summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
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      THE HISTORY OF DON QUIXOTE, By Cervantes, Volume II
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    <h1>
      DON QUIXOTE
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<pre xml:space="preserve">

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The History of Don Quixote, Volume II.,
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, Volume II., Complete

Author: Miguel de Cervantes

Release Date: July 26, 2004 [EBook #5946]
Last Updated: October 19, 2012

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DON QUIXOTE, VOL. II. ***




Produced by David Widger





</pre>
    <div class="mynote">
      <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/5946/old/orig5946-h/main.htm"> <i>LINK
      TO THE ORIGINAL HTML FILE: This Ebook Has Been Reformatted For Better
      Appearance In Mobile Viewers Such As Kindles And Others. The Original
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    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      DON QUIXOTE
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      by Miguel de Cervantes
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      Volume II
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      Translated by John Ormsby
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="bookcover.jpg (230K)" src="images/bookcover.jpg" width="100%" />
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      <a href="images/bookcover.jpg"><img alt="Full Size"
      src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
      <br />
    </p>
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      <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>
    <h3>
      Ebook Editor's Note
    </h3>
    <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
        "Enlarge" 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>
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      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      CONTENTS
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><a href="#ch1b">CHAPTER I</a> OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND
      THE BARBER HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE ABOUT HIS MALADY <br /><br /><a href="#ch2b">CHAPTER
      II</a> WHICH TREATS OF THE NOTABLE ALTERCATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HAD WITH
      DON QUIXOTE'S NIECE, AND HOUSEKEEPER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER DROLLMATTERS
      <br /><br /><a href="#ch3b">CHAPTER III</a> OF THE LAUGHABLE CONVERSATION
      THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE, SANCHO PANZA, AND THE BACHELOR SAMSON
      CARRASCO <br /><br /><a href="#ch4b">CHAPTER IV</a> IN WHICH SANCHO PANZA
      GIVES A SATISFACTORY REPLY TO THE DOUBTS AND QUESTIONS OF THE BACHELOR
      SAMSON CARRASCO, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTH KNOWING AND TELLING
      <br /><br /><a href="#ch5b">CHAPTER V</a> OF THE SHREWD AND DROLL
      CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA,
      AND OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF BEING DULY RECORDED <br /><br /><a href="#ch6b">CHAPTER
      VI</a> OF WHAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS NIECE AND
      HOUSEKEEPER; ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTERS IN THE WHOLE HISTORY <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch7b">CHAPTER VII</a> OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS
      SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER VERY NOTABLE INCIDENTS <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch8b">CHAPTER VIII</a> WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE
      ON HIS WAY TO SEE HIS LADY DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO <br /><br /><a href="#ch9b">CHAPTER
      IX</a> WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT WILL BE SEEN THERE <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch10b">CHAPTER X</a> WHEREIN IS RELATED THE CRAFTY DEVICE SANCHO
      ADOPTED TO ENCHANT THE LADY DULCINEA, AND OTHER INCIDENTS AS LUDICROUS AS
      THEY ARE TRUE <br /><br /><a href="#ch11b">CHAPTER XI</a> OF THE STRANGE
      ADVENTURE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE CAR OR CART OF "THE
      CORTES OF DEATH" <br /><br /><a href="#ch12b">CHAPTER XII</a> OF THE STRANGE
      ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE WITH THE BOLD KNIGHT OF THE
      MIRRORS <br /><br /><a href="#ch13b">CHAPTER XIII</a> IN WHICH IS CONTINUED
      THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE, TOGETHER WITH THE SENSIBLE,
      ORIGINAL, AND TRANQUIL COLLOQUY THAT PASSED BETWEEN THE TWO SQUIRES <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch14b">CHAPTER XIV</a> WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE
      KNIGHT OF THE GROVE <br /><br /><a href="#ch15b">CHAPTER XV</a> WHEREIN IT
      IS TOLD AND KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS AND HIS SQUIRE WERE <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch16b">CHAPTER XVI</a> OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET
      GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA <br /><br /><a href="#ch17b">CHAPTER XVII</a> WHEREIN
      IS SHOWN THE FURTHEST AND HIGHEST POINT WHICH THE UNEXAMPLEDCOURAGE OF DON
      QUIXOTE REACHED OR COULD REACH; TOGETHER WITH THE HAPPILY ACHIEVED
      ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS <br /><br /><a href="#ch18b">CHAPTER XVIII</a> OF
      WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE OR HOUSE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE
      GREEN GABAN, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS OUT OF THE COMMON <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch19b">CHAPTER XIX</a> IN WHICH IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE
      ENAMOURED SHEPHERD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER TRULY DROLL INCIDENTS <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch20b">CHAPTER XX</a> WHEREIN AN ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF THE WEDDING OF
      CAMACHO THE RICH, TOGETHER WITH THE INCIDENT OF BASILIO THE POOR <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch21b">CHAPTER XXI</a> IN WHICH CAMACHO'S WEDDING IS CONTINUED,
      WITH OTHER DELIGHTFUL INCIDENTS <br /><br /><a href="#ch22b">CHAPTER XXII</a>
      WHERIN IS RELATED THE GRAND ADVENTURE OF THE CAVE OF MONTESINOS IN THE
      HEART OF LA MANCHA, WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY
      TERMINATION <br /><br /><a href="#ch23b">CHAPTER XXIII</a> OF THE WONDERFUL
      THINGS THE INCOMPARABLE DON QUIXOTE SAID HE SAW IN THE PROFOUND CAVE OF
      MONTESINOS, THE IMPOSSIBILITY AND MAGNITUDE OF WHICH CAUSE THIS ADVENTURE
      TO BE DEEMED APOCRYPHAL <br /><br /><a href="#ch24b">CHAPTER XXIV</a>
      WHEREIN ARE RELATED A THOUSAND TRIFLING MATTERS, AS TRIVIAL AS THEY ARE
      NECESSARY TO THE RIGHT UNDERSTANDING OF THIS GREAT HISTORY <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch25b">CHAPTER XXV</a> WHEREIN IS SET DOWN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE,
      AND THE DROLL ONE OF THE PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER WITH THE MEMORABLE
      DIVINATIONS OF THE DIVINING APE <br /><br /><a href="#ch26b">CHAPTER XXVI</a>
      WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE DROLL ADVENTURE OF THE PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER
      WITH OTHER THINGS IN TRUTH RIGHT GOOD <br /><br /><a href="#ch27b">CHAPTER
      XXVII</a> WHEREIN IT IS SHOWN WHO MASTER PEDRO AND HIS APE WERE, TOGETHER
      WITH THE MISHAP DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, WHICH HE DID NOT
      CONCLUDE AS HE WOULD HAVE LIKED OR AS HE HAD EXPECTED <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch28b">CHAPTER XXVIII</a> OF MATTERS THAT BENENGELI SAYS HE WHO
      READS THEM WILL KNOW, IF HE READS THEM WITH ATTENTION <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch29b">CHAPTER XXIX</a> OF THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED
      BARK <br /><br /><a href="#ch30b">CHAPTER XXX</a> OF DON QUIXOTE'S ADVENTURE
      WITH A FAIR HUNTRESS <br /><br /><a href="#ch31b">CHAPTER XXXI</a> WHICH
      TREATS OF MANY AND GREAT MATTERS <br /><br /><a href="#ch32b">CHAPTER XXXII</a>
      OF THE REPLY DON QUIXOTE GAVE HIS CENSURER, WITH OTHER INCIDENTS, GRAVE
      AND DROLL <br /><br /><a href="#ch33b">CHAPTER XXXIII</a> OF THE DELECTABLE
      DISCOURSE WHICH THE DUCHESS AND HER DAMSELS HELD WITH SANCHO PANZA, WELL
      WORTH READING AND NOTING <br /><br /><a href="#ch34b">CHAPTER XXXIV</a>
      WHICH RELATES HOW THEY LEARNED THE WAY IN WHICH THEY WERE TO DISENCHANT
      THE PEERLESS DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO, WHICH IS ONE OF THE RAREST ADVENTURES IN
      THIS BOOK <br /><br /><a href="#ch35b">CHAPTER XXXV</a> WHEREIN IS CONTINUED
      THE INSTRUCTION GIVEN TO DON QUIXOTE TOUCHING THE DISENCHANTMENT OF
      DULCINEA, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MARVELLOUS INCIDENTS <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch36b">CHAPTER XXXVI</a> WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE AND
      UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED DUENNA, ALIAS THE COUNTESS
      TRIFALDI, TOGETHER WITH A LETTER WHICH SANCHO PANZA WROTE TO HIS WIFE,
      TERESA PANZA <br /><br /><a href="#ch37b">CHAPTER XXXVII</a> WHEREIN IS
      CONTINUED THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED DUENNA <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch38b">CHAPTER XXXVIII</a> WHEREIN IS TOLD THE DISTRESSED DUENNA'S
      TALE OF HER MISFORTUNES <br /><br /><a href="#ch39b">CHAPTER XXXIX</a> IN
      WHICH THE TRIFALDI CONTINUES HER MARVELLOUS AND MEMORABLE STORY <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch40b">CHAPTER XL</a> OF MATTERS RELATING AND BELONGING TO THIS
      ADVENTURE AND TO THIS MEMORABLE HISTORY <br /><br /><a href="#ch41b">CHAPTER
      XLI</a> OF THE ARRIVAL OF CLAVILENO AND THE END OF THIS PROTRACTED
      ADVENTURE <br /><br /><a href="#ch42b">CHAPTER XLII</a> OF THE COUNSELS
      WHICH DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO PANZA BEFORE HE SET OUT TO GOVERN THE
      ISLAND, TOGETHER WITH OTHER WELL-CONSIDERED MATTERS <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch43b">CHAPTER XLIII</a> OF THE SECOND SET OF COUNSELS DON QUIXOTE
      GAVE SANCHO PANZA <br /><br /><a href="#ch44b">CHAPTER XLIV</a> HOW SANCHO
      PANZA WAS CONDUCTED TO HIS GOVERNMENT, AND OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE THAT
      BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE <br /><br /><a href="#ch45b">CHAPTER XLV</a>
      OF HOW THE GREAT SANCHO PANZA TOOK POSSESSION OF HIS ISLAND, AND OF HOW HE
      MADE A BEGINNING IN GOVERNING <br /><br /><a href="#ch46b">CHAPTER XLVI</a>
      OF THE TERRIBLE BELL AND CAT FRIGHT THAT DON QUIXOTE GOT IN THE COURSE OF
      THE ENAMOURED ALTISIDORA'S WOOING <br /><br /><a href="#ch47b">CHAPTER XLVII</a>
      WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ACCOUNT OF HOW SANCHO PANZA CONDUCTED HIMSELF IN
      HIS GOVERNMENT <br /><br /><a href="#ch48b">CHAPTER XLVIII</a> OF WHAT
      BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH DONA RODRIGUEZ, THE DUCHESS'S DUENNA, TOGETHER
      WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTHY OF RECORD AND ETERNAL REMEMBRANCE <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch49b">CHAPTER XLIX</a> OF WHAT HAPPENED SANCHO IN MAKING THE ROUND
      OF HIS ISLAND <br /><br /><a href="#ch50b">CHAPTER L</a> WHEREIN IS SET
      FORTH WHO THE ENCHANTERS AND EXECUTIONERS WERE WHO FLOGGED THE DUENNA AND
      PINCHED DON QUIXOTE, AND ALSO WHAT BEFELL THE PAGE WHO CARRIED THE LETTER
      TO TERESA PANZA, SANCHO PANZA'S WIFE <br /><br /><a href="#ch51b">CHAPTER LI</a>
      OF THE PROGRESS OF SANCHO'S GOVERNMENT, AND OTHER SUCH ENTERTAINING
      MATTERS <br /><br /><a href="#ch52b">CHAPTER LII</a> WHEREIN IS RELATED THE
      ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND DISTRESSED OR AFFLICTED DUENNA, OTHERWISE CALLED
      DONA RODRIGUEZ <br /><br /><a href="#ch53b">CHAPTER LIII</a> OF THE
      TROUBLOUS END AND TERMINATION SANCHO PANZA'S GOVERNMENT CAME TO <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch54b">CHAPTER LIV</a> WHICH DEALS WITH MATTERS RELATING TO THIS
      HISTORY AND NO OTHER <br /><br /><a href="#ch55b">CHAPTER LV</a> OF WHAT
      BEFELL SANCHO ON THE ROAD, AND OTHER THINGS THAT CANNOT BE SURPASSED <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch56b">CHAPTER LVI</a> OF THE PRODIGIOUS AND UNPARALLELED BATTLE
      THAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA AND THE LACQUEY TOSILOS
      IN DEFENCE OF THE DAUGHTER OF DONA RODRIGUEZ <br /><br /><a href="#ch57b">CHAPTER
      LVII</a> WHICH TREATS OF HOW DON QUIXOTE TOOK LEAVE OF THE DUKE, AND OF
      WHAT FOLLOWED WITH THE WITTY AND IMPUDENT ALTISIDORA, ONE OF THE DUCHESS'S
      DAMSELS <br /><br /><a href="#ch58b">CHAPTER LVIII</a> WHICH TELLS HOW
      ADVENTURES CAME CROWDING ON DON QUIXOTE IN SUCH NUMBERS THAT THEY GAVE ONE
      ANOTHER NO BREATHING-TIME <br /><br /><a href="#ch59b">CHAPTER LIX</a>
      WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE THING, WHICH MAY BE REGARDED AS AN
      ADVENTURE, THAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE <br /><br /><a href="#ch60b">CHAPTER LX</a>
      OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO BARCELONA <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch61b">CHAPTER LXI</a> OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON ENTERING
      BARCELONA, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS THAT PARTAKE OF THE TRUE RATHER
      THAN OF THE INGENIOUS <br /><br /><a href="#ch62b">CHAPTER LXII</a> WHICH DEALS WITH THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED HEAD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
      TRIVIAL MATTERS WHICH CANNOT BE LEFT UNTOLD<br /><br /><a href="#ch63b">CHAPTER LXIII</a> OF THE MISHAP THAT BEFELL SANCHO PANZA THROUGH THE VISIT TO THE GALLEYS,
      AND THE STRANGE ADVENTURE OF THE FAIR MORISCO
<br /><br /><a href="#ch64b">CHAPTER LXIV</a> TREATING OF THE ADVENTURE WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE MORE UNHAPPINESS THAN ALL THAT HAD HITHERTO BEFALLEN HIM
<br /><br /><a href="#ch65b">CHAPTER
      LXV</a> WHEREIN IS MADE KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON WAS; LIKEWISE DON
      GREGORIO'S RELEASE, AND OTHER EVENTS
<br /><br /><a href="#ch66b">CHAPTER LXVI</a> WHICH TREATS OF WHAT HE WHO READS WILL SEE, OR WHAT HE WHO HAS IT READ TO HIM WILL HEAR<br /><br /><a
      href="#ch67b">CHAPTER LXVII</a> OF THE RESOLUTION DON QUIXOTE FORMED TO
      TURN SHEPHERD AND TAKE TO A LIFE IN THE FIELDS WHILE THE YEAR FOR WHICH HE
      HAD GIVEN HIS WORD WAS RUNNING ITS COURSE; WITH OTHER EVENTS TRULY
      DELECTABLE AND HAPPY <br /><br /><a href="#ch68b">CHAPTER LXVIII</a> OF THE
      BRISTLY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE <br /><br /><a href="#ch69b">CHAPTER
      LXIX</a> OF THE STRANGEST AND MOST EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON
      QUIXOTE IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF THIS GREAT HISTORY <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch70b">CHAPTER LXX</a> WHICH FOLLOWS SIXTY-NINE AND DEALS WITH
      MATTERS INDISPENSABLE FOR THE CLEAR COMPREHENSION OF THIS HISTORY <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch71b">CHAPTER LXXI</a> OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS
      SQUIRE SANCHO ON THE WAY TO THEIR VILLAGE <br /><br /><a href="#ch72b">CHAPTER
      LXXII</a> OF HOW DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO REACHED THEIR VILLAGE <br /><br /><a
      href="#ch73b">CHAPTER LXXIII</a> OF THE OMENS DON QUIXOTE HAD AS HE
      ENTERED HIS OWN VILLAGE, AND OTHER INCIDENTS THAT EMBELLISH AND GIVE A
      COLOUR TO THIS GREAT HISTORY <br /><br /><a href="#ch74b">CHAPTER LXXIV</a>
      OF HOW DON QUIXOTE FELL SICK, AND OF THE WILL HE MADE, AND HOW HE DIED
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      DON QUIXOTE
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      Volume II.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      DEDICATION OF VOLUME II.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      TO THE COUNT OF LEMOS:
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      These days past, when sending Your Excellency my plays, that had appeared
      in print before being shown on the stage, I said, if I remember well, that
      Don Quixote was putting on his spurs to go and render homage to Your
      Excellency. Now I say that "with his spurs, he is on his way." Should he
      reach destination methinks I shall have rendered some service to Your
      Excellency, as from many parts I am urged to send him off, so as to dispel
      the loathing and disgust caused by another Don Quixote who, under the name
      of Second Part, has run masquerading through the whole world. And he who
      has shown the greatest longing for him has been the great Emperor of
      China, who wrote me a letter in Chinese a month ago and sent it by a
      special courier. He asked me, or to be truthful, he begged me to send him
      Don Quixote, for he intended to found a college where the Spanish tongue
      would be taught, and it was his wish that the book to be read should be
      the History of Don Quixote. He also added that I should go and be the
      rector of this college. I asked the bearer if His Majesty had afforded a
      sum in aid of my travel expenses. He answered, "No, not even in thought."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then, brother," I replied, "you can return to your China, post haste or
      at whatever haste you are bound to go, as I am not fit for so long a
      travel and, besides being ill, I am very much without money, while Emperor
      for Emperor and Monarch for Monarch, I have at Naples the great Count of
      Lemos, who, without so many petty titles of colleges and rectorships,
      sustains me, protects me and does me more favour than I can wish for."
