor's cap made of lint, to mend some
      bullet-hole, perhaps, that has gone through his temples, or left him with
      a crippled arm or leg. Or if this does not happen, and merciful Heaven
      watches over him and keeps him safe and sound, it may be he will be in the
      same poverty he was in before, and he must go through more engagements and
      more battles, and come victorious out of all before he betters himself;
      but miracles of that sort are seldom seen. For tell me, sirs, if you have
      ever reflected upon it, by how much do those who have gained by war fall
      short of the number of those who have perished in it? No doubt you will
      reply that there can be no comparison, that the dead cannot be numbered,
      while the living who have been rewarded may be summed up with three
      figures. All which is the reverse in the case of men of letters; for by
      skirts, to say nothing of sleeves, they all find means of support; so that
      though the soldier has more to endure, his reward is much less. But
      against all this it may be urged that it is easier to reward two thousand
      soldiers, for the former may be remunerated by giving them places, which
      must perforce be conferred upon men of their calling, while the latter can
      only be recompensed out of the very property of the master they serve; but
      this impossibility only strengthens my argument.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Putting this, however, aside, for it is a puzzling question for which it
      is difficult to find a solution, let us return to the superiority of arms
      over letters, a matter still undecided, so many are the arguments put
      forward on each side; for besides those I have mentioned, letters say that
      without them arms cannot maintain themselves, for war, too, has its laws
      and is governed by them, and laws belong to the domain of letters and men
      of letters. To this arms make answer that without them laws cannot be
      maintained, for by arms states are defended, kingdoms preserved, cities
      protected, roads made safe, seas cleared of pirates; and, in short, if it
      were not for them, states, kingdoms, monarchies, cities, ways by sea and
      land would be exposed to the violence and confusion which war brings with
      it, so long as it lasts and is free to make use of its privileges and
      powers. And then it is plain that whatever costs most is valued and
      deserves to be valued most. To attain to eminence in letters costs a man
      time, watching, hunger, nakedness, headaches, indigestions, and other
      things of the sort, some of which I have already referred to. But for a
      man to come in the ordinary course of things to be a good soldier costs
      him all the student suffers, and in an incomparably higher degree, for at
      every step he runs the risk of losing his life. For what dread of want or
      poverty that can reach or harass the student can compare with what the
      soldier feels, who finds himself beleaguered in some stronghold mounting
      guard in some ravelin or cavalier, knows that the enemy is pushing a mine
      towards the post where he is stationed, and cannot under any circumstances
      retire or fly from the imminent danger that threatens him? All he can do
      is to inform his captain of what is going on so that he may try to remedy
      it by a counter-mine, and then stand his ground in fear and expectation of
      the moment when he will fly up to the clouds without wings and descend
      into the deep against his will. And if this seems a trifling risk, let us
      see whether it is equalled or surpassed by the encounter of two galleys
      stem to stem, in the midst of the open sea, locked and entangled one with
      the other, when the soldier has no more standing room than two feet of the
      plank of the spur; and yet, though he sees before him threatening him as
      many ministers of death as there are cannon of the foe pointed at him, not
      a lance length from his body, and sees too that with the first heedless
      step he will go down to visit the profundities of Neptune's bosom, still
      with dauntless heart, urged on by honour that nerves him, he makes himself
      a target for all that musketry, and struggles to cross that narrow path to
      the enemy's ship. And what is still more marvellous, no sooner has one
      gone down into the depths he will never rise from till the end of the
      world, than another takes his place; and if he too falls into the sea that
      waits for him like an enemy, another and another will succeed him without
      a moment's pause between their deaths: courage and daring the greatest
      that all the chances of war can show. Happy the blest ages that knew not
      the dread fury of those devilish engines of artillery, whose inventor I am
      persuaded is in hell receiving the reward of his diabolical invention, by
      which he made it easy for a base and cowardly arm to take the life of a
      gallant gentleman; and that, when he knows not how or whence, in the
      height of the ardour and enthusiasm that fire and animate brave hearts,
      there should come some random bullet, discharged perhaps by one who fled
      in terror at the flash when he fired off his accursed machine, which in an
      instant puts an end to the projects and cuts off the life of one who
      deserved to live for ages to come. And thus when I reflect on this, I am
      almost tempted to say that in my heart I repent of having adopted this
      profession of knight-errant in so detestable an age as we live in now; for
      though no peril can make me fear, still it gives me some uneasiness to
      think that powder and lead may rob me of the opportunity of making myself
      famous and renowned throughout the known earth by the might of my arm and
      the edge of my sword. But Heaven's will be done; if I succeed in my
      attempt I shall be all the more honoured, as I have faced greater dangers
      than the knights-errant of yore exposed themselves to."
    </p>
    <p>
      All this lengthy discourse Don Quixote delivered while the others supped,
      forgetting to raise a morsel to his lips, though Sancho more than once
      told him to eat his supper, as he would have time enough afterwards to say
      all he wanted. It excited fresh pity in those who had heard him to see a
      man of apparently sound sense, and with rational views on every subject he
      discussed, so hopelessly wanting in all, when his wretched unlucky
      chivalry was in question. The curate told him he was quite right in all he
      had said in favour of arms, and that he himself, though a man of letters
      and a graduate, was of the same opinion.
    </p>
    <p>
      They finished their supper, the cloth was removed, and while the hostess,
      her daughter, and Maritornes were getting Don Quixote of La Mancha's
      garret ready, in which it was arranged that the women were to be quartered
      by themselves for the night, Don Fernando begged the captive to tell them
      the story of his life, for it could not fail to be strange and
      interesting, to judge by the hints he had let fall on his arrival in
      company with Zoraida. To this the captive replied that he would very
      willingly yield to his request, only he feared his tale would not give
      them as much pleasure as he wished; nevertheless, not to be wanting in
      compliance, he would tell it. The curate and the others thanked him and
      added their entreaties, and he finding himself so pressed said there was
      no occasion ask, where a command had such weight, and added, "If your
      worships will give me your attention you will hear a true story which,
      perhaps, fictitious ones constructed with ingenious and studied art cannot
      come up to." These words made them settle themselves in their places and
      preserve a deep silence, and he seeing them waiting on his words in mute
      expectation, began thus in a pleasant quiet voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c38e" id="c38e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c38e.jpg (18K)" src="images/c38e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch39" id="ch39"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS LIFE AND ADVENTURES
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c39a" id="c39a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c39a.jpg (137K)" src="images/c39a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c39a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      My family had its origin in a village in the mountains of Leon, and nature
      had been kinder and more generous to it than fortune; though in the
      general poverty of those communities my father passed for being even a
      rich man; and he would have been so in reality had he been as clever in
      preserving his property as he was in spending it. This tendency of his to
      be liberal and profuse he had acquired from having been a soldier in his
      youth, for the soldier's life is a school in which the niggard becomes
      free-handed and the free-handed prodigal; and if any soldiers are to be
      found who are misers, they are monsters of rare occurrence. My father went
      beyond liberality and bordered on prodigality, a disposition by no means
      advantageous to a married man who has children to succeed to his name and
      position. My father had three, all sons, and all of sufficient age to make
      choice of a profession. Finding, then, that he was unable to resist his
      propensity, he resolved to divest himself of the instrument and cause of
      his prodigality and lavishness, to divest himself of wealth, without which
      Alexander himself would have seemed parsimonious; and so calling us all
      three aside one day into a room, he addressed us in words somewhat to the
      following effect:
    </p>
    <p>
      "My sons, to assure you that I love you, no more need be known or said
      than that you are my sons; and to encourage a suspicion that I do not love
      you, no more is needed than the knowledge that I have no self-control as
      far as preservation of your patrimony is concerned; therefore, that you
      may for the future feel sure that I love you like a father, and have no
      wish to ruin you like a stepfather, I propose to do with you what I have
      for some time back meditated, and after mature deliberation decided upon.
      You are now of an age to choose your line of life or at least make choice
      of a calling that will bring you honour and profit when you are older; and
      what I have resolved to do is to divide my property into four parts; three
      I will give to you, to each his portion without making any difference, and
      the other I will retain to live upon and support myself for whatever
      remainder of life Heaven may be pleased to grant me. But I wish each of
      you on taking possession of the share that falls to him to follow one of
      the paths I shall indicate. In this Spain of ours there is a proverb, to
      my mind very true&mdash;as they all are, being short aphorisms drawn from
      long practical experience&mdash;and the one I refer to says, 'The church,
      or the sea, or the king's house;' as much as to say, in plainer language,
      whoever wants to flourish and become rich, let him follow the church, or
      go to sea, adopting commerce as his calling, or go into the king's service
      in his household, for they say, 'Better a king's crumb than a lord's
      favour.' I say so because it is my will and pleasure that one of you
      should follow letters, another trade, and the third serve the king in the
      wars, for it is a difficult matter to gain admission to his service in his
      household, and if war does not bring much wealth it confers great
      distinction and fame. Eight days hence I will give you your full shares in
      money, without defrauding you of a farthing, as you will see in the end.
      Now tell me if you are willing to follow out my idea and advice as I have
      laid it before you."
    </p>
    <p>
      Having called upon me as the eldest to answer, I, after urging him not to
      strip himself of his property but to spend it all as he pleased, for we
      were young men able to gain our living, consented to comply with his
      wishes, and said that mine were to follow the profession of arms and
      thereby serve God and my king. My second brother having made the same
      proposal, decided upon going to the Indies, embarking the portion that
      fell to him in trade. The youngest, and in my opinion the wisest, said he
      would rather follow the church, or go to complete his studies at
      Salamanca. As soon as we had come to an understanding, and made choice of
      our professions, my father embraced us all, and in the short time he
      mentioned carried into effect all he had promised; and when he had given
      to each his share, which as well as I remember was three thousand ducats
      apiece in cash (for an uncle of ours bought the estate and paid for it
      down, not to let it go out of the family), we all three on the same day
      took leave of our good father; and at the same time, as it seemed to me
      inhuman to leave my father with such scanty means in his old age, I
      induced him to take two of my three thousand ducats, as the remainder
      would be enough to provide me with all a soldier needed. My two brothers,
      moved by my example, gave him each a thousand ducats, so that there was
      left for my father four thousand ducats in money, besides three thousand,
      the value of the portion that fell to him which he preferred to retain in
      land instead of selling it. Finally, as I said, we took leave of him, and
      of our uncle whom I have mentioned, not without sorrow and tears on both
      sides, they charging us to let them know whenever an opportunity offered
      how we fared, whether well or ill. We promised to do so, and when he had
      embraced us and given us his blessing, one set out for Salamanca, the
      other for Seville, and I for Alicante, where I had heard there was a
      Genoese vessel taking in a cargo of wool for Genoa.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is now some twenty-two years since I left my father's house, and all
      that time, though I have written several letters, I have had no news
      whatever of him or of my brothers; my own adventures during that period I
      will now relate briefly. I embarked at Alicante, reached Genoa after a
      prosperous voyage, and proceeded thence to Milan, where I provided myself
      with arms and a few soldier's accoutrements; thence it was my intention to
      go and take service in Piedmont, but as I was already on the road to
      Alessandria della Paglia, I learned that the great Duke of Alva was on his
      way to Flanders. I changed my plans, joined him, served under him in the
      campaigns he made, was present at the deaths of the Counts Egmont and
      Horn, and was promoted to be ensign under a famous captain of Guadalajara,
      Diego de Urbina by name. Some time after my arrival in Flanders news came
      of the league that his Holiness Pope Pius V of happy memory, had made with
      Venice and Spain against the common enemy, the Turk, who had just then
      with his fleet taken the famous island of Cyprus, which belonged to the
      Venetians, a loss deplorable and disastrous. It was known as a fact that
      the Most Serene Don John of Austria, natural brother of our good king Don
      Philip, was coming as commander-in-chief of the allied forces, and rumours
      were abroad of the vast warlike preparations which were being made, all
      which stirred my heart and filled me with a longing to take part in the
      campaign which was expected; and though I had reason to believe, and
      almost certain promises, that on the first opportunity that presented
      itself I should be promoted to be captain, I preferred to leave all and
      betake myself, as I did, to Italy; and it was my good fortune that Don
      John had just arrived at Genoa, and was going on to Naples to join the
      Venetian fleet, as he afterwards did at Messina. I may say, in short, that
      I took part in that glorious expedition, promoted by this time to be a
      captain of infantry, to which honourable charge my good luck rather than
      my merits raised me; and that day&mdash;so fortunate for Christendom,
      because then all the nations of the earth were disabused of the error
      under which they lay in imagining the Turks to be invincible on sea-on
      that day, I say, on which the Ottoman pride and arrogance were broken,
      among all that were there made happy (for the Christians who died that day
      were happier than those who remained alive and victorious) I alone was
      miserable; for, instead of some naval crown that I might have expected had
      it been in Roman times, on the night that followed that famous day I found
      myself with fetters on my feet and manacles on my hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      It happened in this way: El Uchali, the king of Algiers, a daring and
      successful corsair, having attacked and taken the leading Maltese galley
      (only three knights being left alive in it, and they badly wounded), the
      chief galley of John Andrea, on board of which I and my company were
      placed, came to its relief, and doing as was bound to do in such a case, I
      leaped on board the enemy's galley, which, sheering off from that which
      had attacked it, prevented my men from following me, and so I found myself
      alone in the midst of my enemies, who were in such numbers that I was
      unable to resist; in short I was taken, covered with wounds; El Uchali, as
      you know, sirs, made his escape with his entire squadron, and I was left a
      prisoner in his power, the only sad being among so many filled with joy,
      and the only captive among so many free; for there were fifteen thousand
      Christians, all at the oar in the Turkish fleet, that regained their
      longed-for liberty that day.
    </p>
    <p>
      They carried me to Constantinople, where the Grand Turk, Selim, made my
      master general at sea for having done his duty in the battle and carried
      off as evidence of his bravery the standard of the Order of Malta. The
      following year, which was the year seventy-two, I found myself at Navarino
      rowing in the leading galley with the three lanterns. There I saw and
      observed how the opportunity of capturing the whole Turkish fleet in
      harbour was lost; for all the marines and janizzaries that belonged to it
      made sure that they were about to be attacked inside the very harbour, and
      had their kits and pasamaques, or shoes, ready to flee at once on shore
      without waiting to be assailed, in so great fear did they stand of our
      fleet. But Heaven ordered it otherwise, not for any fault or neglect of
      the general who commanded on our side, but for the sins of Christendom,
      and because it was God's will and pleasure that we should always have
      instruments of punishment to chastise us. As it was, El Uchali took refuge
      at Modon, which is an island near Navarino, and landing forces fortified
      the mouth of the harbour and waited quietly until Don John retired. On
      this expedition was taken the galley called the Prize, whose captain was a
      son of the famous corsair Barbarossa. It was taken by the chief Neapolitan
      galley called the She-wolf, commanded by that thunderbolt of war, that
      father of his men, that successful and unconquered captain Don Alvaro de
      Bazan, Marquis of Santa Cruz; and I cannot help telling you what took
      place at the capture of the Prize.
    </p>
    <p>
      The son of Barbarossa was so cruel, and treated his slaves so badly, that,
      when those who were at the oars saw that the She-wolf galley was bearing
      down upon them and gaining upon them, they all at once dropped their oars
      and seized their captain who stood on the stage at the end of the gangway
      shouting to them to row lustily; and passing him on from bench to bench,
      from the poop to the prow, they so bit him that before he had got much
      past the mast his soul had already got to hell; so great, as I said, was
      the cruelty with which he treated them, and the hatred with which they
      hated him.
    </p>
    <p>
      We returned to Constantinople, and the following year, seventy-three, it
      became known that Don John had seized Tunis and taken the kingdom from the
      Turks, and placed Muley Hamet in possession, putting an end to the hopes
      which Muley Hamida, the cruelest and bravest Moor in the world,
      entertained of returning to reign there. The Grand Turk took the loss
      greatly to heart, and with the cunning which all his race possess, he made
      peace with the Venetians (who were much more eager for it than he was),
      and the following year, seventy-four, he attacked the Goletta and the fort
      which Don John had left half built near Tunis. While all these events were
      occurring, I was labouring at the oar without any hope of freedom; at
      least I had no hope of obtaining it by ransom, for I was firmly resolved
      not to write to my father telling him of my misfortunes. At length the
      Goletta fell, and the fort fell, before which places there were
      seventy-five thousand regular Turkish soldiers, and more than four hundred
      thousand Moors and Arabs from all parts of Africa, and in the train of all
      this great host such munitions and engines of war, and so many pioneers
      that with their hands they might have covered the Goletta and the fort
      with handfuls of earth. The first to fall was the Goletta, until then
      reckoned impregnable, and it fell, not by any fault of its defenders, who
      did all that they could and should have done, but because experiment
      proved how easily entrenchments could be made in the desert sand there;
      for water used to be found at two palms depth, while the Turks found none
      at two yards; and so by means of a quantity of sandbags they raised their
      works so high that they commanded the walls of the fort, sweeping them as
      if from a cavalier, so that no one was able to make a stand or maintain
      the defence.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a common opinion that our men should not have shut themselves up in
      the Goletta, but should have waited in the open at the landing-place; but
      those who say so talk at random and with little knowledge of such matters;
      for if in the Goletta and in the fort there were barely seven thousand
      soldiers, how could such a small number, however resolute, sally out and
      hold their own against numbers like those of the enemy? And how is it
      possible to help losing a stronghold that is not relieved, above all when
      surrounded by a host of determined enemies in their own country? But many
      thought, and I thought so too, that it was special favour and mercy which
      Heaven showed to Spain in permitting the destruction of that source and
      hiding place of mischief, that devourer, sponge, and moth of countless
      money, fruitlessly wasted there to no other purpose save preserving the
      memory of its capture by the invincible Charles V; as if to make that
      eternal, as it is and will be, these stones were needed to support it. The
      fort also fell; but the Turks had to win it inch by inch, for the soldiers
      who defended it fought so gallantly and stoutly that the number of the
      enemy killed in twenty-two general assaults exceeded twenty-five thousand.
      Of three hundred that remained alive not one was taken unwounded, a clear
      and manifest proof of their gallantry and resolution, and how sturdily
      they had defended themselves and held their post. A small fort or tower
      which was in the middle of the lagoon under the command of Don Juan
      Zanoguera, a Valencian gentleman and a famous soldier, capitulated upon
      terms. They took prisoner Don Pedro Puertocarrero, commandant of the
      Goletta, who had done all in his power to defend his fortress, and took
      the loss of it so much to heart that he died of grief on the way to
      Constantinople, where they were carrying him a prisoner. They also took
      the commandant of the fort, Gabrio Cerbellon by name, a Milanese
      gentleman, a great engineer and a very brave soldier. In these two
      fortresses perished many persons of note, among whom was Pagano Doria,
      knight of the Order of St. John, a man of generous disposition, as was
      shown by his extreme liberality to his brother, the famous John Andrea
      Doria; and what made his death the more sad was that he was slain by some
      Arabs to whom, seeing that the fort was now lost, he entrusted himself,
      and who offered to conduct him in the disguise of a Moor to Tabarca, a
      small fort or station on the coast held by the Genoese employed in the
      coral fishery. These Arabs cut off his head and carried it to the
      commander of the Turkish fleet, who proved on them the truth of our
      Castilian proverb, that "though the treason may please, the traitor is
      hated;" for they say he ordered those who brought him the present to be
      hanged for not having brought him alive.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c39b" id="c39b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c39b.jpg (371K)" src="images/c39b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c39b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Among the Christians who were taken in the fort was one named Don Pedro de
      Aguilar, a native of some place, I know not what, in Andalusia, who had
      been ensign in the fort, a soldier of great repute and rare intelligence,
      who had in particular a special gift for what they call poetry. I say so
      because his fate brought him to my galley and to my bench, and made him a
      slave to the same master; and before we left the port this gentleman
      composed two sonnets by way of epitaphs, one on the Goletta and the other
      on the fort; indeed, I may as well repeat them, for I have them by heart,
      and I think they will be liked rather than disliked.
    </p>
    <p>
      The instant the captive mentioned the name of Don Pedro de Aguilar, Don
      Fernando looked at his companions and they all three smiled; and when he
      came to speak of the sonnets one of them said, "Before your worship
      proceeds any further I entreat you to tell me what became of that Don
      Pedro de Aguilar you have spoken of."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All I know is," replied the captive, "that after having been in
      Constantinople two years, he escaped in the disguise of an Arnaut, in
      company with a Greek spy; but whether he regained his liberty or not I
      cannot tell, though I fancy he did, because a year afterwards I saw the
      Greek at Constantinople, though I was unable to ask him what the result of
      the journey was."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then, you are right," returned the gentleman, "for that Don Pedro is
      my brother, and he is now in our village in good health, rich, married,
      and with three children."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thanks be to God for all the mercies he has shown him," said the captive;
      "for to my mind there is no happiness on earth to compare with recovering
      lost liberty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what is more," said the gentleman, "I know the sonnets my brother
      made."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then let your worship repeat them," said the captive, "for you will
      recite them better than I can."
    </p>
    <p>
      "With all my heart," said the gentleman; "that on the Goletta runs thus."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c39e" id="c39e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c39e.jpg (38K)" src="images/c39e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch40" id="ch40"></a>CHAPTER XL.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH THE STORY OF THE CAPTIVE IS CONTINUED.
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c40a" id="c40a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c40a.jpg (131K)" src="images/c40a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c40a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
SONNET

"Blest souls, that, from this mortal husk set free,
  In guerdon of brave deeds beatified,
  Above this lowly orb of ours abide
Made heirs of heaven and immortality,
With noble rage and ardour glowing ye
  Your strength, while strength was yours, in battle plied,
  And with your own blood and the foeman's dyed
The sandy soil and the encircling sea.
It was the ebbing life-blood first that failed
The weary arms; the stout hearts never quailed.
  Though vanquished, yet ye earned the victor's crown:
Though mourned, yet still triumphant was your fall
For there ye won, between the sword and wall,
  In Heaven glory and on earth renown."
</pre>
    <p>
      "That is it exactly, according to my recollection," said the captive.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then, that on the fort," said the gentleman, "if my memory serves
      me, goes thus:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
SONNET