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus I gave him his leave and I beg mine from you, offering Your
      Excellency the "Trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda," a book I shall finish
      within four months, Deo volente, and which will be either the worst or the
      best that has been composed in our language, I mean of those intended for
      entertainment; at which I repent of having called it the worst, for, in
      the opinion of friends, it is bound to attain the summit of possible
      quality. May Your Excellency return in such health that is wished you;
      Persiles will be ready to kiss your hand and I your feet, being as I am,
      Your Excellency's most humble servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      From Madrid, this last day of October of the year one thousand six hundred
      and fifteen.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the service of Your Excellency:
    </p>
    <p>
      MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="part2" id="part2"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="part2.jpg (130K)" src="images/part2.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/part2.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      God bless me, gentle (or it may be plebeian) reader, how eagerly must thou
      be looking forward to this preface, expecting to find there retaliation,
      scolding, and abuse against the author of the second Don Quixote&mdash;I
      mean him who was, they say, begotten at Tordesillas and born at Tarragona!
      Well then, the truth is, I am not going to give thee that satisfaction;
      for, though injuries stir up anger in humbler breasts, in mine the rule
      must admit of an exception. Thou wouldst have me call him ass, fool, and
      malapert, but I have no such intention; let his offence be his punishment,
      with his bread let him eat it, and there's an end of it. What I cannot
      help taking amiss is that he charges me with being old and one-handed, as
      if it had been in my power to keep time from passing over me, or as if the
      loss of my hand had been brought about in some tavern, and not on the
      grandest occasion the past or present has seen, or the future can hope to
      see. If my wounds have no beauty to the beholder's eye, they are, at
      least, honourable in the estimation of those who know where they were
      received; for the soldier shows to greater advantage dead in battle than
      alive in flight; and so strongly is this my feeling, that if now it were
      proposed to perform an impossibility for me, I would rather have had my
      share in that mighty action, than be free from my wounds this minute
      without having been present at it. Those the soldier shows on his face and
      breast are stars that direct others to the heaven of honour and ambition
      of merited praise; and moreover it is to be observed that it is not with
      grey hairs that one writes, but with the understanding, and that commonly
      improves with years. I take it amiss, too, that he calls me envious, and
      explains to me, as if I were ignorant, what envy is; for really and truly,
      of the two kinds there are, I only know that which is holy, noble, and
      high-minded; and if that be so, as it is, I am not likely to attack a
      priest, above all if, in addition, he holds the rank of familiar of the
      Holy Office. And if he said what he did on account of him on whose behalf
      it seems he spoke, he is entirely mistaken; for I worship the genius of
      that person, and admire his works and his unceasing and strenuous
      industry. After all, I am grateful to this gentleman, the author, for
      saying that my novels are more satirical than exemplary, but that they are
      good; for they could not be that unless there was a little of everything
      in them.
    </p>
    <p>
      I suspect thou wilt say that I am taking a very humble line, and keeping
      myself too much within the bounds of my moderation, from a feeling that
      additional suffering should not be inflicted upon a sufferer, and that
      what this gentleman has to endure must doubtless be very great, as he does
      not dare to come out into the open field and broad daylight, but hides his
      name and disguises his country as if he had been guilty of some lese
      majesty. If perchance thou shouldst come to know him, tell him from me
      that I do not hold myself aggrieved; for I know well what the temptations
      of the devil are, and that one of the greatest is putting it into a man's
      head that he can write and print a book by which he will get as much fame
      as money, and as much money as fame; and to prove it I will beg of you, in
      your own sprightly, pleasant way, to tell him this story.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a madman in Seville who took to one of the drollest absurdities
      and vagaries that ever madman in the world gave way to. It was this: he
      made a tube of reed sharp at one end, and catching a dog in the street, or
      wherever it might be, he with his foot held one of its legs fast, and with
      his hand lifted up the other, and as best he could fixed the tube where,
      by blowing, he made the dog as round as a ball; then holding it in this
      position, he gave it a couple of slaps on the belly, and let it go, saying
      to the bystanders (and there were always plenty of them): "Do your
      worships think, now, that it is an easy thing to blow up a dog?"&mdash;Does
      your worship think now, that it is an easy thing to write a book?
    </p>
    <p>
      And if this story does not suit him, you may, dear reader, tell him this
      one, which is likewise of a madman and a dog.
    </p>
    <p>
      In Cordova there was another madman, whose way it was to carry a piece of
      marble slab or a stone, not of the lightest, on his head, and when he came
      upon any unwary dog he used to draw close to him and let the weight fall
      right on top of him; on which the dog in a rage, barking and howling,
      would run three streets without stopping. It so happened, however, that
      one of the dogs he discharged his load upon was a cap-maker's dog, of
      which his master was very fond. The stone came down hitting it on the
      head, the dog raised a yell at the blow, the master saw the affair and was
      wroth, and snatching up a measuring-yard rushed out at the madman and did
      not leave a sound bone in his body, and at every stroke he gave him he
      said, "You dog, you thief! my lurcher! Don't you see, you brute, that my
      dog is a lurcher?" and so, repeating the word "lurcher" again and again,
      he sent the madman away beaten to a jelly. The madman took the lesson to
      heart, and vanished, and for more than a month never once showed himself
      in public; but after that he came out again with his old trick and a
      heavier load than ever. He came up to where there was a dog, and examining
      it very carefully without venturing to let the stone fall, he said: "This
      is a lurcher; ware!" In short, all the dogs he came across, be they
      mastiffs or terriers, he said were lurchers; and he discharged no more
      stones. Maybe it will be the same with this historian; that he will not
      venture another time to discharge the weight of his wit in books, which,
      being bad, are harder than stones. Tell him, too, that I do not care a
      farthing for the threat he holds out to me of depriving me of my profit by
      means of his book; for, to borrow from the famous interlude of "The
      Perendenga," I say in answer to him, "Long life to my lord the
      Veintiquatro, and Christ be with us all." Long life to the great Conde de
      Lemos, whose Christian charity and well-known generosity support me
      against all the strokes of my curst fortune; and long life to the supreme
      benevolence of His Eminence of Toledo, Don Bernardo de Sandoval y Rojas;
      and what matter if there be no printing-presses in the world, or if they
      print more books against me than there are letters in the verses of Mingo
      Revulgo! These two princes, unsought by any adulation or flattery of mine,
      of their own goodness alone, have taken it upon them to show me kindness
      and protect me, and in this I consider myself happier and richer than if
      Fortune had raised me to her greatest height in the ordinary way. The poor
      man may retain honour, but not the vicious; poverty may cast a cloud over
      nobility, but cannot hide it altogether; and as virtue of itself sheds a
      certain light, even though it be through the straits and chinks of penury,
      it wins the esteem of lofty and noble spirits, and in consequence their
      protection. Thou needst say no more to him, nor will I say anything more
      to thee, save to tell thee to bear in mind that this Second Part of "Don
      Quixote" which I offer thee is cut by the same craftsman and from the same
      cloth as the First, and that in it I present thee Don Quixote continued,
      and at length dead and buried, so that no one may dare to bring forward
      any further evidence against him, for that already produced is sufficient;
      and suffice it, too, that some reputable person should have given an
      account of all these shrewd lunacies of his without going into the matter
      again; for abundance, even of good things, prevents them from being
      valued; and scarcity, even in the case of what is bad, confers a certain
      value. I was forgetting to tell thee that thou mayest expect the
      "Persiles," which I am now finishing, and also the Second Part of
      "Galatea."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="part2e" id="part2e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="part2e.jpg (37K)" src="images/part2e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch1b" id="ch1b"></a>CHAPTER I.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE ABOUT HIS
      MALADY
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p01a" id="p01a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p01a.jpg (156K)" src="images/p01a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p01a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Cide Hamete Benengeli, in the Second Part of this history, and third sally
      of Don Quixote, says that the curate and the barber remained nearly a
      month without seeing him, lest they should recall or bring back to his
      recollection what had taken place. They did not, however, omit to visit
      his niece and housekeeper, and charge them to be careful to treat him with
      attention, and give him comforting things to eat, and such as were good
      for the heart and the brain, whence, it was plain to see, all his
      misfortune proceeded. The niece and housekeeper replied that they did so,
      and meant to do so with all possible care and assiduity, for they could
      perceive that their master was now and then beginning to show signs of
      being in his right mind. This gave great satisfaction to the curate and
      the barber, for they concluded they had taken the right course in carrying
      him off enchanted on the ox-cart, as has been described in the First Part
      of this great as well as accurate history, in the last chapter thereof. So
      they resolved to pay him a visit and test the improvement in his
      condition, although they thought it almost impossible that there could be
      any; and they agreed not to touch upon any point connected with
      knight-errantry so as not to run the risk of reopening wounds which were
      still so tender.
    </p>
    <p>
      They came to see him consequently, and found him sitting up in bed in a
      green baize waistcoat and a red Toledo cap, and so withered and dried up
      that he looked as if he had been turned into a mummy. They were very
      cordially received by him; they asked him after his health, and he talked
      to them about himself very naturally and in very well-chosen language. In
      the course of their conversation they fell to discussing what they call
      State-craft and systems of government, correcting this abuse and
      condemning that, reforming one practice and abolishing another, each of
      the three setting up for a new legislator, a modern Lycurgus, or a
      brand-new Solon; and so completely did they remodel the State, that they
      seemed to have thrust it into a furnace and taken out something quite
      different from what they had put in; and on all the subjects they dealt
      with, Don Quixote spoke with such good sense that the pair of examiners
      were fully convinced that he was quite recovered and in his full senses.
    </p>
    <p>
      The niece and housekeeper were present at the conversation and could not
      find words enough to express their thanks to God at seeing their master so
      clear in his mind; the curate, however, changing his original plan, which
      was to avoid touching upon matters of chivalry, resolved to test Don
      Quixote's recovery thoroughly, and see whether it were genuine or not; and
      so, from one subject to another, he came at last to talk of the news that
      had come from the capital, and, among other things, he said it was
      considered certain that the Turk was coming down with a powerful fleet,
      and that no one knew what his purpose was, or when the great storm would
      burst; and that all Christendom was in apprehension of this, which almost
      every year calls us to arms, and that his Majesty had made provision for
      the security of the coasts of Naples and Sicily and the island of Malta.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this Don Quixote replied, "His Majesty has acted like a prudent warrior
      in providing for the safety of his realms in time, so that the enemy may
      not find him unprepared; but if my advice were taken I would recommend him
      to adopt a measure which at present, no doubt, his Majesty is very far
      from thinking of."
    </p>
    <p>
      The moment the curate heard this he said to himself, "God keep thee in his
      hand, poor Don Quixote, for it seems to me thou art precipitating thyself
      from the height of thy madness into the profound abyss of thy simplicity."
    </p>
    <p>
      But the barber, who had the same suspicion as the curate, asked Don
      Quixote what would be his advice as to the measures that he said ought to
      be adopted; for perhaps it might prove to be one that would have to be
      added to the list of the many impertinent suggestions that people were in
      the habit of offering to princes.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mine, master shaver," said Don Quixote, "will not be impertinent, but, on
      the contrary, pertinent."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't mean that," said the barber, "but that experience has shown that
      all or most of the expedients which are proposed to his Majesty are either
      impossible, or absurd, or injurious to the King and to the kingdom."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mine, however," replied Don Quixote, "is neither impossible nor absurd,
      but the easiest, the most reasonable, the readiest and most expeditious
      that could suggest itself to any projector's mind."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You take a long time to tell it, Senor Don Quixote," said the curate.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't choose to tell it here, now," said Don Quixote, "and have it
      reach the ears of the lords of the council to-morrow morning, and some
      other carry off the thanks and rewards of my trouble."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For my part," said the barber, "I give my word here and before God that I
      will not repeat what your worship says, to King, Rook or earthly man&mdash;an
      oath I learned from the ballad of the curate, who, in the prelude, told
      the king of the thief who had robbed him of the hundred gold crowns and
      his pacing mule."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am not versed in stories," said Don Quixote; "but I know the oath is a
      good one, because I know the barber to be an honest fellow."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Even if he were not," said the curate, "I will go bail and answer for him
      that in this matter he will be as silent as a dummy, under pain of paying
      any penalty that may be pronounced."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And who will be security for you, senor curate?" said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My profession," replied the curate, "which is to keep secrets."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ods body!" said Don Quixote at this, "what more has his Majesty to do but
      to command, by public proclamation, all the knights-errant that are
      scattered over Spain to assemble on a fixed day in the capital, for even
      if no more than half a dozen come, there may be one among them who alone
      will suffice to destroy the entire might of the Turk. Give me your
      attention and follow me. Is it, pray, any new thing for a single
      knight-errant to demolish an army of two hundred thousand men, as if they
      all had but one throat or were made of sugar paste? Nay, tell me, how many
      histories are there filled with these marvels? If only (in an evil hour
      for me: I don't speak for anyone else) the famous Don Belianis were alive
      now, or any one of the innumerable progeny of Amadis of Gaul! If any these
      were alive today, and were to come face to face with the Turk, by my
      faith, I would not give much for the Turk's chance. But God will have
      regard for his people, and will provide some one, who, if not so valiant
      as the knights-errant of yore, at least will not be inferior to them in
      spirit; but God knows what I mean, and I say no more."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Alas!" exclaimed the niece at this, "may I die if my master does not want
      to turn knight-errant again;" to which Don Quixote replied, "A
      knight-errant I shall die, and let the Turk come down or go up when he
      likes, and in as strong force as he can, once more I say, God knows what I
      mean." But here the barber said, "I ask your worships to give me leave to
      tell a short story of something that happened in Seville, which comes so
      pat to the purpose just now that I should like greatly to tell it." Don
      Quixote gave him leave, and the rest prepared to listen, and he began
      thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the madhouse at Seville there was a man whom his relations had placed
      there as being out of his mind. He was a graduate of Osuna in canon law;
      but even if he had been of Salamanca, it was the opinion of most people
      that he would have been mad all the same. This graduate, after some years
      of confinement, took it into his head that he was sane and in his full
      senses, and under this impression wrote to the Archbishop, entreating him
      earnestly, and in very correct language, to have him released from the
      misery in which he was living; for by God's mercy he had now recovered his
      lost reason, though his relations, in order to enjoy his property, kept
      him there, and, in spite of the truth, would make him out to be mad until
      his dying day. The Archbishop, moved by repeated sensible, well-written
      letters, directed one of his chaplains to make inquiry of the madhouse as
      to the truth of the licentiate's statements, and to have an interview with
      the madman himself, and, if it should appear that he was in his senses, to
      take him out and restore him to liberty. The chaplain did so, and the
      governor assured him that the man was still mad, and that though he often
      spoke like a highly intelligent person, he would in the end break out into
      nonsense that in quantity and quality counterbalanced all the sensible
      things he had said before, as might be easily tested by talking to him.
      The chaplain resolved to try the experiment, and obtaining access to the
      madman conversed with him for an hour or more, during the whole of which
      time he never uttered a word that was incoherent or absurd, but, on the
      contrary, spoke so rationally that the chaplain was compelled to believe
      him to be sane. Among other things, he said the governor was against him,
      not to lose the presents his relations made him for reporting him still
      mad but with lucid intervals; and that the worst foe he had in his
      misfortune was his large property; for in order to enjoy it his enemies
      disparaged and threw doubts upon the mercy our Lord had shown him in
      turning him from a brute beast into a man. In short, he spoke in such a
      way that he cast suspicion on the governor, and made his relations appear
      covetous and heartless, and himself so rational that the chaplain
      determined to take him away with him that the Archbishop might see him,
      and ascertain for himself the truth of the matter. Yielding to this
      conviction, the worthy chaplain begged the governor to have the clothes in
      which the licentiate had entered the house given to him. The governor
      again bade him beware of what he was doing, as the licentiate was beyond a
      doubt still mad; but all his cautions and warnings were unavailing to
      dissuade the chaplain from taking him away. The governor, seeing that it
      was the order of the Archbishop, obeyed, and they dressed the licentiate
      in his own clothes, which were new and decent. He, as soon as he saw
      himself clothed like one in his senses, and divested of the appearance of
      a madman, entreated the chaplain to permit him in charity to go and take
      leave of his comrades the madmen. The chaplain said he would go with him
      to see what madmen there were in the house; so they went upstairs, and
      with them some of those who were present. Approaching a cage in which
      there was a furious madman, though just at that moment calm and quiet, the
      licentiate said to him, 'Brother, think if you have any commands for me,
      for I am going home, as God has been pleased, in his infinite goodness and
      mercy, without any merit of mine, to restore me my reason. I am now cured
      and in my senses, for with God's power nothing is impossible. Have strong
      hope and trust in him, for as he has restored me to my original condition,
      so likewise he will restore you if you trust in him. I will take care to
      send you some good things to eat; and be sure you eat them; for I would
      have you know I am convinced, as one who has gone through it, that all
      this madness of ours comes of having the stomach empty and the brains full
      of wind. Take courage! take courage! for despondency in misfortune breaks
      down health and brings on death.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "To all these words of the licentiate another madman in a cage opposite
      that of the furious one was listening; and raising himself up from an old
      mat on which he lay stark naked, he asked in a loud voice who it was that
      was going away cured and in his senses. The licentiate answered, 'It is I,
      brother, who am going; I have now no need to remain here any longer, for
      which I return infinite thanks to Heaven that has had so great mercy upon
      me.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Mind what you are saying, licentiate; don't let the devil deceive you,'
      replied the madman. 'Keep quiet, stay where you are, and you will save
      yourself the trouble of coming back.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'I know I am cured,' returned the licentiate, 'and that I shall not have
      to go stations again.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'You cured!' said the madman; 'well, we shall see; God be with you; but I
      swear to you by Jupiter, whose majesty I represent on earth, that for this
      crime alone, which Seville is committing to-day in releasing you from this
      house, and treating you as if you were in your senses, I shall have to
      inflict such a punishment on it as will be remembered for ages and ages,
      amen. Dost thou not know, thou miserable little licentiate, that I can do
      it, being, as I say, Jupiter the Thunderer, who hold in my hands the fiery
      bolts with which I am able and am wont to threaten and lay waste the
      world? But in one way only will I punish this ignorant town, and that is
      by not raining upon it, nor on any part of its district or territory, for
      three whole years, to be reckoned from the day and moment when this threat
      is pronounced. Thou free, thou cured, thou in thy senses! and I mad, I
      disordered, I bound! I will as soon think of sending rain as of hanging
      myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Those present stood listening to the words and exclamations of the
      madman; but our licentiate, turning to the chaplain and seizing him by the
      hands, said to him, 'Be not uneasy, senor; attach no importance to what
      this madman has said; for if he is Jupiter and will not send rain, I, who
      am Neptune, the father and god of the waters, will rain as often as it
      pleases me and may be needful.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "The governor and the bystanders laughed, and at their laughter the
      chaplain was half ashamed, and he replied, 'For all that, Senor Neptune,
      it will not do to vex Senor Jupiter; remain where you are, and some other
      day, when there is a better opportunity and more time, we will come back
      for you.' So they stripped the licentiate, and he was left where he was;
      and that's the end of the story."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So that's the story, master barber," said Don Quixote, "which came in so
      pat to the purpose that you could not help telling it? Master shaver,
      master shaver! how blind is he who cannot see through a sieve. Is it
      possible that you do not know that comparisons of wit with wit, valour
      with valour, beauty with beauty, birth with birth, are always odious and
      unwelcome? I, master barber, am not Neptune, the god of the waters, nor do
      I try to make anyone take me for an astute man, for I am not one. My only
      endeavour is to convince the world of the mistake it makes in not reviving
      in itself the happy time when the order of knight-errantry was in the
      field. But our depraved age does not deserve to enjoy such a blessing as
      those ages enjoyed when knights-errant took upon their shoulders the
      defence of kingdoms, the protection of damsels, the succour of orphans and
      minors, the chastisement of the proud, and the recompense of the humble.
      With the knights of these days, for the most part, it is the damask,
      brocade, and rich stuffs they wear, that rustle as they go, not the chain
      mail of their armour; no knight now-a-days sleeps in the open field
      exposed to the inclemency of heaven, and in full panoply from head to
      foot; no one now takes a nap, as they call it, without drawing his feet
      out of the stirrups, and leaning upon his lance, as the knights-errant
      used to do; no one now, issuing from the wood, penetrates yonder
      mountains, and then treads the barren, lonely shore of the sea&mdash;mostly
      a tempestuous and stormy one&mdash;and finding on the beach a little bark
      without oars, sail, mast, or tackling of any kind, in the intrepidity of
      his heart flings himself into it and commits himself to the wrathful
      billows of the deep sea, that one moment lift him up to heaven and the
      next plunge him into the depths; and opposing his breast to the
      irresistible gale, finds himself, when he least expects it, three thousand
      leagues and more away from the place where he embarked; and leaping ashore
      in a remote and unknown land has adventures that deserve to be written,
      not on parchment, but on brass. But now sloth triumphs over energy,
      indolence over exertion, vice over virtue, arrogance over courage, and
      theory over practice in arms, which flourished and shone only in the
      golden ages and in knights-errant. For tell me, who was more virtuous and
      more valiant than the famous Amadis of Gaul? Who more discreet than
      Palmerin of England? Who more gracious and easy than Tirante el Blanco?
      Who more courtly than Lisuarte of Greece? Who more slashed or slashing
      than Don Belianis? Who more intrepid than Perion of Gaul? Who more ready
      to face danger than Felixmarte of Hircania? Who more sincere than
      Esplandian? Who more impetuous than Don Cirongilio of Thrace? Who more
      bold than Rodamonte? Who more prudent than King Sobrino? Who more daring
      than Reinaldos? Who more invincible than Roland? and who more gallant and
      courteous than Ruggiero, from whom the dukes of Ferrara of the present day
      are descended, according to Turpin in his 'Cosmography.' All these
      knights, and many more that I could name, senor curate, were
      knights-errant, the light and glory of chivalry. These, or such as these,
      I would have to carry out my plan, and in that case his Majesty would find
      himself well served and would save great expense, and the Turk would be
      left tearing his beard. And so I will stay where I am, as the chaplain
      does not take me away; and if Jupiter, as the barber has told us, will not
      send rain, here am I, and I will rain when I please. I say this that
      Master Basin may know that I understand him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Indeed, Senor Don Quixote," said the barber, "I did not mean it in that
      way, and, so help me God, my intention was good, and your worship ought
      not to be vexed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As to whether I ought to be vexed or not," returned Don Quixote, "I
      myself am the best judge."
    </p>
    <p>
      Hereupon the curate observed, "I have hardly said a word as yet; and I
      would gladly be relieved of a doubt, arising from what Don Quixote has
      said, that worries and works my conscience."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The senor curate has leave for more than that," returned Don Quixote, "so
      he may declare his doubt, for it is not pleasant to have a doubt on one's
      conscience."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then, with that permission," said the curate, "I say my doubt is
      that, all I can do, I cannot persuade myself that the whole pack of
      knights-errant you, Senor Don Quixote, have mentioned, were really and
      truly persons of flesh and blood, that ever lived in the world; on the
      contrary, I suspect it to be all fiction, fable, and falsehood, and dreams
      told by men awakened from sleep, or rather still half asleep."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is another mistake," replied Don Quixote, "into which many have
      fallen who do not believe that there ever were such knights in the world,
      and I have often, with divers people and on divers occasions, tried to
      expose this almost universal error to the light of truth. Sometimes I have
      not been successful in my purpose, sometimes I have, supporting it upon
      the shoulders of the truth; which truth is so clear that I can almost say
      I have with my own eyes seen Amadis of Gaul, who was a man of lofty
      stature, fair complexion, with a handsome though black beard, of a
      countenance between gentle and stern in expression, sparing of words, slow
      to anger, and quick to put it away from him; and as I have depicted
      Amadis, so I could, I think, portray and describe all the knights-errant
      that are in all the histories in the world; for by the perception I have
      that they were what their histories describe, and by the deeds they did
      and the dispositions they displayed, it is possible, with the aid of sound
      philosophy, to deduce their features, complexion, and stature."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How big, in your worship's opinion, may the giant Morgante have been,
      Senor Don Quixote?" asked the barber.
    </p>
    <p>
      "With regard to giants," replied Don Quixote, "opinions differ as to
      whether there ever were any or not in the world; but the Holy Scripture,
      which cannot err by a jot from the truth, shows us that there were, when
      it gives us the history of that big Philistine, Goliath, who was seven
      cubits and a half in height, which is a huge size. Likewise, in the island
      of Sicily, there have been found leg-bones and arm-bones so large that
      their size makes it plain that their owners were giants, and as tall as
      great towers; geometry puts this fact beyond a doubt. But, for all that, I
      cannot speak with certainty as to the size of Morgante, though I suspect
      he cannot have been very tall; and I am inclined to be of this opinion
      because I find in the history in which his deeds are particularly
      mentioned, that he frequently slept under a roof and as he found houses to
      contain him, it is clear that his bulk could not have been anything
      excessive."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said the curate, and yielding to the enjoyment of hearing
      such nonsense, he asked him what was his notion of the features of
      Reinaldos of Montalban, and Don Roland and the rest of the Twelve Peers of
      France, for they were all knights-errant.
    </p>
    <p>
      "As for Reinaldos," replied Don Quixote, "I venture to say that he was
      broad-faced, of ruddy complexion, with roguish and somewhat prominent
      eyes, excessively punctilious and touchy, and given to the society of
      thieves and scapegraces. With regard to Roland, or Rotolando, or Orlando
      (for the histories call him by all these names), I am of opinion, and
      hold, that he was of middle height, broad-shouldered, rather bow-legged,
      swarthy-complexioned, red-bearded, with a hairy body and a severe
      expression of countenance, a man of few words, but very polite and
      well-bred."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If Roland was not a more graceful person than your worship has
      described," said the curate, "it is no wonder that the fair Lady Angelica
      rejected him and left him for the gaiety, liveliness, and grace of that
      budding-bearded little Moor to whom she surrendered herself; and she
      showed her sense in falling in love with the gentle softness of Medoro
      rather than the roughness of Roland."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That Angelica, senor curate," returned Don Quixote, "was a giddy damsel,
      flighty and somewhat wanton, and she left the world as full of her
      vagaries as of the fame of her beauty. She treated with scorn a thousand
      gentlemen, men of valour and wisdom, and took up with a smooth-faced sprig
      of a page, without fortune or fame, except such reputation for gratitude
      as the affection he bore his friend got for him. The great poet who sang
      her beauty, the famous Ariosto, not caring to sing her adventures after
      her contemptible surrender (which probably were not over and above
      creditable), dropped her where he says:
    </p>
    <p>
      How she received the sceptre of Cathay, Some bard of defter quill may sing
      some day;
    </p>
    <p>
      and this was no doubt a kind of prophecy, for poets are also called vates,
      that is to say diviners; and its truth was made plain; for since then a
      famous Andalusian poet has lamented and sung her tears, and another famous
      and rare poet, a Castilian, has sung her beauty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell me, Senor Don Quixote," said the barber here, "among all those who
      praised her, has there been no poet to write a satire on this Lady
      Angelica?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I can well believe," replied Don Quixote, "that if Sacripante or Roland
      had been poets they would have given the damsel a trimming; for it is
      naturally the way with poets who have been scorned and rejected by their
      ladies, whether fictitious or not, in short by those whom they select as
      the ladies of their thoughts, to avenge themselves in satires and libels&mdash;a
      vengeance, to be sure, unworthy of generous hearts; but up to the present
      I have not heard of any defamatory verse against the Lady Angelica, who
      turned the world upside down."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Strange," said the curate; but at this moment they heard the housekeeper
      and the niece, who had previously withdrawn from the conversation,
      exclaiming aloud in the courtyard, and at the noise they all ran out.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p01e" id="p01e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p01e.jpg (15K)" src="images/p01e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch2b" id="ch2b"></a>CHAPTER II.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TREATS OF THE NOTABLE ALTERCATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA HAD WITH DON
      QUIXOTE'S NIECE, AND HOUSEKEEPER, TOGETHER WITH OTHER DROLL MATTERS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p02a" id="p02a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p02a.jpg (159K)" src="images/p02a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p02a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The history relates that the outcry Don Quixote, the curate, and the
      barber heard came from the niece and the housekeeper exclaiming to Sancho,
      who was striving to force his way in to see Don Quixote while they held
      the door against him, "What does the vagabond want in this house? Be off
      to your own, brother, for it is you, and no one else, that delude my
      master, and lead him astray, and take him tramping about the country."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Sancho replied, "Devil's own housekeeper! it is I who am deluded,
      and led astray, and taken tramping about the country, and not thy master!
      He has carried me all over the world, and you are mightily mistaken. He
      enticed me away from home by a trick, promising me an island, which I am
      still waiting for."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May evil islands choke thee, thou detestable Sancho," said the niece;
      "What are islands? Is it something to eat, glutton and gormandiser that
      thou art?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is not something to eat," replied Sancho, "but something to govern and
      rule, and better than four cities or four judgeships at court."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For all that," said the housekeeper, "you don't enter here, you bag of
      mischief and sack of knavery; go govern your house and dig your
      seed-patch, and give over looking for islands or shylands."
    </p>
    <p>
      The curate and the barber listened with great amusement to the words of
      the three; but Don Quixote, uneasy lest Sancho should blab and blurt out a
      whole heap of mischievous stupidities, and touch upon points that might
      not be altogether to his credit, called to him and made the other two hold
      their tongues and let him come in. Sancho entered, and the curate and the
      barber took their leave of Don Quixote, of whose recovery they despaired
      when they saw how wedded he was to his crazy ideas, and how saturated with
      the nonsense of his unlucky chivalry; and said the curate to the barber,
      "You will see, gossip, that when we are least thinking of it, our
      gentleman will be off once more for another flight."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have no doubt of it," returned the barber; "but I do not wonder so much
      at the madness of the knight as at the simplicity of the squire, who has
      such a firm belief in all that about the island, that I suppose all the
      exposures that could be imagined would not get it out of his head."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God help them," said the curate; "and let us be on the look-out to see
      what comes of all these absurdities of the knight and squire, for it seems
      as if they had both been cast in the same mould, and the madness of the
      master without the simplicity of the man would not be worth a farthing."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said the barber, "and I should like very much to know what
      the pair are talking about at this moment."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I promise you," said the curate, "the niece or the housekeeper will tell
      us by-and-by, for they are not the ones to forget to listen."