"Up from this wasted soil, this shattered shell,
  Whose walls and towers here in ruin lie,
  Three thousand soldier souls took wing on high,
In the bright mansions of the blest to dwell.
The onslaught of the foeman to repel
  By might of arm all vainly did they try,
  And when at length 'twas left them but to die,
Wearied and few the last defenders fell.
And this same arid soil hath ever been
A haunt of countless mournful memories,
  As well in our day as in days of yore.
But never yet to Heaven it sent, I ween,
From its hard bosom purer souls than these,
  Or braver bodies on its surface bore."
</pre>
    <p>
      The sonnets were not disliked, and the captive was rejoiced at the tidings
      they gave him of his comrade, and continuing his tale, he went on to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      The Goletta and the fort being thus in their hands, the Turks gave orders
      to dismantle the Goletta&mdash;for the fort was reduced to such a state
      that there was nothing left to level&mdash;and to do the work more quickly
      and easily they mined it in three places; but nowhere were they able to
      blow up the part which seemed to be the least strong, that is to say, the
      old walls, while all that remained standing of the new fortifications that
      the Fratin had made came to the ground with the greatest ease. Finally the
      fleet returned victorious and triumphant to Constantinople, and a few
      months later died my master, El Uchali, otherwise Uchali Fartax, which
      means in Turkish "the scabby renegade;" for that he was; it is the
      practice with the Turks to name people from some defect or virtue they may
      possess; the reason being that there are among them only four surnames
      belonging to families tracing their descent from the Ottoman house, and
      the others, as I have said, take their names and surnames either from
      bodily blemishes or moral qualities. This "scabby one" rowed at the oar as
      a slave of the Grand Signor's for fourteen years, and when over
      thirty-four years of age, in resentment at having been struck by a Turk
      while at the oar, turned renegade and renounced his faith in order to be
      able to revenge himself; and such was his valour that, without owing his
      advancement to the base ways and means by which most favourites of the
      Grand Signor rise to power, he came to be king of Algiers, and afterwards
      general-on-sea, which is the third place of trust in the realm. He was a
      Calabrian by birth, and a worthy man morally, and he treated his slaves
      with great humanity. He had three thousand of them, and after his death
      they were divided, as he directed by his will, between the Grand Signor
      (who is heir of all who die and shares with the children of the deceased)
      and his renegades. I fell to the lot of a Venetian renegade who, when a
      cabin boy on board a ship, had been taken by Uchali and was so much
      beloved by him that he became one of his most favoured youths. He came to
      be the most cruel renegade I ever saw: his name was Hassan Aga, and he
      grew very rich and became king of Algiers. With him I went there from
      Constantinople, rather glad to be so near Spain, not that I intended to
      write to anyone about my unhappy lot, but to try if fortune would be
      kinder to me in Algiers than in Constantinople, where I had attempted in a
      thousand ways to escape without ever finding a favourable time or chance;
      but in Algiers I resolved to seek for other means of effecting the purpose
      I cherished so dearly; for the hope of obtaining my liberty never deserted
      me; and when in my plots and schemes and attempts the result did not
      answer my expectations, without giving way to despair I immediately began
      to look out for or conjure up some new hope to support me, however faint
      or feeble it might be.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this way I lived on immured in a building or prison called by the Turks
      a bano in which they confine the Christian captives, as well those that
      are the king's as those belonging to private individuals, and also what
      they call those of the Almacen, which is as much as to say the slaves of
      the municipality, who serve the city in the public works and other
      employments; but captives of this kind recover their liberty with great
      difficulty, for, as they are public property and have no particular
      master, there is no one with whom to treat for their ransom, even though
      they may have the means. To these banos, as I have said, some private
      individuals of the town are in the habit of bringing their captives,
      especially when they are to be ransomed; because there they can keep them
      in safety and comfort until their ransom arrives. The king's captives
      also, that are on ransom, do not go out to work with the rest of the crew,
      unless when their ransom is delayed; for then, to make them write for it
      more pressingly, they compel them to work and go for wood, which is no
      light labour.
    </p>
    <p>
      I, however, was one of those on ransom, for when it was discovered that I
      was a captain, although I declared my scanty means and want of fortune,
      nothing could dissuade them from including me among the gentlemen and
      those waiting to be ransomed. They put a chain on me, more as a mark of
      this than to keep me safe, and so I passed my life in that bano with
      several other gentlemen and persons of quality marked out as held to
      ransom; but though at times, or rather almost always, we suffered from
      hunger and scanty clothing, nothing distressed us so much as hearing and
      seeing at every turn the unexampled and unheard-of cruelties my master
      inflicted upon the Christians. Every day he hanged a man, impaled one, cut
      off the ears of another; and all with so little provocation, or so
      entirely without any, that the Turks acknowledged he did it merely for the
      sake of doing it, and because he was by nature murderously disposed
      towards the whole human race. The only one that fared at all well with him
      was a Spanish soldier, something de Saavedra by name, to whom he never
      gave a blow himself, or ordered a blow to be given, or addressed a hard
      word, although he had done things that will dwell in the memory of the
      people there for many a year, and all to recover his liberty; and for the
      least of the many things he did we all dreaded that he would be impaled,
      and he himself was in fear of it more than once; and only that time does
      not allow, I could tell you now something of what that soldier did, that
      would interest and astonish you much more than the narration of my own
      tale.
    </p>
    <p>
      To go on with my story; the courtyard of our prison was overlooked by the
      windows of the house belonging to a wealthy Moor of high position; and
      these, as is usual in Moorish houses, were rather loopholes than windows,
      and besides were covered with thick and close lattice-work. It so
      happened, then, that as I was one day on the terrace of our prison with
      three other comrades, trying, to pass away the time, how far we could leap
      with our chains, we being alone, for all the other Christians had gone out
      to work, I chanced to raise my eyes, and from one of these little closed
      windows I saw a reed appear with a cloth attached to the end of it, and it
      kept waving to and fro, and moving as if making signs to us to come and
      take it. We watched it, and one of those who were with me went and stood
      under the reed to see whether they would let it drop, or what they would
      do, but as he did so the reed was raised and moved from side to side, as
      if they meant to say "no" by a shake of the head. The Christian came back,
      and it was again lowered, making the same movements as before. Another of
      my comrades went, and with him the same happened as with the first, and
      then the third went forward, but with the same result as the first and
      second. Seeing this I did not like not to try my luck, and as soon as I
      came under the reed it was dropped and fell inside the bano at my feet. I
      hastened to untie the cloth, in which I perceived a knot, and in this were
      ten cianis, which are coins of base gold, current among the Moors, and
      each worth ten reals of our money.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is needless to say I rejoiced over this godsend, and my joy was not
      less than my wonder as I strove to imagine how this good fortune could
      have come to us, but to me specially; for the evident unwillingness to
      drop the reed for any but me showed that it was for me the favour was
      intended. I took my welcome money, broke the reed, and returned to the
      terrace, and looking up at the window, I saw a very white hand put out
      that opened and shut very quickly. From this we gathered or fancied that
      it must be some woman living in that house that had done us this kindness,
      and to show that we were grateful for it, we made salaams after the
      fashion of the Moors, bowing the head, bending the body, and crossing the
      arms on the breast. Shortly afterwards at the same window a small cross
      made of reeds was put out and immediately withdrawn. This sign led us to
      believe that some Christian woman was a captive in the house, and that it
      was she who had been so good to us; but the whiteness of the hand and the
      bracelets we had perceived made us dismiss that idea, though we thought it
      might be one of the Christian renegades whom their masters very often take
      as lawful wives, and gladly, for they prefer them to the women of their
      own nation. In all our conjectures we were wide of the truth; so from that
      time forward our sole occupation was watching and gazing at the window
      where the cross had appeared to us, as if it were our pole-star; but at
      least fifteen days passed without our seeing either it or the hand, or any
      other sign and though meanwhile we endeavoured with the utmost pains to
      ascertain who it was that lived in the house, and whether there were any
      Christian renegade in it, nobody could ever tell us anything more than
      that he who lived there was a rich Moor of high position, Hadji Morato by
      name, formerly alcaide of La Pata, an office of high dignity among them.
      But when we least thought it was going to rain any more cianis from that
      quarter, we saw the reed suddenly appear with another cloth tied in a
      larger knot attached to it, and this at a time when, as on the former
      occasion, the bano was deserted and unoccupied.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c40b" id="c40b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c40b.jpg (288K)" src="images/c40b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c40b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      We made trial as before, each of the same three going forward before I
      did; but the reed was delivered to none but me, and on my approach it was
      let drop. I untied the knot and I found forty Spanish gold crowns with a
      paper written in Arabic, and at the end of the writing there was a large
      cross drawn. I kissed the cross, took the crowns and returned to the
      terrace, and we all made our salaams; again the hand appeared, I made
      signs that I would read the paper, and then the window was closed. We were
      all puzzled, though filled with joy at what had taken place; and as none
      of us understood Arabic, great was our curiosity to know what the paper
      contained, and still greater the difficulty of finding some one to read
      it. At last I resolved to confide in a renegade, a native of Murcia, who
      professed a very great friendship for me, and had given pledges that bound
      him to keep any secret I might entrust to him; for it is the custom with
      some renegades, when they intend to return to Christian territory, to
      carry about them certificates from captives of mark testifying, in
      whatever form they can, that such and such a renegade is a worthy man who
      has always shown kindness to Christians, and is anxious to escape on the
      first opportunity that may present itself. Some obtain these testimonials
      with good intentions, others put them to a cunning use; for when they go
      to pillage on Christian territory, if they chance to be cast away, or
      taken prisoners, they produce their certificates and say that from these
      papers may be seen the object they came for, which was to remain on
      Christian ground, and that it was to this end they joined the Turks in
      their foray. In this way they escape the consequences of the first
      outburst and make their peace with the Church before it does them any
      harm, and then when they have the chance they return to Barbary to become
      what they were before. Others, however, there are who procure these papers
      and make use of them honestly, and remain on Christian soil. This friend
      of mine, then, was one of these renegades that I have described; he had
      certificates from all our comrades, in which we testified in his favour as
      strongly as we could; and if the Moors had found the papers they would
      have burned him alive.
    </p>
    <p>
      I knew that he understood Arabic very well, and could not only speak but
      also write it; but before I disclosed the whole matter to him, I asked him
      to read for me this paper which I had found by accident in a hole in my
      cell. He opened it and remained some time examining it and muttering to
      himself as he translated it. I asked him if he understood it, and he told
      me he did perfectly well, and that if I wished him to tell me its meaning
      word for word, I must give him pen and ink that he might do it more
      satisfactorily. We at once gave him what he required, and he set about
      translating it bit by bit, and when he had done he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "All that is here in Spanish is what the Moorish paper contains, and you
      must bear in mind that when it says 'Lela Marien' it means 'Our Lady the
      Virgin Mary.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      We read the paper and it ran thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      "When I was a child my father had a slave who taught me to pray the
      Christian prayer in my own language, and told me many things about Lela
      Marien. The Christian died, and I know that she did not go to the fire,
      but to Allah, because since then I have seen her twice, and she told me to
      go to the land of the Christians to see Lela Marien, who had great love
      for me. I know not how to go. I have seen many Christians, but except
      thyself none has seemed to me to be a gentleman. I am young and beautiful,
      and have plenty of money to take with me. See if thou canst contrive how
      we may go, and if thou wilt thou shalt be my husband there, and if thou
      wilt not it will not distress me, for Lela Marien will find me some one to
      marry me. I myself have written this: have a care to whom thou givest it
      to read: trust no Moor, for they are all perfidious. I am greatly troubled
      on this account, for I would not have thee confide in anyone, because if
      my father knew it he would at once fling me down a well and cover me with
      stones. I will put a thread to the reed; tie the answer to it, and if thou
      hast no one to write for thee in Arabic, tell it to me by signs, for Lela
      Marien will make me understand thee. She and Allah and this cross, which I
      often kiss as the captive bade me, protect thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      Judge, sirs, whether we had reason for surprise and joy at the words of
      this paper; and both one and the other were so great, that the renegade
      perceived that the paper had not been found by chance, but had been in
      reality addressed to some one of us, and he begged us, if what he
      suspected were the truth, to trust him and tell him all, for he would risk
      his life for our freedom; and so saying he took out from his breast a
      metal crucifix, and with many tears swore by the God the image
      represented, in whom, sinful and wicked as he was, he truly and faithfully
      believed, to be loyal to us and keep secret whatever we chose to reveal to
      him; for he thought and almost foresaw that by means of her who had
      written that paper, he and all of us would obtain our liberty, and he
      himself obtain the object he so much desired, his restoration to the bosom
      of the Holy Mother Church, from which by his own sin and ignorance he was
      now severed like a corrupt limb. The renegade said this with so many tears
      and such signs of repentance, that with one consent we all agreed to tell
      him the whole truth of the matter, and so we gave him a full account of
      all, without hiding anything from him. We pointed out to him the window at
      which the reed appeared, and he by that means took note of the house, and
      resolved to ascertain with particular care who lived in it. We agreed also
      that it would be advisable to answer the Moorish lady's letter, and the
      renegade without a moment's delay took down the words I dictated to him,
      which were exactly what I shall tell you, for nothing of importance that
      took place in this affair has escaped my memory, or ever will while life
      lasts. This, then, was the answer returned to the Moorish lady:
    </p>
    <p>
      "The true Allah protect thee, Lady, and that blessed Marien who is the
      true mother of God, and who has put it into thy heart to go to the land of
      the Christians, because she loves thee. Entreat her that she be pleased to
      show thee how thou canst execute the command she gives thee, for she will,
      such is her goodness. On my own part, and on that of all these Christians
      who are with me, I promise to do all that we can for thee, even to death.
      Fail not to write to me and inform me what thou dost mean to do, and I
      will always answer thee; for the great Allah has given us a Christian
      captive who can speak and write thy language well, as thou mayest see by
      this paper; without fear, therefore, thou canst inform us of all thou
      wouldst. As to what thou sayest, that if thou dost reach the land of the
      Christians thou wilt be my wife, I give thee my promise upon it as a good
      Christian; and know that the Christians keep their promises better than
      the Moors. Allah and Marien his mother watch over thee, my Lady."
    </p>
    <p>
      The paper being written and folded I waited two days until the bano was
      empty as before, and immediately repaired to the usual walk on the terrace
      to see if there were any sign of the reed, which was not long in making
      its appearance. As soon as I saw it, although I could not distinguish who
      put it out, I showed the paper as a sign to attach the thread, but it was
      already fixed to the reed, and to it I tied the paper; and shortly
      afterwards our star once more made its appearance with the white flag of
      peace, the little bundle. It was dropped, and I picked it up, and found in
      the cloth, in gold and silver coins of all sorts, more than fifty crowns,
      which fifty times more strengthened our joy and doubled our hope of
      gaining our liberty. That very night our renegade returned and said he had
      learned that the Moor we had been told of lived in that house, that his
      name was Hadji Morato, that he was enormously rich, that he had one only
      daughter the heiress of all his wealth, and that it was the general
      opinion throughout the city that she was the most beautiful woman in
      Barbary, and that several of the viceroys who came there had sought her
      for a wife, but that she had been always unwilling to marry; and he had
      learned, moreover, that she had a Christian slave who was now dead; all
      which agreed with the contents of the paper. We immediately took counsel
      with the renegade as to what means would have to be adopted in order to
      carry off the Moorish lady and bring us all to Christian territory; and in
      the end it was agreed that for the present we should wait for a second
      communication from Zoraida (for that was the name of her who now desires
      to be called Maria), because we saw clearly that she and no one else could
      find a way out of all these difficulties. When we had decided upon this
      the renegade told us not to be uneasy, for he would lose his life or
      restore us to liberty. For four days the bano was filled with people, for
      which reason the reed delayed its appearance for four days, but at the end
      of that time, when the bano was, as it generally was, empty, it appeared
      with the cloth so bulky that it promised a happy birth. Reed and cloth
      came down to me, and I found another paper and a hundred crowns in gold,
      without any other coin. The renegade was present, and in our cell we gave
      him the paper to read, which was to this effect:
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cannot think of a plan, senor, for our going to Spain, nor has Lela
      Marien shown me one, though I have asked her. All that can be done is for
      me to give you plenty of money in gold from this window. With it ransom
      yourself and your friends, and let one of you go to the land of the
      Christians, and there buy a vessel and come back for the others; and he
      will find me in my father's garden, which is at the Babazon gate near the
      seashore, where I shall be all this summer with my father and my servants.
      You can carry me away from there by night without any danger, and bring me
      to the vessel. And remember thou art to be my husband, else I will pray to
      Marien to punish thee. If thou canst not trust anyone to go for the
      vessel, ransom thyself and do thou go, for I know thou wilt return more
      surely than any other, as thou art a gentleman and a Christian. Endeavour
      to make thyself acquainted with the garden; and when I see thee walking
      yonder I shall know that the bano is empty and I will give thee abundance
      of money. Allah protect thee, senor."
    </p>
    <p>
      These were the words and contents of the second paper, and on hearing
      them, each declared himself willing to be the ransomed one, and promised
      to go and return with scrupulous good faith; and I too made the same
      offer; but to all this the renegade objected, saying that he would not on
      any account consent to one being set free before all went together, as
      experience had taught him how ill those who have been set free keep
      promises which they made in captivity; for captives of distinction
      frequently had recourse to this plan, paying the ransom of one who was to
      go to Valencia or Majorca with money to enable him to arm a bark and
      return for the others who had ransomed him, but who never came back; for
      recovered liberty and the dread of losing it again efface from the memory
      all the obligations in the world. And to prove the truth of what he said,
      he told us briefly what had happened to a certain Christian gentleman
      almost at that very time, the strangest case that had ever occurred even
      there, where astonishing and marvellous things are happening every
      instant. In short, he ended by saying that what could and ought to be done
      was to give the money intended for the ransom of one of us Christians to
      him, so that he might with it buy a vessel there in Algiers under the
      pretence of becoming a merchant and trader at Tetuan and along the coast;
      and when master of the vessel, it would be easy for him to hit on some way
      of getting us all out of the bano and putting us on board; especially if
      the Moorish lady gave, as she said, money enough to ransom all, because
      once free it would be the easiest thing in the world for us to embark even
      in open day; but the greatest difficulty was that the Moors do not allow
      any renegade to buy or own any craft, unless it be a large vessel for
      going on roving expeditions, because they are afraid that anyone who buys
      a small vessel, especially if he be a Spaniard, only wants it for the
      purpose of escaping to Christian territory. This however he could get over
      by arranging with a Tagarin Moor to go shares with him in the purchase of
      the vessel, and in the profit on the cargo; and under cover of this he
      could become master of the vessel, in which case he looked upon all the
      rest as accomplished. But though to me and my comrades it had seemed a
      better plan to send to Majorca for the vessel, as the Moorish lady
      suggested, we did not dare to oppose him, fearing that if we did not do as
      he said he would denounce us, and place us in danger of losing all our
      lives if he were to disclose our dealings with Zoraida, for whose life we
      would have all given our own. We therefore resolved to put ourselves in
      the hands of God and in the renegade's; and at the same time an answer was
      given to Zoraida, telling her that we would do all she recommended, for
      she had given as good advice as if Lela Marien had delivered it, and that
      it depended on her alone whether we were to defer the business or put it
      in execution at once. I renewed my promise to be her husband; and thus the
      next day that the bano chanced to be empty she at different times gave us
      by means of the reed and cloth two thousand gold crowns and a paper in
      which she said that the next Juma, that is to say Friday, she was going to
      her father's garden, but that before she went she would give us more
      money; and if it were not enough we were to let her know, as she would
      give us as much as we asked, for her father had so much he would not miss
      it, and besides she kept all the keys.
    </p>
    <p>
      We at once gave the renegade five hundred crowns to buy the vessel, and
      with eight hundred I ransomed myself, giving the money to a Valencian
      merchant who happened to be in Algiers at the time, and who had me
      released on his word, pledging it that on the arrival of the first ship
      from Valencia he would pay my ransom; for if he had given the money at
      once it would have made the king suspect that my ransom money had been for
      a long time in Algiers, and that the merchant had for his own advantage
      kept it secret. In fact my master was so difficult to deal with that I
      dared not on any account pay down the money at once. The Thursday before
      the Friday on which the fair Zoraida was to go to the garden she gave us a
      thousand crowns more, and warned us of her departure, begging me, if I
      were ransomed, to find out her father's garden at once, and by all means
      to seek an opportunity of going there to see her. I answered in a few
      words that I would do so, and that she must remember to commend us to Lela
      Marien with all the prayers the captive had taught her. This having been
      done, steps were taken to ransom our three comrades, so as to enable them
      to quit the bano, and lest, seeing me ransomed and themselves not, though
      the money was forthcoming, they should make a disturbance about it and the
      devil should prompt them to do something that might injure Zoraida; for
      though their position might be sufficient to relieve me from this
      apprehension, nevertheless I was unwilling to run any risk in the matter;
      and so I had them ransomed in the same way as I was, handing over all the
      money to the merchant so that he might with safety and confidence give
      security; without, however, confiding our arrangement and secret to him,
      which might have been dangerous.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c40e" id="c40e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c40e.jpg (34K)" src="images/c40e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch41" id="ch41"></a>CHAPTER XLI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH THE CAPTIVE STILL CONTINUES HIS ADVENTURES
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c41a" id="c41a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c41a.jpg (106K)" src="images/c41a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c41a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Before fifteen days were over our renegade had already purchased an
      excellent vessel with room for more than thirty persons; and to make the
      transaction safe and lend a colour to it, he thought it well to make, as
      he did, a voyage to a place called Shershel, twenty leagues from Algiers
      on the Oran side, where there is an extensive trade in dried figs. Two or
      three times he made this voyage in company with the Tagarin already
      mentioned. The Moors of Aragon are called Tagarins in Barbary, and those
      of Granada Mudejars; but in the Kingdom of Fez they call the Mudejars
      Elches, and they are the people the king chiefly employs in war. To
      proceed: every time he passed with his vessel he anchored in a cove that
      was not two crossbow shots from the garden where Zoraida was waiting; and
      there the renegade, together with the two Moorish lads that rowed, used
      purposely to station himself, either going through his prayers, or else
      practising as a part what he meant to perform in earnest. And thus he
      would go to Zoraida's garden and ask for fruit, which her father gave him,
      not knowing him; but though, as he afterwards told me, he sought to speak
      to Zoraida, and tell her who he was, and that by my orders he was to take
      her to the land of the Christians, so that she might feel satisfied and
      easy, he had never been able to do so; for the Moorish women do not allow
      themselves to be seen by any Moor or Turk, unless their husband or father
      bid them: with Christian captives they permit freedom of intercourse and
      communication, even more than might be considered proper. But for my part
      I should have been sorry if he had spoken to her, for perhaps it might
      have alarmed her to find her affairs talked of by renegades. But God, who
      ordered it otherwise, afforded no opportunity for our renegade's
      well-meant purpose; and he, seeing how safely he could go to Shershel and
      return, and anchor when and how and where he liked, and that the Tagarin
      his partner had no will but his, and that, now I was ransomed, all we
      wanted was to find some Christians to row, told me to look out for any I
      should he willing to take with me, over and above those who had been
      ransomed, and to engage them for the next Friday, which he fixed upon for
      our departure. On this I spoke to twelve Spaniards, all stout rowers, and
      such as could most easily leave the city; but it was no easy matter to
      find so many just then, because there were twenty ships out on a cruise
      and they had taken all the rowers with them; and these would not have been
      found were it not that their master remained at home that summer without
      going to sea in order to finish a galliot that he had upon the stocks. To
      these men I said nothing more than that the next Friday in the evening
      they were to come out stealthily one by one and hang about Hadji Morato's
      garden, waiting for me there until I came. These directions I gave each
      one separately, with orders that if they saw any other Christians there
      they were not to say anything to them except that I had directed them to
      wait at that spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      This preliminary having been settled, another still more necessary step
      had to be taken, which was to let Zoraida know how matters stood that she
      might be prepared and forewarned, so as not to be taken by surprise if we
      were suddenly to seize upon her before she thought the Christians' vessel
      could have returned. I determined, therefore, to go to the garden and try
      if I could speak to her; and the day before my departure I went there
      under the pretence of gathering herbs. The first person I met was her
      father, who addressed me in the language that all over Barbary and even in
      Constantinople is the medium between captives and Moors, and is neither
      Morisco nor Castilian, nor of any other nation, but a mixture of all
      languages, by means of which we can all understand one another. In this
      sort of language, I say, he asked me what I wanted in his garden, and to
      whom I belonged. I replied that I was a slave of the Arnaut Mami (for I
      knew as a certainty that he was a very great friend of his), and that I
      wanted some herbs to make a salad. He asked me then whether I were on
      ransom or not, and what my master demanded for me. While these questions
      and answers were proceeding, the fair Zoraida, who had already perceived
      me some time before, came out of the house in the garden, and as Moorish
      women are by no means particular about letting themselves be seen by
      Christians, or, as I have said before, at all coy, she had no hesitation
      in coming to where her father stood with me; moreover her father, seeing
      her approaching slowly, called to her to come. It would be beyond my power
      now to describe to you the great beauty, the high-bred air, the brilliant
      attire of my beloved Zoraida as she presented herself before my eyes. I
      will content myself with saying that more pearls hung from her fair neck,
      her ears, and her hair than she had hairs on her head. On her ankles,
      which as is customary were bare, she had carcajes (for so bracelets or
      anklets are called in Morisco) of the purest gold, set with so many
      diamonds that she told me afterwards her father valued them at ten
      thousand doubloons, and those she had on her wrists were worth as much
      more. The pearls were in profusion and very fine, for the highest display
      and adornment of the Moorish women is decking themselves with rich pearls
      and seed-pearls; and of these there are therefore more among the Moors
      than among any other people. Zoraida's father had to the reputation of
      possessing a great number, and the purest in all Algiers, and of
      possessing also more than two hundred thousand Spanish crowns; and she,
      who is now mistress of me only, was mistress of all this. Whether thus
      adorned she would have been beautiful or not, and what she must have been
      in her prosperity, may be imagined from the beauty remaining to her after
      so many hardships; for, as everyone knows, the beauty of some women has
      its times and its seasons, and is increased or diminished by chance
      causes; and naturally the emotions of the mind will heighten or impair it,
      though indeed more frequently they totally destroy it. In a word she
      presented herself before me that day attired with the utmost splendour,
      and supremely beautiful; at any rate, she seemed to me the most beautiful
      object I had ever seen; and when, besides, I thought of all I owed to her
      I felt as though I had before me some heavenly being come to earth to
      bring me relief and happiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she approached her father told her in his own language that I was a
      captive belonging to his friend the Arnaut Mami, and that I had come for
      salad.
    </p>
    <p>
      She took up the conversation, and in that mixture of tongues I have spoken
      of she asked me if I was a gentleman, and why I was not ransomed.
    </p>
    <p>
      I answered that I was already ransomed, and that by the price it might be
      seen what value my master set on me, as they had given one thousand five
      hundred zoltanis for me; to which she replied, "Hadst thou been my
      father's, I can tell thee, I would not have let him part with thee for
      twice as much, for you Christians always tell lies about yourselves and
      make yourselves out poor to cheat the Moors."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That may be, lady," said I; "but indeed I dealt truthfully with my
      master, as I do and mean to do with everybody in the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And when dost thou go?" said Zoraida.
    </p>
    <p>
      "To-morrow, I think," said I, "for there is a vessel here from France
      which sails to-morrow, and I think I shall go in her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Would it not be better," said Zoraida, "to wait for the arrival of ships
      from Spain and go with them and not with the French who are not your
      friends?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No," said I; "though if there were intelligence that a vessel were now
      coming from Spain it is true I might, perhaps, wait for it; however, it is
      more likely I shall depart to-morrow, for the longing I feel to return to
      my country and to those I love is so great that it will not allow me to
      wait for another opportunity, however more convenient, if it be delayed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No doubt thou art married in thine own country," said Zoraida, "and for
      that reason thou art anxious to go and see thy wife."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am not married," I replied, "but I have given my promise to marry on my
      arrival there."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And is the lady beautiful to whom thou hast given it?" said Zoraida.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So beautiful," said I, "that, to describe her worthily and tell thee the
      truth, she is very like thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this her father laughed very heartily and said, "By Allah, Christian,
      she must be very beautiful if she is like my daughter, who is the most
      beautiful woman in all this kingdom: only look at her well and thou wilt
      see I am telling the truth."
    </p>
    <p>
      Zoraida's father as the better linguist helped to interpret most of these
      words and phrases, for though she spoke the bastard language, that, as I
      have said, is employed there, she expressed her meaning more by signs than
      by words.
    </p>
    <p>
      While we were still engaged in this conversation, a Moor came running up,
      exclaiming that four Turks had leaped over the fence or wall of the
      garden, and were gathering the fruit though it was not yet ripe. The old
      man was alarmed and Zoraida too, for the Moors commonly, and, so to speak,
      instinctively have a dread of the Turks, but particularly of the soldiers,
      who are so insolent and domineering to the Moors who are under their power
      that they treat them worse than if they were their slaves. Her father said
      to Zoraida, "Daughter, retire into the house and shut thyself in while I
      go and speak to these dogs; and thou, Christian, pick thy herbs, and go in
      peace, and Allah bring thee safe to thy own country."
    </p>
    <p>
      I bowed, and he went away to look for the Turks, leaving me alone with
      Zoraida, who made as if she were about to retire as her father bade her;
      but the moment he was concealed by the trees of the garden, turning to me
      with her eyes full of tears she said, "Tameji, cristiano, tameji?" that is
      to say, "Art thou going, Christian, art thou going?"
    </p>
    <p>
      I made answer, "Yes, lady, but not without thee, come what may: be on the
      watch for me on the next Juma, and be not alarmed when thou seest us; for
      most surely we shall go to the land of the Christians."
    </p>
    <p>
      This I said in such a way that she understood perfectly all that passed
      between us, and throwing her arm round my neck she began with feeble steps
      to move towards the house; but as fate would have it (and it might have
      been very unfortunate if Heaven had not otherwise ordered it), just as we
      were moving on in the manner and position I have described, with her arm
      round my neck, her father, as he returned after having sent away the
      Turks, saw how we were walking and we perceived that he saw us; but
      Zoraida, ready and quickwitted, took care not to remove her arm from my
      neck, but on the contrary drew closer to me and laid her head on my
      breast, bending her knees a little and showing all the signs and tokens of
      fainting, while I at the same time made it seem as though I were
      supporting her against my will. Her father came running up to where we
      were, and seeing his daughter in this state asked what was the matter with
      her; she, however, giving no answer, he said, "No doubt she has fainted in
      alarm at the entrance of those dogs," and taking her from mine he drew her
      to his own breast, while she sighing, her eyes still wet with tears, said
      again, "Ameji, cristiano, ameji"&mdash;"Go, Christian, go." To this her
      father replied, "There is no need, daughter, for the Christian to go, for
      he has done thee no harm, and the Turks have now gone; feel no alarm,
      there is nothing to hurt thee, for as I say, the Turks at my request have
      gone back the way they came."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c41b" id="c41b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c41b.jpg (320K)" src="images/c41b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c41b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was they who terrified her, as thou hast said, senor," said I to her
      father; "but since she tells me to go, I have no wish to displease her:
      peace be with thee, and with thy leave I will come back to this garden for
      herbs if need be, for my master says there are nowhere better herbs for
      salad than here."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come back for any thou hast need of," replied Hadji Morato; "for my
      daughter does not speak thus because she is displeased with thee or any
      Christian: she only meant that the Turks should go, not thou; or that it
      was time for thee to look for thy herbs."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this I at once took my leave of both; and she, looking as though her
      heart were breaking, retired with her father. While pretending to look for
      herbs I made the round of the garden at my ease, and studied carefully all
      the approaches and outlets, and the fastenings of the house and everything
      that could be taken advantage of to make our task easy.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c41c" id="c41c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c41c.jpg (326K)" src="images/c41c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c41c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Having done so I went and gave an account of all that had taken place to
      the renegade and my comrades, and looked forward with impatience to the
      hour when, all fear at an end, I should find myself in possession of the
      prize which fortune held out to me in the fair and lovely Zoraida. The
      time passed at length, and the appointed day we so longed for arrived;
      and, all following out the arrangement and plan which, after careful
      consideration and many a long discussion, we had decided upon, we
      succeeded as fully as we could have wished; for on the Friday following
      the day upon which I spoke to Zoraida in the garden, the renegade anchored
      his vessel at nightfall almost opposite the spot where she was. The
      Christians who were to row were ready and in hiding in different places
      round about, all waiting for me, anxious and elated, and eager to attack
      the vessel they had before their eyes; for they did not know the
      renegade's plan, but expected that they were to gain their liberty by
      force of arms and by killing the Moors who were on board the vessel. As
      soon, then, as I and my comrades made our appearance, all those that were
      in hiding seeing us came and joined us. It was now the time when the city
      gates are shut, and there was no one to be seen in all the space outside.
      When we were collected together we debated whether it would be better
      first to go for Zoraida, or to make prisoners of the Moorish rowers who
      rowed in the vessel; but while we were still uncertain our renegade came
      up asking us what kept us, as it was now the time, and all the Moors were
      off their guard and most of them asleep. We told him why we hesitated, but
      he said it was of more importance first to secure the vessel, which could
      be done with the greatest ease and without any danger, and then we could
      go for Zoraida. We all approved of what he said, and so without further
      delay, guided by him we made for the vessel, and he leaping on board
      first, drew his cutlass and said in Morisco, "Let no one stir from this if
      he does not want it to cost him his life." By this almost all the
      Christians were on board, and the Moors, who were fainthearted, hearing
      their captain speak in this way, were cowed, and without any one of them
      taking to his arms (and indeed they had few or hardly any) they submitted
      without saying a word to be bound by the Christians, who quickly secured
      them, threatening them that if they raised any kind of outcry they would
      be all put to the sword. This having been accomplished, and half of our
      party being left to keep guard over them, the rest of us, again taking the
      renegade as our guide, hastened towards Hadji Morato's garden, and as good
      luck would have it, on trying the gate it opened as easily as if it had
      not been locked; and so, quite quietly and in silence, we reached the
      house without being perceived by anybody. The lovely Zoraida was watching
      for us at a window, and as soon as she perceived that there were people
      there, she asked in a low voice if we were "Nizarani," as much as to say
      or ask if we were Christians. I answered that we were, and begged her to
      come down. As soon as she recognised me she did not delay an instant, but
      without answering a word came down immediately, opened the door and
      presented herself before us all, so beautiful and so richly attired that I
      cannot attempt to describe her. The moment I saw her I took her hand and
      kissed it, and the renegade and my two comrades did the same; and the
      rest, who knew nothing of the circumstances, did as they saw us do, for it
      only seemed as if we were returning thanks to her, and recognising her as
      the giver of our liberty. The renegade asked her in the Morisco language
      if her father was in the house. She replied that he was and that he was
      asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then it will be necessary to waken him and take him with us," said the
      renegade, "and everything of value in this fair mansion."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay," said she, "my father must not on any account be touched, and there
      is nothing in the house except what I shall take, and that will be quite
      enough to enrich and satisfy all of you; wait a little and you shall see,"
      and so saying she went in, telling us she would return immediately and
      bidding us keep quiet without making any noise.
    </p>
    <p>
      I asked the renegade what had passed between them, and when he told me, I
      declared that nothing should be done except in accordance with the wishes
      of Zoraida, who now came back with a little trunk so full of gold crowns
      that she could scarcely carry it. Unfortunately her father awoke while
      this was going on, and hearing a noise in the garden, came to the window,
      and at once perceiving that all those who were there were Christians,
      raising a prodigiously loud outcry, he began to call out in Arabic,
      "Christians, Christians! thieves, thieves!" by which cries we were all
      thrown into the greatest fear and embarrassment; but the renegade seeing
      the danger we were in and how important it was for him to effect his
      purpose before we were heard, mounted with the utmost quickness to where
      Hadji Morato was, and with him went some of our party; I, however, did not
      dare to leave Zoraida, who had fallen almost fainting in my arms. To be
      brief, those who had gone upstairs acted so promptly that in an instant
      they came down, carrying Hadji Morato with his hands bound and a napkin
      tied over his mouth, which prevented him from uttering a word, warning him
      at the same time that to attempt to speak would cost him his life. When
      his daughter caught sight of him she covered her eyes so as not to see
      him, and her father was horror-stricken, not knowing how willingly she had
      placed herself in our hands. But it was now most essential for us to be on
      the move, and carefully and quickly we regained the vessel, where those
      who had remained on board were waiting for us in apprehension of some
      mishap having befallen us. It was barely two hours after night set in when
      we were all on board the vessel, where the cords were removed from the
      hands of Zoraida's father, and the napkin from his mouth; but the renegade
      once more told him not to utter a word, or they would take his life. He,
      when he saw his daughter there, began to sigh piteously, and still more
      when he perceived that I held her closely embraced and that she lay quiet
      without resisting or complaining, or showing any reluctance; nevertheless
      he remained silent lest they should carry into effect the repeated threats
      the renegade had addressed to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Finding herself now on board, and that we were about to give way with the
      oars, Zoraida, seeing her father there, and the other Moors bound, bade
      the renegade ask me to do her the favour of releasing the Moors and
      setting her father at liberty, for she would rather drown herself in the
      sea than suffer a father that had loved her so dearly to be carried away
      captive before her eyes and on her account. The renegade repeated this to
      me, and I replied that I was very willing to do so; but he replied that it
      was not advisable, because if they were left there they would at once
      raise the country and stir up the city, and lead to the despatch of swift
      cruisers in pursuit, and our being taken, by sea or land, without any
      possibility of escape; and that all that could be done was to set them
      free on the first Christian ground we reached. On this point we all
      agreed; and Zoraida, to whom it was explained, together with the reasons
      that prevented us from doing at once what she desired, was satisfied
      likewise; and then in glad silence and with cheerful alacrity each of our
      stout rowers took his oar, and commending ourselves to God with all our
      hearts, we began to shape our course for the island of Majorca, the
      nearest Christian land. Owing, however, to the Tramontana rising a little,
      and the sea growing somewhat rough, it was impossible for us to keep a
      straight course for Majorca, and we were compelled to coast in the
      direction of Oran, not without great uneasiness on our part lest we should
      be observed from the town of Shershel, which lies on that coast, not more
      than sixty miles from Algiers. Moreover we were afraid of meeting on that
      course one of the galliots that usually come with goods from Tetuan;
      although each of us for himself and all of us together felt confident
      that, if we were to meet a merchant galliot, so that it were not a
      cruiser, not only should we not be lost, but that we should take a vessel
      in which we could more safely accomplish our voyage. As we pursued our
      course Zoraida kept her head between my hands so as not to see her father,
      and I felt that she was praying to Lela Marien to help us.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c41d" id="c41d"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c41d.jpg (266K)" src="images/c41d.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c41d.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      We might have made about thirty miles when daybreak found us some three
      musket-shots off the land, which seemed to us deserted, and without anyone
      to see us. For all that, however, by hard rowing we put out a little to
      sea, for it was now somewhat calmer, and having gained about two leagues
      the word was given to row by batches, while we ate something, for the
      vessel was well provided; but the rowers said it was not a time to take
      any rest; let food be served out to those who were not rowing, but they
      would not leave their oars on any account. This was done, but now a stiff
      breeze began to blow, which obliged us to leave off rowing and make sail
      at once and steer for Oran, as it was impossible to make any other course.
      All this was done very promptly, and under sail we ran more than eight
      miles an hour without any fear, except that of coming across some vessel
      out on a roving expedition. We gave the Moorish rowers some food, and the
      renegade comforted them by telling them that they were not held as
      captives, as we should set them free on the first opportunity.
    </p>
    <p>
      The same was said to Zoraida's father, who replied, "Anything else,
      Christian, I might hope for or think likely from your generosity and good
      behaviour, but do not think me so simple as to imagine you will give me my
      liberty; for you would have never exposed yourselves to the danger of
      depriving me of it only to restore it to me so generously, especially as
      you know who I am and the sum you may expect to receive on restoring it;
      and if you will only name that, I here offer you all you require for
      myself and for my unhappy daughter there; or else for her alone, for she
      is the greatest and most precious part of my soul."
    </p>
    <p>
      As he said this he began to weep so bitterly that he filled us all with
      compassion and forced Zoraida to look at him, and when she saw him weeping
      she was so moved that she rose from my feet and ran to throw her arms
      round him, and pressing her face to his, they both gave way to such an
      outburst of tears that several of us were constrained to keep them
      company.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when her father saw her in full dress and with all her jewels about
      her, he said to her in his own language, "What means this, my daughter?
      Last night, before this terrible misfortune in which we are plunged befell
      us, I saw thee in thy everyday and indoor garments; and now, without
      having had time to attire thyself, and without my bringing thee any joyful
      tidings to furnish an occasion for adorning and bedecking thyself, I see
      thee arrayed in the finest attire it would be in my power to give thee
      when fortune was most kind to us. Answer me this; for it causes me greater
      anxiety and surprise than even this misfortune itself."
    </p>
    <p>
      The renegade interpreted to us what the Moor said to his daughter; she,
      however, returned him no answer. But when he observed in one corner of the
      vessel the little trunk in which she used to keep her jewels, which he
      well knew he had left in Algiers and had not brought to the garden, he was
      still more amazed, and asked her how that trunk had come into our hands,
      and what there was in it. To which the renegade, without waiting for
      Zoraida to reply, made answer, "Do not trouble thyself by asking thy
      daughter Zoraida so many questions, senor, for the one answer I will give
      thee will serve for all; I would have thee know that she is a Christian,
      and that it is she who has been the file for our chains and our deliverer
      from captivity. She is here of her own free will, as glad, I imagine, to
      find herself in this position as he who escapes from darkness into the
      light, from death to life, and from suffering to glory."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Daughter, is this true, what he says?" cried the Moor.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is," replied Zoraida.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That thou art in truth a Christian," said the old man, "and that thou
      hast given thy father into the power of his enemies?"
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Zoraida made answer, "A Christian I am, but it is not I who have
      placed thee in this position, for it never was my wish to leave thee or do
      thee harm, but only to do good to myself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what good hast thou done thyself, daughter?" said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ask thou that," said she, "of Lela Marien, for she can tell thee better
      than I."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Moor had hardly heard these words when with marvellous quickness he
      flung himself headforemost into the sea, where no doubt he would have been
      drowned had not the long and full dress he wore held him up for a little
      on the surface of the water. Zoraida cried aloud to us to save him, and we
      all hastened to help, and seizing him by his robe we drew him in half
      drowned and insensible, at which Zoraida was in such distress that she
      wept over him as piteously and bitterly as though he were already dead. We
      turned him upon his face and he voided a great quantity of water, and at
      the end of two hours came to himself. Meanwhile, the wind having changed
      we were compelled to head for the land, and ply our oars to avoid being
      driven on shore; but it was our good fortune to reach a creek that lies on
      one side of a small promontory or cape, called by the Moors that of the
      "Cava rumia," which in our language means "the wicked Christian woman;"
      for it is a tradition among them that La Cava, through whom Spain was
      lost, lies buried at that spot; "cava" in their language meaning "wicked
      woman," and "rumia" "Christian;" moreover, they count it unlucky to anchor
      there when necessity compels them, and they never do so otherwise. For us,
      however, it was not the resting-place of the wicked woman but a haven of
      safety for our relief, so much had the sea now got up. We posted a
      look-out on shore, and never let the oars out of our hands, and ate of the
      stores the renegade had laid in, imploring God and Our Lady with all our
      hearts to help and protect us, that we might give a happy ending to a
      beginning so prosperous. At the entreaty of Zoraida orders were given to
      set on shore her father and the other Moors who were still bound, for she
      could not endure, nor could her tender heart bear to see her father in
      bonds and her fellow-countrymen prisoners before her eyes. We promised her
      to do this at the moment of departure, for as it was uninhabited we ran no
      risk in releasing them at that place.
    </p>
    <p>
      Our prayers were not so far in vain as to be unheard by Heaven, for after
      a while the wind changed in our favour, and made the sea calm, inviting us
      once more to resume our voyage with a good heart. Seeing this we unbound
      the Moors, and one by one put them on shore, at which they were filled
      with amazement; but when we came to land Zoraida's father, who had now
      completely recovered his senses, he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why is it, think ye, Christians, that this wicked woman is rejoiced at
      your giving me my liberty? Think ye it is because of the affection she
      bears me? Nay verily, it is only because of the hindrance my presence
      offers to the execution of her base designs. And think not that it is her
      belief that yours is better than ours that has led her to change her
      religion; it is only because she knows that immodesty is more freely
      practised in your country than in ours." Then turning to Zoraida, while I
      and another of the Christians held him fast by both arms, lest he should
      do some mad act, he said to her, "Infamous girl, misguided maiden, whither
      in thy blindness and madness art thou going in the hands of these dogs,
      our natural enemies? Cursed be the hour when I begot thee! Cursed the
      luxury and indulgence in which I reared thee!"
    </p>
    <p>
      But seeing that he was not likely soon to cease I made haste to put him on
      shore, and thence he continued his maledictions and lamentations aloud;
      calling on Mohammed to pray to Allah to destroy us, to confound us, to
      make an end of us; and when, in consequence of having made sail, we could
      no longer hear what he said we could see what he did; how he plucked out
      his beard and tore his hair and lay writhing on the ground. But once he
      raised his voice to such a pitch that we were able to hear what he said.
      "Come back, dear daughter, come back to shore; I forgive thee all; let
      those men have the money, for it is theirs now, and come back to comfort
      thy sorrowing father, who will yield up his life on this barren strand if
      thou dost leave him."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c41e" id="c41e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c41e.jpg (281K)" src="images/c41e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c41e.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      All this Zoraida heard, and heard with sorrow and tears, and all she could
      say in answer was, "Allah grant that Lela Marien, who has made me become a
      Christian, give thee comfort in thy sorrow, my father. Allah knows that I
      could not do otherwise than I have done, and that these Christians owe
      nothing to my will; for even had I wished not to accompany them, but
      remain at home, it would have been impossible for me, so eagerly did my
      soul urge me on to the accomplishment of this purpose, which I feel to be
      as righteous as to thee, dear father, it seems wicked."
    </p>
    <p>
      But neither could her father hear her nor we see him when she said this;
      and so, while I consoled Zoraida, we turned our attention to our voyage,
      in which a breeze from the right point so favoured us that we made sure of
      finding ourselves off the coast of Spain on the morrow by daybreak. But,
      as good seldom or never comes pure and unmixed, without being attended or
      followed by some disturbing evil that gives a shock to it, our fortune, or
      perhaps the curses which the Moor had hurled at his daughter (for whatever
      kind of father they may come from these are always to be dreaded), brought
      it about that when we were now in mid-sea, and the night about three hours
      spent, as we were running with all sail set and oars lashed, for the
      favouring breeze saved us the trouble of using them, we saw by the light
      of the moon, which shone brilliantly, a square-rigged vessel in full sail
      close to us, luffing up and standing across our course, and so close that
      we had to strike sail to avoid running foul of her, while they too put the
      helm hard up to let us pass. They came to the side of the ship to ask who
      we were, whither we were bound, and whence we came, but as they asked this
      in French our renegade said, "Let no one answer, for no doubt these are
      French corsairs who plunder all comers."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c41f" id="c41f"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c41f.jpg (268K)" src="images/c41f.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c41f.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Acting on this warning no one answered a word, but after we had gone a
      little ahead, and the vessel was now lying to leeward, suddenly they fired
      two guns, and apparently both loaded with chain-shot, for with one they
      cut our mast in half and brought down both it and the sail into the sea,
      and the other, discharged at the same moment, sent a ball into our vessel
      amidships, staving her in completely, but without doing any further
      damage. We, however, finding ourselves sinking began to shout for help and
      call upon those in the ship to pick us up as we were beginning to fill.
      They then lay to, and lowering a skiff or boat, as many as a dozen
      Frenchmen, well armed with match-locks, and their matches burning, got
      into it and came alongside; and seeing how few we were, and that our
      vessel was going down, they took us in, telling us that this had come to
      us through our incivility in not giving them an answer. Our renegade took
      the trunk containing Zoraida's wealth and dropped it into the sea without
      anyone perceiving what he did. In short we went on board with the
      Frenchmen, who, after having ascertained all they wanted to know about us,
      rifled us of everything we had, as if they had been our bitterest enemies,
      and from Zoraida they took even the anklets she wore on her feet; but the
      distress they caused her did not distress me so much as the fear I was in
      that from robbing her of her rich and precious jewels they would proceed
      to rob her of the most precious jewel that she valued more than all. The
      desires, however, of those people do not go beyond money, but of that
      their covetousness is insatiable, and on this occasion it was carried to
      such a pitch that they would have taken even the clothes we wore as
      captives if they had been worth anything to them. It was the advice of
      some of them to throw us all into the sea wrapped up in a sail; for their
      purpose was to trade at some of the ports of Spain, giving themselves out
      as Bretons, and if they brought us alive they would be punished as soon as
      the robbery was discovered; but the captain (who was the one who had
      plundered my beloved Zoraida) said he was satisfied with the prize he had
      got, and that he would not touch at any Spanish port, but pass the Straits
      of Gibraltar by night, or as best he could, and make for La Rochelle, from
      which he had sailed. So they agreed by common consent to give us the skiff
      belonging to their ship and all we required for the short voyage that
      remained to us, and this they did the next day on coming in sight of the
      Spanish coast, with which, and the joy we felt, all our sufferings and
      miseries were as completely forgotten as if they had never been endured by
      us, such is the delight of recovering lost liberty.
    </p>
    <p>
      It may have been about mid-day when they placed us in the boat, giving us
      two kegs of water and some biscuit; and the captain, moved by I know not
      what compassion, as the lovely Zoraida was about to embark, gave her some
      forty gold crowns, and would not permit his men to take from her those
      same garments which she has on now. We got into the boat, returning them
      thanks for their kindness to us, and showing ourselves grateful rather
      than indignant. They stood out to sea, steering for the straits; we,
      without looking to any compass save the land we had before us, set
      ourselves to row with such energy that by sunset we were so near that we
      might easily, we thought, land before the night was far advanced. But as
      the moon did not show that night, and the sky was clouded, and as we knew
      not whereabouts we were, it did not seem to us a prudent thing to make for
      the shore, as several of us advised, saying we ought to run ourselves
      ashore even if it were on rocks and far from any habitation, for in this
      way we should be relieved from the apprehensions we naturally felt of the
      prowling vessels of the Tetuan corsairs, who leave Barbary at nightfall
      and are on the Spanish coast by daybreak, where they commonly take some
      prize, and then go home to sleep in their own houses. But of the
      conflicting counsels the one which was adopted was that we should approach
      gradually, and land where we could if the sea were calm enough to permit
      us. This was done, and a little before midnight we drew near to the foot
      of a huge and lofty mountain, not so close to the sea but that it left a
      narrow space on which to land conveniently. We ran our boat up on the
      sand, and all sprang out and kissed the ground, and with tears of joyful
      satisfaction returned thanks to God our Lord for all his incomparable
      goodness to us on our voyage. We took out of the boat the provisions it
      contained, and drew it up on the shore, and then climbed a long way up the
      mountain, for even there we could not feel easy in our hearts, or persuade
      ourselves that it was Christian soil that was now under our feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dawn came, more slowly, I think, than we could have wished; we
      completed the ascent in order to see if from the summit any habitation or
      any shepherds' huts could be discovered, but strain our eyes as we might,
      neither dwelling, nor human being, nor path nor road could we perceive.
      However, we determined to push on farther, as it could not but be that ere
      long we must see some one who could tell us where we were. But what
      distressed me most was to see Zoraida going on foot over that rough
      ground; for though I once carried her on my shoulders, she was more
      wearied by my weariness than rested by the rest; and so she would never
      again allow me to undergo the exertion, and went on very patiently and
      cheerfully, while I led her by the hand. We had gone rather less than a
      quarter of a league when the sound of a little bell fell on our ears, a
      clear proof that there were flocks hard by, and looking about carefully to
      see if any were within view, we observed a young shepherd tranquilly and
      unsuspiciously trimming a stick with his knife at the foot of a cork tree.
      We called to him, and he, raising his head, sprang nimbly to his feet,
      for, as we afterwards learned, the first who presented themselves to his
      sight were the renegade and Zoraida, and seeing them in Moorish dress he
      imagined that all the Moors of Barbary were upon him; and plunging with
      marvellous swiftness into the thicket in front of him, he began to raise a
      prodigious outcry, exclaiming, "The Moors&mdash;the Moors have landed! To
      arms, to arms!" We were all thrown into perplexity by these cries, not
      knowing what to do; but reflecting that the shouts of the shepherd would
      raise the country and that the mounted coast-guard would come at once to
      see what was the matter, we agreed that the renegade must strip off his
      Turkish garments and put on a captive's jacket or coat which one of our
      party gave him at once, though he himself was reduced to his shirt; and so
      commending ourselves to God, we followed the same road which we saw the
      shepherd take, expecting every moment that the coast-guard would be down
      upon us. Nor did our expectation deceive us, for two hours had not passed
      when, coming out of the brushwood into the open ground, we perceived some
      fifty mounted men swiftly approaching us at a hand-gallop. As soon as we
      saw them we stood still, waiting for them; but as they came close and,
      instead of the Moors they were in quest of, saw a set of poor Christians,
      they were taken aback, and one of them asked if it could be we who were
      the cause of the shepherd having raised the call to arms. I said "Yes,"
      and as I was about to explain to him what had occurred, and whence we came
      and who we were, one of the Christians of our party recognised the
      horseman who had put the question to us, and before I could say anything
      more he exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thanks be to God, sirs, for bringing us to such good quarters; for, if I
      do not deceive myself, the ground we stand on is that of Velez Malaga
      unless, indeed, all my years of captivity have made me unable to recollect
      that you, senor, who ask who we are, are Pedro de Bustamante, my uncle."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Christian captive had hardly uttered these words, when the horseman
      threw himself off his horse, and ran to embrace the young man, crying:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nephew of my soul and life! I recognise thee now; and long have I mourned
      thee as dead, I, and my sister, thy mother, and all thy kin that are still
      alive, and whom God has been pleased to preserve that they may enjoy the
      happiness of seeing thee. We knew long since that thou wert in Algiers,
      and from the appearance of thy garments and those of all this company, I
      conclude that ye have had a miraculous restoration to liberty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is true," replied the young man, "and by-and-by we will tell you all."
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as the horsemen understood that we were Christian captives, they
      dismounted from their horses, and each offered his to carry us to the city
      of Velez Malaga, which was a league and a half distant. Some of them went
      to bring the boat to the city, we having told them where we had left it;
      others took us up behind them, and Zoraida was placed on the horse of the
      young man's uncle. The whole town came out to meet us, for they had by
      this time heard of our arrival from one who had gone on in advance. They
      were not astonished to see liberated captives or captive Moors, for people
      on that coast are well used to see both one and the other; but they were
      astonished at the beauty of Zoraida, which was just then heightened, as
      well by the exertion of travelling as by joy at finding herself on
      Christian soil, and relieved of all fear of being lost; for this had
      brought such a glow upon her face, that unless my affection for her were
      deceiving me, I would venture to say that there was not a more beautiful
      creature in the world&mdash;at least, that I had ever seen. We went
      straight to the church to return thanks to God for the mercies we had
      received, and when Zoraida entered it she said there were faces there like
      Lela Marien's. We told her they were her images; and as well as he could
      the renegade explained to her what they meant, that she might adore them
      as if each of them were the very same Lela Marien that had spoken to her;
      and she, having great intelligence and a quick and clear instinct,
      understood at once all he said to her about them. Thence they took us away
      and distributed us all in different houses in the town; but as for the
      renegade, Zoraida, and myself, the Christian who came with us brought us
      to the house of his parents, who had a fair share of the gifts of fortune,
      and treated us with as much kindness as they did their own son.
    </p>
    <p>
      We remained six days in Velez, at the end of which the renegade, having
      informed himself of all that was requisite for him to do, set out for the
      city of Granada to restore himself to the sacred bosom of the Church
      through the medium of the Holy Inquisition. The other released captives
      took their departures, each the way that seemed best to him, and Zoraida
      and I were left alone, with nothing more than the crowns which the
      courtesy of the Frenchman had bestowed upon Zoraida, out of which I bought
      the beast on which she rides; and, I for the present attending her as her
      father and squire and not as her husband, we are now going to ascertain if
      my father is living, or if any of my brothers has had better fortune than
      mine has been; though, as Heaven has made me the companion of Zoraida, I
      think no other lot could be assigned to me, however happy, that I would
      rather have. The patience with which she endures the hardships that
      poverty brings with it, and the eagerness she shows to become a Christian,
      are such that they fill me with admiration, and bind me to serve her all
      my life; though the happiness I feel in seeing myself hers, and her mine,
      is disturbed and marred by not knowing whether I shall find any corner to
      shelter her in my own country, or whether time and death may not have made
      such changes in the fortunes and lives of my father and brothers, that I
      shall hardly find anyone who knows me, if they are not alive.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have no more of my story to tell you, gentlemen; whether it be an
      interesting or a curious one let your better judgments decide; all I can
      say is I would gladly have told it to you more briefly; although my fear
      of wearying you has made me leave out more than one circumstance.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c41g" id="c41g"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c41g.jpg (33K)" src="images/c41g.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch42" id="ch42"></a>CHAPTER XLII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TREATS OF WHAT FURTHER TOOK PLACE IN THE INN, AND OF SEVERAL OTHER
      THINGS WORTH KNOWING
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c42a" id="c42a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c42a.jpg (139K)" src="images/c42a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c42a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words the captive held his peace, and Don Fernando said to him,
      "In truth, captain, the manner in which you have related this remarkable
      adventure has been such as befitted the novelty and strangeness of the
      matter. The whole story is curious and uncommon, and abounds with
      incidents that fill the hearers with wonder and astonishment; and so great
      is the pleasure we have found in listening to it that we should be glad if
      it were to begin again, even though to-morrow were to find us still
      occupied with the same tale." And while he said this Cardenio and the rest
      of them offered to be of service to him in any way that lay in their
      power, and in words and language so kindly and sincere that the captain
      was much gratified by their good-will. In particular Don Fernando offered,
      if he would go back with him, to get his brother the marquis to become
      godfather at the baptism of Zoraida, and on his own part to provide him
      with the means of making his appearance in his own country with the credit
      and comfort he was entitled to. For all this the captive returned thanks
      very courteously, although he would not accept any of their generous
      offers.
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time night closed in, and as it did, there came up to the inn a
      coach attended by some men on horseback, who demanded accommodation; to
      which the landlady replied that there was not a hand's breadth of the
      whole inn unoccupied.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Still, for all that," said one of those who had entered on horseback,
      "room must be found for his lordship the Judge here."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this name the landlady was taken aback, and said, "Senor, the fact is I
      have no beds; but if his lordship the Judge carries one with him, as no
      doubt he does, let him come in and welcome; for my husband and I will give
      up our room to accommodate his worship."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very good, so be it," said the squire; but in the meantime a man had got
      out of the coach whose dress indicated at a glance the office and post he
      held, for the long robe with ruffled sleeves that he wore showed that he
      was, as his servant said, a Judge of appeal. He led by the hand a young
      girl in a travelling dress, apparently about sixteen years of age, and of
      such a high-bred air, so beautiful and so graceful, that all were filled
      with admiration when she made her appearance, and but for having seen
      Dorothea, Luscinda, and Zoraida, who were there in the inn, they would
      have fancied that a beauty like that of this maiden's would have been hard
      to find. Don Quixote was present at the entrance of the Judge with the
      young lady, and as soon as he saw him he said, "Your worship may with
      confidence enter and take your ease in this castle; for though the
      accommodation be scanty and poor, there are no quarters so cramped or
      inconvenient that they cannot make room for arms and letters; above all if
      arms and letters have beauty for a guide and leader, as letters
      represented by your worship have in this fair maiden, to whom not only
      ought castles to throw themselves open and yield themselves up, but rocks
      should rend themselves asunder and mountains divide and bow themselves
      down to give her a reception. Enter, your worship, I say, into this
      paradise, for here you will find stars and suns to accompany the heaven
      your worship brings with you, here you will find arms in their supreme
      excellence, and beauty in its highest perfection."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Judge was struck with amazement at the language of Don Quixote, whom
      he scrutinized very carefully, no less astonished by his figure than by
      his talk; and before he could find words to answer him he had a fresh
      surprise, when he saw opposite to him Luscinda, Dorothea, and Zoraida,
      who, having heard of the new guests and of the beauty of the young lady,
      had come to see her and welcome her; Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the
      curate, however, greeted him in a more intelligible and polished style. In
      short, the Judge made his entrance in a state of bewilderment, as well
      with what he saw as what he heard, and the fair ladies of the inn gave the
      fair damsel a cordial welcome. On the whole he could perceive that all who
      were there were people of quality; but with the figure, countenance, and
      bearing of Don Quixote he was at his wits' end; and all civilities having
      been exchanged, and the accommodation of the inn inquired into, it was
      settled, as it had been before settled, that all the women should retire
      to the garret that has been already mentioned, and that the men should
      remain outside as if to guard them; the Judge, therefore, was very well
      pleased to allow his daughter, for such the damsel was, to go with the
      ladies, which she did very willingly; and with part of the host's narrow
      bed and half of what the Judge had brought with him, they made a more
      comfortable arrangement for the night than they had expected.
    </p>
    <p>
      The captive, whose heart had leaped within him the instant he saw the
      Judge, telling him somehow that this was his brother, asked one of the
      servants who accompanied him what his name was, and whether he knew from
      what part of the country he came. The servant replied that he was called
      the Licentiate Juan Perez de Viedma, and that he had heard it said he came
      from a village in the mountains of Leon. From this statement, and what he
      himself had seen, he felt convinced that this was his brother who had
      adopted letters by his father's advice; and excited and rejoiced, he
      called Don Fernando and Cardenio and the curate aside, and told them how
      the matter stood, assuring them that the judge was his brother. The
      servant had further informed him that he was now going to the Indies with
      the appointment of Judge of the Supreme Court of Mexico; and he had
      learned, likewise, that the young lady was his daughter, whose mother had
      died in giving birth to her, and that he was very rich in consequence of
      the dowry left to him with the daughter. He asked their advice as to what
      means he should adopt to make himself known, or to ascertain beforehand
      whether, when he had made himself known, his brother, seeing him so poor,
      would be ashamed of him, or would receive him with a warm heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Leave it to me to find out that," said the curate; "though there is no
      reason for supposing, senor captain, that you will not be kindly received,
      because the worth and wisdom that your brother's bearing shows him to
      possess do not make it likely that he will prove haughty or insensible, or
      that he will not know how to estimate the accidents of fortune at their
      proper value."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Still," said the captain, "I would not make myself known abruptly, but in
      some indirect way."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have told you already," said the curate, "that I will manage it in a
      way to satisfy us all."
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time supper was ready, and they all took their seats at the table,
      except the captive, and the ladies, who supped by themselves in their own
      room. In the middle of supper the curate said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "I had a comrade of your worship's name, Senor Judge, in Constantinople,
      where I was a captive for several years, and that same comrade was one of
      the stoutest soldiers and captains in the whole Spanish infantry; but he
      had as large a share of misfortune as he had of gallantry and courage."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And how was the captain called, senor?" asked the Judge.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He was called Ruy Perez de Viedma," replied the curate, "and he was born
      in a village in the mountains of Leon; and he mentioned a circumstance
      connected with his father and his brothers which, had it not been told me
      by so truthful a man as he was, I should have set down as one of those
      fables the old women tell over the fire in winter; for he said his father
      had divided his property among his three sons and had addressed words of
      advice to them sounder than any of Cato's. But I can say this much, that
      the choice he made of going to the wars was attended with such success,
      that by his gallant conduct and courage, and without any help save his own
      merit, he rose in a few years to be captain of infantry, and to see
      himself on the high-road and in position to be given the command of a
      corps before long; but Fortune was against him, for where he might have
      expected her favour he lost it, and with it his liberty, on that glorious
      day when so many recovered theirs, at the battle of Lepanto. I lost mine
      at the Goletta, and after a variety of adventures we found ourselves
      comrades at Constantinople. Thence he went to Algiers, where he met with
      one of the most extraordinary adventures that ever befell anyone in the
      world."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the curate went on to relate briefly his brother's adventure with
      Zoraida; to all which the Judge gave such an attentive hearing that he
      never before had been so much of a hearer. The curate, however, only went
      so far as to describe how the Frenchmen plundered those who were in the
      boat, and the poverty and distress in which his comrade and the fair Moor
      were left, of whom he said he had not been able to learn what became of
      them, or whether they had reached Spain, or been carried to France by the
      Frenchmen.
    </p>
    <p>
      The captain, standing a little to one side, was listening to all the
      curate said, and watching every movement of his brother, who, as soon as
      he perceived the curate had made an end of his story, gave a deep sigh and
      said with his eyes full of tears, "Oh, senor, if you only knew what news
      you have given me and how it comes home to me, making me show how I feel
      it with these tears that spring from my eyes in spite of all my worldly
      wisdom and self-restraint! That brave captain that you speak of is my
      eldest brother, who, being of a bolder and loftier mind than my other
      brother or myself, chose the honourable and worthy calling of arms, which
      was one of the three careers our father proposed to us, as your comrade
      mentioned in that fable you thought he was telling you. I followed that of
      letters, in which God and my own exertions have raised me to the position
      in which you see me. My second brother is in Peru, so wealthy that with
      what he has sent to my father and to me he has fully repaid the portion he
      took with him, and has even furnished my father's hands with the means of
      gratifying his natural generosity, while I too have been enabled to pursue
      my studies in a more becoming and creditable fashion, and so to attain my
      present standing. My father is still alive, though dying with anxiety to
      hear of his eldest son, and he prays God unceasingly that death may not
      close his eyes until he has looked upon those of his son; but with regard
      to him what surprises me is, that having so much common sense as he had,
      he should have neglected to give any intelligence about himself, either in
      his troubles and sufferings, or in his prosperity, for if his father or
      any of us had known of his condition he need not have waited for that
      miracle of the reed to obtain his ransom; but what now disquiets me is the
      uncertainty whether those Frenchmen may have restored him to liberty, or
      murdered him to hide the robbery. All this will make me continue my
      journey, not with the satisfaction in which I began it, but in the deepest
      melancholy and sadness. Oh dear brother! that I only knew where thou art
      now, and I would hasten to seek thee out and deliver thee from thy
      sufferings, though it were to cost me suffering myself! Oh that I could
      bring news to our old father that thou art alive, even wert thou in the
      deepest dungeon of Barbary; for his wealth and my brother's and mine would
      rescue thee thence! Oh beautiful and generous Zoraida, that I could repay
      thy goodness to a brother! That I could be present at the new birth
      of thy soul, and at thy bridal that would give us all such happiness!"
    </p>
    <p>
      All this and more the Judge uttered with such deep emotion at the news he
      had received of his brother that all who heard him shared in it, showing
      their sympathy with his sorrow. The curate, seeing, then, how well he had
      succeeded in carrying out his purpose and the captain's wishes, had no
      desire to keep them unhappy any longer, so he rose from the table and
      going into the room where Zoraida was he took her by the hand, Luscinda,
      Dorothea, and the Judge's daughter following her. The captain was waiting
      to see what the curate would do, when the latter, taking him with the
      other hand, advanced with both of them to where the Judge and the other
      gentlemen were and said, "Let your tears cease to flow, Senor Judge, and
      the wish of your heart be gratified as fully as you could desire, for you
      have before you your worthy brother and your good sister-in-law. He whom
      you see here is the Captain Viedma, and this is the fair Moor who has been
      so good to him. The Frenchmen I told you of have reduced them to the state
      of poverty you see that you may show the generosity of your kind heart."
    </p>
    <p>
      The captain ran to embrace his brother, who placed both hands on his
      breast so as to have a good look at him, holding him a little way off but
      as soon as he had fully recognised him he clasped him in his arms so
      closely, shedding such tears of heartfelt joy, that most of those present
      could not but join in them. The words the brothers exchanged, the emotion
      they showed can scarcely be imagined, I fancy, much less put down in
      writing. They told each other in a few words the events of their lives;
      they showed the true affection of brothers in all its strength; then the
      judge embraced Zoraida, putting all he possessed at her disposal; then he
      made his daughter embrace her, and the fair Christian and the lovely Moor
      drew fresh tears from every eye. And there was Don Quixote observing all
      these strange proceedings attentively without uttering a word, and
      attributing the whole to chimeras of knight-errantry. Then they agreed
      that the captain and Zoraida should return with his brother to Seville,
      and send news to his father of his having been delivered and found, so as
      to enable him to come and be present at the marriage and baptism of
      Zoraida, for it was impossible for the Judge to put off his journey, as he
      was informed that in a month from that time the fleet was to sail from
      Seville for New Spain, and to miss the passage would have been a great
      inconvenience to him. In short, everybody was well pleased and glad at the
      captive's good fortune; and as now almost two-thirds of the night were
      past, they resolved to retire to rest for the remainder of it. Don Quixote
      offered to mount guard over the castle lest they should be attacked by
      some giant or other malevolent scoundrel, covetous of the great treasure
      of beauty the castle contained. Those who understood him returned him
      thanks for this service, and they gave the Judge an account of his
      extraordinary humour, with which he was not a little amused. Sancho Panza
      alone was fuming at the lateness of the hour for retiring to rest; and he
      of all was the one that made himself most comfortable, as he stretched
      himself on the trappings of his ass, which, as will be told farther on,
      cost him so dear.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ladies, then, having retired to their chamber, and the others having
      disposed themselves with as little discomfort as they could, Don Quixote
      sallied out of the inn to act as sentinel of the castle as he had
      promised. It happened, however, that a little before the approach of dawn
      a voice so musical and sweet reached the ears of the ladies that it forced
      them all to listen attentively, but especially Dorothea, who had been
      awake, and by whose side Dona Clara de Viedma, for so the Judge's daughter
      was called, lay sleeping. No one could imagine who it was that sang so
      sweetly, and the voice was unaccompanied by any instrument. At one moment
      it seemed to them as if the singer were in the courtyard, at another in
      the stable; and as they were all attention, wondering, Cardenio came to
      the door and said, "Listen, whoever is not asleep, and you will hear a
      muleteer's voice that enchants as it chants."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We are listening to it already, senor," said Dorothea; on which Cardenio
      went away; and Dorothea, giving all her attention to it, made out the
      words of the song to be these:
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c42e" id="c42e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c42e.jpg (11K)" src="images/c42e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch43" id="ch43"></a>CHAPTER XLIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
      STRANGE THINGS THAT CAME TO PASS IN THE INN
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c43a" id="c43a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c43a.jpg (127K)" src="images/c43a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c43a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Ah me, Love's mariner am I
  On Love's deep ocean sailing;
I know not where the haven lies,
  I dare not hope to gain it.