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Don Quixote shut himself up in his room with Sancho, and when
      they were alone he said to him, "It grieves me greatly, Sancho, that thou
      shouldst have said, and sayest, that I took thee out of thy cottage, when
      thou knowest I did not remain in my house. We sallied forth together, we
      took the road together, we wandered abroad together; we have had the same
      fortune and the same luck; if they blanketed thee once, they belaboured me
      a hundred times, and that is the only advantage I have of thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That was only reasonable," replied Sancho, "for, by what your worship
      says, misfortunes belong more properly to knights-errant than to their
      squires."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art mistaken, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "according to the maxim
      quando caput dolet, etc."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't understand any language but my own," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I mean to say," said Don Quixote, "that when the head suffers all the
      members suffer; and so, being thy lord and master, I am thy head, and thou
      a part of me as thou art my servant; and therefore any evil that affects
      or shall affect me should give thee pain, and what affects thee give pain
      to me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It should be so," said Sancho; "but when I was blanketed as a member, my
      head was on the other side of the wall, looking on while I was flying
      through the air, and did not feel any pain whatever; and if the members
      are obliged to feel the suffering of the head, it should be obliged to
      feel their sufferings."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dost thou mean to say now, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that I did not
      feel when they were blanketing thee? If thou dost, thou must not say so or
      think so, for I felt more pain then in spirit than thou didst in body. But
      let us put that aside for the present, for we shall have opportunities
      enough for considering and settling the point; tell me, Sancho my friend,
      what do they say about me in the village here? What do the common people
      think of me? What do the hidalgos? What do the caballeros? What do they
      say of my valour; of my achievements; of my courtesy? How do they treat
      the task I have undertaken in reviving and restoring to the world the now
      forgotten order of chivalry? In short, Sancho, I would have thee tell me
      all that has come to thine ears on this subject; and thou art to tell me,
      without adding anything to the good or taking away anything from the bad;
      for it is the duty of loyal vassals to tell the truth to their lords just
      as it is and in its proper shape, not allowing flattery to add to it or
      any idle deference to lessen it. And I would have thee know, Sancho, that
      if the naked truth, undisguised by flattery, came to the ears of princes,
      times would be different, and other ages would be reckoned iron ages more
      than ours, which I hold to be the golden of these latter days. Profit by
      this advice, Sancho, and report to me clearly and faithfully the truth of
      what thou knowest touching what I have demanded of thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I will do with all my heart, master," replied Sancho, "provided your
      worship will not be vexed at what I say, as you wish me to say it out in
      all its nakedness, without putting any more clothes on it than it came to
      my knowledge in."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will not be vexed at all," returned Don Quixote; "thou mayest speak
      freely, Sancho, and without any beating about the bush."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then," said he, "first of all, I have to tell you that the common
      people consider your worship a mighty great madman, and me no less a fool.
      The hidalgos say that, not keeping within the bounds of your quality of
      gentleman, you have assumed the 'Don,' and made a knight of yourself at a
      jump, with four vine-stocks and a couple of acres of land, and never a
      shirt to your back. The caballeros say they do not want to have hidalgos
      setting up in opposition to them, particularly squire hidalgos who polish
      their own shoes and darn their black stockings with green silk."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That," said Don Quixote, "does not apply to me, for I always go well
      dressed and never patched; ragged I may be, but ragged more from the wear
      and tear of arms than of time."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As to your worship's valour, courtesy, accomplishments, and task, there
      is a variety of opinions. Some say, 'mad but droll;' others, 'valiant but
      unlucky;' others, 'courteous but meddling,' and then they go into such a
      number of things that they don't leave a whole bone either in your worship
      or in myself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Recollect, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that wherever virtue exists in an
      eminent degree it is persecuted. Few or none of the famous men that have
      lived escaped being calumniated by malice. Julius Caesar, the boldest,
      wisest, and bravest of captains, was charged with being ambitious, and not
      particularly cleanly in his dress, or pure in his morals. Of Alexander,
      whose deeds won him the name of Great, they say that he was somewhat of a
      drunkard. Of Hercules, him of the many labours, it is said that he was
      lewd and luxurious. Of Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul, it was
      whispered that he was over-quarrelsome, and of his brother that he was
      lachrymose. So that, O Sancho, amongst all these calumnies against good
      men, mine may be let pass, since they are no more than thou hast said."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's just where it is, body of my father!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is there more, then?" asked Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There's the tail to be skinned yet," said Sancho; "all so far is cakes
      and fancy bread; but if your worship wants to know all about the calumnies
      they bring against you, I will fetch you one this instant who can tell you
      the whole of them without missing an atom; for last night the son of
      Bartholomew Carrasco, who has been studying at Salamanca, came home after
      having been made a bachelor, and when I went to welcome him, he told me
      that your worship's history is already abroad in books, with the title of
      THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA; and he says they mention
      me in it by my own name of Sancho Panza, and the lady Dulcinea del Toboso
      too, and divers things that happened to us when we were alone; so that I
      crossed myself in my wonder how the historian who wrote them down could
      have known them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I promise thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "the author of our history
      will be some sage enchanter; for to such nothing that they choose to write
      about is hidden."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What!" said Sancho, "a sage and an enchanter! Why, the bachelor Samson
      Carrasco (that is the name of him I spoke of) says the author of the
      history is called Cide Hamete Berengena."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is a Moorish name," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "May be so," replied Sancho; "for I have heard say that the Moors are
      mostly great lovers of berengenas."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou must have mistaken the surname of this 'Cide'&mdash;which means in
      Arabic 'Lord'&mdash;Sancho," observed Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very likely," replied Sancho, "but if your worship wishes me to fetch the
      bachelor I will go for him in a twinkling."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou wilt do me a great pleasure, my friend," said Don Quixote, "for what
      thou hast told me has amazed me, and I shall not eat a morsel that will
      agree with me until I have heard all about it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then I am off for him," said Sancho; and leaving his master he went in
      quest of the bachelor, with whom he returned in a short time, and, all
      three together, they had a very droll colloquy.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p02e" id="p02e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p02e.jpg (23K)" src="images/p02e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch3b" id="ch3b"></a>CHAPTER III.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE LAUGHABLE CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE, SANCHO
      PANZA, AND THE BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p03a" id="p03a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p03a.jpg (131K)" src="images/p03a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p03a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote remained very deep in thought, waiting for the bachelor
      Carrasco, from whom he was to hear how he himself had been put into a book
      as Sancho said; and he could not persuade himself that any such history
      could be in existence, for the blood of the enemies he had slain was not
      yet dry on the blade of his sword, and now they wanted to make out that
      his mighty achievements were going about in print. For all that, he
      fancied some sage, either a friend or an enemy, might, by the aid of
      magic, have given them to the press; if a friend, in order to magnify and
      exalt them above the most famous ever achieved by any knight-errant; if an
      enemy, to bring them to naught and degrade them below the meanest ever
      recorded of any low squire, though as he said to himself, the achievements
      of squires never were recorded. If, however, it were the fact that such a
      history were in existence, it must necessarily, being the story of a
      knight-errant, be grandiloquent, lofty, imposing, grand and true. With
      this he comforted himself somewhat, though it made him uncomfortable to
      think that the author was a Moor, judging by the title of "Cide;" and that
      no truth was to be looked for from Moors, as they are all impostors,
      cheats, and schemers. He was afraid he might have dealt with his love
      affairs in some indecorous fashion, that might tend to the discredit and
      prejudice of the purity of his lady Dulcinea del Toboso; he would have had
      him set forth the fidelity and respect he had always observed towards her,
      spurning queens, empresses, and damsels of all sorts, and keeping in check
      the impetuosity of his natural impulses. Absorbed and wrapped up in these
      and divers other cogitations, he was found by Sancho and Carrasco, whom
      Don Quixote received with great courtesy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The bachelor, though he was called Samson, was of no great bodily size,
      but he was a very great wag; he was of a sallow complexion, but very
      sharp-witted, somewhere about four-and-twenty years of age, with a round
      face, a flat nose, and a large mouth, all indications of a mischievous
      disposition and a love of fun and jokes; and of this he gave a sample as
      soon as he saw Don Quixote, by falling on his knees before him and saying,
      "Let me kiss your mightiness's hand, Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha, for,
      by the habit of St. Peter that I wear, though I have no more than the
      first four orders, your worship is one of the most famous knights-errant
      that have ever been, or will be, all the world over. A blessing on Cide
      Hamete Benengeli, who has written the history of your great deeds, and a
      double blessing on that connoisseur who took the trouble of having it
      translated out of the Arabic into our Castilian vulgar tongue for the
      universal entertainment of the people!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote made him rise, and said, "So, then, it is true that there is a
      history of me, and that it was a Moor and a sage who wrote it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "So true is it, senor," said Samson, "that my belief is there are more
      than twelve thousand volumes of the said history in print this very day.
      Only ask Portugal, Barcelona, and Valencia, where they have been printed,
      and moreover there is a report that it is being printed at Antwerp, and I
      am persuaded there will not be a country or language in which there will
      not be a translation of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "One of the things," here observed Don Quixote, "that ought to give most
      pleasure to a virtuous and eminent man is to find himself in his lifetime
      in print and in type, familiar in people's mouths with a good name; I say
      with a good name, for if it be the opposite, then there is no death to be
      compared to it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If it goes by good name and fame," said the bachelor, "your worship alone
      bears away the palm from all the knights-errant; for the Moor in his own
      language, and the Christian in his, have taken care to set before us your
      gallantry, your high courage in encountering dangers, your fortitude in
      adversity, your patience under misfortunes as well as wounds, the purity
      and continence of the platonic loves of your worship and my lady Dona
      Dulcinea del Toboso-"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I never heard my lady Dulcinea called Dona," observed Sancho here;
      "nothing more than the lady Dulcinea del Toboso; so here already the
      history is wrong."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is not an objection of any importance," replied Carrasco.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Certainly not," said Don Quixote; "but tell me, senor bachelor, what
      deeds of mine are they that are made most of in this history?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "On that point," replied the bachelor, "opinions differ, as tastes do;
      some swear by the adventure of the windmills that your worship took to be
      Briareuses and giants; others by that of the fulling mills; one cries up
      the description of the two armies that afterwards took the appearance of
      two droves of sheep; another that of the dead body on its way to be buried
      at Segovia; a third says the liberation of the galley slaves is the best
      of all, and a fourth that nothing comes up to the affair with the
      Benedictine giants, and the battle with the valiant Biscayan."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell me, senor bachelor," said Sancho at this point, "does the adventure
      with the Yanguesans come in, when our good Rocinante went hankering after
      dainties?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The sage has left nothing in the ink-bottle," replied Samson; "he tells
      all and sets down everything, even to the capers that worthy Sancho cut in
      the blanket."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cut no capers in the blanket," returned Sancho; "in the air I did, and
      more of them than I liked."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no human history in the world, I suppose," said Don Quixote,
      "that has not its ups and downs, but more than others such as deal with
      chivalry, for they can never be entirely made up of prosperous
      adventures."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For all that," replied the bachelor, "there are those who have read the
      history who say they would have been glad if the author had left out some
      of the countless cudgellings that were inflicted on Senor Don Quixote in
      various encounters."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's where the truth of the history comes in," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "At the same time they might fairly have passed them over in silence,"
      observed Don Quixote; "for there is no need of recording events which do
      not change or affect the truth of a history, if they tend to bring the
      hero of it into contempt. AEneas was not in truth and earnest so pious as
      Virgil represents him, nor Ulysses so wise as Homer describes him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said Samson; "but it is one thing to write as a poet,
      another to write as a historian; the poet may describe or sing things, not
      as they were, but as they ought to have been; but the historian has to
      write them down, not as they ought to have been, but as they were, without
      adding anything to the truth or taking anything from it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then," said Sancho, "if this senor Moor goes in for telling the
      truth, no doubt among my master's drubbings mine are to be found; for they
      never took the measure of his worship's shoulders without doing the same
      for my whole body; but I have no right to wonder at that, for, as my
      master himself says, the members must share the pain of the head."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are a sly dog, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "i' faith, you have no want
      of memory when you choose to remember."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If I were to try to forget the thwacks they gave me," said Sancho, "my
      weals would not let me, for they are still fresh on my ribs."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hush, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and don't interrupt the bachelor, whom
      I entreat to go on and tell all that is said about me in this history."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And about me," said Sancho, "for they say, too, that I am one of the
      principal presonages in it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Personages, not presonages, friend Sancho," said Samson.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What! Another word-catcher!" said Sancho; "if that's to be the way we
      shall not make an end in a lifetime."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May God shorten mine, Sancho," returned the bachelor, "if you are not the
      second person in the history, and there are even some who would rather
      hear you talk than the cleverest in the whole book; though there are some,
      too, who say you showed yourself over-credulous in believing there was any
      possibility in the government of that island offered you by Senor Don
      Quixote."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is still sunshine on the wall," said Don Quixote; "and when Sancho
      is somewhat more advanced in life, with the experience that years bring,
      he will be fitter and better qualified for being a governor than he is at
      present."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By God, master," said Sancho, "the island that I cannot govern with the
      years I have, I'll not be able to govern with the years of Methuselah; the
      difficulty is that the said island keeps its distance somewhere, I know
      not where; and not that there is any want of head in me to govern it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Leave it to God, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for all will be and perhaps
      better than you think; no leaf on the tree stirs but by God's will."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said Samson; "and if it be God's will, there will not be
      any want of a thousand islands, much less one, for Sancho to govern."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have seen governors in these parts," said Sancho, "that are not to be
      compared to my shoe-sole; and for all that they are called 'your lordship'
      and served on silver."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Those are not governors of islands," observed Samson, "but of other
      governments of an easier kind: those that govern islands must at least
      know grammar."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I could manage the gram well enough," said Sancho; "but for the mar I
      have neither leaning nor liking, for I don't know what it is; but leaving
      this matter of the government in God's hands, to send me wherever it may
      be most to his service, I may tell you, senor bachelor Samson Carrasco, it
      has pleased me beyond measure that the author of this history should have
      spoken of me in such a way that what is said of me gives no offence; for,
      on the faith of a true squire, if he had said anything about me that was
      at all unbecoming an old Christian, such as I am, the deaf would have
      heard of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That would be working miracles," said Samson.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Miracles or no miracles," said Sancho, "let everyone mind how he speaks
      or writes about people, and not set down at random the first thing that
      comes into his head."
    </p>
    <p>
      "One of the faults they find with this history," said the bachelor, "is
      that its author inserted in it a novel called 'The Ill-advised Curiosity;'
      not that it is bad or ill-told, but that it is out of place and has
      nothing to do with the history of his worship Senor Don Quixote."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will bet the son of a dog has mixed the cabbages and the baskets," said
      Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then, I say," said Don Quixote, "the author of my history was no sage,
      but some ignorant chatterer, who, in a haphazard and heedless way, set
      about writing it, let it turn out as it might, just as Orbaneja, the
      painter of Ubeda, used to do, who, when they asked him what he was
      painting, answered, 'What it may turn out.' Sometimes he would paint a
      cock in such a fashion, and so unlike, that he had to write alongside of
      it in Gothic letters, 'This is a cock; and so it will be with my history,
      which will require a commentary to make it intelligible."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No fear of that," returned Samson, "for it is so plain that there is
      nothing in it to puzzle over; the children turn its leaves, the young
      people read it, the grown men understand it, the old folk praise it; in a
      word, it is so thumbed, and read, and got by heart by people of all sorts,
      that the instant they see any lean hack, they say, 'There goes Rocinante.'