One solitary distant star
  Is all I have to guide me,
A brighter orb than those of old
  That Palinurus lighted.

And vaguely drifting am I borne,
  I know not where it leads me;
I fix my gaze on it alone,
  Of all beside it heedless.

But over-cautious prudery,
  And coyness cold and cruel,
When most I need it, these, like clouds,
  Its longed-for light refuse me.

Bright star, goal of my yearning eyes
  As thou above me beamest,
When thou shalt hide thee from my sight
  I'll know that death is near me.
</pre>
    <p>
      The singer had got so far when it struck Dorothea that it was not fair to
      let Clara miss hearing such a sweet voice, so, shaking her from side to
      side, she woke her, saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Forgive me, child, for waking thee, but I do so that thou mayest have the
      pleasure of hearing the best voice thou hast ever heard, perhaps, in all
      thy life."
    </p>
    <p>
      Clara awoke quite drowsy, and not understanding at the moment what
      Dorothea said, asked her what it was; she repeated what she had said, and
      Clara became attentive at once; but she had hardly heard two lines, as the
      singer continued, when a strange trembling seized her, as if she were
      suffering from a severe attack of quartan ague, and throwing her arms
      round Dorothea she said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, dear lady of my soul and life! why did you wake me? The greatest
      kindness fortune could do me now would be to close my eyes and ears so as
      neither to see or hear that unhappy musician."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What art thou talking about, child?" said Dorothea. "Why, they say this
      singer is a muleteer!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, he is the lord of many places," replied Clara, "and that one in my
      heart which he holds so firmly shall never be taken from him, unless he be
      willing to surrender it."
    </p>
    <p>
      Dorothea was amazed at the ardent language of the girl, for it seemed to
      be far beyond such experience of life as her tender years gave any promise
      of, so she said to her:
    </p>
    <p>
      "You speak in such a way that I cannot understand you, Senora Clara;
      explain yourself more clearly, and tell me what is this you are saying
      about hearts and places and this musician whose voice has so moved you?
      But do not tell me anything now; I do not want to lose the pleasure I get
      from listening to the singer by giving my attention to your transports,
      for I perceive he is beginning to sing a new strain and a new air."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let him, in Heaven's name," returned Clara; and not to hear him she
      stopped both ears with her hands, at which Dorothea was again surprised;
      but turning her attention to the song she found that it ran in this
      fashion:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
  Sweet Hope, my stay,
That onward to the goal of thy intent
  Dost make thy way,
Heedless of hindrance or impediment,
  Have thou no fear
If at each step thou findest death is near.

  No victory,
No joy of triumph doth the faint heart know;
  Unblest is he
That a bold front to Fortune dares not show,
  But soul and sense
In bondage yieldeth up to indolence.

  If Love his wares
Do dearly sell, his right must be contest;
  What gold compares
With that whereon his stamp he hath imprest?
  And all men know
What costeth little that we rate but low.

  Love resolute
Knows not the word "impossibility;"
  And though my suit
Beset by endless obstacles I see,
  Yet no despair
Shall hold me bound to earth while heaven is there.
</pre>
    <p>
      Here the voice ceased and Clara's sobs began afresh, all which excited
      Dorothea's curiosity to know what could be the cause of singing so sweet
      and weeping so bitter, so she again asked her what it was she was going to
      say before. On this Clara, afraid that Luscinda might overhear her,
      winding her arms tightly round Dorothea put her mouth so close to her ear
      that she could speak without fear of being heard by anyone else, and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "This singer, dear senora, is the son of a gentleman of Aragon, lord of
      two villages, who lives opposite my father's house at Madrid; and though
      my father had curtains to the windows of his house in winter, and
      lattice-work in summer, in some way&mdash;I know not how&mdash;this
      gentleman, who was pursuing his studies, saw me, whether in church or
      elsewhere, I cannot tell, and, in fact, fell in love with me, and gave me
      to know it from the windows of his house, with so many signs and tears
      that I was forced to believe him, and even to love him, without knowing
      what it was he wanted of me. One of the signs he used to make me was to
      link one hand in the other, to show me he wished to marry me; and though I
      should have been glad if that could be, being alone and motherless I knew
      not whom to open my mind to, and so I left it as it was, showing him no
      favour, except when my father, and his too, were from home, to raise the
      curtain or the lattice a little and let him see me plainly, at which he
      would show such delight that he seemed as if he were going mad. Meanwhile
      the time for my father's departure arrived, which he became aware of, but
      not from me, for I had never been able to tell him of it. He fell sick, of
      grief I believe, and so the day we were going away I could not see him to
      take farewell of him, were it only with the eyes. But after we had been
      two days on the road, on entering the posada of a village a day's journey
      from this, I saw him at the inn door in the dress of a muleteer, and so
      well disguised, that if I did not carry his image graven on my heart it
      would have been impossible for me to recognise him. But I knew him, and I
      was surprised, and glad; he watched me, unsuspected by my father, from
      whom he always hides himself when he crosses my path on the road, or in
      the posadas where we halt; and, as I know what he is, and reflect that for
      love of me he makes this journey on foot in all this hardship, I am ready
      to die of sorrow; and where he sets foot there I set my eyes. I know not
      with what object he has come; or how he could have got away from his
      father, who loves him beyond measure, having no other heir, and because he
      deserves it, as you will perceive when you see him. And moreover, I can
      tell you, all that he sings is out of his own head; for I have heard them
      say he is a great scholar and poet; and what is more, every time I see him
      or hear him sing I tremble all over, and am terrified lest my father
      should recognise him and come to know of our loves. I have never spoken a
      word to him in my life; and for all that I love him so that I could not
      live without him. This, dear senora, is all I have to tell you about the
      musician whose voice has delighted you so much; and from it alone you
      might easily perceive he is no muleteer, but a lord of hearts and towns,
      as I told you already."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Say no more, Dona Clara," said Dorothea at this, at the same time kissing
      her a thousand times over, "say no more, I tell you, but wait till day
      comes; when I trust in God to arrange this affair of yours so that it may
      have the happy ending such an innocent beginning deserves."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, senora," said Dona Clara, "what end can be hoped for when his father
      is of such lofty position, and so wealthy, that he would think I was not
      fit to be even a servant to his son, much less wife? And as to marrying
      without the knowledge of my father, I would not do it for all the world. I
      would not ask anything more than that this youth should go back and leave
      me; perhaps with not seeing him, and the long distance we shall have to
      travel, the pain I suffer now may become easier; though I daresay the
      remedy I propose will do me very little good. I don't know how the devil
      this has come about, or how this love I have for him got in; I such a
      young girl, and he such a mere boy; for I verily believe we are both of an
      age, and I am not sixteen yet; for I will be sixteen Michaelmas Day, next,
      my father says."
    </p>
    <p>
      Dorothea could not help laughing to hear how like a child Dona Clara
      spoke. "Let us go to sleep now, senora," said she, "for the little of the
      night that I fancy is left to us: God will soon send us daylight, and we
      will set all to rights, or it will go hard with me."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this they fell asleep, and deep silence reigned all through the inn.
      The only persons not asleep were the landlady's daughter and her servant
      Maritornes, who, knowing the weak point of Don Quixote's humour, and that
      he was outside the inn mounting guard in armour and on horseback,
      resolved, the pair of them, to play some trick upon him, or at any rate to
      amuse themselves for a while by listening to his nonsense. As it so
      happened there was not a window in the whole inn that looked outwards
      except a hole in the wall of a straw-loft through which they used to throw
      out the straw. At this hole the two demi-damsels posted themselves, and
      observed Don Quixote on his horse, leaning on his pike and from time to
      time sending forth such deep and doleful sighs, that he seemed to pluck up
      his soul by the roots with each of them; and they could hear him, too,
      saying in a soft, tender, loving tone, "Oh my lady Dulcinea del Toboso,
      perfection of all beauty, summit and crown of discretion, treasure house
      of grace, depositary of virtue, and finally, ideal of all that is good,
      honourable, and delectable in this world! What is thy grace doing now? Art
      thou, perchance, mindful of thy enslaved knight who of his own free will
      hath exposed himself to so great perils, and all to serve thee? Give me
      tidings of her, oh luminary of the three faces! Perhaps at this moment,
      envious of hers, thou art regarding her, either as she paces to and fro
      some gallery of her sumptuous palaces, or leans over some balcony,
      meditating how, whilst preserving her purity and greatness, she may
      mitigate the tortures this wretched heart of mine endures for her sake,
      what glory should recompense my sufferings, what repose my toil, and
      lastly what death my life, and what reward my services? And thou, oh sun,
      that art now doubtless harnessing thy steeds in haste to rise betimes and
      come forth to see my lady; when thou seest her I entreat of thee to salute
      her on my behalf: but have a care, when thou shalt see her and salute her,
      that thou kiss not her face; for I shall be more jealous of thee than thou
      wert of that light-footed ingrate that made thee sweat and run so on the
      plains of Thessaly, or on the banks of the Peneus (for I do not exactly
      recollect where it was thou didst run on that occasion) in thy jealousy
      and love."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote had got so far in his pathetic speech when the landlady's
      daughter began to signal to him, saying, "Senor, come over here, please."
    </p>
    <p>
      At these signals and voice Don Quixote turned his head and saw by the
      light of the moon, which then was in its full splendour, that some one was
      calling to him from the hole in the wall, which seemed to him to be a
      window, and what is more, with a gilt grating, as rich castles, such as he
      believed the inn to be, ought to have; and it immediately suggested itself
      to his imagination that, as on the former occasion, the fair damsel, the
      daughter of the lady of the castle, overcome by love for him, was once
      more endeavouring to win his affections; and with this idea, not to show
      himself discourteous, or ungrateful, he turned Rocinante's head and
      approached the hole, and as he perceived the two wenches he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "I pity you, beauteous lady, that you should have directed your thoughts
      of love to a quarter from whence it is impossible that such a return can
      be made to you as is due to your great merit and gentle birth, for which
      you must not blame this unhappy knight-errant whom love renders incapable
      of submission to any other than her whom, the first moment his eyes beheld
      her, he made absolute mistress of his soul. Forgive me, noble lady, and
      retire to your apartment, and do not, by any further declaration of your
      passion, compel me to show myself more ungrateful; and if, of the love you
      bear me, you should find that there is anything else in my power wherein I
      can gratify you, provided it be not love itself, demand it of me; for I
      swear to you by that sweet absent enemy of mine to grant it this instant,
      though it be that you require of me a lock of Medusa's hair, which was all
      snakes, or even the very beams of the sun shut up in a vial."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My mistress wants nothing of that sort, sir knight," said Maritornes at
      this.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What then, discreet dame, is it that your mistress wants?" replied Don
      Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Only one of your fair hands," said Maritornes, "to enable her to vent
      over it the great passion, passion which has brought her to this loophole,
      so much to the risk of her honour; for if the lord her father had heard
      her, the least slice he would cut off her would be her ear."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I should like to see that tried," said Don Quixote; "but he had better
      beware of that, if he does not want to meet the most disastrous end that
      ever father in the world met for having laid hands on the tender limbs of
      a love-stricken daughter."
    </p>
    <p>
      Maritornes felt sure that Don Quixote would present the hand she had
      asked, and making up her mind what to do, she got down from the hole and
      went into the stable, where she took the halter of Sancho Panza's ass, and
      in all haste returned to the hole, just as Don Quixote had planted himself
      standing on Rocinante's saddle in order to reach the grated window where
      he supposed the lovelorn damsel to be; and giving her his hand, he said,
      "Lady, take this hand, or rather this scourge of the evil-doers of the
      earth; take, I say, this hand which no other hand of woman has ever
      touched, not even hers who has complete possession of my entire body. I
      present it to you, not that you may kiss it, but that you may observe the
      contexture of the sinews, the close network of the muscles, the breadth
      and capacity of the veins, whence you may infer what must be the strength
      of the arm that has such a hand."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That we shall see presently," said Maritornes, and making a running knot
      on the halter, she passed it over his wrist and coming down from the hole
      tied the other end very firmly to the bolt of the door of the straw-loft.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote, feeling the roughness of the rope on his wrist, exclaimed,
      "Your grace seems to be grating rather than caressing my hand; treat it
      not so harshly, for it is not to blame for the offence my resolution has
      given you, nor is it just to wreak all your vengeance on so small a part;
      remember that one who loves so well should not revenge herself so
      cruelly."
    </p>
    <p>
      But there was nobody now to listen to these words of Don Quixote's, for as
      soon as Maritornes had tied him she and the other made off, ready to die
      with laughing, leaving him fastened in such a way that it was impossible
      for him to release himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was, as has been said, standing on Rocinante, with his arm passed
      through the hole and his wrist tied to the bolt of the door, and in mighty
      fear and dread of being left hanging by the arm if Rocinante were to stir
      one side or the other; so he did not dare to make the least movement,
      although from the patience and imperturbable disposition of Rocinante, he
      had good reason to expect that he would stand without budging for a whole
      century. Finding himself fast, then, and that the ladies had retired, he
      began to fancy that all this was done by enchantment, as on the former
      occasion when in that same castle that enchanted Moor of a carrier had
      belaboured him; and he cursed in his heart his own want of sense and
      judgment in venturing to enter the castle again, after having come off so
      badly the first time; it being a settled point with knights-errant that
      when they have tried an adventure, and have not succeeded in it, it is a
      sign that it is not reserved for them but for others, and that therefore
      they need not try it again. Nevertheless he pulled his arm to see if he
      could release himself, but it had been made so fast that all his efforts
      were in vain. It is true he pulled it gently lest Rocinante should move,
      but try as he might to seat himself in the saddle, he had nothing for it
      but to stand upright or pull his hand off. Then it was he wished for the
      sword of Amadis, against which no enchantment whatever had any power; then
      he cursed his ill fortune; then he magnified the loss the world would
      sustain by his absence while he remained there enchanted, for that he
      believed he was beyond all doubt; then he once more took to thinking of
      his beloved Dulcinea del Toboso; then he called to his worthy squire
      Sancho Panza, who, buried in sleep and stretched upon the pack-saddle of
      his ass, was oblivious, at that moment, of the mother that bore him; then
      he called upon the sages Lirgandeo and Alquife to come to his aid; then he
      invoked his good friend Urganda to succour him; and then, at last, morning
      found him in such a state of desperation and perplexity that he was
      bellowing like a bull, for he had no hope that day would bring any relief
      to his suffering, which he believed would last for ever, inasmuch as he
      was enchanted; and of this he was convinced by seeing that Rocinante never
      stirred, much or little, and he felt persuaded that he and his horse were
      to remain in this state, without eating or drinking or sleeping, until the
      malign influence of the stars was overpast, or until some other more sage
      enchanter should disenchant him.
    </p>
    <p>
      But he was very much deceived in this conclusion, for daylight had hardly
      begun to appear when there came up to the inn four men on horseback, well
      equipped and accoutred, with firelocks across their saddle-bows. They
      called out and knocked loudly at the gate of the inn, which was still
      shut; on seeing which, Don Quixote, even there where he was, did not
      forget to act as sentinel, and said in a loud and imperious tone,
      "Knights, or squires, or whatever ye be, ye have no right to knock at the
      gates of this castle; for it is plain enough that they who are within are
      either asleep, or else are not in the habit of throwing open the fortress
      until the sun's rays are spread over the whole surface of the earth.
      Withdraw to a distance, and wait till it is broad daylight, and then we
      shall see whether it will be proper or not to open to you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What the devil fortress or castle is this," said one, "to make us stand
      on such ceremony? If you are the innkeeper bid them open to us; we are
      travellers who only want to feed our horses and go on, for we are in
      haste."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do you think, gentlemen, that I look like an innkeeper?" said Don
      Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know what you look like," replied the other; "but I know that you
      are talking nonsense when you call this inn a castle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A castle it is," returned Don Quixote, "nay, more, one of the best in
      this whole province, and it has within it people who have had the sceptre
      in the hand and the crown on the head."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It would be better if it were the other way," said the traveller, "the
      sceptre on the head and the crown in the hand; but if so, may be there is
      within some company of players, with whom it is a common thing to have
      those crowns and sceptres you speak of; for in such a small inn as this,
      and where such silence is kept, I do not believe any people entitled to
      crowns and sceptres can have taken up their quarters."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You know but little of the world," returned Don Quixote, "since you are
      ignorant of what commonly occurs in knight-errantry."
    </p>
    <p>
      But the comrades of the spokesman, growing weary of the dialogue with Don
      Quixote, renewed their knocks with great vehemence, so much so that the
      host, and not only he but everybody in the inn, awoke, and he got up to
      ask who knocked. It happened at this moment that one of the horses of the
      four who were seeking admittance went to smell Rocinante, who melancholy,
      dejected, and with drooping ears stood motionless, supporting his sorely
      stretched master; and as he was, after all, flesh, though he looked as if
      he were made of wood, he could not help giving way and in return smelling
      the one who had come to offer him attentions. But he had hardly moved at
      all when Don Quixote lost his footing; and slipping off the saddle, he
      would have come to the ground, but for being suspended by the arm, which
      caused him such agony that he believed either his wrist would be cut
      through or his arm torn off; and he hung so near the ground that he could
      just touch it with his feet, which was all the worse for him; for, finding
      how little was wanted to enable him to plant his feet firmly, he struggled
      and stretched himself as much as he could to gain a footing; just like
      those undergoing the torture of the strappado, when they are fixed at
      "touch and no touch," who aggravate their own sufferings by their violent
      efforts to stretch themselves, deceived by the hope which makes them fancy
      that with a very little more they will reach the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c43b" id="c43b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c43b.jpg (272K)" src="images/c43b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c43b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c43e" id="c43e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c43e.jpg (20K)" src="images/c43e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch44" id="ch44"></a>CHAPTER XLIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES OF THE INN
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c44a" id="c44a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c44a.jpg (144K)" src="images/c44a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c44a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      So loud, in fact, were the shouts of Don Quixote, that the landlord
      opening the gate of the inn in all haste, came out in dismay, and ran to
      see who was uttering such cries, and those who were outside joined him.
      Maritornes, who had been by this time roused up by the same outcry,
      suspecting what it was, ran to the loft and, without anyone seeing her,
      untied the halter by which Don Quixote was suspended, and down he came to
      the ground in the sight of the landlord and the travellers, who
      approaching asked him what was the matter with him that he shouted so. He
      without replying a word took the rope off his wrist, and rising to his
      feet leaped upon Rocinante, braced his buckler on his arm, put his lance
      in rest, and making a considerable circuit of the plain came back at a
      half-gallop exclaiming:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Whoever shall say that I have been enchanted with just cause, provided my
      lady the Princess Micomicona grants me permission to do so, I give him the
      lie, challenge him and defy him to single combat."
    </p>
    <p>
      The newly arrived travellers were amazed at the words of Don Quixote; but
      the landlord removed their surprise by telling them who he was, and not to
      mind him as he was out of his senses. They then asked the landlord if by
      any chance a youth of about fifteen years of age had come to that inn, one
      dressed like a muleteer, and of such and such an appearance, describing
      that of Dona Clara's lover. The landlord replied that there were so many
      people in the inn he had not noticed the person they were inquiring for;
      but one of them observing the coach in which the Judge had come, said, "He
      is here no doubt, for this is the coach he is following: let one of us
      stay at the gate, and the rest go in to look for him; or indeed it would
      be as well if one of us went round the inn, lest he should escape over the
      wall of the yard." "So be it," said another; and while two of them went
      in, one remained at the gate and the other made the circuit of the inn;
      observing all which, the landlord was unable to conjecture for what reason
      they were taking all these precautions, though he understood they were
      looking for the youth whose description they had given him.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was by this time broad daylight; and for that reason, as well as in
      consequence of the noise Don Quixote had made, everybody was awake and up,
      but particularly Dona Clara and Dorothea; for they had been able to sleep
      but badly that night, the one from agitation at having her lover so near
      her, the other from curiosity to see him. Don Quixote, when he saw that
      not one of the four travellers took any notice of him or replied to his
      challenge, was furious and ready to die with indignation and wrath; and if
      he could have found in the ordinances of chivalry that it was lawful for a
      knight-errant to undertake or engage in another enterprise, when he had
      plighted his word and faith not to involve himself in any until he had
      made an end of the one to which he was pledged, he would have attacked the
      whole of them, and would have made them return an answer in spite of
      themselves. But considering that it would not become him, nor be right, to
      begin any new emprise until he had established Micomicona in her kingdom,
      he was constrained to hold his peace and wait quietly to see what would be
      the upshot of the proceedings of those same travellers; one of whom found
      the youth they were seeking lying asleep by the side of a muleteer,
      without a thought of anyone coming in search of him, much less finding
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man laid hold of him by the arm, saying, "It becomes you well indeed,
      Senor Don Luis, to be in the dress you wear, and well the bed in which I
      find you agrees with the luxury in which your mother reared you."
    </p>
    <p>
      The youth rubbed his sleepy eyes and stared for a while at him who held
      him, but presently recognised him as one of his father's servants, at
      which he was so taken aback that for some time he could not find or utter
      a word; while the servant went on to say, "There is nothing for it now,
      Senor Don Luis, but to submit quietly and return home, unless it is your
      wish that my lord, your father, should take his departure for the other
      world, for nothing else can be the consequence of the grief he is in at
      your absence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But how did my father know that I had gone this road and in this dress?"
      said Don Luis.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was a student to whom you confided your intentions," answered the
      servant, "that disclosed them, touched with pity at the distress he saw
      your father suffer on missing you; he therefore despatched four of his
      servants in quest of you, and here we all are at your service, better
      pleased than you can imagine that we shall return so soon and be able to
      restore you to those eyes that so yearn for you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That shall be as I please, or as heaven orders," returned Don Luis.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What can you please or heaven order," said the other, "except to agree to
      go back? Anything else is impossible."
    </p>
    <p>
      All this conversation between the two was overheard by the muleteer at
      whose side Don Luis lay, and rising, he went to report what had taken
      place to Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the others, who had by this time
      dressed themselves; and told them how the man had addressed the youth as
      "Don," and what words had passed, and how he wanted him to return to his
      father, which the youth was unwilling to do. With this, and what they
      already knew of the rare voice that heaven had bestowed upon him, they all
      felt very anxious to know more particularly who he was, and even to help
      him if it was attempted to employ force against him; so they hastened to
      where he was still talking and arguing with his servant. Dorothea at this
      instant came out of her room, followed by Dona Clara all in a tremor; and
      calling Cardenio aside, she told him in a few words the story of the
      musician and Dona Clara, and he at the same time told her what had
      happened, how his father's servants had come in search of him; but in
      telling her so, he did not speak low enough but that Dona Clara heard what
      he said, at which she was so much agitated that had not Dorothea hastened
      to support her she would have fallen to the ground. Cardenio then bade
      Dorothea return to her room, as he would endeavour to make the whole
      matter right, and they did as he desired. All the four who had come in
      quest of Don Luis had now come into the inn and surrounded him, urging him
      to return and console his father at once and without a moment's delay. He
      replied that he could not do so on any account until he had concluded some
      business in which his life, honour, and heart were at stake. The servants
      pressed him, saying that most certainly they would not return without him,
      and that they would take him away whether he liked it or not.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You shall not do that," replied Don Luis, "unless you take me dead;
      though however you take me, it will be without life."
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time most of those in the inn had been attracted by the dispute,
      but particularly Cardenio, Don Fernando, his companions, the Judge, the
      curate, the barber, and Don Quixote; for he now considered there was no
      necessity for mounting guard over the castle any longer. Cardenio being
      already acquainted with the young man's story, asked the men who wanted to
      take him away, what object they had in seeking to carry off this youth
      against his will.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Our object," said one of the four, "is to save the life of his father,
      who is in danger of losing it through this gentleman's disappearance."
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon this Don Luis exclaimed, "There is no need to make my affairs public
      here; I am free, and I will return if I please; and if not, none of you
      shall compel me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Reason will compel your worship," said the man, "and if it has no power
      over you, it has power over us, to make us do what we came for, and what
      it is our duty to do."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let us hear what the whole affair is about," said the Judge at this; but
      the man, who knew him as a neighbour of theirs, replied, "Do you not know
      this gentleman, Senor Judge? He is the son of your neighbour, who has run
      away from his father's house in a dress so unbecoming his rank, as your
      worship may perceive."
    </p>
    <p>
      The judge on this looked at him more carefully and recognised him, and
      embracing him said, "What folly is this, Senor Don Luis, or what can have
      been the cause that could have induced you to come here in this way, and
      in this dress, which so ill becomes your condition?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Tears came into the eyes of the young man, and he was unable to utter a
      word in reply to the Judge, who told the four servants not to be uneasy,
      for all would be satisfactorily settled; and then taking Don Luis by the
      hand, he drew him aside and asked the reason of his having come there.
    </p>
    <p>
      But while he was questioning him they heard a loud outcry at the gate of
      the inn, the cause of which was that two of the guests who had passed the
      night there, seeing everybody busy about finding out what it was the four
      men wanted, had conceived the idea of going off without paying what they
      owed; but the landlord, who minded his own affairs more than other
      people's, caught them going out of the gate and demanded his reckoning,
      abusing them for their dishonesty with such language that he drove them to
      reply with their fists, and so they began to lay on him in such a style
      that the poor man was forced to cry out, and call for help. The landlady
      and her daughter could see no one more free to give aid than Don Quixote,
      and to him the daughter said, "Sir knight, by the virtue God has given
      you, help my poor father, for two wicked men are beating him to a mummy."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Don Quixote very deliberately and phlegmatically replied, "Fair
      damsel, at the present moment your request is inopportune, for I am
      debarred from involving myself in any adventure until I have brought to a
      happy conclusion one to which my word has pledged me; but that which I can
      do for you is what I will now mention: run and tell your father to stand
      his ground as well as he can in this battle, and on no account to allow
      himself to be vanquished, while I go and request permission of the
      Princess Micomicona to enable me to succour him in his distress; and if
      she grants it, rest assured I will relieve him from it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sinner that I am," exclaimed Maritornes, who stood by; "before you have
      got your permission my master will be in the other world."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Give me leave, senora, to obtain the permission I speak of," returned Don
      Quixote; "and if I get it, it will matter very little if he is in the
      other world; for I will rescue him thence in spite of all the same world
      can do; or at any rate I will give you such a revenge over those who shall
      have sent him there that you will be more than moderately satisfied;" and
      without saying anything more he went and knelt before Dorothea, requesting
      her Highness in knightly and errant phrase to be pleased to grant him
      permission to aid and succour the castellan of that castle, who now stood
      in grievous jeopardy. The princess granted it graciously, and he at once,
      bracing his buckler on his arm and drawing his sword, hastened to the
      inn-gate, where the two guests were still handling the landlord roughly;
      but as soon as he reached the spot he stopped short and stood still,
      though Maritornes and the landlady asked him why he hesitated to help
      their master and husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I hesitate," said Don Quixote, "because it is not lawful for me to draw
      sword against persons of squirely condition; but call my squire Sancho to
      me; for this defence and vengeance are his affair and business."
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus matters stood at the inn-gate, where there was a very lively exchange
      of fisticuffs and punches, to the sore damage of the landlord and to the
      wrath of Maritornes, the landlady, and her daughter, who were furious when
      they saw the pusillanimity of Don Quixote, and the hard treatment their
      master, husband and father was undergoing. But let us leave him there; for
      he will surely find some one to help him, and if not, let him suffer and
      hold his tongue who attempts more than his strength allows him to do; and
      let us go back fifty paces to see what Don Luis said in reply to the Judge
      whom we left questioning him privately as to his reasons for coming on
      foot and so meanly dressed.
    </p>
    <p>
      To which the youth, pressing his hand in a way that showed his heart was
      troubled by some great sorrow, and shedding a flood of tears, made answer:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor, I have no more to tell you than that from the moment when, through
      heaven's will and our being near neighbours, I first saw Dona Clara, your
      daughter and my lady, from that instant I made her the mistress of my
      will, and if yours, my true lord and father, offers no impediment, this
      very day she shall become my wife. For her I left my father's house, and
      for her I assumed this disguise, to follow her whithersoever she may go,
      as the arrow seeks its mark or the sailor the pole-star. She knows nothing
      more of my passion than what she may have learned from having sometimes
      seen from a distance that my eyes were filled with tears. You know
      already, senor, the wealth and noble birth of my parents, and that I am
      their sole heir; if this be a sufficient inducement for you to venture to
      make me completely happy, accept me at once as your son; for if my father,
      influenced by other objects of his own, should disapprove of this
      happiness I have sought for myself, time has more power to alter and
      change things, than human will."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this the love-smitten youth was silent, while the Judge, after
      hearing him, was astonished, perplexed, and surprised, as well at the
      manner and intelligence with which Don Luis had confessed the secret of
      his heart, as at the position in which he found himself, not knowing what
      course to take in a matter so sudden and unexpected. All the answer,
      therefore, he gave him was to bid him to make his mind easy for the
      present, and arrange with his servants not to take him back that day, so
      that there might be time to consider what was best for all parties. Don
      Luis kissed his hands by force, nay, bathed them with his tears, in a way
      that would have touched a heart of marble, not to say that of the Judge,
      who, as a shrewd man, had already perceived how advantageous the marriage
      would be to his daughter; though, were it possible, he would have
      preferred that it should be brought about with the consent of the father
      of Don Luis, who he knew looked for a title for his son.
    </p>
    <p>
      The guests had by this time made peace with the landlord, for, by
      persuasion and Don Quixote's fair words more than by threats, they had
      paid him what he demanded, and the servants of Don Luis were waiting for
      the end of the conversation with the Judge and their master's decision,
      when the devil, who never sleeps, contrived that the barber, from whom Don
      Quixote had taken Mambrino's helmet, and Sancho Panza the trappings of his
      ass in exchange for those of his own, should at this instant enter the
      inn; which said barber, as he led his ass to the stable, observed Sancho
      Panza engaged in repairing something or other belonging to the
      pack-saddle; and the moment he saw it he knew it, and made bold to attack
      Sancho, exclaiming, "Ho, sir thief, I have caught you! hand over my basin
      and my pack-saddle, and all my trappings that you robbed me of."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho, finding himself so unexpectedly assailed, and hearing the abuse
      poured upon him, seized the pack-saddle with one hand, and with the other
      gave the barber a cuff that bathed his teeth in blood. The barber,
      however, was not so ready to relinquish the prize he had made in the
      pack-saddle; on the contrary, he raised such an outcry that everyone in
      the inn came running to know what the noise and quarrel meant. "Here, in
      the name of the king and justice!" he cried, "this thief and highwayman
      wants to kill me for trying to recover my property."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You lie," said Sancho, "I am no highwayman; it was in fair war my master
      Don Quixote won these spoils."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote was standing by at the time, highly pleased to see his
      squire's stoutness, both offensive and defensive, and from that time forth
      he reckoned him a man of mettle, and in his heart resolved to dub him a
      knight on the first opportunity that presented itself, feeling sure that
      the order of chivalry would be fittingly bestowed upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the course of the altercation, among other things the barber said,
      "Gentlemen, this pack-saddle is mine as surely as I owe God a death, and I
      know it as well as if I had given birth to it, and here is my ass in the
      stable who will not let me lie; only try it, and if it does not fit him
      like a glove, call me a rascal; and what is more, the same day I was
      robbed of this, they robbed me likewise of a new brass basin, never yet
      handselled, that would fetch a crown any day."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this Don Quixote could not keep himself from answering; and interposing
      between the two, and separating them, he placed the pack-saddle on the
      ground, to lie there in sight until the truth was established, and said,
      "Your worships may perceive clearly and plainly the error under which this
      worthy squire lies when he calls a basin which was, is, and shall be the
      helmet of Mambrino which I won from him in fair war, and made myself master
      of by legitimate and lawful possession. With the pack-saddle I do not
      concern myself; but I may tell you on that head that my squire Sancho
      asked my permission to strip off the caparison of this vanquished
      poltroon's steed, and with it adorn his own; I allowed him, and he took
      it; and as to its having been changed from a caparison into a pack-saddle,
      I can give no explanation except the usual one, that such transformations
      will take place in adventures of chivalry. To confirm all which, run,
      Sancho my son, and fetch hither the helmet which this good fellow calls a
      basin."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Egad, master," said Sancho, "if we have no other proof of our case than
      what your worship puts forward, Mambrino's helmet is just as much a basin
      as this good fellow's caparison is a pack-saddle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do as I bid thee," said Don Quixote; "it cannot be that everything in
      this castle goes by enchantment."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho hastened to where the basin was, and brought it back with him, and
      when Don Quixote saw it, he took hold of it and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your worships may see with what a face this squire can assert that this
      is a basin and not the helmet I told you of; and I swear by the order of
      chivalry I profess, that this helmet is the identical one I took from him,
      without anything added to or taken from it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no doubt of that," said Sancho, "for from the time my master won
      it until now he has only fought one battle in it, when he let loose those
      unlucky men in chains; and if had not been for this basin-helmet he would
      not have come off over well that time, for there was plenty of
      stone-throwing in that affair."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c44e" id="c44e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c44e.jpg (13K)" src="images/c44e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch45" id="ch45"></a>CHAPTER XLV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH THE DOUBTFUL QUESTION OF MAMBRINO'S HELMET AND THE PACK-SADDLE IS
      FINALLY SETTLED, WITH OTHER ADVENTURES THAT OCCURRED IN TRUTH AND EARNEST
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c45a" id="c45a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c45a.jpg (154K)" src="images/c45a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c45a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "What do you think now, gentlemen," said the barber, "of what these
      gentles say, when they want to make out that this is a helmet?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And whoever says the contrary," said Don Quixote, "I will let him know he
      lies if he is a knight, and if he is a squire that he lies again a
      thousand times."
    </p>
    <p>
      Our own barber, who was present at all this, and understood Don Quixote's
      humour so thoroughly, took it into his head to back up his delusion and
      carry on the joke for the general amusement; so addressing the other
      barber he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor barber, or whatever you are, you must know that I belong to your
      profession too, and have had a licence to practise for more than twenty
      years, and I know the implements of the barber craft, every one of them,
      perfectly well; and I was likewise a soldier for some time in the days of
      my youth, and I know also what a helmet is, and a morion, and a headpiece
      with a visor, and other things pertaining to soldiering, I meant to say to
      soldiers' arms; and I say&mdash;saving better opinions and always with
      submission to sounder judgments&mdash;that this piece we have now before
      us, which this worthy gentleman has in his hands, not only is no barber's
      basin, but is as far from being one as white is from black, and truth from
      falsehood; I say, moreover, that this, although it is a helmet, is not a
      complete helmet."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Certainly not," said Don Quixote, "for half of it is wanting, that is to
      say the beaver."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is quite true," said the curate, who saw the object of his friend the
      barber; and Cardenio, Don Fernando and his companions agreed with him, and
      even the Judge, if his thoughts had not been so full of Don Luis's affair,
      would have helped to carry on the joke; but he was so taken up with the
      serious matters he had on his mind that he paid little or no attention to
      these facetious proceedings.
    </p>
    <p>
      "God bless me!" exclaimed their butt the barber at this; "is it possible
      that such an honourable company can say that this is not a basin but a
      helmet? Why, this is a thing that would astonish a whole university,
      however wise it might be! That will do; if this basin is a helmet, why,
      then the pack-saddle must be a horse's caparison, as this gentleman has
      said."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To me it looks like a pack-saddle," said Don Quixote; "but I have already
      said that with that question I do not concern myself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As to whether it be pack-saddle or caparison," said the curate, "it is
      only for Senor Don Quixote to say; for in these matters of chivalry all
      these gentlemen and I bow to his authority."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By God, gentlemen," said Don Quixote, "so many strange things have
      happened to me in this castle on the two occasions on which I have
      sojourned in it, that I will not venture to assert anything positively in
      reply to any question touching anything it contains; for it is my belief
      that everything that goes on within it goes by enchantment. The first
      time, an enchanted Moor that there is in it gave me sore trouble, nor did
      Sancho fare well among certain followers of his; and last night I was kept
      hanging by this arm for nearly two hours, without knowing how or why I
      came by such a mishap. So that now, for me to come forward to give an
      opinion in such a puzzling matter, would be to risk a rash decision. As
      regards the assertion that this is a basin and not a helmet I have already
      given an answer; but as to the question whether this is a pack-saddle or a
      caparison I will not venture to give a positive opinion, but will leave it
      to your worships' better judgment. Perhaps as you are not dubbed knights
      like myself, the enchantments of this place have nothing to do with you,
      and your faculties are unfettered, and you can see things in this castle
      as they really and truly are, and not as they appear to me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There can be no question," said Don Fernando on this, "but that Senor Don
      Quixote has spoken very wisely, and that with us rests the decision of
      this matter; and that we may have surer ground to go on, I will take the
      votes of the gentlemen in secret, and declare the result clearly and
      fully."
    </p>
    <p>
      To those who were in on the secret of Don Quixote's humour all this afforded
      great amusement; but to those who knew nothing about it, it seemed the
      greatest nonsense in the world, in particular to the four servants of Don
      Luis, as well as to Don Luis himself, and to three other travellers who
      had by chance come to the inn, and had the appearance of officers of the
      Holy Brotherhood, as indeed they were; but the one who above all was at
      his wits' end was the barber whose basin, there before his very eyes, had been
      turned into Mambrino's helmet, and whose pack-saddle he had no doubt
      whatever was about to become a rich caparison for a horse. All laughed to
      see Don Fernando going from one to another collecting the votes, and
      whispering to them to give him their private opinion whether the treasure
      over which there had been so much fighting was a pack-saddle or a
      caparison; but after he had taken the votes of those who knew Don Quixote,
      he said aloud, "The fact is, my good fellow, that I am tired collecting
      such a number of opinions, for I find that there is not one of whom I ask
      what I desire to know, who does not tell me that it is absurd to say that
      this is the pack-saddle of an ass, and not the caparison of a horse, nay,
      of a thoroughbred horse; so you must submit, for, in spite of you and your
      ass, this is a caparison and no pack-saddle, and you have stated and
      proved your case very badly."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May I never share heaven," said the poor barber, "if your worships are
      not all mistaken; and may my soul appear before God as that appears to me
      a pack-saddle and not a caparison; but, 'laws go,'&mdash;I say no more;
      and indeed I am not drunk, for I am fasting, except it be from sin."
    </p>
    <p>
      The simple talk of the barber did not afford less amusement than the
      absurdities of Don Quixote, who now observed:
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no more to be done now than for each to take what belongs to
      him, and to whom God has given it, may St. Peter add his blessing."
    </p>
    <p>