      And those that are most given to reading it are the pages, for there is
      not a lord's ante-chamber where there is not a 'Don Quixote' to be found;
      one takes it up if another lays it down; this one pounces upon it, and
      that begs for it. In short, the said history is the most delightful and
      least injurious entertainment that has been hitherto seen, for there is
      not to be found in the whole of it even the semblance of an immodest word,
      or a thought that is other than Catholic."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To write in any other way," said Don Quixote, "would not be to write
      truth, but falsehood, and historians who have recourse to falsehood ought
      to be burned, like those who coin false money; and I know not what could
      have led the author to have recourse to novels and irrelevant stories,
      when he had so much to write about in mine; no doubt he must have gone by
      the proverb 'with straw or with hay, etc,' for by merely setting forth my
      thoughts, my sighs, my tears, my lofty purposes, my enterprises, he might
      have made a volume as large, or larger than all the works of El Tostado
      would make up. In fact, the conclusion I arrive at, senor bachelor, is,
      that to write histories, or books of any kind, there is need of great
      judgment and a ripe understanding. To give expression to humour, and write
      in a strain of graceful pleasantry, is the gift of great geniuses. The
      cleverest character in comedy is the clown, for he who would make people
      take him for a fool, must not be one. History is in a measure a sacred
      thing, for it should be true, and where the truth is, there God is; but
      notwithstanding this, there are some who write and fling books broadcast
      on the world as if they were fritters."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no book so bad but it has something good in it," said the
      bachelor.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No doubt of that," replied Don Quixote; "but it often happens that those
      who have acquired and attained a well-deserved reputation by their
      writings, lose it entirely, or damage it in some degree, when they give
      them to the press."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The reason of that," said Samson, "is, that as printed works are examined
      leisurely, their faults are easily seen; and the greater the fame of the
      writer, the more closely are they scrutinised. Men famous for their
      genius, great poets, illustrious historians, are always, or most commonly,
      envied by those who take a particular delight and pleasure in criticising
      the writings of others, without having produced any of their own."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is no wonder," said Don Quixote; "for there are many divines who are
      no good for the pulpit, but excellent in detecting the defects or excesses
      of those who preach."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All that is true, Senor Don Quixote," said Carrasco; "but I wish such
      fault-finders were more lenient and less exacting, and did not pay so much
      attention to the spots on the bright sun of the work they grumble at; for
      if aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus, they should remember how long he
      remained awake to shed the light of his work with as little shade as
      possible; and perhaps it may be that what they find fault with may be
      moles, that sometimes heighten the beauty of the face that bears them; and
      so I say very great is the risk to which he who prints a book exposes
      himself, for of all impossibilities the greatest is to write one that will
      satisfy and please all readers."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That which treats of me must have pleased few," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Quite the contrary," said the bachelor; "for, as stultorum infinitum est
      numerus, innumerable are those who have relished the said history; but
      some have brought a charge against the author's memory, inasmuch as he
      forgot to say who the thief was who stole Sancho's Dapple; for it is not
      stated there, but only to be inferred from what is set down, that he was
      stolen, and a little farther on we see Sancho mounted on the same ass,
      without any reappearance of it. They say, too, that he forgot to state
      what Sancho did with those hundred crowns that he found in the valise in
      the Sierra Morena, as he never alludes to them again, and there are many
      who would be glad to know what he did with them, or what he spent them on,
      for it is one of the serious omissions of the work."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor Samson, I am not in a humour now for going into accounts or
      explanations," said Sancho; "for there's a sinking of the stomach come
      over me, and unless I doctor it with a couple of sups of the old stuff it
      will put me on the thorn of Santa Lucia. I have it at home, and my old
      woman is waiting for me; after dinner I'll come back, and will answer you
      and all the world every question you may choose to ask, as well about the
      loss of the ass as about the spending of the hundred crowns;" and without
      another word or waiting for a reply he made off home.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote begged and entreated the bachelor to stay and do penance with
      him. The bachelor accepted the invitation and remained, a couple of young
      pigeons were added to the ordinary fare, at dinner they talked chivalry,
      Carrasco fell in with his host's humour, the banquet came to an end, they
      took their afternoon sleep, Sancho returned, and their conversation was
      resumed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p03e" id="p03e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p03e.jpg (49K)" src="images/p03e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch4b" id="ch4b"></a>CHAPTER IV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH SANCHO PANZA GIVES A SATISFACTORY REPLY TO THE DOUBTS AND
      QUESTIONS OF THE BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS
      WORTH KNOWING AND TELLING
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p04a" id="p04a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p04a.jpg (143K)" src="images/p04a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p04a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho came back to Don Quixote's house, and returning to the late subject
      of conversation, he said, "As to what Senor Samson said, that he would
      like to know by whom, or how, or when my ass was stolen, I say in reply
      that the same night we went into the Sierra Morena, flying from the Holy
      Brotherhood after that unlucky adventure of the galley slaves, and the
      other of the corpse that was going to Segovia, my master and I ensconced
      ourselves in a thicket, and there, my master leaning on his lance, and I
      seated on my Dapple, battered and weary with the late frays we fell asleep
      as if it had been on four feather mattresses; and I in particular slept so
      sound, that, whoever he was, he was able to come and prop me up on four
      stakes, which he put under the four corners of the pack-saddle in such a
      way that he left me mounted on it, and took away Dapple from under me
      without my feeling it."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p04b" id="p04b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p04b.jpg (270K)" src="images/p04b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p04b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is an easy matter," said Don Quixote, "and it is no new occurrence,
      for the same thing happened to Sacripante at the siege of Albracca; the
      famous thief, Brunello, by the same contrivance, took his horse from
      between his legs."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Day came," continued Sancho, "and the moment I stirred the stakes gave
      way and I fell to the ground with a mighty come down; I looked about for
      the ass, but could not see him; the tears rushed to my eyes and I raised
      such a lamentation that, if the author of our history has not put it in,
      he may depend upon it he has left out a good thing. Some days after, I
      know not how many, travelling with her ladyship the Princess Micomicona, I
      saw my ass, and mounted upon him, in the dress of a gipsy, was that Gines
      de Pasamonte, the great rogue and rascal that my master and I freed from
      the chain."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is not where the mistake is," replied Samson; "it is, that before
      the ass has turned up, the author speaks of Sancho as being mounted on
      it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know what to say to that," said Sancho, "unless that the
      historian made a mistake, or perhaps it might be a blunder of the
      printer's."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No doubt that's it," said Samson; "but what became of the hundred crowns?
      Did they vanish?"
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Sancho answered, "I spent them for my own good, and my wife's,
      and my children's, and it is they that have made my wife bear so patiently
      all my wanderings on highways and byways, in the service of my master, Don
      Quixote; for if after all this time I had come back to the house without a
      rap and without the ass, it would have been a poor look-out for me; and if
      anyone wants to know anything more about me, here I am, ready to answer
      the king himself in person; and it is no affair of anyone's whether I took
      or did not take, whether I spent or did not spend; for the whacks that
      were given me in these journeys were to be paid for in money, even if they
      were valued at no more than four maravedis apiece, another hundred crowns
      would not pay me for half of them. Let each look to himself and not try to
      make out white black, and black white; for each of us is as God made him,
      aye, and often worse."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will take care," said Carrasco, "to impress upon the author of the
      history that, if he prints it again, he must not forget what worthy Sancho
      has said, for it will raise it a good span higher."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is there anything else to correct in the history, senor bachelor?" asked
      Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No doubt there is," replied he; "but not anything that will be of the
      same importance as those I have mentioned."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Does the author promise a second part at all?" said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He does promise one," replied Samson; "but he says he has not found it,
      nor does he know who has got it; and we cannot say whether it will appear
      or not; and so, on that head, as some say that no second part has ever
      been good, and others that enough has been already written about Don
      Quixote, it is thought there will be no second part; though some, who are
      jovial rather than saturnine, say, 'Let us have more Quixotades, let Don
      Quixote charge and Sancho chatter, and no matter what it may turn out, we
      shall be satisfied with that.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what does the author mean to do?" said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What?" replied Samson; "why, as soon as he has found the history which he
      is now searching for with extraordinary diligence, he will at once give it
      to the press, moved more by the profit that may accrue to him from doing
      so than by any thought of praise."
    </p>
    <p>
      Whereat Sancho observed, "The author looks for money and profit, does he?
      It will be a wonder if he succeeds, for it will be only hurry, hurry, with
      him, like the tailor on Easter Eve; and works done in a hurry are never
      finished as perfectly as they ought to be. Let master Moor, or whatever he
      is, pay attention to what he is doing, and I and my master will give him
      as much grouting ready to his hand, in the way of adventures and accidents
      of all sorts, as would make up not only one second part, but a hundred.
      The good man fancies, no doubt, that we are fast asleep in the straw here,
      but let him hold up our feet to be shod and he will see which foot it is
      we go lame on. All I say is, that if my master would take my advice, we
      would be now afield, redressing outrages and righting wrongs, as is the
      use and custom of good knights-errant."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho had hardly uttered these words when the neighing of Rocinante fell
      upon their ears, which neighing Don Quixote accepted as a happy omen, and
      he resolved to make another sally in three or four days from that time.
      Announcing his intention to the bachelor, he asked his advice as to the
      quarter in which he ought to commence his expedition, and the bachelor
      replied that in his opinion he ought to go to the kingdom of Aragon, and
      the city of Saragossa, where there were to be certain solemn joustings at
      the festival of St. George, at which he might win renown above all the
      knights of Aragon, which would be winning it above all the knights of the
      world. He commended his very praiseworthy and gallant resolution, but
      admonished him to proceed with greater caution in encountering dangers,
      because his life did not belong to him, but to all those who had need of
      him to protect and aid them in their misfortunes.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There's where it is, what I abominate, Senor Samson," said Sancho here;
      "my master will attack a hundred armed men as a greedy boy would half a
      dozen melons. Body of the world, senor bachelor! there is a time to attack
      and a time to retreat, and it is not to be always 'Santiago, and close
      Spain!' Moreover, I have heard it said (and I think by my master himself,
      if I remember rightly) that the mean of valour lies between the extremes
      of cowardice and rashness; and if that be so, I don't want him to fly
      without having good reason, or to attack when the odds make it better not.
      But, above all things, I warn my master that if he is to take me with him
      it must be on the condition that he is to do all the fighting, and that I
      am not to be called upon to do anything except what concerns keeping him
      clean and comfortable; in this I will dance attendance on him readily; but
      to expect me to draw sword, even against rascally churls of the hatchet
      and hood, is idle. I don't set up to be a fighting man, Senor Samson, but
      only the best and most loyal squire that ever served knight-errant; and if
      my master Don Quixote, in consideration of my many faithful services, is
      pleased to give me some island of the many his worship says one may
      stumble on in these parts, I will take it as a great favour; and if he
      does not give it to me, I was born like everyone else, and a man must not
      live in dependence on anyone except God; and what is more, my bread will
      taste as well, and perhaps even better, without a government than if I
      were a governor; and how do I know but that in these governments the devil
      may have prepared some trip for me, to make me lose my footing and fall
      and knock my grinders out? Sancho I was born and Sancho I mean to die. But
      for all that, if heaven were to make me a fair offer of an island or
      something else of the kind, without much trouble and without much risk, I
      am not such a fool as to refuse it; for they say, too, 'when they offer
      thee a heifer, run with a halter; and 'when good luck comes to thee, take
      it in.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Brother Sancho," said Carrasco, "you have spoken like a professor; but,
      for all that, put your trust in God and in Senor Don Quixote, for he will
      give you a kingdom, not to say an island."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is all the same, be it more or be it less," replied Sancho; "though I
      can tell Senor Carrasco that my master would not throw the kingdom he
      might give me into a sack all in holes; for I have felt my own pulse and I
      find myself sound enough to rule kingdoms and govern islands; and I have
      before now told my master as much."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Take care, Sancho," said Samson; "honours change manners, and perhaps
      when you find yourself a governor you won't know the mother that bore
      you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That may hold good of those that are born in the ditches," said Sancho,
      "not of those who have the fat of an old Christian four fingers deep on
      their souls, as I have. Nay, only look at my disposition, is that likely
      to show ingratitude to anyone?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "God grant it," said Don Quixote; "we shall see when the government comes;
      and I seem to see it already."
    </p>
    <p>
      He then begged the bachelor, if he were a poet, to do him the favour of
      composing some verses for him conveying the farewell he meant to take of
      his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and to see that a letter of her name was
      placed at the beginning of each line, so that, at the end of the verses,
      "Dulcinea del Toboso" might be read by putting together the first letters.
      The bachelor replied that although he was not one of the famous poets of
      Spain, who were, they said, only three and a half, he would not fail to
      compose the required verses; though he saw a great difficulty in the task,
      as the letters which made up the name were seventeen; so, if he made four
      ballad stanzas of four lines each, there would be a letter over, and if he
      made them of five, what they called decimas or redondillas, there were
      three letters short; nevertheless he would try to drop a letter as well as
      he could, so that the name "Dulcinea del Toboso" might be got into four
      ballad stanzas.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It must be, by some means or other," said Don Quixote, "for unless the
      name stands there plain and manifest, no woman would believe the verses
      were made for her."
    </p>
    <p>
      They agreed upon this, and that the departure should take place in three
      days from that time. Don Quixote charged the bachelor to keep it a secret,
      especially from the curate and Master Nicholas, and from his niece and the
      housekeeper, lest they should prevent the execution of his praiseworthy
      and valiant purpose. Carrasco promised all, and then took his leave,
      charging Don Quixote to inform him of his good or evil fortunes whenever
      he had an opportunity; and thus they bade each other farewell, and Sancho
      went away to make the necessary preparations for their expedition.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p04e" id="p04e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p04e.jpg (55K)" src="images/p04e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch5b" id="ch5b"></a>CHAPTER V.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE SHREWD AND DROLL CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN SANCHO PANZA AND
      HIS WIFE TERESA PANZA, AND OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF BEING DULY RECORDED
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p05a" id="p05a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p05a.jpg (129K)" src="images/p05a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p05a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The translator of this history, when he comes to write this fifth chapter,
      says that he considers it apocryphal, because in it Sancho Panza speaks in
      a style unlike that which might have been expected from his limited
      intelligence, and says things so subtle that he does not think it possible
      he could have conceived them; however, desirous of doing what his task
      imposed upon him, he was unwilling to leave it untranslated, and therefore
      he went on to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho came home in such glee and spirits that his wife noticed his
      happiness a bowshot off, so much so that it made her ask him, "What have
      you got, Sancho friend, that you are so glad?"
    </p>
    <p>
      To which he replied, "Wife, if it were God's will, I should be very glad
      not to be so well pleased as I show myself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't understand you, husband," said she, "and I don't know what you
      mean by saying you would be glad, if it were God's will, not to be well
      pleased; for, fool as I am, I don't know how one can find pleasure in not
      having it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hark ye, Teresa," replied Sancho, "I am glad because I have made up my
      mind to go back to the service of my master Don Quixote, who means to go
      out a third time to seek for adventures; and I am going with him again,
      for my necessities will have it so, and also the hope that cheers me with
      the thought that I may find another hundred crowns like those we have
      spent; though it makes me sad to have to leave thee and the children; and
      if God would be pleased to let me have my daily bread, dry-shod and at
      home, without taking me out into the byways and cross-roads&mdash;and he
      could do it at small cost by merely willing it&mdash;it is clear my
      happiness would be more solid and lasting, for the happiness I have is
      mingled with sorrow at leaving thee; so that I was right in saying I would
      be glad, if it were God's will, not to be well pleased."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Look here, Sancho," said Teresa; "ever since you joined on to a
      knight-errant you talk in such a roundabout way that there is no
      understanding you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is enough that God understands me, wife," replied Sancho; "for he is
      the understander of all things; that will do; but mind, sister, you must
      look to Dapple carefully for the next three days, so that he may be fit to
      take arms; double his feed, and see to the pack-saddle and other harness,
      for it is not to a wedding we are bound, but to go round the world, and
      play at give and take with giants and dragons and monsters, and hear
      hissings and roarings and bellowings and howlings; and even all this would
      be lavender, if we had not to reckon with Yanguesans and enchanted Moors."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know well enough, husband," said Teresa, "that squires-errant don't eat
      their bread for nothing, and so I will be always praying to our Lord to
      deliver you speedily from all that hard fortune."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I can tell you, wife," said Sancho, "if I did not expect to see myself
      governor of an island before long, I would drop down dead on the spot."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, then, husband," said Teresa; "let the hen live, though it be with
      her pip, live, and let the devil take all the governments in the world;
      you came out of your mother's womb without a government, you have lived
      until now without a government, and when it is God's will you will go, or
      be carried, to your grave without a government. How many there are in the
      world who live without a government, and continue to live all the same,
      and are reckoned in the number of the people. The best sauce in the world
      is hunger, and as the poor are never without that, they always eat with a
      relish. But mind, Sancho, if by good luck you should find yourself with
      some government, don't forget me and your children. Remember that Sanchico
      is now full fifteen, and it is right he should go to school, if his uncle
      the abbot has a mind to have him trained for the Church. Consider, too,
      that your daughter Mari-Sancha will not die of grief if we marry her; for
      I have my suspicions that she is as eager to get a husband as you to get a
      government; and, after all, a daughter looks better ill married than well
      whored."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By my faith," replied Sancho, "if God brings me to get any sort of a
      government, I intend, wife, to make such a high match for Mari-Sancha that
      there will be no approaching her without calling her 'my lady."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, Sancho," returned Teresa; "marry her to her equal, that is the
      safest plan; for if you put her out of wooden clogs into high-heeled
      shoes, out of her grey flannel petticoat into hoops and silk gowns, out of
      the plain 'Marica' and 'thou,' into 'Dona So-and-so' and 'my lady,' the
      girl won't know where she is, and at every turn she will fall into a
      thousand blunders that will show the thread of her coarse homespun stuff."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tut, you fool," said Sancho; "it will be only to practise it for two or
      three years; and then dignity and decorum will fit her as easily as a
      glove; and if not, what matter? Let her be 'my lady,' and never mind what
      happens."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Keep to your own station, Sancho," replied Teresa; "don't try to raise
      yourself higher, and bear in mind the proverb that says, 'wipe the nose of
      your neigbbour's son, and take him into your house.' A fine thing it would
      be, indeed, to marry our Maria to some great count or grand gentleman,
      who, when the humour took him, would abuse her and call her clown-bred and
      clodhopper's daughter and spinning wench. I have not been bringing up my
      daughter for that all this time, I can tell you, husband. Do you bring
      home money, Sancho, and leave marrying her to my care; there is Lope
      Tocho, Juan Tocho's son, a stout, sturdy young fellow that we know, and I
      can see he does not look sour at the girl; and with him, one of our own
      sort, she will be well married, and we shall have her always under our
      eyes, and be all one family, parents and children, grandchildren and
      sons-in-law, and the peace and blessing of God will dwell among us; so
      don't you go marrying her in those courts and grand palaces where they
      won't know what to make of her, or she what to make of herself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, you idiot and wife for Barabbas," said Sancho, "what do you mean by
      trying, without why or wherefore, to keep me from marrying my daughter to
      one who will give me grandchildren that will be called 'your lordship'?