      But said one of the four servants, "Unless, indeed, this is a deliberate
      joke, I cannot bring myself to believe that men so intelligent as those
      present are, or seem to be, can venture to declare and assert that this is
      not a basin, and that not a pack-saddle; but as I perceive that they do
      assert and declare it, I can only come to the conclusion that there is
      some mystery in this persistence in what is so opposed to the evidence of
      experience and truth itself; for I swear by"&mdash;and here he rapped out
      a round oath&mdash;"all the people in the world will not make me believe
      that this is not a barber's basin and that a jackass's pack-saddle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It might easily be a she-ass's," observed the curate.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is all the same," said the servant; "that is not the point; but
      whether it is or is not a pack-saddle, as your worships say."
    </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this one of the newly arrived officers of the Brotherhood, who
      had been listening to the dispute and controversy, unable to restrain his
      anger and impatience, exclaimed, "It is a pack-saddle as sure as my father
      is my father, and whoever has said or will say anything else must be
      drunk."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You lie like a rascally clown," returned Don Quixote; and lifting his
      pike, which he had never let out of his hand, he delivered such a blow at
      his head that, had not the officer dodged it, it would have stretched him
      at full length. The pike was shivered in pieces against the ground, and
      the rest of the officers, seeing their comrade assaulted, raised a shout,
      calling for help for the Holy Brotherhood. The landlord, who was of the
      fraternity, ran at once to fetch his staff of office and his sword, and
      ranged himself on the side of his comrades; the servants of Don Luis
      clustered round him, lest he should escape from them in the confusion; the
      barber, seeing the house turned upside down, once more laid hold of his
      pack-saddle and Sancho did the same; Don Quixote drew his sword and
      charged the officers; Don Luis cried out to his servants to leave him
      alone and go and help Don Quixote, and Cardenio and Don Fernando, who were
      supporting him; the curate was shouting at the top of his voice, the
      landlady was screaming, her daughter was wailing, Maritornes was weeping,
      Dorothea was aghast, Luscinda terror-stricken, and Dona Clara in a faint.
      The barber cudgelled Sancho, and Sancho pommelled the barber; Don Luis
      gave one of his servants, who ventured to catch him by the arm to keep him
      from escaping, a cuff that bathed his teeth in blood; the Judge took his
      part; Don Fernando had got one of the officers down and was belabouring
      him heartily; the landlord raised his voice again calling for help for the
      Holy Brotherhood; so that the whole inn was nothing but cries, shouts,
      shrieks, confusion, terror, dismay, mishaps, sword-cuts, fisticuffs,
      cudgellings, kicks, and bloodshed; and in the midst of all this chaos,
      complication, and general entanglement, Don Quixote took it into his head
      that he had been plunged into the thick of the discord of Agramante's
      camp; and, in a voice that shook the inn like thunder, he cried out:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hold all, let all sheathe their swords, let all be calm and attend to me
      as they value their lives!"
    </p>
    <p>
      All paused at his mighty voice, and he went on to say, "Did I not tell
      you, sirs, that this castle was enchanted, and that a legion or so of
      devils dwelt in it? In proof whereof I call upon you to behold with your
      own eyes how the discord of Agramante's camp has come hither, and been
      transferred into the midst of us. See how they fight, there for the sword,
      here for the horse, on that side for the eagle, on this for the helmet; we
      are all fighting, and all at cross purposes. Come then, you, Senor Judge,
      and you, senor curate; let the one represent King Agramante and the other
      King Sobrino, and make peace among us; for by God Almighty it is a sorry
      business that so many persons of quality as we are should slay one another
      for such trifling cause." The officers, who did not understand Don
      Quixote's mode of speaking, and found themselves roughly handled by Don
      Fernando, Cardenio, and their companions, were not to be appeased; the
      barber was, however, for both his beard and his pack-saddle were the worse
      for the struggle; Sancho like a good servant obeyed the slightest word of
      his master; while the four servants of Don Luis kept quiet when they saw
      how little they gained by not being so. The landlord alone insisted upon
      it that they must punish the insolence of this madman, who at every turn
      raised a disturbance in the inn; but at length the uproar was stilled for
      the present; the pack-saddle remained a caparison till the day of
      judgment, and the basin a helmet and the inn a castle in Don Quixote's
      imagination.
    </p>
    <p>
      All having been now pacified and made friends by the persuasion of the
      Judge and the curate, the servants of Don Luis began again to urge him to
      return with them at once; and while he was discussing the matter with
      them, the Judge took counsel with Don Fernando, Cardenio, and the curate
      as to what he ought to do in the case, telling them how it stood, and what
      Don Luis had said to him. It was agreed at length that Don Fernando should
      tell the servants of Don Luis who he was, and that it was his desire that
      Don Luis should accompany him to Andalusia, where he would receive from
      the marquis his brother the welcome his quality entitled him to; for,
      otherwise, it was easy to see from the determination of Don Luis that he
      would not return to his father at present, though they tore him to pieces.
      On learning the rank of Don Fernando and the resolution of Don Luis the
      four then settled it between themselves that three of them should return
      to tell his father how matters stood, and that the other should remain to
      wait upon Don Luis, and not leave him until they came back for him, or his
      father's orders were known. Thus by the authority of Agramante and the
      wisdom of King Sobrino all this complication of disputes was arranged; but
      the enemy of concord and hater of peace, feeling himself slighted and made
      a fool of, and seeing how little he had gained after having involved them
      all in such an elaborate entanglement, resolved to try his hand once more
      by stirring up fresh quarrels and disturbances.
    </p>
    <p>
      It came about in this wise: the officers were pacified on learning the
      rank of those with whom they had been engaged, and withdrew from the
      contest, considering that whatever the result might be they were likely to
      get the worst of the battle; but one of them, the one who had been
      thrashed and kicked by Don Fernando, recollected that among some warrants
      he carried for the arrest of certain delinquents, he had one against Don
      Quixote, whom the Holy Brotherhood had ordered to be arrested for setting
      the galley slaves free, as Sancho had, with very good reason, apprehended.
      Suspecting how it was, then, he wished to satisfy himself as to whether
      Don Quixote's features corresponded; and taking a parchment out of his
      bosom he lit upon what he was in search of, and setting himself to read it
      deliberately, for he was not a quick reader, as he made out each word he
      fixed his eyes on Don Quixote, and went on comparing the description in
      the warrant with his face, and discovered that beyond all doubt he was the
      person described in it. As soon as he had satisfied himself, folding up
      the parchment, he took the warrant in his left hand and with his right
      seized Don Quixote by the collar so tightly that he did not allow him to
      breathe, and shouted aloud, "Help for the Holy Brotherhood! and that you
      may see I demand it in earnest, read this warrant which says this
      highwayman is to be arrested."
    </p>
    <p>
      The curate took the warrant and saw that what the officer said was true,
      and that it agreed with Don Quixote's appearance, who, on his part, when
      he found himself roughly handled by this rascally clown, worked up to the
      highest pitch of wrath, and all his joints cracking with rage, with both
      hands seized the officer by the throat with all his might, so that had he
      not been helped by his comrades he would have yielded up his life ere Don
      Quixote released his hold. The landlord, who had perforce to support his
      brother officers, ran at once to aid them. The landlady, when she saw her
      husband engaged in a fresh quarrel, lifted up her voice afresh, and its
      note was immediately caught up by Maritornes and her daughter, calling
      upon heaven and all present for help; and Sancho, seeing what was going
      on, exclaimed, "By the Lord, it is quite true what my master says about
      the enchantments of this castle, for it is impossible to live an hour in
      peace in it!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Fernando parted the officer and Don Quixote, and to their mutual
      contentment made them relax the grip by which they held, the one the coat
      collar, the other the throat of his adversary; for all this, however, the
      officers did not cease to demand their prisoner and call on them to help,
      and deliver him over bound into their power, as was required for the
      service of the King and of the Holy Brotherhood, on whose behalf they
      again demanded aid and assistance to effect the capture of this robber and
      footpad of the highways.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote smiled when he heard these words, and said very calmly, "Come
      now, base, ill-born brood; call ye it highway robbery to give freedom to
      those in bondage, to release the captives, to succour the miserable, to
      raise up the fallen, to relieve the needy? Infamous beings, who by your
      vile grovelling intellects deserve that heaven should not make known to
      you the virtue that lies in knight-errantry, or show you the sin and
      ignorance in which ye lie when ye refuse to respect the shadow, not to say
      the presence, of any knight-errant! Come now; band, not of officers, but
      of thieves; footpads with the licence of the Holy Brotherhood; tell me who
      was the ignoramus who signed a warrant of arrest against such a knight as
      I am? Who was he that did not know that knights-errant are independent of
      all jurisdictions, that their law is their sword, their charter their
      prowess, and their edicts their will? Who, I say again, was the fool that
      knows not that there are no letters patent of nobility that confer such
      privileges or exemptions as a knight-errant acquires the day he is dubbed
      a knight, and devotes himself to the arduous calling of chivalry? What
      knight-errant ever paid poll-tax, duty, queen's pin-money, king's dues,
      toll or ferry? What tailor ever took payment of him for making his
      clothes? What castellan that received him in his castle ever made him pay
      his shot? What king did not seat him at his table? What damsel was not
      enamoured of him and did not yield herself up wholly to his will and
      pleasure? And, lastly, what knight-errant has there been, is there, or
      will there ever be in the world, not bold enough to give, single-handed,
      four hundred cudgellings to four hundred officers of the Holy Brotherhood
      if they come in his way?"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch46" id="ch46"></a>CHAPTER XLVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE END OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE OFFICERS OF THE HOLY
      BROTHERHOOD; AND OF THE GREAT FEROCITY OF OUR WORTHY KNIGHT, DON QUIXOTE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c46a" id="c46a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c46a.jpg (163K)" src="images/c46a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c46a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      While Don Quixote was talking in this strain, the curate was endeavouring
      to persuade the officers that he was out of his senses, as they might
      perceive by his deeds and his words, and that they need not press the
      matter any further, for even if they arrested him and carried him off,
      they would have to release him by-and-by as a madman; to which the holder
      of the warrant replied that he had nothing to do with inquiring into Don
      Quixote's madness, but only to execute his superior's orders, and that
      once taken they might let him go three hundred times if they liked.
    </p>
    <p>
      "For all that," said the curate, "you must not take him away this time,
      nor will he, it is my opinion, let himself be taken away."
    </p>
    <p>
      In short, the curate used such arguments, and Don Quixote did such mad
      things, that the officers would have been more mad than he was if they had
      not perceived his want of wits, and so they thought it best to allow
      themselves to be pacified, and even to act as peacemakers between the
      barber and Sancho Panza, who still continued their altercation with much
      bitterness. In the end they, as officers of justice, settled the question
      by arbitration in such a manner that both sides were, if not perfectly
      contented, at least to some extent satisfied; for they changed the
      pack-saddles, but not the girths or head-stalls; and as to Mambrino's
      helmet, the curate, under the rose and without Don Quixote's knowing it,
      paid eight reals for the basin, and the barber executed a full receipt and
      engagement to make no further demand then or thenceforth for evermore,
      amen. These two disputes, which were the most important and gravest, being
      settled, it only remained for the servants of Don Luis to consent that
      three of them should return while one was left to accompany him whither
      Don Fernando desired to take him; and good luck and better fortune, having
      already begun to solve difficulties and remove obstructions in favour of
      the lovers and warriors of the inn, were pleased to persevere and bring
      everything to a happy issue; for the servants agreed to do as Don Luis
      wished; which gave Dona Clara such happiness that no one could have looked
      into her face just then without seeing the joy of her heart. Zoraida,
      though she did not fully comprehend all she saw, was grave or gay without
      knowing why, as she watched and studied the various countenances, but
      particularly her Spaniard's, whom she followed with her eyes and clung to
      with her soul. The gift and compensation which the curate gave the barber
      had not escaped the landlord's notice, and he demanded Don Quixote's
      reckoning, together with the amount of the damage to his wine-skins, and
      the loss of his wine, swearing that neither Rocinante nor Sancho's ass
      should leave the inn until he had been paid to the very last farthing. The
      curate settled all amicably, and Don Fernando paid; though the Judge had
      also very readily offered to pay the score; and all became so peaceful and
      quiet that the inn no longer reminded one of the discord of Agramante's
      camp, as Don Quixote said, but of the peace and tranquillity of the days
      of Octavianus: for all which it was the universal opinion that their
      thanks were due to the great zeal and eloquence of the curate, and to the
      unexampled generosity of Don Fernando.
    </p>
    <p>
      Finding himself now clear and quit of all quarrels, his squire's as well
      as his own, Don Quixote considered that it would be advisable to continue
      the journey he had begun, and bring to a close that great adventure for
      which he had been called and chosen; and with this high resolve he went
      and knelt before Dorothea, who, however, would not allow him to utter a
      word until he had risen; so to obey her he rose, and said, "It is a common
      proverb, fair lady, that 'diligence is the mother of good fortune,' and
      experience has often shown in important affairs that the earnestness of
      the negotiator brings the doubtful case to a successful termination; but
      in nothing does this truth show itself more plainly than in war, where
      quickness and activity forestall the devices of the enemy, and win the
      victory before the foe has time to defend himself. All this I say, exalted
      and esteemed lady, because it seems to me that for us to remain any longer
      in this castle now is useless, and may be injurious to us in a way that we
      shall find out some day; for who knows but that your enemy the giant may
      have learned by means of secret and diligent spies that I am going to
      destroy him, and if the opportunity be given him he may seize it to
      fortify himself in some impregnable castle or stronghold, against which
      all my efforts and the might of my indefatigable arm may avail but little?
      Therefore, lady, let us, as I say, forestall his schemes by our activity,
      and let us depart at once in quest of fair fortune; for your highness is
      only kept from enjoying it as fully as you could desire by my delay in
      encountering your adversary."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote held his peace and said no more, calmly awaiting the reply of
      the beauteous princess, who, with commanding dignity and in a style
      adapted to Don Quixote's own, replied to him in these words, "I give you
      thanks, sir knight, for the eagerness you, like a good knight to whom it
      is a natural obligation to succour the orphan and the needy, display to
      afford me aid in my sore trouble; and heaven grant that your wishes and
      mine may be realised, so that you may see that there are women in this
      world capable of gratitude; as to my departure, let it be forthwith, for I
      have no will but yours; dispose of me entirely in accordance with your
      good pleasure; for she who has once entrusted to you the defence of her
      person, and placed in your hands the recovery of her dominions, must not
      think of offering opposition to that which your wisdom may ordain."
    </p>
    <p>
      "On, then, in God's name," said Don Quixote; "for, when a lady humbles
      herself to me, I will not lose the opportunity of raising her up and
      placing her on the throne of her ancestors. Let us depart at once, for the
      common saying that in delay there is danger, lends spurs to my eagerness
      to take the road; and as neither heaven has created nor hell seen any that
      can daunt or intimidate me, saddle Rocinante, Sancho, and get ready thy
      ass and the queen's palfrey, and let us take leave of the castellan and
      these gentlemen, and go hence this very instant."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho, who was standing by all the time, said, shaking his head, "Ah!
      master, master, there is more mischief in the village than one hears of,
      begging all good bodies' pardon."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What mischief can there be in any village, or in all the cities of the
      world, you booby, that can hurt my reputation?" said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "If your worship is angry," replied Sancho, "I will hold my tongue and
      leave unsaid what as a good squire I am bound to say, and what a good
      servant should tell his master."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Say what thou wilt," returned Don Quixote, "provided thy words be not
      meant to work upon my fears; for thou, if thou fearest, art behaving like
      thyself; but I like myself, in not fearing."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is nothing of the sort, as I am a sinner before God," said Sancho,
      "but that I take it to be sure and certain that this lady, who calls
      herself queen of the great kingdom of Micomicon, is no more so than my
      mother; for, if she was what she says, she would not go rubbing noses with
      one that is here every instant and behind every door."
    </p>
    <p>
      Dorothea turned red at Sancho's words, for the truth was that her husband
      Don Fernando had now and then, when the others were not looking, gathered
      from her lips some of the reward his love had earned, and Sancho seeing
      this had considered that such freedom was more like a courtesan than a
      queen of a great kingdom; she, however, being unable or not caring to
      answer him, allowed him to proceed, and he continued, "This I say, senor,
      because, if after we have travelled roads and highways, and passed bad
      nights and worse days, one who is now enjoying himself in this inn is to
      reap the fruit of our labours, there is no need for me to be in a hurry to
      saddle Rocinante, put the pad on the ass, or get ready the palfrey; for it
      will be better for us to stay quiet, and let every jade mind her spinning,
      and let us go to dinner."
    </p>
    <p>
      Good God, what was the indignation of Don Quixote when he heard the
      audacious words of his squire! So great was it, that in a voice
      inarticulate with rage, with a stammering tongue, and eyes that flashed
      living fire, he exclaimed, "Rascally clown, boorish, insolent, and
      ignorant, ill-spoken, foul-mouthed, impudent backbiter and slanderer! Hast
      thou dared to utter such words in my presence and in that of these
      illustrious ladies? Hast thou dared to harbour such gross and shameless
      thoughts in thy muddled imagination? Begone from my presence, thou born
      monster, storehouse of lies, hoard of untruths, garner of knaveries,
      inventor of scandals, publisher of absurdities, enemy of the respect due
      to royal personages! Begone, show thyself no more before me under pain of
      my wrath;" and so saying he knitted his brows, puffed out his cheeks,
      gazed around him, and stamped on the ground violently with his right foot,
      showing in every way the rage that was pent up in his heart; and at his
      words and furious gestures Sancho was so scared and terrified that he
      would have been glad if the earth had opened that instant and swallowed
      him, and his only thought was to turn round and make his escape from the
      angry presence of his master.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the ready-witted Dorothea, who by this time so well understood Don
      Quixote's humour, said, to mollify his wrath, "Be not irritated at the
      absurdities your good squire has uttered, Sir Knight of the Rueful
      Countenance, for perhaps he did not utter them without cause, and from his
      good sense and Christian conscience it is not likely that he would bear
      false witness against anyone. We may therefore believe, without any
      hesitation, that since, as you say, sir knight, everything in this castle
      goes and is brought about by means of enchantment, Sancho, I say, may
      possibly have seen, through this diabolical medium, what he says he saw so
      much to the detriment of my modesty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I swear by God Omnipotent," exclaimed Don Quixote at this, "your highness
      has hit the point; and that some vile illusion must have come before this
      sinner of a Sancho, that made him see what it would have been impossible
      to see by any other means than enchantments; for I know well enough, from
      the poor fellow's goodness and harmlessness, that he is incapable of
      bearing false witness against anybody."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True, no doubt," said Don Fernando, "for which reason, Senor Don Quixote,
      you ought to forgive him and restore him to the bosom of your favour,
      sicut erat in principio, before illusions of this sort had taken away his
      senses."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote said he was ready to pardon him, and the curate went for
      Sancho, who came in very humbly, and falling on his knees begged for the
      hand of his master, who having presented it to him and allowed him to kiss
      it, gave him his blessing and said, "Now, Sancho my son, thou wilt be
      convinced of the truth of what I have many a time told thee, that
      everything in this castle is done by means of enchantment."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So it is, I believe," said Sancho, "except the affair of the blanket,
      which came to pass in reality by ordinary means."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Believe it not," said Don Quixote, "for had it been so, I would have
      avenged thee that instant, or even now; but neither then nor now could I,
      nor have I seen anyone upon whom to avenge thy wrong."
    </p>
    <p>
      They were all eager to know what the affair of the blanket was, and the
      landlord gave them a minute account of Sancho's flights, at which they
      laughed not a little, and at which Sancho would have been no less out of
      countenance had not his master once more assured him it was all
      enchantment. For all that his simplicity never reached so high a pitch
      that he could persuade himself it was not the plain and simple truth,
      without any deception whatever about it, that he had been blanketed by
      beings of flesh and blood, and not by visionary and imaginary phantoms, as
      his master believed and protested.
    </p>
    <p>
      The illustrious company had now been two days in the inn; and as it seemed
      to them time to depart, they devised a plan so that, without giving
      Dorothea and Don Fernando the trouble of going back with Don Quixote to
      his village under pretence of restoring Queen Micomicona, the curate and
      the barber might carry him away with them as they proposed, and the curate
      be able to take his madness in hand at home; and in pursuance of their
      plan they arranged with the owner of an oxcart who happened to be passing
      that way to carry him after this fashion. They constructed a kind of cage
      with wooden bars, large enough to hold Don Quixote comfortably; and then
      Don Fernando and his companions, the servants of Don Luis, and the
      officers of the Brotherhood, together with the landlord, by the directions
      and advice of the curate, covered their faces and disguised themselves,
      some in one way, some in another, so as to appear to Don Quixote quite
      different from the persons he had seen in the castle. This done, in
      profound silence they entered the room where he was asleep, taking his
      rest after the past frays, and advancing to where he was sleeping
      tranquilly, not dreaming of anything of the kind happening, they seized
      him firmly and bound him fast hand and foot, so that, when he awoke
      startled, he was unable to move, and could only marvel and wonder at the
      strange figures he saw before him; upon which he at once gave way to the
      idea which his crazed fancy invariably conjured up before him, and took it
      into his head that all these shapes were phantoms of the enchanted castle,
      and that he himself was unquestionably enchanted as he could neither move
      nor help himself; precisely what the curate, the concoctor of the scheme,
      expected would happen. Of all that were there Sancho was the only one who
      was at once in his senses and in his own proper character, and he, though
      he was within very little of sharing his master's infirmity, did not fail
      to perceive who all these disguised figures were; but he did not dare to
      open his lips until he saw what came of this assault and capture of his
      master; nor did the latter utter a word, waiting to the upshot of his
      mishap; which was that bringing in the cage, they shut him up in it and
      nailed the bars so firmly that they could not be easily burst open.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c46b" id="c46b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c46b.jpg (342K)" src="images/c46b.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <a href="images/c46b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      They then took him on their shoulders, and as they passed out of the room
      an awful voice&mdash;as much so as the barber, not he of the pack-saddle
      but the other, was able to make it&mdash;was heard to say, "O Knight of
      the Rueful Countenance, let not this captivity in which thou art placed
      afflict thee, for this must needs be, for the more speedy accomplishment
      of the adventure in which thy great heart has engaged thee; the which
      shall be accomplished when the raging Manchegan lion and the white Tobosan
      dove shall be linked together, having first humbled their haughty necks to
      the gentle yoke of matrimony. And from this marvellous union shall come
      forth to the light of the world brave whelps that shall rival the ravening
      claws of their valiant father; and this shall come to pass ere the pursuer
      of the flying nymph shall in his swift natural course have twice visited
      the starry signs. And thou, O most noble and obedient squire that ever
      bore sword at side, beard on face, or nose to smell with, be not dismayed
      or grieved to see the flower of knight-errantry carried away thus before
      thy very eyes; for soon, if it so please the Framer of the universe, thou
      shalt see thyself exalted to such a height that thou shalt not know
      thyself, and the promises which thy good master has made thee shall not
      prove false; and I assure thee, on the authority of the sage Mentironiana,
      that thy wages shall be paid thee, as thou shalt see in due season. Follow
      then the footsteps of the valiant enchanted knight, for it is expedient
      that thou shouldst go to the destination assigned to both of you; and as
      it is not permitted to me to say more, God be with thee; for I return to
      that place I wot of;" and as he brought the prophecy to a close he raised
      his voice to a high pitch, and then lowered it to such a soft tone, that
      even those who knew it was all a joke were almost inclined to take what
      they heard seriously.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote was comforted by the prophecy he heard, for he at once
      comprehended its meaning perfectly, and perceived it was promised to him
      that he should see himself united in holy and lawful matrimony with his
      beloved Dulcinea del Toboso, from whose blessed womb should proceed the
      whelps, his sons, to the eternal glory of La Mancha; and being thoroughly
      and firmly persuaded of this, he lifted up his voice, and with a deep sigh
      exclaimed, "Oh thou, whoever thou art, who hast foretold me so much good,
      I implore of thee that on my part thou entreat that sage enchanter who
      takes charge of my interests, that he leave me not to perish in this
      captivity in which they are now carrying me away, ere I see fulfilled
      promises so joyful and incomparable as those which have been now made me;
      for, let this but come to pass, and I shall glory in the pains of my
      prison, find comfort in these chains wherewith they bind me, and regard
      this bed whereon they stretch me, not as a hard battle-field, but as a
      soft and happy nuptial couch; and touching the consolation of Sancho
      Panza, my squire, I rely upon his goodness and rectitude that he will not
      desert me in good or evil fortune; for if, by his ill luck or mine, it may
      not happen to be in my power to give him the island I have promised, or
      any equivalent for it, at least his wages shall not be lost; for in my
      will, which is already made, I have declared the sum that shall be paid to
      him, measured, not by his many faithful services, but by the means at my
      disposal."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho bowed his head very respectfully and kissed both his hands, for,
      being tied together, he could not kiss one; and then the apparitions
      lifted the cage upon their shoulders and fixed it upon the ox-cart.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c46e" id="c46e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c46e.jpg (56K)" src="images/c46e.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <a href="images/c46e.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch47" id="ch47"></a>CHAPTER XLVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WAS CARRIED AWAY
      ENCHANTED, TOGETHER WITH OTHER REMARKABLE INCIDENTS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c47a" id="c47a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
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    <p>
      <a href="images/c47a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      When Don Quixote saw himself caged and hoisted on the cart in this way, he
      said, "Many grave histories of knights-errant have I read; but never yet
      have I read, seen, or heard of their carrying off enchanted knights-errant
      in this fashion, or at the slow pace that these lazy, sluggish animals
      promise; for they always take them away through the air with marvellous
      swiftness, enveloped in a dark thick cloud, or on a chariot of fire, or it
      may be on some hippogriff or other beast of the kind; but to carry me off
      like this on an ox-cart! By God, it puzzles me! But perhaps the chivalry
      and enchantments of our day take a different course from that of those in
      days gone by; and it may be, too, that as I am a new knight in the world,
      and the first to revive the already forgotten calling of
      knight-adventurers, they may have newly invented other kinds of
      enchantments and other modes of carrying off the enchanted. What thinkest
      thou of the matter, Sancho my son?"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c47b" id="c47b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c47b.jpg (357K)" src="images/c47b.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <a href="images/c47b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know what to think," answered Sancho, "not being as well read as
      your worship in errant writings; but for all that I venture to say and
      swear that these apparitions that are about us are not quite catholic."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Catholic!" said Don Quixote. "Father of me! how can they be Catholic when
      they are all devils that have taken fantastic shapes to come and do this,
      and bring me to this condition? And if thou wouldst prove it, touch them,
      and feel them, and thou wilt find they have only bodies of air, and no
      consistency except in appearance."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By God, master," returned Sancho, "I have touched them already; and that
      devil, that goes about there so busily, has firm flesh, and another
      property very different from what I have heard say devils have, for by all
      accounts they all smell of brimstone and other bad smells; but this one
      smells of amber half a league off." Sancho was here speaking of Don
      Fernando, who, like a gentleman of his rank, was very likely perfumed as
      Sancho said.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Marvel not at that, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote; "for let me tell
      thee devils are crafty; and even if they do carry odours about with them,
      they themselves have no smell, because they are spirits; or, if they have
      any smell, they cannot smell of anything sweet, but of something foul and
      fetid; and the reason is that as they carry hell with them wherever they
      go, and can get no ease whatever from their torments, and as a sweet smell
      is a thing that gives pleasure and enjoyment, it is impossible that they
      can smell sweet; if, then, this devil thou speakest of seems to thee to
      smell of amber, either thou art deceiving thyself, or he wants to deceive
      thee by making thee fancy he is not a devil."
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the conversation that passed between master and man; and Don
      Fernando and Cardenio, apprehensive of Sancho's making a complete
      discovery of their scheme, towards which he had already gone some way,
      resolved to hasten their departure, and calling the landlord aside, they
      directed him to saddle Rocinante and put the pack-saddle on Sancho's ass,
      which he did with great alacrity. In the meantime the curate had made an
      arrangement with the officers that they should bear them company as far as
      his village, he paying them so much a day. Cardenio hung the buckler on
      one side of the bow of Rocinante's saddle and the basin on the other, and
      by signs commanded Sancho to mount his ass and take Rocinante's bridle,
      and at each side of the cart he placed two officers with their muskets;
      but before the cart was put in motion, out came the landlady and her
      daughter and Maritornes to bid Don Quixote farewell, pretending to weep
      with grief at his misfortune; and to them Don Quixote said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Weep not, good ladies, for all these mishaps are the lot of those who
      follow the profession I profess; and if these reverses did not befall me I
      should not esteem myself a famous knight-errant; for such things never
      happen to knights of little renown and fame, because nobody in the world
      thinks about them; to valiant knights they do, for these are envied for
      their virtue and valour by many princes and other knights who compass the
      destruction of the worthy by base means. Nevertheless, virtue is of
      herself so mighty, that, in spite of all the magic that Zoroaster its
      first inventor knew, she will come victorious out of every trial, and shed
      her light upon the earth as the sun does upon the heavens. Forgive me,
      fair ladies, if, through inadvertence, I have in aught offended you; for
      intentionally and wittingly I have never done so to any; and pray to God
      that he deliver me from this captivity to which some malevolent enchanter
      has consigned me; and should I find myself released therefrom, the favours
      that ye have bestowed upon me in this castle shall be held in memory by
      me, that I may acknowledge, recognise, and requite them as they deserve."
    </p>
    <p>
      While this was passing between the ladies of the castle and Don Quixote,
      the curate and the barber bade farewell to Don Fernando and his
      companions, to the captain, his brother, and the ladies, now all made
      happy, and in particular to Dorothea and Luscinda. They all embraced one
      another, and promised to let each other know how things went with them,
      and Don Fernando directed the curate where to write to him, to tell him
      what became of Don Quixote, assuring him that there was nothing that could
      give him more pleasure than to hear of it, and that he too, on his part,
      would send him word of everything he thought he would like to know, about
      his marriage, Zoraida's baptism, Don Luis's affair, and Luscinda's return
      to her home. The curate promised to comply with his request carefully, and
      they embraced once more, and renewed their promises.
    </p>
    <p>
      The landlord approached the curate and handed him some papers, saying he
      had discovered them in the lining of the valise in which the novel of "The
      Ill-advised Curiosity" had been found, and that he might take them all
      away with him as their owner had not since returned; for, as he could not
      read, he did not want them himself. The curate thanked him, and opening
      them he saw at the beginning of the manuscript the words, "Novel of
      Rinconete and Cortadillo," by which he perceived that it was a novel, and
      as that of "The Ill-advised Curiosity" had been good he concluded this
      would be so too, as they were both probably by the same author; so he kept
      it, intending to read it when he had an opportunity. He then mounted and
      his friend the barber did the same, both masked, so as not to be
      recognised by Don Quixote, and set out following in the rear of the cart.
      The order of march was this: first went the cart with the owner leading
      it; at each side of it marched the officers of the Brotherhood, as has
      been said, with their muskets; then followed Sancho Panza on his ass,
      leading Rocinante by the bridle; and behind all came the curate and the
      barber on their mighty mules, with faces covered, as aforesaid, and a
      grave and serious air, measuring their pace to suit the slow steps of the
      oxen. Don Quixote was seated in the cage, with his hands tied and his feet
      stretched out, leaning against the bars as silent and as patient as if he
      were a stone statue and not a man of flesh. Thus slowly and silently they
      made, it might be, two leagues, until they reached a valley which the
      carter thought a convenient place for resting and feeding his oxen, and he
      said so to the curate, but the barber was of opinion that they ought to
      push on a little farther, as at the other side of a hill which appeared
      close by he knew there was a valley that had more grass and much better
      than the one where they proposed to halt; and his advice was taken and
      they continued their journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just at that moment the curate, looking back, saw coming on behind them
      six or seven mounted men, well found and equipped, who soon overtook them,
      for they were travelling, not at the sluggish, deliberate pace of oxen,
      but like men who rode canons' mules, and in haste to take their noontide
      rest as soon as possible at the inn which was in sight not a league off.
      The quick travellers came up with the slow, and courteous salutations were
      exchanged; and one of the new comers, who was, in fact, a canon of Toledo
      and master of the others who accompanied him, observing the regular order
      of the procession, the cart, the officers, Sancho, Rocinante, the curate
      and the barber, and above all Don Quixote caged and confined, could not
      help asking what was the meaning of carrying the man in that fashion;
      though, from the badges of the officers, he already concluded that he must
      be some desperate highwayman or other malefactor whose punishment fell
      within the jurisdiction of the Holy Brotherhood. One of the officers to
      whom he had put the question, replied, "Let the gentleman himself tell you
      the meaning of his going this way, senor, for we do not know."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote overheard the conversation and said, "Haply, gentlemen, you
      are versed and learned in matters of errant chivalry? Because if you are I
      will tell you my misfortunes; if not, there is no good in my giving myself
      the trouble of relating them;" but here the curate and the barber, seeing
      that the travellers were engaged in conversation with Don Quixote, came
      forward, in order to answer in such a way as to save their stratagem from
      being discovered.
    </p>
    <p>
      The canon, replying to Don Quixote, said, "In truth, brother, I know more
      about books of chivalry than I do about Villalpando's elements of logic;
      so if that be all, you may safely tell me what you please."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In God's name, then, senor," replied Don Quixote; "if that be so, I would
      have you know that I am held enchanted in this cage by the envy and fraud
      of wicked enchanters; for virtue is more persecuted by the wicked than
      loved by the good. I am a knight-errant, and not one of those whose names
      Fame has never thought of immortalising in her record, but of those who,
      in defiance and in spite of envy itself, and all the magicians that
      Persia, or Brahmans that India, or Gymnosophists that Ethiopia ever
      produced, will place their names in the temple of immortality, to serve as
      examples and patterns for ages to come, whereby knights-errant may see the
      footsteps in which they must tread if they would attain the summit and
      crowning point of honour in arms."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha says," observed the curate, "is the
      truth; for he goes enchanted in this cart, not from any fault or sins of
      his, but because of the malevolence of those to whom virtue is odious and
      valour hateful. This, senor, is the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, if
      you have ever heard him named, whose valiant achievements and mighty deeds
      shall be written on lasting brass and imperishable marble, notwithstanding
      all the efforts of envy to obscure them and malice to hide them."
    </p>
    <p>
      When the canon heard both the prisoner and the man who was at liberty talk
      in such a strain he was ready to cross himself in his astonishment, and
      could not make out what had befallen him; and all his attendants were in
      the same state of amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this point Sancho Panza, who had drawn near to hear the conversation,
      said, in order to make everything plain, "Well, sirs, you may like or
      dislike what I am going to say, but the fact of the matter is, my master,
      Don Quixote, is just as much enchanted as my mother. He is in his full
      senses, he eats and he drinks, and he has his calls like other men and as
      he had yesterday, before they caged him. And if that's the case, what do
      they mean by wanting me to believe that he is enchanted? For I have heard
      many a one say that enchanted people neither eat, nor sleep, nor talk; and
      my master, if you don't stop him, will talk more than thirty lawyers."
      Then turning to the curate he exclaimed, "Ah, senor curate, senor curate!
      do you think I don't know you? Do you think I don't guess and see the
      drift of these new enchantments? Well then, I can tell you I know you, for
      all your face is covered, and I can tell you I am up to you, however you
      may hide your tricks. After all, where envy reigns virtue cannot live, and
      where there is niggardliness there can be no liberality. Ill betide the
      devil! if it had not been for your worship my master would be married to
      the Princess Micomicona this minute, and I should be a count at least; for
      no less was to be expected, as well from the goodness of my master, him of
      the Rueful Countenance, as from the greatness of my services. But I see
      now how true it is what they say in these parts, that the wheel of fortune
      turns faster than a mill-wheel, and that those who were up yesterday are
      down to-day. I am sorry for my wife and children, for when they might
      fairly and reasonably expect to see their father return to them a governor
      or viceroy of some island or kingdom, they will see him come back a
      horse-boy. I have said all this, senor curate, only to urge your paternity
      to lay to your conscience your ill-treatment of my master; and have a care
      that God does not call you to account in another life for making a
      prisoner of him in this way, and charge against you all the succours and
      good deeds that my lord Don Quixote leaves undone while he is shut up.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Trim those lamps there!" exclaimed the barber at this; "so you are of the
      same fraternity as your master, too, Sancho? By God, I begin to see that
      you will have to keep him company in the cage, and be enchanted like him
      for having caught some of his humour and chivalry. It was an evil hour
      when you let yourself be got with child by his promises, and that island
      you long so much for found its way into your head."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am not with child by anyone," returned Sancho, "nor am I a man to let
      myself be got with child, if it was by the King himself. Though I am poor
      I am an old Christian, and I owe nothing to nobody, and if I long for an
      island, other people long for worse. Each of us is the son of his own
      works; and being a man I may come to be pope, not to say governor of an
      island, especially as my master may win so many that he will not know whom
      to give them to. Mind how you talk, master barber; for shaving is not
      everything, and there is some difference between Peter and Peter. I say
      this because we all know one another, and it will not do to throw false
      dice with me; and as to the enchantment of my master, God knows the truth;
      leave it as it is; it only makes it worse to stir it."
    </p>
    <p>
      The barber did not care to answer Sancho lest by his plain speaking he
      should disclose what the curate and he himself were trying so hard to
      conceal; and under the same apprehension the curate had asked the canon to
      ride on a little in advance, so that he might tell him the mystery of this
      man in the cage, and other things that would amuse him. The canon agreed,
      and going on ahead with his servants, listened with attention to the
      account of the character, life, madness, and ways of Don Quixote, given
      him by the curate, who described to him briefly the beginning and origin
      of his craze, and told him the whole story of his adventures up to his
      being confined in the cage, together with the plan they had of taking him
      home to try if by any means they could discover a cure for his madness.
      The canon and his servants were surprised anew when they heard Don
      Quixote's strange story, and when it was finished he said, "To tell the
      truth, senor curate, I for my part consider what they call books of
      chivalry to be mischievous to the State; and though, led by idle and false
      taste, I have read the beginnings of almost all that have been printed, I
      never could manage to read any one of them from beginning to end; for it
      seems to me they are all more or less the same thing; and one has nothing
      more in it than another; this no more than that. And in my opinion this
      sort of writing and composition is of the same species as the fables they
      call the Milesian, nonsensical tales that aim solely at giving amusement
      and not instruction, exactly the opposite of the apologue fables which
      amuse and instruct at the same time. And though it may be the chief object
      of such books to amuse, I do not know how they can succeed, when they are
      so full of such monstrous nonsense. For the enjoyment the mind feels must
      come from the beauty and harmony which it perceives or contemplates in the
      things that the eye or the imagination brings before it; and nothing that
      has any ugliness or disproportion about it can give any pleasure. What
      beauty, then, or what proportion of the parts to the whole, or of the
      whole to the parts, can there be in a book or fable where a lad of sixteen
      cuts down a giant as tall as a tower and makes two halves of him as if he
      was an almond cake? And when they want to give us a picture of a battle,
      after having told us that there are a million of combatants on the side of
      the enemy, let the hero of the book be opposed to them, and we have
      perforce to believe, whether we like it or not, that the said knight wins
      the victory by the single might of his strong arm. And then, what shall we
      say of the facility with which a born queen or empress will give herself
      over into the arms of some unknown wandering knight? What mind, that is
      not wholly barbarous and uncultured, can find pleasure in reading of how a
      great tower full of knights sails away across the sea like a ship with a
      fair wind, and will be to-night in Lombardy and to-morrow morning in the
      land of Prester John of the Indies, or some other that Ptolemy never
      described nor Marco Polo saw? And if, in answer to this, I am told that
      the authors of books of the kind write them as fiction, and therefore are
      not bound to regard niceties of truth, I would reply that fiction is all
      the better the more it looks like truth, and gives the more pleasure the
      more probability and possibility there is about it. Plots in fiction
      should be wedded to the understanding of the reader, and be constructed in
      such a way that, reconciling impossibilities, smoothing over difficulties,
      keeping the mind on the alert, they may surprise, interest, divert, and
      entertain, so that wonder and delight joined may keep pace one with the
      other; all which he will fail to effect who shuns verisimilitude and truth
      to nature, wherein lies the perfection of writing. I have never yet seen
      any book of chivalry that puts together a connected plot complete in all
      its numbers, so that the middle agrees with the beginning, and the end
      with the beginning and middle; on the contrary, they construct them with
      such a multitude of members that it seems as though they meant to produce
      a chimera or monster rather than a well-proportioned figure. And besides
      all this they are harsh in their style, incredible in their achievements,
      licentious in their amours, uncouth in their courtly speeches, prolix in
      their battles, silly in their arguments, absurd in their travels, and, in
      short, wanting in everything like intelligent art; for which reason they
      deserve to be banished from the Christian commonwealth as a worthless
      breed."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c47c" id="c47c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c47c.jpg (300K)" src="images/c47c.jpg" width="100%" />
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      <a href="images/c47c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The curate listened to him attentively and felt that he was a man of sound
      understanding, and that there was good reason in what he said; so he told
      him that, being of the same opinion himself, and bearing a grudge to books
      of chivalry, he had burned all Don Quixote's, which were many; and gave
      him an account of the scrutiny he had made of them, and of those he had
      condemned to the flames and those he had spared, with which the canon was
      not a little amused, adding that though he had said so much in
      condemnation of these books, still he found one good thing in them, and
      that was the opportunity they afforded to a gifted intellect for
      displaying itself; for they presented a wide and spacious field over which
      the pen might range freely, describing shipwrecks, tempests, combats,
      battles, portraying a valiant captain with all the qualifications
      requisite to make one, showing him sagacious in foreseeing the wiles of
      the enemy, eloquent in speech to encourage or restrain his soldiers, ripe
      in counsel, rapid in resolve, as bold in biding his time as in pressing
      the attack; now picturing some sad tragic incident, now some joyful and
      unexpected event; here a beauteous lady, virtuous, wise, and modest; there
      a Christian knight, brave and gentle; here a lawless, barbarous braggart;
      there a courteous prince, gallant and gracious; setting forth the devotion
      and loyalty of vassals, the greatness and generosity of nobles. "Or
      again," said he, "the author may show himself to be an astronomer, or a
      skilled cosmographer, or musician, or one versed in affairs of state, and
      sometimes he will have a chance of coming forward as a magician if he
      likes. He can set forth the craftiness of Ulysses, the piety of AEneas,
      the valour of Achilles, the misfortunes of Hector, the treachery of Sinon,
      the friendship of Euryalus, the generosity of Alexander, the boldness of
      Caesar, the clemency and truth of Trajan, the fidelity of Zopyrus, the
      wisdom of Cato, and in short all the faculties that serve to make an
      illustrious man perfect, now uniting them in one individual, again
      distributing them among many; and if this be done with charm of style and
      ingenious invention, aiming at the truth as much as possible, he will
      assuredly weave a web of bright and varied threads that, when finished,
      will display such perfection and beauty that it will attain the worthiest
      object any writing can seek, which, as I said before, is to give
      instruction and pleasure combined; for the unrestricted range of these
      books enables the author to show his powers, epic, lyric, tragic, or
      comic, and all the moods the sweet and winning arts of poesy and oratory
      are capable of; for the epic may be written in prose just as well as in
      verse."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c47e" id="c47e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c47e.jpg (67K)" src="images/c47e.jpg" width="100%" />
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      <a href="images/c47e.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch48" id="ch48"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH THE CANON PURSUES THE SUBJECT OF THE BOOKS OF CHIVALRY, WITH
      OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF HIS WIT
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c48a" id="c48a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c48a.jpg (80K)" src="images/c48a.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <a href="images/c48a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is as you say, senor canon," said the curate; "and for that reason
      those who have hitherto written books of the sort deserve all the more
      censure for writing without paying any attention to good taste or the
      rules of art, by which they might guide themselves and become as famous in
      prose as the two princes of Greek and Latin poetry are in verse."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I myself, at any rate," said the canon, "was once tempted to write a book
      of chivalry in which all the points I have mentioned were to be observed;
      and if I must own the truth I have more than a hundred sheets written; and
      to try if it came up to my own opinion of it, I showed them to persons who
      were fond of this kind of reading, to learned and intelligent men as well
      as to ignorant people who cared for nothing but the pleasure of listening
      to nonsense, and from all I obtained flattering approval; nevertheless I
      proceeded no farther with it, as well because it seemed to me an
      occupation inconsistent with my profession, as because I perceived that
      the fools are more numerous than the wise; and, though it is better to be
      praised by the wise few than applauded by the foolish many, I have no mind
      to submit myself to the stupid judgment of the silly public, to whom the
      reading of such books falls for the most part.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But what most of all made me hold my hand and even abandon all idea of
      finishing it was an argument I put to myself taken from the plays that are
      acted now-a-days, which was in this wise: if those that are now in vogue,
      as well those that are pure invention as those founded on history, are,
      all or most of them, downright nonsense and things that have neither head
      nor tail, and yet the public listens to them with delight, and regards and
      cries them up as perfection when they are so far from it; and if the
      authors who write them, and the players who act them, say that this is
      what they must be, for the public wants this and will have nothing else;
      and that those that go by rule and work out a plot according to the laws
      of art will only find some half-dozen intelligent people to understand
      them, while all the rest remain blind to the merit of their composition;
      and that for themselves it is better to get bread from the many than
      praise from the few; then my book will fare the same way, after I have
      burnt off my eyebrows in trying to observe the principles I have spoken
      of, and I shall be 'the tailor of the corner.' And though I have sometimes
      endeavoured to convince actors that they are mistaken in this notion they
      have adopted, and that they would attract more people, and get more
      credit, by producing plays in accordance with the rules of art, than by
      absurd ones, they are so thoroughly wedded to their own opinion that no
      argument or evidence can wean them from it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I remember saying one day to one of these obstinate fellows, 'Tell me, do
      you not recollect that a few years ago, there were three tragedies acted
      in Spain, written by a famous poet of these kingdoms, which were such that
      they filled all who heard them with admiration, delight, and interest, the
      ignorant as well as the wise, the masses as well as the higher orders, and
      brought in more money to the performers, these three alone, than thirty of
      the best that have been since produced?'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'No doubt,' replied the actor in question, 'you mean the "Isabella," the
      "Phyllis," and the "Alexandra."'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Those are the ones I mean,' said I; 'and see if they did not observe the
      principles of art, and if, by observing them, they failed to show their
      superiority and please all the world; so that the fault does not lie with
      the public that insists upon nonsense, but with those who don't know how
      to produce something else. "The Ingratitude Revenged" was not nonsense,
      nor was there any in "The Numantia," nor any to be found in "The Merchant
      Lover," nor yet in "The Friendly Fair Foe," nor in some others that have
      been written by certain gifted poets, to their own fame and renown, and to
      the profit of those that brought them out;' some further remarks I added
      to these, with which, I think, I left him rather dumbfoundered, but not so
      satisfied or convinced that I could disabuse him of his error."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have touched upon a subject, senor canon," observed the curate here,
      "that has awakened an old enmity I have against the plays in vogue at the
      present day, quite as strong as that which I bear to the books of
      chivalry; for while the drama, according to Tully, should be the mirror of
      human life, the model of manners, and the image of the truth, those which
      are presented now-a-days are mirrors of nonsense, models of folly, and
      images of lewdness. For what greater nonsense can there be in connection
      with what we are now discussing than for an infant to appear in swaddling
      clothes in the first scene of the first act, and in the second a grown-up
      bearded man? Or what greater absurdity can there be than putting before us
      an old man as a swashbuckler, a young man as a poltroon, a lackey using
      fine language, a page giving sage advice, a king plying as a porter, a
      princess who is a kitchen-maid? And then what shall I say of their
      attention to the time in which the action they represent may or can take
      place, save that I have seen a play where the first act began in Europe,
      the second in Asia, the third finished in Africa, and no doubt, had it
      been in four acts, the fourth would have ended in America, and so it would
      have been laid in all four quarters of the globe? And if truth to life is
      the main thing the drama should keep in view, how is it possible for any
      average understanding to be satisfied when the action is supposed to pass
      in the time of King Pepin or Charlemagne, and the principal personage in
      it they represent to be the Emperor Heraclius who entered Jerusalem with
      the cross and won the Holy Sepulchre, like Godfrey of Bouillon, there
      being years innumerable between the one and the other? or, if the play is
      based on fiction and historical facts are introduced, or bits of what
      occurred to different people and at different times mixed up with it, all,
      not only without any semblance of probability, but with obvious errors
      that from every point of view are inexcusable? And the worst of it is,
      there are ignorant people who say that this is perfection, and that
      anything beyond this is affected refinement. And then if we turn to sacred
      dramas--what miracles they invent in them! What apocryphal, ill-devised
      incidents, attributing to one saint the miracles of another! And even in
      secular plays they venture to introduce miracles without any reason or
      object except that they think some such miracle, or transformation as they
      call it, will come in well to astonish stupid people and draw them to the
      play. All this tends to the prejudice of the truth and the corruption of
      history, nay more, to the reproach of the wits of Spain; for foreigners
      who scrupulously observe the laws of the drama look upon us as barbarous
      and ignorant, when they see the absurdity and nonsense of the plays we
      produce. Nor will it be a sufficient excuse to say that the chief object
      well-ordered governments have in view when they permit plays to be
      performed in public is to entertain the people with some harmless
      amusement occasionally, and keep it from those evil humours which idleness
      is apt to engender; and that, as this may be attained by any sort of play,
      good or bad, there is no need to lay down laws, or bind those who write or
      act them to make them as they ought to be made, since, as I say, the
      object sought for may be secured by any sort. To this I would reply that
      the same end would be, beyond all comparison, better attained by means of
      good plays than by those that are not so; for after listening to an
      artistic and properly constructed play, the hearer will come away
      enlivened by the jests, instructed by the serious parts, full of
      admiration at the incidents, his wits sharpened by the arguments, warned
      by the tricks, all the wiser for the examples, inflamed against vice, and
      in love with virtue; for in all these ways a good play will stimulate the
      mind of the hearer be he ever so boorish or dull; and of all
      impossibilities the greatest is that a play endowed with all these
      qualities will not entertain, satisfy, and please much more than one
      wanting in them, like the greater number of those which are commonly acted
      now-a-days. Nor are the poets who write them to be blamed for this; for
      some there are among them who are perfectly well aware of their faults,
      and know what they ought to do; but as plays have become a salable
      commodity, they say, and with truth, that the actors will not buy them
      unless they are after this fashion; and so the poet tries to adapt himself
      to the requirements of the actor who is to pay him for his work. And that
      this is the truth may be seen by the countless plays that a most fertile
      wit of these kingdoms has written, with so much brilliancy, so much grace
      and gaiety, such polished versification, such choice language, such
      profound reflections, and in a word, so rich in eloquence and elevation of
      style, that he has filled the world with his fame; and yet, in consequence
      of his desire to suit the taste of the actors, they have not all, as some
      of them have, come as near perfection as they ought. Others write plays
      with such heedlessness that, after they have been acted, the actors have
      to fly and abscond, afraid of being punished, as they often have been, for
      having acted something offensive to some king or other, or insulting to
      some noble family. All which evils, and many more that I say nothing of,
      would be removed if there were some intelligent and sensible person at the
      capital to examine all plays before they were acted, not only those
      produced in the capital itself, but all that were intended to be acted in
      Spain; without whose approval, seal, and signature, no local magistracy
      should allow any play to be acted. In that case actors would take care to
      send their plays to the capital, and could act them in safety, and those
      who write them would be more careful and take more pains with their work,
      standing in awe of having to submit it to the strict examination of one
      who understood the matter; and so good plays would be produced and the
      objects they aim at happily attained; as well the amusement of the people,
      as the credit of the wits of Spain, the interest and safety of the actors,
      and the saving of trouble in inflicting punishment on them. And if the
      same or some other person were authorised to examine the newly written
      books of chivalry, no doubt some would appear with all the perfections you
      have described, enriching our language with the gracious and precious
      treasure of eloquence, and driving the old books into obscurity before the
      light of the new ones that would come out for the harmless entertainment,
      not merely of the idle but of the very busiest; for the bow cannot be
      always bent, nor can weak human nature exist without some lawful
      amusement."
    </p>
    <p>
      The canon and the curate had proceeded thus far with their conversation,
      when the barber, coming forward, joined them, and said to the curate,
      "This is the spot, senor licentiate, that I said was a good one for fresh
      and plentiful pasture for the oxen, while we take our noontide rest."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And so it seems," returned the curate, and he told the canon what he
      proposed to do, on which he too made up his mind to halt with them,
      attracted by the aspect of the fair valley that lay before their eyes; and
      to enjoy it as well as the conversation of the curate, to whom he had
      begun to take a fancy, and also to learn more particulars about the doings
      of Don Quixote, he desired some of his servants to go on to the inn, which
      was not far distant, and fetch from it what eatables there might be for
      the whole party, as he meant to rest for the afternoon where he was; to
      which one of his servants replied that the sumpter mule, which by this
      time ought to have reached the inn, carried provisions enough to make it
      unnecessary to get anything from the inn except barley.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In that case," said the canon, "take all the beasts there, and bring the
      sumpter mule back."
    </p>
    <p>
      While this was going on, Sancho, perceiving that he could speak to his
      master without having the curate and the barber, of whom he had his
      suspicions, present all the time, approached the cage in which Don Quixote
      was placed, and said, "Senor, to ease my conscience I want to tell you the
      state of the case as to your enchantment, and that is that these two here,
      with their faces covered, are the curate of our village and the barber;
      and I suspect they have hit upon this plan of carrying you off in this
      fashion, out of pure envy because your worship surpasses them in doing
      famous deeds; and if this be the truth it follows that you are not
      enchanted, but hoodwinked and made a fool of. And to prove this I want to
      ask you one thing; and if you answer me as I believe you will answer, you
      will be able to lay your finger on the trick, and you will see that you
      are not enchanted but gone wrong in your wits."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ask what thou wilt, Sancho my son," returned Don Quixote, "for I will
      satisfy thee and answer all thou requirest. As to what thou sayest, that
      these who accompany us yonder are the curate and the barber, our
      neighbours and acquaintances, it is very possible that they may seem to be
      those same persons; but that they are so in reality and in fact, believe
      it not on any account; what thou art to believe and think is that, if they
      look like them, as thou sayest, it must be that those who have enchanted
      me have taken this shape and likeness; for it is easy for enchanters to
      take any form they please, and they may have taken those of our friends in
      order to make thee think as thou dost, and lead thee into a labyrinth of
      fancies from which thou wilt find no escape though thou hadst the cord of
      Theseus; and they may also have done it to make me uncertain in my mind,
      and unable to conjecture whence this evil comes to me; for if on the one
      hand thou dost tell me that the barber and curate of our village are here
      in company with us, and on the other I find myself shut up in a cage, and
      know in my heart that no power on earth that was not supernatural would
      have been able to shut me in, what wouldst thou have me say or think, but
      that my enchantment is of a sort that transcends all I have ever read of
      in all the histories that deal with knights-errant that have been
      enchanted? So thou mayest set thy mind at rest as to the idea that they
      are what thou sayest, for they are as much so as I am a Turk. But touching
      thy desire to ask me something, say on, and I will answer thee, though
      thou shouldst ask questions from this till to-morrow morning."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May Our Lady be good to me!" said Sancho, lifting up his voice; "and is
      it possible that your worship is so thick of skull and so short of brains
      that you cannot see that what I say is the simple truth, and that malice
      has more to do with your imprisonment and misfortune than enchantment? But
      as it is so, I will prove plainly to you that you are not enchanted. Now
      tell me, so may God deliver you from this affliction, and so may you find
      yourself when you least expect it in the arms of my lady Dulcinea-"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Leave off conjuring me," said Don Quixote, "and ask what thou wouldst
      know; I have already told thee I will answer with all possible precision."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is what I want," said Sancho; "and what I would know, and have you
      tell me, without adding or leaving out anything, but telling the whole
      truth as one expects it to be told, and as it is told, by all who profess
      arms, as your worship professes them, under the title of knights-errant-"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I tell thee I will not lie in any particular," said Don Quixote; "finish
      thy question; for in truth thou weariest me with all these asseverations,
      requirements, and precautions, Sancho."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, I rely on the goodness and truth of my master," said Sancho; "and
      so, because it bears upon what we are talking about, I would ask, speaking
      with all reverence, whether since your worship has been shut up and, as
      you think, enchanted in this cage, you have felt any desire or inclination
      to go anywhere, as the saying is?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not understand 'going anywhere,'" said Don Quixote; "explain thyself
      more clearly, Sancho, if thou wouldst have me give an answer to the
      point."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is it possible," said Sancho, "that your worship does not understand
      'going anywhere'? Why, the schoolboys know that from the time they were
      babes. Well then, you must know I mean have you had any desire to do what
      cannot be avoided?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah! now I understand thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "yes, often, and
      even this minute; get me out of this strait, or all will not go right."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c48e" id="c48e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c48e.jpg (32K)" src="images/c48e.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch49" id="ch49"></a>CHAPTER XLIX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TREATS OF THE SHREWD CONVERSATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HELD WITH HIS
      MASTER DON QUIXOTE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c49a" id="c49a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c49a.jpg (181K)" src="images/c49a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
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      <a href="images/c49a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Aha, I have caught you," said Sancho; "this is what in my heart and soul
      I was longing to know. Come now, senor, can you deny what is commonly said
      around us, when a person is out of humour, 'I don't know what ails
      so-and-so, that he neither eats, nor drinks, nor sleeps, nor gives a
      proper answer to any question; one would think he was enchanted'? From
      which it is to be gathered that those who do not eat, or drink, or sleep,
      or do any of the natural acts I am speaking of--that such persons are
      enchanted; but not those that have the desire your worship has, and drink
      when drink is given them, and eat when there is anything to eat, and
      answer every question that is asked them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What thou sayest is true, Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "but I have
      already told thee there are many sorts of enchantments, and it may be that
      in the course of time they have been changed one for another, and that now
      it may be the way with enchanted people to do all that I do, though they
      did not do so before; so it is vain to argue or draw inferences against
      the usage of the time. I know and feel that I am enchanted, and that is
      enough to ease my conscience; for it would weigh heavily on it if I
      thought that I was not enchanted, and that in a faint-hearted and cowardly
      way I allowed myself to lie in this cage, defrauding multitudes of the
      succour I might afford to those in need and distress, who at this very
      moment may be in sore want of my aid and protection."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Still for all that," replied Sancho, "I say that, for your greater and
      fuller satisfaction, it would be well if your worship were to try to get
      out of this prison (and I promise to do all in my power to help, and even
      to take you out of it), and see if you could once more mount your good
      Rocinante, who seems to be enchanted too, he is so melancholy and
      dejected; and then we might try our chance in looking for adventures
      again; and if we have no luck there will be time enough to go back to the
      cage; in which, on the faith of a good and loyal squire, I promise to shut
      myself up along with your worship, if so be you are so unfortunate, or I
      so stupid, as not to be able to carry out my plan."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am content to do as thou sayest, brother Sancho," said Don Quixote,
      "and when thou seest an opportunity for effecting my release I will obey
      thee absolutely; but thou wilt see, Sancho, how mistaken thou art in thy
      conception of my misfortune."
    </p>
    <p>
      The knight-errant and the ill-errant squire kept up their conversation
      till they reached the place where the curate, the canon, and the barber,
      who had already dismounted, were waiting for them. The carter at once
      unyoked the oxen and left them to roam at large about the pleasant green
      spot, the freshness of which seemed to invite, not enchanted people like
      Don Quixote, but wide-awake, sensible folk like his squire, who begged the
      curate to allow his master to leave the cage for a little; for if they did
      not let him out, the prison might not be as clean as the propriety of such
      a gentleman as his master required. The curate understood him, and said he
      would very gladly comply with his request, only that he feared his master,
      finding himself at liberty, would take to his old courses and make off
      where nobody could ever find him again.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will answer for his not running away," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And I also," said the canon, "especially if he gives me his word as a
      knight not to leave us without our consent."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote, who was listening to all this, said, "I give it;--moreover
      one who is enchanted as I am cannot do as he likes with himself; for he
      who had enchanted him could prevent his moving from one place for three
      ages, and if he attempted to escape would bring him back flying."--And
      that being so, they might as well release him, particularly as it would be
      to the advantage of all; for, if they did not let him out, he protested he
      would be unable to avoid offending their nostrils unless they kept their
      distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      The canon took his hand, tied together as they both were, and on his word
      and promise they unbound him, and rejoiced beyond measure he was to find
      himself out of the cage. The first thing he did was to stretch himself all
      over, and then he went to where Rocinante was standing and giving him a
      couple of slaps on the haunches said, "I still trust in God and in his
      blessed mother, O flower and mirror of steeds, that we shall soon see
      ourselves, both of us, as we wish to be, thou with thy master on thy back,
      and I mounted upon thee, following the calling for which God sent me into
      the world." And so saying, accompanied by Sancho, he withdrew to a retired
      spot, from which he came back much relieved and more eager than ever to
      put his squire's scheme into execution.
    </p>
    <p>
      The canon gazed at him, wondering at the extraordinary nature of his
      madness, and that in all his remarks and replies he should show such
      excellent sense, and only lose his stirrups, as has been already said,
      when the subject of chivalry was broached. And so, moved by compassion, he
      said to him, as they all sat on the green grass awaiting the arrival of
      the provisions:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is it possible, gentle sir, that the nauseous and idle reading of books
      of chivalry can have had such an effect on your worship as to upset your
      reason so that you fancy yourself enchanted, and the like, all as far from
      the truth as falsehood itself is? How can there be any human understanding
      that can persuade itself there ever was all that infinity of Amadises in
      the world, or all that multitude of famous knights, all those emperors of
      Trebizond, all those Felixmartes of Hircania, all those palfreys, and
      damsels-errant, and serpents, and monsters, and giants, and marvellous
      adventures, and enchantments of every kind, and battles, and prodigious
      encounters, splendid costumes, love-sick princesses, squires made counts,
      droll dwarfs, love letters, billings and cooings, swashbuckler women, and,
      in a word, all that nonsense the books of chivalry contain? For myself, I
      can only say that when I read them, so long as I do not stop to think that
      they are all lies and frivolity, they give me a certain amount of
      pleasure; but when I come to consider what they are, I fling the very best
      of them at the wall, and would fling it into the fire if there were one at
      hand, as richly deserving such punishment as cheats and impostors out of
      the range of ordinary toleration, and as founders of new sects and modes
      of life, and teachers that lead the ignorant public to believe and accept
      as truth all the folly they contain. And such is their audacity, they even
      dare to unsettle the wits of gentlemen of birth and intelligence, as is
      shown plainly by the way they have served your worship, when they have
      brought you to such a pass that you have to be shut up in a cage and
      carried on an ox-cart as one would carry a lion or a tiger from place to
      place to make money by showing it. Come, Senor Don Quixote, have some
      compassion for yourself, return to the bosom of common sense, and make use
      of the liberal share of it that heaven has been pleased to bestow upon
      you, employing your abundant gifts of mind in some other reading that may
      serve to benefit your conscience and add to your honour. And if, still led
      away by your natural bent, you desire to read books of achievements and of
      chivalry, read the Book of Judges in the Holy Scriptures, for there you
      will find grand reality, and deeds as true as they are heroic. Lusitania
      had a Viriatus, Rome a Caesar, Carthage a Hannibal, Greece an Alexander,
      Castile a Count Fernan Gonzalez, Valencia a Cid, Andalusia a Gonzalo
      Fernandez, Estremadura a Diego Garcia de Paredes, Jerez a Garci Perez de
      Vargas, Toledo a Garcilaso, Seville a Don Manuel de Leon, to read of whose
      valiant deeds will entertain and instruct the loftiest minds and fill them
      with delight and wonder. Here, Senor Don Quixote, will be reading worthy
      of your sound understanding; from which you will rise learned in history,
      in love with virtue, strengthened in goodness, improved in manners, brave
      without rashness, prudent without cowardice; and all to the honour of God,
      your own advantage and the glory of La Mancha, whence, I am informed, your
      worship derives your birth."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote listened with the greatest attention to the canon's words, and
      when he found he had finished, after regarding him for some time, he
      replied to him:
    </p>
    <p>
      "It appears to me, gentle sir, that your worship's discourse is intended
      to persuade me that there never were any knights-errant in the world, and
      that all the books of chivalry are false, lying, mischievous and useless
      to the State, and that I have done wrong in reading them, and worse in
      believing them, and still worse in imitating them, when I undertook to
      follow the arduous calling of knight-errantry which they set forth; for
      you deny that there ever were Amadises of Gaul or of Greece, or any other
      of the knights of whom the books are full."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is all exactly as you state it," said the canon; to which Don Quixote
      returned, "You also went on to say that books of this kind had done me
      much harm, inasmuch as they had upset my senses, and shut me up in a cage,
      and that it would be better for me to reform and change my studies, and
      read other truer books which would afford more pleasure and instruction."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Just so," said the canon.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then," returned Don Quixote, "to my mind it is you who are the one
      that is out of his wits and enchanted, as you have ventured to utter such
      blasphemies against a thing so universally acknowledged and accepted as
      true that whoever denies it, as you do, deserves the same punishment which
      you say you inflict on the books that irritate you when you read them. For
      to try to persuade anybody that Amadis, and all the other
      knights-adventurers with whom the books are filled, never existed, would
      be like trying to persuade him that the sun does not yield light, or ice
      cold, or earth nourishment. What wit in the world can persuade another
      that the story of the Princess Floripes and Guy of Burgundy is not true,
      or that of Fierabras and the bridge of Mantible, which happened in the
      time of Charlemagne? For by all that is good it is as true as that it is
      daylight now; and if it be a lie, it must be a lie too that there was a
      Hector, or Achilles, or Trojan war, or Twelve Peers of France, or Arthur
      of England, who still lives changed into a raven, and is unceasingly
      looked for in his kingdom. One might just as well try to make out that the
      history of Guarino Mezquino, or of the quest of the Holy Grail, is false,
      or that the loves of Tristram and the Queen Yseult are apocryphal, as well
      as those of Guinevere and Lancelot, when there are persons who can almost
      remember having seen the Dame Quintanona, who was the best cupbearer in
      Great Britain. And so true is this, that I recollect a grandmother of mine
      on the father's side, whenever she saw any dame in a venerable hood, used
      to say to me, 'Grandson, that one is like Dame Quintanona,' from which I
      conclude that she must have known her, or at least had managed to see some
      portrait of her. Then who can deny that the story of Pierres and the fair
      Magalona is true, when even to this day may be seen in the king's armoury
      the pin with which the valiant Pierres guided the wooden horse he rode
      through the air, and it is a trifle bigger than the pole of a cart? And
      alongside of the pin is Babieca's saddle, and at Roncesvalles there is
      Roland's horn, as large as a large beam; whence we may infer that there
      were Twelve Peers, and a Pierres, and a Cid, and other knights like them,
      of the sort people commonly call adventurers. Or perhaps I shall be told,
      too, that there was no such knight-errant as the valiant Lusitanian Juan
      de Merlo, who went to Burgundy and in the city of Arras fought with the
      famous lord of Charny, Mosen Pierres by name, and afterwards in the city
      of Basle with Mosen Enrique de Remesten, coming out of both encounters
      covered with fame and honour; or adventures and challenges achieved and
      delivered, also in Burgundy, by the valiant Spaniards Pedro Barba and
      Gutierre Quixada (of whose family I come in the direct male line), when
      they vanquished the sons of the Count of San Polo. I shall be told, too,
      that Don Fernando de Guevara did not go in quest of adventures to Germany,
      where he engaged in combat with Micer George, a knight of the house of the
      Duke of Austria. I shall be told that the jousts of Suero de Quinones, him
      of the 'Paso,' and the emprise of Mosen Luis de Falces against the
      Castilian knight, Don Gonzalo de Guzman, were mere mockeries; as well as
      many other achievements of Christian knights of these and foreign realms,
      which are so authentic and true, that, I repeat, he who denies them must
      be totally wanting in reason and good sense."
    </p>
    <p>
      The canon was amazed to hear the medley of truth and fiction Don Quixote
      uttered, and to see how well acquainted he was with everything relating or
      belonging to the achievements of his knight-errantry; so he said in reply:
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cannot deny, Senor Don Quixote, that there is some truth in what you
      say, especially as regards the Spanish knights-errant; and I am willing to
      grant too that the Twelve Peers of France existed, but I am not disposed
      to believe that they did all the things that the Archbishop Turpin relates
      of them. For the truth of the matter is they were knights chosen by the
      kings of France, and called 'Peers' because they were all equal in worth,
      rank and prowess (at least if they were not they ought to have been), and
      it was a kind of religious order like those of Santiago and Calatrava in
      the present day, in which it is assumed that those who take it are valiant
      knights of distinction and good birth; and just as we say now a Knight of
      St. John, or of Alcantara, they used to say then a Knight of the Twelve
      Peers, because twelve equals were chosen for that military order. That
      there was a Cid, as well as a Bernardo del Carpio, there can be no doubt;
      but that they did the deeds people say they did, I hold to be very
      doubtful. In that other matter of the pin of Count Pierres that you speak
      of, and say is near Babieca's saddle in the Armoury, I confess my sin; for
      I am either so stupid or so short-sighted, that, though I have seen the
      saddle, I have never been able to see the pin, in spite of it being as big
      as your worship says it is."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For all that it is there, without any manner of doubt," said Don Quixote;
      "and more by token they say it is inclosed in a sheath of cowhide to keep
      it from rusting."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All that may be," replied the canon; "but, by the orders I have received,
      I do not remember seeing it. However, granting it is there, that is no
      reason why I am bound to believe the stories of all those Amadises and of
      all that multitude of knights they tell us about, nor is it reasonable
      that a man like your worship, so worthy, and with so many good qualities,
      and endowed with such a good understanding, should allow himself to be
      persuaded that such wild crazy things as are written in those absurd books
      of chivalry are really true."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c49e" id="c49e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c49e.jpg (22K)" src="images/c49e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch50" id="ch50"></a>CHAPTER L.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE SHREWD CONTROVERSY WHICH DON QUIXOTE AND THE CANON HELD, TOGETHER
      WITH OTHER INCIDENTS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c50a" id="c50a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c50a.jpg (160K)" src="images/c50a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c50a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "A good joke, that!" returned Don Quixote. "Books that have been printed
      with the king's licence, and with the approbation of those to whom they
      have been submitted, and read with universal delight, and extolled by
      great and small, rich and poor, learned and ignorant, gentle and simple,
      in a word by people of every sort, of whatever rank or condition they may
      be&mdash;that these should be lies! And above all when they carry such an
      appearance of truth with them; for they tell us the father, mother,
      country, kindred, age, place, and the achievements, step by step, and day
      by day, performed by such a knight or knights! Hush, sir; utter not such
      blasphemy; trust me I am advising you now to act as a sensible man should;
      only read them, and you will see the pleasure you will derive from them.
      For, come, tell me, can there be anything more delightful than to see, as
      it were, here now displayed before us a vast lake of bubbling pitch with a
      host of snakes and serpents and lizards, and ferocious and terrible
      creatures of all sorts swimming about in it, while from the middle of the
      lake there comes a plaintive voice saying: 'Knight, whosoever thou art who
      beholdest this dread lake, if thou wouldst win the prize that lies hidden
      beneath these dusky waves, prove the valour of thy stout heart and cast
      thyself into the midst of its dark burning waters, else thou shalt not be
      worthy to see the mighty wonders contained in the seven castles of the
      seven Fays that lie beneath this black expanse;' and then the knight,
      almost ere the awful voice has ceased, without stopping to consider,
      without pausing to reflect upon the danger to which he is exposing
      himself, without even relieving himself of the weight of his massive
      armour, commending himself to God and to his lady, plunges into the midst
      of the boiling lake, and when he little looks for it, or knows what his
      fate is to be, he finds himself among flowery meadows, with which the
      Elysian fields are not to be compared.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c50b" id="c50b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c50b.jpg (344K)" src="images/c50b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c50b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "The sky seems more transparent there, and the sun shines with a strange
      brilliancy, and a delightful grove of green leafy trees presents itself to
      the eyes and charms the sight with its verdure, while the ear is soothed
      by the sweet untutored melody of the countless birds of gay plumage that
      flit to and fro among the interlacing branches. Here he sees a brook whose
      limpid waters, like liquid crystal, ripple over fine sands and white
      pebbles that look like sifted gold and purest pearls. There he perceives a
      cunningly wrought fountain of many-coloured jasper and polished marble;
      here another of rustic fashion where the little mussel-shells and the
      spiral white and yellow mansions of the snail disposed in studious
      disorder, mingled with fragments of glittering crystal and mock emeralds,
      make up a work of varied aspect, where art, imitating nature, seems to