      Look ye, Teresa, I have always heard my elders say that he who does not
      know how to take advantage of luck when it comes to him, has no right to
      complain if it gives him the go-by; and now that it is knocking at our
      door, it will not do to shut it out; let us go with the favouring breeze
      that blows upon us."
    </p>
    <p>
      It is this sort of talk, and what Sancho says lower down, that made the
      translator of the history say he considered this chapter apocryphal.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Don't you see, you animal," continued Sancho, "that it will be well for
      me to drop into some profitable government that will lift us out of the
      mire, and marry Mari-Sancha to whom I like; and you yourself will find
      yourself called 'Dona Teresa Panza,' and sitting in church on a fine
      carpet and cushions and draperies, in spite and in defiance of all the
      born ladies of the town? No, stay as you are, growing neither greater nor
      less, like a tapestry figure&mdash;Let us say no more about it, for
      Sanchica shall be a countess, say what you will."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Are you sure of all you say, husband?" replied Teresa. "Well, for all
      that, I am afraid this rank of countess for my daughter will be her ruin.
      You do as you like, make a duchess or a princess of her, but I can tell
      you it will not be with my will and consent. I was always a lover of
      equality, brother, and I can't bear to see people give themselves airs
      without any right. They called me Teresa at my baptism, a plain, simple
      name, without any additions or tags or fringes of Dons or Donas; Cascajo
      was my father's name, and as I am your wife, I am called Teresa Panza,
      though by right I ought to be called Teresa Cascajo; but 'kings go where
      laws like,' and I am content with this name without having the 'Don' put
      on top of it to make it so heavy that I cannot carry it; and I don't want
      to make people talk about me when they see me go dressed like a countess
      or governor's wife; for they will say at once, 'See what airs the slut
      gives herself! Only yesterday she was always spinning flax, and used to go
      to mass with the tail of her petticoat over her head instead of a mantle,
      and there she goes to-day in a hooped gown with her broaches and airs, as
      if we didn't know her!' If God keeps me in my seven senses, or five, or
      whatever number I have, I am not going to bring myself to such a pass; go
      you, brother, and be a government or an island man, and swagger as much as
      you like; for by the soul of my mother, neither my daughter nor I are
      going to stir a step from our village; a respectable woman should have a
      broken leg and keep at home; and to be busy at something is a virtuous
      damsel's holiday; be off to your adventures along with your Don Quixote,
      and leave us to our misadventures, for God will mend them for us according
      as we deserve it. I don't know, I'm sure, who fixed the 'Don' to him, what
      neither his father nor grandfather ever had."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I declare thou hast a devil of some sort in thy body!" said Sancho. "God
      help thee, what a lot of things thou hast strung together, one after the
      other, without head or tail! What have Cascajo, and the broaches and the
      proverbs and the airs, to do with what I say? Look here, fool and dolt
      (for so I may call you, when you don't understand my words, and run away
      from good fortune), if I had said that my daughter was to throw herself
      down from a tower, or go roaming the world, as the Infanta Dona Urraca
      wanted to do, you would be right in not giving way to my will; but if in
      an instant, in less than the twinkling of an eye, I put the 'Don' and 'my
      lady' on her back, and take her out of the stubble, and place her under a
      canopy, on a dais, and on a couch, with more velvet cushions than all the
      Almohades of Morocco ever had in their family, why won't you consent and
      fall in with my wishes?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do you know why, husband?" replied Teresa; "because of the proverb that
      says 'who covers thee, discovers thee.' At the poor man people only throw
      a hasty glance; on the rich man they fix their eyes; and if the said rich
      man was once on a time poor, it is then there is the sneering and the
      tattle and spite of backbiters; and in the streets here they swarm as
      thick as bees."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Look here, Teresa," said Sancho, "and listen to what I am now going to
      say to you; maybe you never heard it in all your life; and I do not give
      my own notions, for what I am about to say are the opinions of his
      reverence the preacher, who preached in this town last Lent, and who said,
      if I remember rightly, that all things present that our eyes behold, bring
      themselves before us, and remain and fix themselves on our memory much
      better and more forcibly than things past."
    </p>
    <p>
      These observations which Sancho makes here are the other ones on account
      of which the translator says he regards this chapter as apocryphal,
      inasmuch as they are beyond Sancho's capacity.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Whence it arises," he continued, "that when we see any person well
      dressed and making a figure with rich garments and retinue of servants, it
      seems to lead and impel us perforce to respect him, though memory may at
      the same moment recall to us some lowly condition in which we have seen
      him, but which, whether it may have been poverty or low birth, being now a
      thing of the past, has no existence; while the only thing that has any
      existence is what we see before us; and if this person whom fortune has
      raised from his original lowly state (these were the very words the padre
      used) to his present height of prosperity, be well bred, generous,
      courteous to all, without seeking to vie with those whose nobility is of
      ancient date, depend upon it, Teresa, no one will remember what he was,
      and everyone will respect what he is, except indeed the envious, from whom
      no fair fortune is safe."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not understand you, husband," replied Teresa; "do as you like, and
      don't break my head with any more speechifying and rethoric; and if you
      have revolved to do what you say-"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Resolved, you should say, woman," said Sancho, "not revolved."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Don't set yourself to wrangle with me, husband," said Teresa; "I speak as
      God pleases, and don't deal in out-of-the-way phrases; and I say if you
      are bent upon having a government, take your son Sancho with you, and
      teach him from this time on how to hold a government; for sons ought to
      inherit and learn the trades of their fathers."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As soon as I have the government," said Sancho, "I will send for him by
      post, and I will send thee money, of which I shall have no lack, for there
      is never any want of people to lend it to governors when they have not got
      it; and do thou dress him so as to hide what he is and make him look what
      he is to be."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You send the money," said Teresa, "and I'll dress him up for you as fine
      as you please."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then we are agreed that our daughter is to be a countess," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The day that I see her a countess," replied Teresa, "it will be the same
      to me as if I was burying her; but once more I say do as you please, for
      we women are born to this burden of being obedient to our husbands, though
      they be dogs;" and with this she began to weep in earnest, as if she
      already saw Sanchica dead and buried.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho consoled her by saying that though he must make her a countess, he
      would put it off as long as possible. Here their conversation came to an
      end, and Sancho went back to see Don Quixote, and make arrangements for
      their departure.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p05e" id="p05e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p05e.jpg (49K)" src="images/p05e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p05e.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch6b" id="ch6b"></a>CHAPTER VI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF WHAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS NIECE AND HOUSEKEEPER; ONE
      OF THE MOST IMPORTANT CHAPTERS IN THE WHOLE HISTORY
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p06a" id="p06a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p06a.jpg (93K)" src="images/p06a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p06a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      While Sancho Panza and his wife, Teresa Cascajo, held the above irrelevant
      conversation, Don Quixote's niece and housekeeper were not idle, for by a
      thousand signs they began to perceive that their uncle and master meant to
      give them the slip the third time, and once more betake himself to his,
      for them, ill-errant chivalry. They strove by all the means in their power
      to divert him from such an unlucky scheme; but it was all preaching in the
      desert and hammering cold iron. Nevertheless, among many other
      representations made to him, the housekeeper said to him, "In truth,
      master, if you do not keep still and stay quiet at home, and give over
      roaming mountains and valleys like a troubled spirit, looking for what
      they say are called adventures, but what I call misfortunes, I shall have
      to make complaint to God and the king with loud supplication to send some
      remedy."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Don Quixote replied, "What answer God will give to your
      complaints, housekeeper, I know not, nor what his Majesty will answer
      either; I only know that if I were king I should decline to answer the
      numberless silly petitions they present every day; for one of the greatest
      among the many troubles kings have is being obliged to listen to all and
      answer all, and therefore I should be sorry that any affairs of mine
      should worry him."
    </p>
    <p>
      Whereupon the housekeeper said, "Tell us, senor, at his Majesty's court
      are there no knights?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "There are," replied Don Quixote, "and plenty of them; and it is right
      there should be, to set off the dignity of the prince, and for the greater
      glory of the king's majesty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then might not your worship," said she, "be one of those that, without
      stirring a step, serve their king and lord in his court?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Recollect, my friend," said Don Quixote, "all knights cannot be
      courtiers, nor can all courtiers be knights-errant, nor need they be.
      There must be all sorts in the world; and though we may be all knights,
      there is a great difference between one and another; for the courtiers,
      without quitting their chambers, or the threshold of the court, range the
      world over by looking at a map, without its costing them a farthing, and
      without suffering heat or cold, hunger or thirst; but we, the true
      knights-errant, measure the whole earth with our own feet, exposed to the
      sun, to the cold, to the air, to the inclemencies of heaven, by day and
      night, on foot and on horseback; nor do we only know enemies in pictures,
      but in their own real shapes; and at all risks and on all occasions we
      attack them, without any regard to childish points or rules of single
      combat, whether one has or has not a shorter lance or sword, whether one
      carries relics or any secret contrivance about him, whether or not the sun
      is to be divided and portioned out, and other niceties of the sort that
      are observed in set combats of man to man, that you know nothing about,
      but I do. And you must know besides, that the true knight-errant, though
      he may see ten giants, that not only touch the clouds with their heads but
      pierce them, and that go, each of them, on two tall towers by way of legs,
      and whose arms are like the masts of mighty ships, and each eye like a
      great mill-wheel, and glowing brighter than a glass furnace, must not on
      any account be dismayed by them. On the contrary, he must attack and fall
      upon them with a gallant bearing and a fearless heart, and, if possible,
      vanquish and destroy them, even though they have for armour the shells of
      a certain fish, that they say are harder than diamonds, and in place of
      swords wield trenchant blades of Damascus steel, or clubs studded with
      spikes also of steel, such as I have more than once seen. All this I say,
      housekeeper, that you may see the difference there is between the one sort
      of knight and the other; and it would be well if there were no prince who
      did not set a higher value on this second, or more properly speaking
      first, kind of knights-errant; for, as we read in their histories, there
      have been some among them who have been the salvation, not merely of one
      kingdom, but of many."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, senor," here exclaimed the niece, "remember that all this you are
      saying about knights-errant is fable and fiction; and their histories, if
      indeed they were not burned, would deserve, each of them, to have a
      sambenito put on it, or some mark by which it might be known as infamous
      and a corrupter of good manners."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By the God that gives me life," said Don Quixote, "if thou wert not my
      full niece, being daughter of my own sister, I would inflict a
      chastisement upon thee for the blasphemy thou hast uttered that all the
      world should ring with. What! can it be that a young hussy that hardly
      knows how to handle a dozen lace-bobbins dares to wag her tongue and
      criticise the histories of knights-errant? What would Senor Amadis say if
      he heard of such a thing? He, however, no doubt would forgive thee, for he
      was the most humble-minded and courteous knight of his time, and moreover
      a great protector of damsels; but some there are that might have heard
      thee, and it would not have been well for thee in that case; for they are
      not all courteous or mannerly; some are ill-conditioned scoundrels; nor is
      it everyone that calls himself a gentleman, that is so in all respects;
      some are gold, others pinchbeck, and all look like gentlemen, but not all
      can stand the touchstone of truth. There are men of low rank who strain
      themselves to bursting to pass for gentlemen, and high gentlemen who, one
      would fancy, were dying to pass for men of low rank; the former raise
      themselves by their ambition or by their virtues, the latter debase
      themselves by their lack of spirit or by their vices; and one has need of
      experience and discernment to distinguish these two kinds of gentlemen, so
      much alike in name and so different in conduct."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God bless me!" said the niece, "that you should know so much, uncle&mdash;enough,
      if need be, to get up into a pulpit and go preach in the streets&mdash;and
      yet that you should fall into a delusion so great and a folly so manifest
      as to try to make yourself out vigorous when you are old, strong when you
      are sickly, able to put straight what is crooked when you yourself are
      bent by age, and, above all, a caballero when you are not one; for though
      gentlefolk may be so, poor men are nothing of the kind!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is a great deal of truth in what you say, niece," returned Don
      Quixote, "and I could tell you somewhat about birth that would astonish
      you; but, not to mix up things human and divine, I refrain. Look you, my
      dears, all the lineages in the world (attend to what I am saying) can be
      reduced to four sorts, which are these: those that had humble beginnings,
      and went on spreading and extending themselves until they attained
      surpassing greatness; those that had great beginnings and maintained them,
      and still maintain and uphold the greatness of their origin; those, again,
      that from a great beginning have ended in a point like a pyramid, having
      reduced and lessened their original greatness till it has come to nought,
      like the point of a pyramid, which, relatively to its base or foundation,
      is nothing; and then there are those&mdash;and it is they that are the
      most numerous&mdash;that have had neither an illustrious beginning nor a
      remarkable mid-course, and so will have an end without a name, like an
      ordinary plebeian line. Of the first, those that had an humble origin and
      rose to the greatness they still preserve, the Ottoman house may serve as
      an example, which from an humble and lowly shepherd, its founder, has
      reached the height at which we now see it. For examples of the second sort
      of lineage, that began with greatness and maintains it still without
      adding to it, there are the many princes who have inherited the dignity,
      and maintain themselves in their inheritance, without increasing or
      diminishing it, keeping peacefully within the limits of their states. Of
      those that began great and ended in a point, there are thousands of
      examples, for all the Pharaohs and Ptolemies of Egypt, the Caesars of
      Rome, and the whole herd (if I may apply such a word to them) of countless
      princes, monarchs, lords, Medes, Assyrians, Persians, Greeks, and
      barbarians, all these lineages and lordships have ended in a point and
      come to nothing, they themselves as well as their founders, for it would
      be impossible now to find one of their descendants, and, even should we
      find one, it would be in some lowly and humble condition. Of plebeian
      lineages I have nothing to say, save that they merely serve to swell the
      number of those that live, without any eminence to entitle them to any
      fame or praise beyond this. From all I have said I would have you gather,
      my poor innocents, that great is the confusion among lineages, and that
      only those are seen to be great and illustrious that show themselves so by
      the virtue, wealth, and generosity of their possessors. I have said
      virtue, wealth, and generosity, because a great man who is vicious will be
      a great example of vice, and a rich man who is not generous will be merely
      a miserly beggar; for the possessor of wealth is not made happy by
      possessing it, but by spending it, and not by spending as he pleases, but
      by knowing how to spend it well. The poor gentleman has no way of showing
      that he is a gentleman but by virtue, by being affable, well-bred,
      courteous, gentle-mannered, and kindly, not haughty, arrogant, or
      censorious, but above all by being charitable; for by two maravedis given
      with a cheerful heart to the poor, he will show himself as generous as he
      who distributes alms with bell-ringing, and no one that perceives him to
      be endowed with the virtues I have named, even though he know him not,
      will fail to recognise and set him down as one of good blood; and it would
      be strange were it not so; praise has ever been the reward of virtue, and
      those who are virtuous cannot fail to receive commendation. There are two
      roads, my daughters, by which men may reach wealth and honours; one is
      that of letters, the other that of arms. I have more of arms than of
      letters in my composition, and, judging by my inclination to arms, was
      born under the influence of the planet Mars. I am, therefore, in a measure
      constrained to follow that road, and by it I must travel in spite of all
      the world, and it will be labour in vain for you to urge me to resist what
      heaven wills, fate ordains, reason requires, and, above all, my own
      inclination favours; for knowing as I do the countless toils that are the
      accompaniments of knight-errantry, I know, too, the infinite blessings
      that are attained by it; I know that the path of virtue is very narrow,
      and the road of vice broad and spacious; I know their ends and goals are
      different, for the broad and easy road of vice ends in death, and the
      narrow and toilsome one of virtue in life, and not transitory life, but in
      that which has no end; I know, as our great Castilian poet says, that-
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
It is by rugged paths like these they go
That scale the heights of immortality,
Unreached by those that falter here below."