      have outdone it.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c50c" id="c50c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c50c.jpg (334K)" src="images/c50c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c50c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Suddenly there is presented to his sight a strong castle or gorgeous
      palace with walls of massy gold, turrets of diamond and gates of jacinth;
      in short, so marvellous is its structure that though the materials of
      which it is built are nothing less than diamonds, carbuncles, rubies,
      pearls, gold, and emeralds, the workmanship is still more rare. And after
      having seen all this, what can be more charming than to see how a bevy of
      damsels comes forth from the gate of the castle in gay and gorgeous
      attire, such that, were I to set myself now to depict it as the histories
      describe it to us, I should never have done; and then how she who seems to
      be the first among them all takes the bold knight who plunged into the
      boiling lake by the hand, and without addressing a word to him leads him
      into the rich palace or castle, and strips him as naked as when his mother
      bore him, and bathes him in lukewarm water, and anoints him all over with
      sweet-smelling unguents, and clothes him in a shirt of the softest sendal,
      all scented and perfumed, while another damsel comes and throws over his
      shoulders a mantle which is said to be worth at the very least a city, and
      even more? How charming it is, then, when they tell us how, after all
      this, they lead him to another chamber where he finds the tables set out
      in such style that he is filled with amazement and wonder; to see how they
      pour out water for his hands distilled from amber and sweet-scented
      flowers; how they seat him on an ivory chair; to see how the damsels wait
      on him all in profound silence; how they bring him such a variety of
      dainties so temptingly prepared that the appetite is at a loss which to
      select; to hear the music that resounds while he is at table, by whom or
      whence produced he knows not. And then when the repast is over and the
      tables removed, for the knight to recline in the chair, picking his teeth
      perhaps as usual, and a damsel, much lovelier than any of the others, to
      enter unexpectedly by the chamber door, and herself by his side, and begin
      to tell him what the castle is, and how she is held enchanted there, and
      other things that amaze the knight and astonish the readers who are
      perusing his history.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c50d" id="c50d"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c50d.jpg (433K)" src="images/c50d.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c50d.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "But I will not expatiate any further upon this, as it may be gathered
      from it that whatever part of whatever history of a knight-errant one
      reads, it will fill the reader, whoever he be, with delight and wonder;
      and take my advice, sir, and, as I said before, read these books and you
      will see how they will banish any melancholy you may feel and raise your
      spirits should they be depressed. For myself I can say that since I have
      been a knight-errant I have become valiant, polite, generous, well-bred,
      magnanimous, courteous, dauntless, gentle, patient, and have learned to
      bear hardships, imprisonments, and enchantments; and though it be such a
      short time since I have seen myself shut up in a cage like a madman, I
      hope by the might of my arm, if heaven aid me and fortune thwart me not,
      to see myself king of some kingdom where I may be able to show the
      gratitude and generosity that dwell in my heart; for by my faith, senor,
      the poor man is incapacitated from showing the virtue of generosity to
      anyone, though he may possess it in the highest degree; and gratitude that
      consists of disposition only is a dead thing, just as faith without works
      is dead. For this reason I should be glad were fortune soon to offer me
      some opportunity of making myself an emperor, so as to show my heart in
      doing good to my friends, particularly to this poor Sancho Panza, my
      squire, who is the best fellow in the world; and I would gladly give him a
      county I have promised him this ever so long, only that I am afraid he has
      not the capacity to govern his realm."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho partly heard these last words of his master, and said to him,
      "Strive hard you, Senor Don Quixote, to give me that county so often
      promised by you and so long looked for by me, for I promise you there will
      be no want of capacity in me to govern it; and even if there is, I have
      heard say there are men in the world who farm seigniories, paying so much
      a year, and they themselves taking charge of the government, while the
      lord, with his legs stretched out, enjoys the revenue they pay him,
      without troubling himself about anything else. That's what I'll do, and
      not stand haggling over trifles, but wash my hands at once of the whole
      business, and enjoy my rents like a duke, and let things go their own
      way."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That, brother Sancho," said the canon, "only holds good as far as the
      enjoyment of the revenue goes; but the lord of the seigniory must attend
      to the administration of justice, and here capacity and sound judgment
      come in, and above all a firm determination to find out the truth; for if
      this be wanting in the beginning, the middle and the end will always go
      wrong; and God as commonly aids the honest intentions of the simple as he
      frustrates the evil designs of the crafty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't understand those philosophies," returned Sancho Panza; "all I
      know is I would I had the county as soon as I shall know how to govern it;
      for I have as much soul as another, and as much body as anyone, and I
      shall be as much king of my realm as any other of his; and being so I
      should do as I liked, and doing as I liked I should please myself, and
      pleasing myself I should be content, and when one is content he has
      nothing more to desire, and when one has nothing more to desire there is
      an end of it; so let the county come, and God be with you, and let us see
      one another, as one blind man said to the other."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is not bad philosophy thou art talking, Sancho," said the canon;
      "but for all that there is a good deal to be said on this matter of
      counties."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Don Quixote returned, "I know not what more there is to be said;
      I only guide myself by the example set me by the great Amadis of Gaul,
      when he made his squire count of the Insula Firme; and so, without any
      scruples of conscience, I can make a count of Sancho Panza, for he is one
      of the best squires that ever knight-errant had."
    </p>
    <p>
      The canon was astonished at the methodical nonsense (if nonsense be
      capable of method) that Don Quixote uttered, at the way in which he had
      described the adventure of the knight of the lake, at the impression that
      the deliberate lies of the books he read had made upon him, and lastly he
      marvelled at the simplicity of Sancho, who desired so eagerly to obtain
      the county his master had promised him.
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time the canon's servants, who had gone to the inn to fetch the
      sumpter mule, had returned, and making a carpet and the green grass of the
      meadow serve as a table, they seated themselves in the shade of some trees
      and made their repast there, that the carter might not be deprived of the
      advantage of the spot, as has been already said. As they were eating they
      suddenly heard a loud noise and the sound of a bell that seemed to come
      from among some brambles and thick bushes that were close by, and the same
      instant they observed a beautiful goat, spotted all over black, white, and
      brown, spring out of the thicket with a goatherd after it, calling to it
      and uttering the usual cries to make it stop or turn back to the fold. The
      fugitive goat, scared and frightened, ran towards the company as if
      seeking their protection and then stood still, and the goatherd coming up
      seized it by the horns and began to talk to it as if it were possessed of
      reason and understanding: "Ah wanderer, wanderer, Spotty, Spotty; how have
      you gone limping all this time? What wolves have frightened you, my
      daughter? Won't you tell me what is the matter, my beauty? But what else
      can it be except that you are a she, and cannot keep quiet? A plague on
      your humours and the humours of those you take after! Come back, come
      back, my darling; and if you will not be so happy, at any rate you will be
      safe in the fold or with your companions; for if you who ought to keep and
      lead them, go wandering astray, what will become of them?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The goatherd's talk amused all who heard it, but especially the canon, who
      said to him, "As you live, brother, take it easy, and be not in such a
      hurry to drive this goat back to the fold; for, being a female, as you
      say, she will follow her natural instinct in spite of all you can do to
      prevent it. Take this morsel and drink a sup, and that will soothe your
      irritation, and in the meantime the goat will rest herself," and so
      saying, he handed him the loins of a cold rabbit on a fork.
    </p>
    <p>
      The goatherd took it with thanks, and drank and calmed himself, and then
      said, "I should be sorry if your worships were to take me for a simpleton
      for having spoken so seriously as I did to this animal; but the truth is
      there is a certain mystery in the words I used. I am a clown, but not so
      much of one but that I know how to behave to men and to beasts."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I can well believe," said the curate, "for I know already by
      experience that the woods breed men of learning, and shepherds' huts harbour
      philosophers."
    </p>
    <p>
      "At all events, senor," returned the goatherd, "they shelter men of
      experience; and that you may see the truth of this and grasp it, though I
      may seem to put myself forward without being asked, I will, if it will not
      tire you, gentlemen, and you will give me your attention for a little,
      tell you a true story which will confirm this gentleman's word (and he
      pointed to the curate) as well as my own."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this Don Quixote replied, "Seeing that this affair has a certain colour
      of chivalry about it, I for my part, brother, will hear you most gladly,
      and so will all these gentlemen, from the high intelligence they possess
      and their love of curious novelties that interest, charm, and entertain
      the mind, as I feel quite sure your story will do. So begin, friend, for
      we are all prepared to listen."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I draw my stakes," said Sancho, "and will retreat with this pasty to the
      brook there, where I mean to victual myself for three days; for I have
      heard my lord, Don Quixote, say that a knight-errant's squire should eat
      until he can hold no more, whenever he has the chance, because it often
      happens them to get by accident into a wood so thick that they cannot find
      a way out of it for six days; and if the man is not well filled or his
      alforjas well stored, there he may stay, as very often he does, turned
      into a dried mummy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art in the right of it, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "go where thou
      wilt and eat all thou canst, for I have had enough, and only want to give
      my mind its refreshment, as I shall by listening to this good fellow's
      story."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is what we shall all do," said the canon; and then begged the goatherd
      to begin the promised tale.
    </p>
    <p>
      The goatherd gave the goat which he held by the horns a couple of slaps on
      the back, saying, "Lie down here beside me, Spotty, for we have time
      enough to return to our fold." The goat seemed to understand him, for as
      her master seated himself, she stretched herself quietly beside him and
      looked up in his face to show him she was all attention to what he was
      going to say, and then in these words he began his story.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c50e" id="c50e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c50e.jpg (27K)" src="images/c50e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch51" id="ch51"></a>CHAPTER LI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH DEALS WITH WHAT THE GOATHERD TOLD THOSE WHO WERE CARRYING OFF DON
      QUIXOTE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c51a" id="c51a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c51a.jpg (115K)" src="images/c51a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c51a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Three leagues from this valley there is a village which, though small, is
      one of the richest in all this neighbourhood, and in it there lived a
      farmer, a very worthy man, and so much respected that, although to be so
      is the natural consequence of being rich, he was even more respected for
      his virtue than for the wealth he had acquired. But what made him still
      more fortunate, as he said himself, was having a daughter of such
      exceeding beauty, rare intelligence, gracefulness, and virtue, that
      everyone who knew her and beheld her marvelled at the extraordinary gifts
      with which heaven and nature had endowed her. As a child she was
      beautiful, she continued to grow in beauty, and at the age of sixteen she
      was most lovely. The fame of her beauty began to spread abroad through all
      the villages around&mdash;but why do I say the villages around, merely,
      when it spread to distant cities, and even made its way into the halls of
      royalty and reached the ears of people of every class, who came from all
      sides to see her as if to see something rare and curious, or some
      wonder-working image?
    </p>
    <p>
      Her father watched over her and she watched over herself; for there are no
      locks, or guards, or bolts that can protect a young girl better than her
      own modesty. The wealth of the father and the beauty of the daughter led
      many neighbours as well as strangers to seek her for a wife; but he, as
      one might well be who had the disposal of so rich a jewel, was perplexed
      and unable to make up his mind to which of her countless suitors he should
      entrust her. I was one among the many who felt a desire so natural, and,
      as her father knew who I was, and I was of the same town, of pure blood,
      in the bloom of life, and very rich in possessions, I had great hopes of
      success. There was another of the same place and qualifications who also
      sought her, and this made her father's choice hang in the balance, for he
      felt that on either of us his daughter would be well bestowed; so to
      escape from this state of perplexity he resolved to refer the matter to
      Leandra (for that is the name of the rich damsel who has reduced me to
      misery), reflecting that as we were both equal it would be best to leave
      it to his dear daughter to choose according to her inclination&mdash;a
      course that is worthy of imitation by all fathers who wish to settle their
      children in life. I do not mean that they ought to leave them to make a
      choice of what is contemptible and bad, but that they should place before
      them what is good and then allow them to make a good choice as they
      please. I do not know which Leandra chose; I only know her father put us
      both off with the tender age of his daughter and vague words that neither
      bound him nor dismissed us. My rival is called Anselmo and I myself
      Eugenio&mdash;that you may know the names of the personages that figure in
      this tragedy, the end of which is still in suspense, though it is plain to
      see it must be disastrous.
    </p>
    <p>
      About this time there arrived in our town one Vicente de la Roca, the son
      of a poor peasant of the same town, the said Vicente having returned from
      service as a soldier in Italy and divers other parts. A captain who
      chanced to pass that way with his company had carried him off from our
      village when he was a boy of about twelve years, and now twelve years
      later the young man came back in a soldier's uniform, arrayed in a
      thousand colours, and all over glass trinkets and fine steel chains.
      To-day he would appear in one gay dress, to-morrow in another; but all
      flimsy and gaudy, of little substance and less worth. The peasant folk,
      who are naturally malicious, and when they have nothing to do can be
      malice itself, remarked all this, and took note of his finery and
      jewellery, piece by piece, and discovered that he had three suits of
      different colours, with garters and stockings to match; but he made so
      many arrangements and combinations out of them, that if they had not
      counted them, anyone would have sworn that he had made a display of more
      than ten suits of clothes and twenty plumes. Do not look upon all this
      that I am telling you about the clothes as uncalled for or spun out, for
      they have a great deal to do with the story. He used to seat himself on a
      bench under the great poplar in our plaza, and there he would keep us all
      hanging open-mouthed on the stories he told us of his exploits. There was
      no country on the face of the globe he had not seen, nor battle he had not
      been engaged in; he had killed more Moors than there are in Morocco and
      Tunis, and fought more single combats, according to his own account, than
      Garcilaso, Diego Garcia de Paredes and a thousand others he named, and out
      of all he had come victorious without losing a drop of blood. On the other
      hand he showed marks of wounds, which, though they could not be made out,
      he said were gunshot wounds received in divers encounters and actions.
      Lastly, with monstrous impudence he used to say "you" to his equals and
      even those who knew what he was, and declare that his arm was his father
      and his deeds his pedigree, and that being a soldier he was as good as the
      king himself. And to add to these swaggering ways he was a trifle of a
      musician, and played the guitar with such a flourish that some said he
      made it speak; nor did his accomplishments end here, for he was something
      of a poet too, and on every trifle that happened in the town he made a
      ballad a league long.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c51b" id="c51b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c51b.jpg (372K)" src="images/c51b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c51b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      This soldier, then, that I have described, this Vicente de la Roca, this
      bravo, gallant, musician, poet, was often seen and watched by Leandra from
      a window of her house which looked out on the plaza. The glitter of his
      showy attire took her fancy, his ballads bewitched her (for he gave away
      twenty copies of every one he made), the tales of his exploits which he
      told about himself came to her ears; and in short, as the devil no doubt
      had arranged it, she fell in love with him before the presumption of
      making love to her had suggested itself to him; and as in love-affairs
      none are more easily brought to an issue than those which have the
      inclination of the lady for an ally, Leandra and Vicente came to an
      understanding without any difficulty; and before any of her numerous
      suitors had any suspicion of her design, she had already carried it into
      effect, having left the house of her dearly beloved father (for mother she
      had none), and disappeared from the village with the soldier, who came
      more triumphantly out of this enterprise than out of any of the large
      number he laid claim to. All the village and all who heard of it were
      amazed at the affair; I was aghast, Anselmo thunderstruck, her father full
      of grief, her relations indignant, the authorities all in a ferment, the
      officers of the Brotherhood in arms. They scoured the roads, they searched
      the woods and all quarters, and at the end of three days they found the
      flighty Leandra in a mountain cave, stript to her shift, and robbed of all
      the money and precious jewels she had carried away from home with her.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c51c" id="c51c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c51c.jpg (275K)" src="images/c51c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c51c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      They brought her back to her unhappy father, and questioned her as to her
      misfortune, and she confessed without pressure that Vicente de la Roca had
      deceived her, and under promise of marrying her had induced her to leave
      her father's house, as he meant to take her to the richest and most
      delightful city in the whole world, which was Naples; and that she,
      ill-advised and deluded, had believed him, and robbed her father, and
      handed over all to him the night she disappeared; and that he had carried
      her away to a rugged mountain and shut her up in the cave where they had
      found her. She said, moreover, that the soldier, without robbing her of
      her honour, had taken from her everything she had, and made off, leaving
      her in the cave, a thing that still further surprised everybody. It was
      not easy for us to credit the young man's continence, but she asserted it
      with such earnestness that it helped to console her distressed father, who
      thought nothing of what had been taken since the jewel that once lost can
      never be recovered had been left to his daughter. The same day that
      Leandra made her appearance her father removed her from our sight and took
      her away to shut her up in a convent in a town near this, in the hope that
      time may wear away some of the disgrace she has incurred. Leandra's youth
      furnished an excuse for her fault, at least with those to whom it was of
      no consequence whether she was good or bad; but those who knew her
      shrewdness and intelligence did not attribute her misdemeanour to
      ignorance but to wantonness and the natural disposition of women, which is
      for the most part flighty and ill-regulated.
    </p>
    <p>
      Leandra withdrawn from sight, Anselmo's eyes grew blind, or at any rate
      found nothing to look at that gave them any pleasure, and mine were in
      darkness without a ray of light to direct them to anything enjoyable while
      Leandra was away. Our melancholy grew greater, our patience grew less; we
      cursed the soldier's finery and railed at the carelessness of Leandra's
      father. At last Anselmo and I agreed to leave the village and come to this
      valley; and, he feeding a great flock of sheep of his own, and I a large
      herd of goats of mine, we pass our life among the trees, giving vent to
      our sorrows, together singing the fair Leandra's praises, or upbraiding
      her, or else sighing alone, and to heaven pouring forth our complaints in
      solitude. Following our example, many more of Leandra's lovers have come
      to these rude mountains and adopted our mode of life, and they are so
      numerous that one would fancy the place had been turned into the pastoral
      Arcadia, so full is it of shepherds and sheep-folds; nor is there a spot
      in it where the name of the fair Leandra is not heard. Here one curses her
      and calls her capricious, fickle, and immodest, there another condemns her
      as frail and frivolous; this pardons and absolves her, that spurns and
      reviles her; one extols her beauty, another assails her character, and in
      short all abuse her, and all adore her, and to such a pitch has this
      general infatuation gone that there are some who complain of her scorn
      without ever having exchanged a word with her, and even some that bewail
      and mourn the raging fever of jealousy, for which she never gave anyone
      cause, for, as I have already said, her misconduct was known before her
      passion. There is no nook among the rocks, no brookside, no shade beneath
      the trees that is not haunted by some shepherd telling his woes to the
      breezes; wherever there is an echo it repeats the name of Leandra; the
      mountains ring with "Leandra," "Leandra" murmur the brooks, and Leandra
      keeps us all bewildered and bewitched, hoping without hope and fearing
      without knowing what we fear. Of all this silly set the one that shows the
      least and also the most sense is my rival Anselmo, for having so many
      other things to complain of, he only complains of separation, and to the
      accompaniment of a rebeck, which he plays admirably, he sings his
      complaints in verses that show his ingenuity. I follow another, easier,
      and to my mind wiser course, and that is to rail at the frivolity of
      women, at their inconstancy, their double dealing, their broken promises,
      their unkept pledges, and in short the want of reflection they show in
      fixing their affections and inclinations. This, sirs, was the reason of
      words and expressions I made use of to this goat when I came up just now;
      for as she is a female I have a contempt for her, though she is the best
      in all my fold. This is the story I promised to tell you, and if I have
      been tedious in telling it, I will not be slow to serve you; my hut is
      close by, and I have fresh milk and dainty cheese there, as well as a
      variety of toothsome fruit, no less pleasing to the eye than to the
      palate.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c51e" id="c51e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c51e.jpg (14K)" src="images/c51e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      " <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch52" id="ch52"></a>CHAPTER LII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE QUARREL THAT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE GOATHERD, TOGETHER WITH THE
      RARE ADVENTURE OF THE PENITENTS, WHICH WITH AN EXPENDITURE OF SWEAT HE
      BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="c52a" id="c52a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c52a.jpg (40K)" src="images/c52a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c52a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The goatherd's tale gave great satisfaction to all the hearers, and the
      canon especially enjoyed it, for he had remarked with particular attention
      the manner in which it had been told, which was as unlike the manner of a
      clownish goatherd as it was like that of a polished city wit; and he
      observed that the curate had been quite right in saying that the woods
      bred men of learning. They all offered their services to Eugenio but he
      who showed himself most liberal in this way was Don Quixote, who said to
      him, "Most assuredly, brother goatherd, if I found myself in a position to
      attempt any adventure, I would, this very instant, set out on your behalf,
      and would rescue Leandra from that convent (where no doubt she is kept
      against her will), in spite of the abbess and all who might try to prevent
      me, and would place her in your hands to deal with her according to your
      will and pleasure, observing, however, the laws of chivalry which lay down
      that no violence of any kind is to be offered to any damsel. But I trust
      in God our Lord that the might of one malignant enchanter may not prove so
      great but that the power of another better disposed may prove superior to
      it, and then I promise you my support and assistance, as I am bound to do
      by my profession, which is none other than to give aid to the weak and
      needy."
    </p>
    <p>
      The goatherd eyed him, and noticing Don Quixote's sorry appearance and
      looks, he was filled with wonder, and asked the barber, who was next him,
      "Senor, who is this man who makes such a figure and talks in such a
      strain?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who should it be," said the barber, "but the famous Don Quixote of La
      Mancha, the undoer of injustice, the righter of wrongs, the protector of
      damsels, the terror of giants, and the winner of battles?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That," said the goatherd, "sounds like what one reads in the books of the
      knights-errant, who did all that you say this man does; though it is my
      belief that either you are joking, or else this gentleman has empty
      lodgings in his head."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are a great scoundrel," said Don Quixote, "and it is you who are
      empty and a fool. I am fuller than ever was the whoreson bitch that bore
      you;" and passing from words to deeds, he caught up a loaf that was near
      him and sent it full in the goatherd's face, with such force that he
      flattened his nose; but the goatherd, who did not understand jokes, and
      found himself roughly handled in such good earnest, paying no respect to
      carpet, tablecloth, or diners, sprang upon Don Quixote, and seizing him by
      the throat with both hands would no doubt have throttled him, had not
      Sancho Panza that instant come to the rescue, and grasping him by the
      shoulders flung him down on the table, smashing plates, breaking glasses,
      and upsetting and scattering everything on it. Don Quixote, finding
      himself free, strove to get on top of the goatherd, who, with his face
      covered with blood, and soundly kicked by Sancho, was on all fours feeling
      about for one of the table-knives to take a bloody revenge with. The canon
      and the curate, however, prevented him, but the barber so contrived it
      that he got Don Quixote under him, and rained down upon him such a shower
      of fisticuffs that the poor knight's face streamed with blood as freely as
      his own. The canon and the curate were bursting with laughter, the
      officers were capering with delight, and both the one and the other hissed
      them on as they do dogs that are worrying one another in a fight. Sancho
      alone was frantic, for he could not free himself from the grasp of one of
      the canon's servants, who kept him from going to his master's assistance.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c52b" id="c52b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c52b.jpg (348K)" src="images/c52b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c52b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      At last, while they were all, with the exception of the two bruisers who
      were mauling each other, in high glee and enjoyment, they heard a trumpet
      sound a note so doleful that it made them all look in the direction whence
      the sound seemed to come. But the one that was most excited by hearing it
      was Don Quixote, who though sorely against his will he was under the
      goatherd, and something more than pretty well pummelled, said to him,
      "Brother devil (for it is impossible but that thou must be one since thou
      hast had might and strength enough to overcome mine), I ask thee to agree
      to a truce for but one hour for the solemn note of yonder trumpet that
      falls on our ears seems to me to summon me to some new adventure." The
      goatherd, who was by this time tired of pummelling and being pummelled,
      released him at once, and Don Quixote rising to his feet and turning his
      eyes to the quarter where the sound had been heard, suddenly saw coming
      down the slope of a hill several men clad in white like penitents.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fact was that the clouds had that year withheld their moisture from
      the earth, and in all the villages of the district they were organising
      processions, rogations, and penances, imploring God to open the hands of
      his mercy and send the rain; and to this end the people of a village that
      was hard by were going in procession to a holy hermitage there was on one
      side of that valley. Don Quixote when he saw the strange garb of the
      penitents, without reflecting how often he had seen it before, took it
      into his head that this was a case of adventure, and that it fell to him
      alone as a knight-errant to engage in it; and he was all the more
      confirmed in this notion, by the idea that an image draped in black they
      had with them was some illustrious lady that these villains and
      discourteous thieves were carrying off by force. As soon as this occurred
      to him he ran with all speed to Rocinante who was grazing at large, and
      taking the bridle and the buckler from the saddle-bow, he had him bridled
      in an instant, and calling to Sancho for his sword he mounted Rocinante,
      braced his buckler on his arm, and in a loud voice exclaimed to those who
      stood by, "Now, noble company, ye shall see how important it is that there
      should be knights in the world professing the order of knight-errantry; now, I
      say, ye shall see, by the deliverance of that worthy lady who is borne
      captive there, whether knights-errant deserve to be held in estimation,"
      and so saying he brought his legs to bear on Rocinante&mdash;for he had no
      spurs&mdash;and at a full canter (for in all this veracious history we
      never read of Rocinante fairly galloping) set off to encounter the
      penitents, though the curate, the canon, and the barber ran to prevent
      him. But it was out of their power, nor did he even stop for the shouts of
      Sancho calling after him, "Where are you going, Senor Don Quixote? What
      devils have possessed you to set you on against our Catholic faith? Plague
      take me! mind, that is a procession of penitents, and the lady they are
      carrying on that stand there is the blessed image of the immaculate
      Virgin. Take care what you are doing, senor, for this time it may be
      safely said you don't know what you are about." Sancho laboured in vain,
      for his master was so bent on coming to quarters with these sheeted
      figures and releasing the lady in black that he did not hear a word; and
      even had he heard, he would not have turned back if the king had ordered
      him. He came up with the procession and reined in Rocinante, who was
      already anxious enough to slacken speed a little, and in a hoarse, excited
      voice he exclaimed, "You who hide your faces, perhaps because you are not
      good subjects, pay attention and listen to what I am about to say to you."
      The first to halt were those who were carrying the image, and one of the
      four ecclesiastics who were chanting the Litany, struck by the strange
      figure of Don Quixote, the leanness of Rocinante, and the other ludicrous
      peculiarities he observed, said in reply to him, "Brother, if you have
      anything to say to us say it quickly, for these brethren are whipping
      themselves, and we cannot stop, nor is it reasonable we should stop to
      hear anything, unless indeed it is short enough to be said in two words."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will say it in one," replied Don Quixote, "and it is this; that at
      once, this very instant, ye release that fair lady whose tears and sad
      aspect show plainly that ye are carrying her off against her will, and
      that ye have committed some scandalous outrage against her; and I, who was
      born into the world to redress all such like wrongs, will not permit you
      to advance another step until you have restored to her the liberty she
      pines for and deserves."
    </p>
    <p>
      From these words all the hearers concluded that he must be a madman, and
      began to laugh heartily, and their laughter acted like gunpowder on Don
      Quixote's fury, for drawing his sword without another word he made a rush
      at the stand. One of those who supported it, leaving the burden to his
      comrades, advanced to meet him, flourishing a forked stick that he had for
      propping up the stand when resting, and with this he caught a mighty cut
      Don Quixote made at him that severed it in two; but with the portion that
      remained in his hand he dealt such a thwack on the shoulder of Don
      Quixote's sword arm (which the buckler could not protect against the
      clownish assault) that poor Don Quixote came to the ground in a sad
      plight.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho Panza, who was coming on close behind puffing and blowing, seeing
      him fall, cried out to his assailant not to strike him again, for he was a
      poor enchanted knight, who had never harmed anyone all the days of his
      life; but what checked the clown was, not Sancho's shouting, but seeing
      that Don Quixote did not stir hand or foot; and so, fancying he had killed
      him, he hastily hitched up his tunic under his girdle and took to his
      heels across the country like a deer.
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time all Don Quixote's companions had come up to where he lay; but
      the processionists seeing them come running, and with them the officers of
      the Brotherhood with their crossbows, apprehended mischief, and clustering
      round the image, raised their hoods, and grasped their scourges, as the
      priests did their tapers, and awaited the attack, resolved to defend
      themselves and even to take the offensive against their assailants if they
      could. Fortune, however, arranged the matter better than they expected,
      for all Sancho did was to fling himself on his master's body, raising over
      him the most doleful and laughable lamentation that ever was heard, for he
      believed he was dead. The curate was known to another curate who walked in
      the procession, and their recognition of one another set at rest the
      apprehensions of both parties; the first then told the other in two words
      who Don Quixote was, and he and the whole troop of penitents went to see
      if the poor gentleman was dead, and heard Sancho Panza saying, with tears
      in his eyes, "Oh flower of chivalry, that with one blow of a stick hast
      ended the course of thy well-spent life! Oh pride of thy race, honour and
      glory of all La Mancha, nay, of all the world, that for want of thee will
      be full of evil-doers, no longer in fear of punishment for their misdeeds!
      Oh thou, generous above all the Alexanders, since for only eight months of
      service thou hast given me the best island the sea girds or surrounds!
      Humble with the proud, haughty with the humble, encounterer of dangers,
      endurer of outrages, enamoured without reason, imitator of the good,
      scourge of the wicked, enemy of the mean, in short, knight-errant, which
      is all that can be said!"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="c52c" id="c52c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c52c.jpg (325K)" src="images/c52c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/c52c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      At the cries and moans of Sancho, Don Quixote came to himself, and the
      first word he said was, "He who lives separated from you, sweetest
      Dulcinea, has greater miseries to endure than these. Aid me, friend
      Sancho, to mount the enchanted cart, for I am not in a condition to press
      the saddle of Rocinante, as this shoulder is all knocked to pieces."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I will do with all my heart, senor," said Sancho; "and let us return
      to our village with these gentlemen, who seek your good, and there we will
      prepare for making another sally, which may turn out more profitable and
      creditable to us."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art right, Sancho," returned Don Quixote; "It will be wise to let
      the malign influence of the stars which now prevails pass off."
    </p>
    <p>
      The canon, the curate, and the barber told him he would act very wisely in
      doing as he said; and so, highly amused at Sancho Panza's simplicities,
      they placed Don Quixote in the cart as before. The procession once more
      formed itself in order and proceeded on its road; the goatherd took his
      leave of the party; the officers of the Brotherhood declined to go any
      farther, and the curate paid them what was due to them; the canon begged
      the curate to let him know how Don Quixote did, whether he was cured of
      his madness or still suffered from it, and then begged leave to continue
      his journey; in short, they all separated and went their ways, leaving to
      themselves the curate and the barber, Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and the
      good Rocinante, who regarded everything with as great resignation as his
      master. The carter yoked his oxen and made Don Quixote comfortable on a
      truss of hay, and at his usual deliberate pace took the road the curate
      directed, and at the end of six days they reached Don Quixote's village,
      and entered it about the middle of the day, which it so happened was a
      Sunday, and the people were all in the plaza, through which Don Quixote's
      cart passed. They all flocked to see what was in the cart, and when they
      recognised their townsman they were filled with amazement, and a boy ran
      off to bring the news to his housekeeper and his niece that their master
      and uncle had come back all lean and yellow and stretched on a truss of
      hay on an ox-cart. It was piteous to hear the cries the two good ladies
      raised, how they beat their breasts and poured out fresh maledictions on
      those accursed books of chivalry; all which was renewed when they saw Don
      Quixote coming in at the gate.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the news of Don Quixote's arrival Sancho Panza's wife came running, for
      she by this time knew that her husband had gone away with him as his
      squire, and on seeing Sancho, the first thing she asked him was if the ass
      was well. Sancho replied that he was, better than his master was.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thanks be to God," said she, "for being so good to me; but now tell me,
      my friend, what have you made by your squirings? What gown have you
      brought me back? What shoes for your children?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I bring nothing of that sort, wife," said Sancho; "though I bring other
      things of more consequence and value."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am very glad of that," returned his wife; "show me these things of more
      value and consequence, my friend; for I want to see them to cheer my heart
      that has been so sad and heavy all these ages that you have been away."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will show them to you at home, wife," said Sancho; "be content for the
      present; for if it please God that we should again go on our travels in
      search of adventures, you will soon see me a count, or governor of an
      island, and that not one of those everyday ones, but the best that is to
      be had."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Heaven grant it, husband," said she, "for indeed we have need of it. But
      tell me, what's this about islands, for I don't understand it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Honey is not for the mouth of the ass," returned Sancho; "all in good
      time thou shalt see, wife&mdash;nay, thou wilt be surprised to hear
      thyself called 'your ladyship' by all thy vassals."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What are you talking about, Sancho, with your ladyships, islands, and
      vassals?" returned Teresa Panza&mdash;for so Sancho's wife was called,
      though they were not relations, for in La Mancha it is customary for wives
      to take their husbands' surnames.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Don't be in such a hurry to know all this, Teresa," said Sancho; "it is
      enough that I am telling you the truth, so shut your mouth. But I may tell
      you this much by the way, that there is nothing in the world more
      delightful than to be a person of consideration, squire to a
      knight-errant, and a seeker of adventures. To be sure most of those one
      finds do not end as pleasantly as one could wish, for out of a hundred,
      ninety-nine will turn out cross and contrary. I know it by experience, for
      out of some I came blanketed, and out of others belaboured. Still, for all
      that, it is a fine thing to be on the look-out for what may happen,
      crossing mountains, searching woods, climbing rocks, visiting castles,
      putting up at inns, all at free quarters, and devil take the maravedi to
      pay."
    </p>
    <p>
      While this conversation passed between Sancho Panza and his wife, Don
      Quixote's housekeeper and niece took him in and undressed him and laid him
      in his old bed. He eyed them askance, and could not make out where he was.
      The curate charged his niece to be very careful to make her uncle
      comfortable and to keep a watch over him lest he should make his escape
      from them again, telling her what they had been obliged to do to bring him
      home. On this the pair once more lifted up their voices and renewed their
      maledictions upon the books of chivalry, and implored heaven to plunge the
      authors of such lies and nonsense into the midst of the bottomless pit.
      They were, in short, kept in anxiety and dread lest their uncle and master
      should give them the slip the moment he found himself somewhat better, and
      as they feared so it fell out.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the author of this history, though he has devoted research and
      industry to the discovery of the deeds achieved by Don Quixote in his
      third sally, has been unable to obtain any information respecting them, at
      any rate derived from authentic documents; tradition has merely preserved
      in the memory of La Mancha the fact that Don Quixote, the third time he
      sallied forth from his home, betook himself to Saragossa, where he was
      present at some famous jousts which came off in that city, and that he had
      adventures there worthy of his valour and high intelligence. Of his end
      and death he could learn no particulars, nor would he have ascertained it
      or known of it, if good fortune had not produced an old physician for him
      who had in his possession a leaden box, which, according to his account,
      had been discovered among the crumbling foundations of an ancient
      hermitage that was being rebuilt; in which box were found certain
      parchment manuscripts in Gothic character, but in Castilian verse,
      containing many of his achievements, and setting forth the beauty of
      Dulcinea, the form of Rocinante, the fidelity of Sancho Panza, and the
      burial of Don Quixote himself, together with sundry epitaphs and eulogies
      on his life and character; but all that could be read and deciphered were
      those which the trustworthy author of this new and unparalleled history
      here presents. And the said author asks of those that shall read it
      nothing in return for the vast toil which it has cost him in examining and
      searching the Manchegan archives in order to bring it to light, save that
      they give him the same credit that people of sense give to the books of
      chivalry that pervade the world and are so popular; for with this he will
      consider himself amply paid and fully satisfied, and will be encouraged to
      seek out and produce other histories, if not as truthful, at least equal
      in invention and not less entertaining. The first words written on the
      parchment found in the leaden box were these:
    </p>
    <p>
      THE ACADEMICIANS OF<br /> ARGAMASILLA, A VILLAGE OF<br /> LA MANCHA,<br /> ON
      THE LIFE AND DEATH<br /> OF DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA,<br /> HOC SCRIPSERUNT<br />
      MONICONGO, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,<br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">