</pre>
    <p>
      "Woe is me!" exclaimed the niece, "my lord is a poet, too! He knows
      everything, and he can do everything; I will bet, if he chose to turn
      mason, he could make a house as easily as a cage."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I can tell you, niece," replied Don Quixote, "if these chivalrous
      thoughts did not engage all my faculties, there would be nothing that I
      could not do, nor any sort of knickknack that would not come from my
      hands, particularly cages and tooth-picks."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment there came a knocking at the door, and when they asked who
      was there, Sancho Panza made answer that it was he. The instant the
      housekeeper knew who it was, she ran to hide herself so as not to see him;
      in such abhorrence did she hold him. The niece let him in, and his master
      Don Quixote came forward to receive him with open arms, and the pair shut
      themselves up in his room, where they had another conversation not
      inferior to the previous one.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p06e" id="p06e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p06e.jpg (19K)" src="images/p06e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch7b" id="ch7b"></a>CHAPTER VII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
      VERY NOTABLE INCIDENTS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p07a" id="p07a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p07a.jpg (140K)" src="images/p07a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p07a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The instant the housekeeper saw Sancho Panza shut himself in with her
      master, she guessed what they were about; and suspecting that the result
      of the consultation would be a resolve to undertake a third sally, she
      seized her mantle, and in deep anxiety and distress, ran to find the
      bachelor Samson Carrasco, as she thought that, being a well-spoken man,
      and a new friend of her master's, he might be able to persuade him to give
      up any such crazy notion. She found him pacing the patio of his house,
      and, perspiring and flurried, she fell at his feet the moment she saw him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carrasco, seeing how distressed and overcome she was, said to her, "What
      is this, mistress housekeeper? What has happened to you? One would think
      you heart-broken."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nothing, Senor Samson," said she, "only that my master is breaking out,
      plainly breaking out."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Whereabouts is he breaking out, senora?" asked Samson; "has any part of
      his body burst?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He is only breaking out at the door of his madness," she replied; "I
      mean, dear senor bachelor, that he is going to break out again (and this
      will be the third time) to hunt all over the world for what he calls
      ventures, though I can't make out why he gives them that name. The first
      time he was brought back to us slung across the back of an ass, and
      belaboured all over; and the second time he came in an ox-cart, shut up in
      a cage, in which he persuaded himself he was enchanted, and the poor
      creature was in such a state that the mother that bore him would not have
      known him; lean, yellow, with his eyes sunk deep in the cells of his
      skull; so that to bring him round again, ever so little, cost me more than
      six hundred eggs, as God knows, and all the world, and my hens too, that
      won't let me tell a lie."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I can well believe," replied the bachelor, "for they are so good and
      so fat, and so well-bred, that they would not say one thing for another,
      though they were to burst for it. In short then, mistress housekeeper,
      that is all, and there is nothing the matter, except what it is feared Don
      Quixote may do?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, senor," said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then," returned the bachelor, "don't be uneasy, but go home in
      peace; get me ready something hot for breakfast, and while you are on the
      way say the prayer of Santa Apollonia, that is if you know it; for I will
      come presently and you will see miracles."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Woe is me," cried the housekeeper, "is it the prayer of Santa Apollonia
      you would have me say? That would do if it was the toothache my master
      had; but it is in the brains, what he has got."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know what I am saying, mistress housekeeper; go, and don't set yourself
      to argue with me, for you know I am a bachelor of Salamanca, and one can't
      be more of a bachelor than that," replied Carrasco; and with this the
      housekeeper retired, and the bachelor went to look for the curate, and
      arrange with him what will be told in its proper place.
    </p>
    <p>
      While Don Quixote and Sancho were shut up together, they had a discussion
      which the history records with great precision and scrupulous exactness.
      Sancho said to his master, "Senor, I have educed my wife to let me go with
      your worship wherever you choose to take me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Induced, you should say, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "not educed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Once or twice, as well as I remember," replied Sancho, "I have begged of
      your worship not to mend my words, if so be as you understand what I mean
      by them; and if you don't understand them to say 'Sancho,' or 'devil,' 'I
      don't understand thee; and if I don't make my meaning plain, then you may
      correct me, for I am so focile-"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't understand thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote at once; "for I know
      not what 'I am so focile' means."
    </p>
    <p>
      "'So focile' means I am so much that way," replied Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I understand thee still less now," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, if you can't understand me," said Sancho, "I don't know how to put
      it; I know no more, God help me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, now I have hit it," said Don Quixote; "thou wouldst say thou art so
      docile, tractable, and gentle that thou wilt take what I say to thee, and
      submit to what I teach thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would bet," said Sancho, "that from the very first you understood me,
      and knew what I meant, but you wanted to put me out that you might hear me
      make another couple of dozen blunders."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May be so," replied Don Quixote; "but to come to the point, what does
      Teresa say?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Teresa says," replied Sancho, "that I should make sure with your worship,
      and 'let papers speak and beards be still,' for 'he who binds does not
      wrangle,' since one 'take' is better than two 'I'll give thee's;' and I
      say a woman's advice is no great thing, and he who won't take it is a
      fool."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And so say I," said Don Quixote; "continue, Sancho my friend; go on; you
      talk pearls to-day."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The fact is," continued Sancho, "that, as your worship knows better than
      I do, we are all of us liable to death, and to-day we are, and to-morrow
      we are not, and the lamb goes as soon as the sheep, and nobody can promise
      himself more hours of life in this world than God may be pleased to give
      him; for death is deaf, and when it comes to knock at our life's door, it
      is always urgent, and neither prayers, nor struggles, nor sceptres, nor
      mitres, can keep it back, as common talk and report say, and as they tell
      us from the pulpits every day."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All that is very true," said Don Quixote; "but I cannot make out what
      thou art driving at."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What I am driving at," said Sancho, "is that your worship settle some
      fixed wages for me, to be paid monthly while I am in your service, and
      that the same be paid me out of your estate; for I don't care to stand on
      rewards which either come late, or ill, or never at all; God help me with
      my own. In short, I would like to know what I am to get, be it much or
      little; for the hen will lay on one egg, and many littles make a much, and
      so long as one gains something there is nothing lost. To be sure, if it
      should happen (what I neither believe nor expect) that your worship were
      to give me that island you have promised me, I am not so ungrateful nor so
      grasping but that I would be willing to have the revenue of such island
      valued and stopped out of my wages in due promotion."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sancho, my friend," replied Don Quixote, "sometimes proportion may be as
      good as promotion."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I see," said Sancho; "I'll bet I ought to have said proportion, and not
      promotion; but it is no matter, as your worship has understood me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And so well understood," returned Don Quixote, "that I have seen into the
      depths of thy thoughts, and know the mark thou art shooting at with the
      countless shafts of thy proverbs. Look here, Sancho, I would readily fix
      thy wages if I had ever found any instance in the histories of the
      knights-errant to show or indicate, by the slightest hint, what their
      squires used to get monthly or yearly; but I have read all or the best
      part of their histories, and I cannot remember reading of any
      knight-errant having assigned fixed wages to his squire; I only know that
      they all served on reward, and that when they least expected it, if good
      luck attended their masters, they found themselves recompensed with an
      island or something equivalent to it, or at the least they were left with
      a title and lordship. If with these hopes and additional inducements you,
      Sancho, please to return to my service, well and good; but to suppose that
      I am going to disturb or unhinge the ancient usage of knight-errantry, is
      all nonsense. And so, my Sancho, get you back to your house and explain my
      intentions to your Teresa, and if she likes and you like to be on reward
      with me, bene quidem; if not, we remain friends; for if the pigeon-house
      does not lack food, it will not lack pigeons; and bear in mind, my son,
      that a good hope is better than a bad holding, and a good grievance better
      than a bad compensation. I speak in this way, Sancho, to show you that I
      can shower down proverbs just as well as yourself; and in short, I mean to
      say, and I do say, that if you don't like to come on reward with me, and
      run the same chance that I run, God be with you and make a saint of you;
      for I shall find plenty of squires more obedient and painstaking, and not
      so thickheaded or talkative as you are."
    </p>
    <p>
      When Sancho heard his master's firm, resolute language, a cloud came over
      the sky with him and the wings of his heart drooped, for he had made sure
      that his master would not go without him for all the wealth of the world;
      and as he stood there dumbfoundered and moody, Samson Carrasco came in
      with the housekeeper and niece, who were anxious to hear by what arguments
      he was about to dissuade their master from going to seek adventures. The
      arch wag Samson came forward, and embracing him as he had done before,
      said with a loud voice, "O flower of knight-errantry! O shining light of
      arms! O honour and mirror of the Spanish nation! may God Almighty in his
      infinite power grant that any person or persons, who would impede or
      hinder thy third sally, may find no way out of the labyrinth of their
      schemes, nor ever accomplish what they most desire!" And then, turning to
      the housekeeper, he said, "Mistress housekeeper may just as well give over
      saying the prayer of Santa Apollonia, for I know it is the positive
      determination of the spheres that Senor Don Quixote shall proceed to put
      into execution his new and lofty designs; and I should lay a heavy burden
      on my conscience did I not urge and persuade this knight not to keep the
      might of his strong arm and the virtue of his valiant spirit any longer
      curbed and checked, for by his inactivity he is defrauding the world of
      the redress of wrongs, of the protection of orphans, of the honour of
      virgins, of the aid of widows, and of the support of wives, and other
      matters of this kind appertaining, belonging, proper and peculiar to the
      order of knight-errantry. On, then, my lord Don Quixote, beautiful and
      brave, let your worship and highness set out to-day rather than to-morrow;
      and if anything be needed for the execution of your purpose, here am I
      ready in person and purse to supply the want; and were it requisite to
      attend your magnificence as squire, I should esteem it the happiest good
      fortune."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this, Don Quixote, turning to Sancho, said, "Did I not tell thee,
      Sancho, there would be squires enough and to spare for me? See now who
      offers to become one; no less than the illustrious bachelor Samson
      Carrasco, the perpetual joy and delight of the courts of the Salamancan
      schools, sound in body, discreet, patient under heat or cold, hunger or
      thirst, with all the qualifications requisite to make a knight-errant's
      squire! But heaven forbid that, to gratify my own inclination, I should
      shake or shatter this pillar of letters and vessel of the sciences, and
      cut down this towering palm of the fair and liberal arts. Let this new
      Samson remain in his own country, and, bringing honour to it, bring honour
      at the same time on the grey heads of his venerable parents; for I will be
      content with any squire that comes to hand, as Sancho does not deign to
      accompany me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do deign," said Sancho, deeply moved and with tears in his eyes; "it
      shall not be said of me, master mine," he continued, "'the bread eaten and
      the company dispersed.' Nay, I come of no ungrateful stock, for all the
      world knows, but particularly my own town, who the Panzas from whom I am
      descended were; and, what is more, I know and have learned, by many good
      words and deeds, your worship's desire to show me favour; and if I have
      been bargaining more or less about my wages, it was only to please my
      wife, who, when she sets herself to press a point, no hammer drives the
      hoops of a cask as she drives one to do what she wants; but, after all, a
      man must be a man, and a woman a woman; and as I am a man anyhow, which I
      can't deny, I will be one in my own house too, let who will take it amiss;
      and so there's nothing more to do but for your worship to make your will
      with its codicil in such a way that it can't be provoked, and let us set
      out at once, to save Senor Samson's soul from suffering, as he says his
      conscience obliges him to persuade your worship to sally out upon the
      world a third time; so I offer again to serve your worship faithfully and
      loyally, as well and better than all the squires that served
      knights-errant in times past or present."
    </p>
    <p>
      The bachelor was filled with amazement when he heard Sancho's phraseology
      and style of talk, for though he had read the first part of his master's
      history he never thought that he could be so droll as he was there
      described; but now, hearing him talk of a "will and codicil that could not
      be provoked," instead of "will and codicil that could not be revoked," he
      believed all he had read of him, and set him down as one of the greatest
      simpletons of modern times; and he said to himself that two such lunatics
      as master and man the world had never seen. In fine, Don Quixote and
      Sancho embraced one another and made friends, and by the advice and with
      the approval of the great Carrasco, who was now their oracle, it was
      arranged that their departure should take place three days thence, by
      which time they could have all that was requisite for the journey ready,
      and procure a closed helmet, which Don Quixote said he must by all means
      take. Samson offered him one, as he knew a friend of his who had it would
      not refuse it to him, though it was more dingy with rust and mildew than
      bright and clean like burnished steel.
    </p>
    <p>
      The curses which both housekeeper and niece poured out on the bachelor
      were past counting; they tore their hair, they clawed their faces, and in
      the style of the hired mourners that were once in fashion, they raised a
      lamentation over the departure of their master and uncle, as if it had
      been his death. Samson's intention in persuading him to sally forth once
      more was to do what the history relates farther on; all by the advice of
      the curate and barber, with whom he had previously discussed the subject.
      Finally, then, during those three days, Don Quixote and Sancho provided
      themselves with what they considered necessary, and Sancho having pacified
      his wife, and Don Quixote his niece and housekeeper, at nightfall, unseen
      by anyone except the bachelor, who thought fit to accompany them half a
      league out of the village, they set out for El Toboso, Don Quixote on his
      good Rocinante and Sancho on his old Dapple, his alforjas furnished with
      certain matters in the way of victuals, and his purse with money that Don
      Quixote gave him to meet emergencies. Samson embraced him, and entreated
      him to let him hear of his good or evil fortunes, so that he might rejoice
      over the former or condole with him over the latter, as the laws of
      friendship required. Don Quixote promised him he would do so, and Samson
      returned to the village, and the other two took the road for the great
      city of El Toboso.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p07e" id="p07e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p07e.jpg (24K)" src="images/p07e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch8b" id="ch8b"></a>CHAPTER VIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO SEE HIS LADY
      DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p08a" id="p08a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p08a.jpg (65K)" src="images/p08a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p08a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Blessed be Allah the all-powerful!" says Hamete Benengeli on beginning
      this eighth chapter; "blessed be Allah!" he repeats three times; and he
      says he utters these thanksgivings at seeing that he has now got Don
      Quixote and Sancho fairly afield, and that the readers of his delightful
      history may reckon that the achievements and humours of Don Quixote and
      his squire are now about to begin; and he urges them to forget the former
      chivalries of the ingenious gentleman and to fix their eyes on those that
      are to come, which now begin on the road to El Toboso, as the others began
      on the plains of Montiel; nor is it much that he asks in consideration of
      all he promises, and so he goes on to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote and Sancho were left alone, and the moment Samson took his
      departure, Rocinante began to neigh, and Dapple to sigh, which, by both
      knight and squire, was accepted as a good sign and a very happy omen;
      though, if the truth is to be told, the sighs and brays of Dapple were
      louder than the neighings of the hack, from which Sancho inferred that his
      good fortune was to exceed and overtop that of his master, building,
      perhaps, upon some judicial astrology that he may have known, though the
      history says nothing about it; all that can be said is, that when he
      stumbled or fell, he was heard to say he wished he had not come out, for
      by stumbling or falling there was nothing to be got but a damaged shoe or
      a broken rib; and, fool as he was, he was not much astray in this.
    </p>
    <p>
      Said Don Quixote, "Sancho, my friend, night is drawing on upon us as we
      go, and more darkly than will allow us to reach El Toboso by daylight; for
      there I am resolved to go before I engage in another adventure, and there
      I shall obtain the blessing and generous permission of the peerless
      Dulcinea, with which permission I expect and feel assured that I shall
      conclude and bring to a happy termination every perilous adventure; for
      nothing in life makes knights-errant more valorous than finding themselves
      favoured by their ladies."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p08b" id="p08b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p08b.jpg (283K)" src="images/p08b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p08b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "So I believe," replied Sancho; "but I think it will be difficult for your
      worship to speak with her or see her, at any rate where you will be able
      to receive her blessing; unless, indeed, she throws it over the wall of
      the yard where I saw her the time before, when I took her the letter that
      told of the follies and mad things your worship was doing in the heart of
      Sierra Morena."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Didst thou take that for a yard wall, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "where
      or at which thou sawest that never sufficiently extolled grace and beauty?
      It must have been the gallery, corridor, or portico of some rich and royal
      palace."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It might have been all that," returned Sancho, "but to me it looked like
      a wall, unless I am short of memory."