          ON THE TOMB OF DON QUIXOTE


EPITAPH

The scatterbrain that gave La Mancha more
  Rich spoils than Jason's; who a point so keen
  Had to his wit, and happier far had been
If his wit's weathercock a blunter bore;
The arm renowned far as Gaeta's shore,
  Cathay, and all the lands that lie between;
  The muse discreet and terrible in mien
As ever wrote on brass in days of yore;
He who surpassed the Amadises all,
  And who as naught the Galaors accounted,
    Supported by his love and gallantry:
Who made the Belianises sing small,
  And sought renown on Rocinante mounted;
    Here, underneath this cold stone, doth he lie.



PANIAGUADO,
ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,
IN LAUDEM DULCINEAE DEL TOBOSO

SONNET

She, whose full features may be here descried,
  High-bosomed, with a bearing of disdain,
  Is Dulcinea, she for whom in vain
The great Don Quixote of La Mancha sighed.
For her, Toboso's queen, from side to side
  He traversed the grim sierra, the champaign
  Of Aranjuez, and Montiel's famous plain:
On Rocinante oft a weary ride.
Malignant planets, cruel destiny,
  Pursued them both, the fair Manchegan dame,
And the unconquered star of chivalry.
  Nor youth nor beauty saved her from the claim
Of death; he paid love's bitter penalty,
  And left the marble to preserve his name.



CAPRICHOSO, A MOST ACUTE ACADEMICIAN
OF ARGAMASILLA, IN PRAISE OF ROCINANTE,
STEED OF DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA

SONNET

On that proud throne of diamantine sheen,
  Which the blood-reeking feet of Mars degrade,
The mad Manchegan's banner now hath been
  By him in all its bravery displayed.
  There hath he hung his arms and trenchant blade
Wherewith, achieving deeds till now unseen,
  He slays, lays low, cleaves, hews; but art hath made
A novel style for our new paladin.
If Amadis be the proud boast of Gaul,
  If by his progeny the fame of Greece
    Through all the regions of the earth be spread,
Great Quixote crowned in grim Bellona's hall
  To-day exalts La Mancha over these,
    And above Greece or Gaul she holds her head.
Nor ends his glory here, for his good steed
Doth Brillador and Bayard far exceed;
As mettled steeds compared with Rocinante,
The reputation they have won is scanty.




BURLADOR, ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,
ON SANCHO PANZA

SONNET

  The worthy Sancho Panza here you see;
    A great soul once was in that body small,
    Nor was there squire upon this earthly ball
So plain and simple, or of guile so free.
Within an ace of being Count was he,
    And would have been but for the spite and gall
    Of this vile age, mean and illiberal,
That cannot even let a donkey be.
For mounted on an ass (excuse the word),
    By Rocinante's side this gentle squire
      Was wont his wandering master to attend.
Delusive hopes that lure the common herd
    With promises of ease, the heart's desire,
      In shadows, dreams, and smoke ye always end.




CACHIDIABLO,
ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,
ON THE TOMB OF DON QUIXOTE
EPITAPH

The knight lies here below,
  Ill-errant and bruised sore,
  Whom Rocinante bore
In his wanderings to and fro.
By the side of the knight is laid
  Stolid man Sancho too,
  Than whom a squire more true
Was not in the esquire trade.




            TIQUITOC,
   ACADEMICIAN OF ARGAMASILLA,
ON THE TOMB OF DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO

           EPITAPH
Here Dulcinea lies.
  Plump was she and robust:
  Now she is ashes and dust:
The end of all flesh that dies.
A lady of high degree,
  With the port of a lofty dame,
  And the great Don Quixote's flame,
And the pride of her village was she.
</pre>
    <p>
      These were all the verses that could be deciphered; the rest, the writing
      being worm-eaten, were handed over to one of the Academicians to make out
      their meaning conjecturally. We have been informed that at the cost of
      many sleepless nights and much toil he has succeeded, and that he means to
      publish them in hopes of Don Quixote's third sally.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>"Forse altro cantera con miglior plettro."</i> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
      <a name="c52e" id="c52e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="c52e.jpg (54K)" src="images/c52e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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