    </p>
    <p>
      "At all events, let us go there, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "for, so that
      I see her, it is the same to me whether it be over a wall, or at a window,
      or through the chink of a door, or the grate of a garden; for any beam of
      the sun of her beauty that reaches my eyes will give light to my reason
      and strength to my heart, so that I shall be unmatched and unequalled in
      wisdom and valour."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, to tell the truth, senor," said Sancho, "when I saw that sun of the
      lady Dulcinea del Toboso, it was not bright enough to throw out beams at
      all; it must have been, that as her grace was sifting that wheat I told
      you of, the thick dust she raised came before her face like a cloud and
      dimmed it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What! dost thou still persist, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "in saying,
      thinking, believing, and maintaining that my lady Dulcinea was sifting
      wheat, that being an occupation and task entirely at variance with what is
      and should be the employment of persons of distinction, who are
      constituted and reserved for other avocations and pursuits that show their
      rank a bowshot off? Thou hast forgotten, O Sancho, those lines of our poet
      wherein he paints for us how, in their crystal abodes, those four nymphs
      employed themselves who rose from their loved Tagus and seated themselves
      in a verdant meadow to embroider those tissues which the ingenious poet
      there describes to us, how they were worked and woven with gold and silk
      and pearls; and something of this sort must have been the employment of my
      lady when thou sawest her, only that the spite which some wicked enchanter
      seems to have against everything of mine changes all those things that
      give me pleasure, and turns them into shapes unlike their own; and so I
      fear that in that history of my achievements which they say is now in
      print, if haply its author was some sage who is an enemy of mine, he will
      have put one thing for another, mingling a thousand lies with one truth,
      and amusing himself by relating transactions which have nothing to do with
      the sequence of a true history. O envy, root of all countless evils, and
      cankerworm of the virtues! All the vices, Sancho, bring some kind of
      pleasure with them; but envy brings nothing but irritation, bitterness,
      and rage."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So I say too," replied Sancho; "and I suspect in that legend or history
      of us that the bachelor Samson Carrasco told us he saw, my honour goes
      dragged in the dirt, knocked about, up and down, sweeping the streets, as
      they say. And yet, on the faith of an honest man, I never spoke ill of any
      enchanter, and I am not so well off that I am to be envied; to be sure, I
      am rather sly, and I have a certain spice of the rogue in me; but all is
      covered by the great cloak of my simplicity, always natural and never
      acted; and if I had no other merit save that I believe, as I always do,
      firmly and truly in God, and all the holy Roman Catholic Church holds and
      believes, and that I am a mortal enemy of the Jews, the historians ought
      to have mercy on me and treat me well in their writings. But let them say
      what they like; naked was I born, naked I find myself, I neither lose nor
      gain; nay, while I see myself put into a book and passed on from hand to
      hand over the world, I don't care a fig, let them say what they like of
      me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "reminds me of what happened to a
      famous poet of our own day, who, having written a bitter satire against
      all the courtesan ladies, did not insert or name in it a certain lady of
      whom it was questionable whether she was one or not. She, seeing she was
      not in the list of the poet, asked him what he had seen in her that he did
      not include her in the number of the others, telling him he must add to
      his satire and put her in the new part, or else look out for the
      consequences. The poet did as she bade him, and left her without a shred
      of reputation, and she was satisfied by getting fame though it was infamy.
      In keeping with this is what they relate of that shepherd who set fire to
      the famous temple of Diana, by repute one of the seven wonders of the
      world, and burned it with the sole object of making his name live in after
      ages; and, though it was forbidden to name him, or mention his name by
      word of mouth or in writing, lest the object of his ambition should be
      attained, nevertheless it became known that he was called Erostratus. And
      something of the same sort is what happened in the case of the great
      emperor Charles V and a gentleman in Rome. The emperor was anxious to see
      that famous temple of the Rotunda, called in ancient times the temple 'of
      all the gods,' but now-a-days, by a better nomenclature, 'of all the
      saints,' which is the best preserved building of all those of pagan
      construction in Rome, and the one which best sustains the reputation of
      mighty works and magnificence of its founders. It is in the form of a half
      orange, of enormous dimensions, and well lighted, though no light
      penetrates it save that which is admitted by a window, or rather round
      skylight, at the top; and it was from this that the emperor examined the
      building. A Roman gentleman stood by his side and explained to him the
      skilful construction and ingenuity of the vast fabric and its wonderful
      architecture, and when they had left the skylight he said to the emperor,
      'A thousand times, your Sacred Majesty, the impulse came upon me to seize
      your Majesty in my arms and fling myself down from yonder skylight, so as
      to leave behind me in the world a name that would last for ever.' 'I am
      thankful to you for not carrying such an evil thought into effect,' said
      the emperor, 'and I shall give you no opportunity in future of again
      putting your loyalty to the test; and I therefore forbid you ever to speak
      to me or to be where I am; and he followed up these words by bestowing a
      liberal bounty upon him. My meaning is, Sancho, that the desire of
      acquiring fame is a very powerful motive. What, thinkest thou, was it that
      flung Horatius in full armour down from the bridge into the depths of the
      Tiber? What burned the hand and arm of Mutius? What impelled Curtius to
      plunge into the deep burning gulf that opened in the midst of Rome? What,
      in opposition to all the omens that declared against him, made Julius
      Caesar cross the Rubicon? And to come to more modern examples, what
      scuttled the ships, and left stranded and cut off the gallant Spaniards
      under the command of the most courteous Cortes in the New World? All these
      and a variety of other great exploits are, were and will be, the work of
      fame that mortals desire as a reward and a portion of the immortality
      their famous deeds deserve; though we Catholic Christians and
      knights-errant look more to that future glory that is everlasting in the
      ethereal regions of heaven than to the vanity of the fame that is to be
      acquired in this present transitory life; a fame that, however long it may
      last, must after all end with the world itself, which has its own
      appointed end. So that, O Sancho, in what we do we must not overpass the
      bounds which the Christian religion we profess has assigned to us. We have
      to slay pride in giants, envy by generosity and nobleness of heart, anger
      by calmness of demeanour and equanimity, gluttony and sloth by the
      spareness of our diet and the length of our vigils, lust and lewdness by
      the loyalty we preserve to those whom we have made the mistresses of our
      thoughts, indolence by traversing the world in all directions seeking
      opportunities of making ourselves, besides Christians, famous knights.
      Such, Sancho, are the means by which we reach those extremes of praise
      that fair fame carries with it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All that your worship has said so far," said Sancho, "I have understood
      quite well; but still I would be glad if your worship would dissolve a
      doubt for me, which has just this minute come into my mind."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Solve, thou meanest, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "say on, in God's name,
      and I will answer as well as I can."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell me, senor," Sancho went on to say, "those Julys or Augusts, and all
      those venturous knights that you say are now dead&mdash;where are they
      now?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The heathens," replied Don Quixote, "are, no doubt, in hell; the
      Christians, if they were good Christians, are either in purgatory or in
      heaven."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very good," said Sancho; "but now I want to know&mdash;the tombs where
      the bodies of those great lords are, have they silver lamps before them,
      or are the walls of their chapels ornamented with crutches,
      winding-sheets, tresses of hair, legs and eyes in wax? Or what are they
      ornamented with?"
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Don Quixote made answer: "The tombs of the heathens were
      generally sumptuous temples; the ashes of Julius Caesar's body were placed
      on the top of a stone pyramid of vast size, which they now call in Rome
      Saint Peter's needle. The emperor Hadrian had for a tomb a castle as large
      as a good-sized village, which they called the Moles Adriani, and is now
      the castle of St. Angelo in Rome. The queen Artemisia buried her husband
      Mausolus in a tomb which was reckoned one of the seven wonders of the
      world; but none of these tombs, or of the many others of the heathens,
      were ornamented with winding-sheets or any of those other offerings and
      tokens that show that they who are buried there are saints."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's the point I'm coming to," said Sancho; "and now tell me, which is
      the greater work, to bring a dead man to life or to kill a giant?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The answer is easy," replied Don Quixote; "it is a greater work to bring
      to life a dead man."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now I have got you," said Sancho; "in that case the fame of them who
      bring the dead to life, who give sight to the blind, cure cripples,
      restore health to the sick, and before whose tombs there are lamps
      burning, and whose chapels are filled with devout folk on their knees
      adoring their relics be a better fame in this life and in the other than
      that which all the heathen emperors and knights-errant that have ever been
      in the world have left or may leave behind them?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I grant, too," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then this fame, these favours, these privileges, or whatever you call
      it," said Sancho, "belong to the bodies and relics of the saints who, with
      the approbation and permission of our holy mother Church, have lamps,
      tapers, winding-sheets, crutches, pictures, eyes and legs, by means of
      which they increase devotion and add to their own Christian reputation.
      Kings carry the bodies or relics of saints on their shoulders, and kiss
      bits of their bones, and enrich and adorn their oratories and favourite
      altars with them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What wouldst thou have me infer from all thou hast said, Sancho?" asked
      Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My meaning is," said Sancho, "let us set about becoming saints, and we
      shall obtain more quickly the fair fame we are striving after; for you
      know, senor, yesterday or the day before yesterday (for it is so lately
      one may say so) they canonised and beatified two little barefoot friars,
      and it is now reckoned the greatest good luck to kiss or touch the iron
      chains with which they girt and tortured their bodies, and they are held
      in greater veneration, so it is said, than the sword of Roland in the
      armoury of our lord the King, whom God preserve. So that, senor, it is
      better to be an humble little friar of no matter what order, than a
      valiant knight-errant; with God a couple of dozen of penance lashings are
      of more avail than two thousand lance-thrusts, be they given to giants, or
      monsters, or dragons."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All that is true," returned Don Quixote, "but we cannot all be friars,
      and many are the ways by which God takes his own to heaven; chivalry is a
      religion, there are sainted knights in glory."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," said Sancho, "but I have heard say that there are more friars in
      heaven than knights-errant."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That," said Don Quixote, "is because those in religious orders are more
      numerous than knights."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The errants are many," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Many," replied Don Quixote, "but few they who deserve the name of
      knights."
    </p>
    <p>
      With these, and other discussions of the same sort, they passed that night
      and the following day, without anything worth mention happening to them,
      whereat Don Quixote was not a little dejected; but at length the next day,
      at daybreak, they descried the great city of El Toboso, at the sight of
      which Don Quixote's spirits rose and Sancho's fell, for he did not know
      Dulcinea's house, nor in all his life had he ever seen her, any more than
      his master; so that they were both uneasy, the one to see her, the other
      at not having seen her, and Sancho was at a loss to know what he was to do
      when his master sent him to El Toboso. In the end, Don Quixote made up his
      mind to enter the city at nightfall, and they waited until the time came
      among some oak trees that were near El Toboso; and when the moment they
      had agreed upon arrived, they made their entrance into the city, where
      something happened them that may fairly be called something.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p08e" id="p08e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p08e.jpg (49K)" src="images/p08e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p08e.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch9b" id="ch9b"></a>CHAPTER IX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS RELATED WHAT WILL BE SEEN THERE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p09a" id="p09a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p09a.jpg (79K)" src="images/p09a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p09a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      'Twas at the very midnight hour&mdash;more or less&mdash;when Don Quixote
      and Sancho quitted the wood and entered El Toboso. The town was in deep
      silence, for all the inhabitants were asleep, and stretched on the broad
      of their backs, as the saying is. The night was darkish, though Sancho
      would have been glad had it been quite dark, so as to find in the darkness
      an excuse for his blundering. All over the place nothing was to be heard
      except the barking of dogs, which deafened the ears of Don Quixote and
      troubled the heart of Sancho. Now and then an ass brayed, pigs grunted,
      cats mewed, and the various noises they made seemed louder in the silence
      of the night; all which the enamoured knight took to be of evil omen;
      nevertheless he said to Sancho, "Sancho, my son, lead on to the palace of
      Dulcinea, it may be that we shall find her awake."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Body of the sun! what palace am I to lead to," said Sancho, "when what I
      saw her highness in was only a very little house?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Most likely she had then withdrawn into some small apartment of her
      palace," said Don Quixote, "to amuse herself with damsels, as great ladies
      and princesses are accustomed to do."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor," said Sancho, "if your worship will have it in spite of me that
      the house of my lady Dulcinea is a palace, is this an hour, think you, to
      find the door open; and will it be right for us to go knocking till they
      hear us and open the door; making a disturbance and confusion all through
      the household? Are we going, do you fancy, to the house of our wenches,
      like gallants who come and knock and go in at any hour, however late it
      may be?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let us first of all find out the palace for certain," replied Don
      Quixote, "and then I will tell thee, Sancho, what we had best do; but
      look, Sancho, for either I see badly, or that dark mass that one sees from
      here should be Dulcinea's palace."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then let your worship lead the way," said Sancho, "perhaps it may be so;
      though I see it with my eyes and touch it with my hands, I'll believe it
      as much as I believe it is daylight now."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote took the lead, and having gone a matter of two hundred paces
      he came upon the mass that produced the shade, and found it was a great
      tower, and then he perceived that the building in question was no palace,
      but the chief church of the town, and said he, "It's the church we have
      lit upon, Sancho."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So I see," said Sancho, "and God grant we may not light upon our graves;
      it is no good sign to find oneself wandering in a graveyard at this time
      of night; and that, after my telling your worship, if I don't mistake,
      that the house of this lady will be in an alley without an outlet."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The curse of God on thee for a blockhead!" said Don Quixote; "where hast
      thou ever heard of castles and royal palaces being built in alleys without
      an outlet?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor," replied Sancho, "every country has a way of its own; perhaps here
      in El Toboso it is the way to build palaces and grand buildings in alleys;
      so I entreat your worship to let me search about among these streets or
      alleys before me, and perhaps, in some corner or other, I may stumble on
      this palace&mdash;and I wish I saw the dogs eating it for leading us such
      a dance."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Speak respectfully of what belongs to my lady, Sancho," said Don Quixote;
      "let us keep the feast in peace, and not throw the rope after the bucket."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'll hold my tongue," said Sancho, "but how am I to take it patiently
      when your worship wants me, with only once seeing the house of our
      mistress, to know always, and find it in the middle of the night, when
      your worship can't find it, who must have seen it thousands of times?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou wilt drive me to desperation, Sancho," said Don Quixote. "Look here,
      heretic, have I not told thee a thousand times that I have never once in
      my life seen the peerless Dulcinea or crossed the threshold of her palace,
      and that I am enamoured solely by hearsay and by the great reputation she
      bears for beauty and discretion?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I hear it now," returned Sancho; "and I may tell you that if you have not
      seen her, no more have I."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That cannot be," said Don Quixote, "for, at any rate, thou saidst, on
      bringing back the answer to the letter I sent by thee, that thou sawest
      her sifting wheat."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Don't mind that, senor," said Sancho; "I must tell you that my seeing her
      and the answer I brought you back were by hearsay too, for I can no more
      tell who the lady Dulcinea is than I can hit the sky."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sancho, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "there are times for jests and times
      when jests are out of place; if I tell thee that I have neither seen nor
      spoken to the lady of my heart, it is no reason why thou shouldst say thou
      hast not spoken to her or seen her, when the contrary is the case, as thou
      well knowest."
    </p>
    <p>
      While the two were engaged in this conversation, they perceived some one
      with a pair of mules approaching the spot where they stood, and from the
      noise the plough made, as it dragged along the ground, they guessed him to
      be some labourer who had got up before daybreak to go to his work, and so
      it proved to be. He came along singing the ballad that says-
    </p>
    <p>
      Ill did ye fare, ye men of France, In Roncesvalles chase-
    </p>
    <p>
      "May I die, Sancho," said Don Quixote, when he heard him, "if any good
      will come to us tonight! Dost thou not hear what that clown is singing?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do," said Sancho, "but what has Roncesvalles chase to do with what we
      have in hand? He might just as well be singing the ballad of Calainos, for
      any good or ill that can come to us in our business."
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time the labourer had come up, and Don Quixote asked him, "Can you
      tell me, worthy friend, and God speed you, whereabouts here is the palace
      of the peerless princess Dona Dulcinea del Toboso?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor," replied the lad, "I am a stranger, and I have been only a few
      days in the town, doing farm work for a rich farmer. In that house
      opposite there live the curate of the village and the sacristan, and both
      or either of them will be able to give your worship some account of this
      lady princess, for they have a list of all the people of El Toboso; though
      it is my belief there is not a princess living in the whole of it; many
      ladies there are, of quality, and in her own house each of them may be a
      princess."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, then, she I am inquiring for will be one of these, my friend," said
      Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "May be so," replied the lad; "God be with you, for here comes the
      daylight;" and without waiting for any more of his questions, he whipped
      on his mules.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho, seeing his master downcast and somewhat dissatisfied, said to him,
      "Senor, daylight will be here before long, and it will not do for us to
      let the sun find us in the street; it will be better for us to quit the
      city, and for your worship to hide in some forest in the neighbourhood,
      and I will come back in the daytime, and I won't leave a nook or corner of
      the whole village that I won't search for the house, castle, or palace, of
      my lady, and it will be hard luck for me if I don't find it; and as soon
      as I have found it I will speak to her grace, and tell her where and how
      your worship is waiting for her to arrange some plan for you to see her
      without any damage to her honour and reputation."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sancho," said Don Quixote, "thou hast delivered a thousand sentences
      condensed in the compass of a few words; I thank thee for the advice thou
      hast given me, and take it most gladly. Come, my son, let us go look for
      some place where I may hide, while thou dost return, as thou sayest, to
      seek, and speak with my lady, from whose discretion and courtesy I look
      for favours more than miraculous."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho was in a fever to get his master out of the town, lest he should
      discover the falsehood of the reply he had brought to him in the Sierra
      Morena on behalf of Dulcinea; so he hastened their departure, which they
      took at once, and two miles out of the village they found a forest or
      thicket wherein Don Quixote ensconced himself, while Sancho returned to
      the city to speak to Dulcinea, in which embassy things befell him which
      demand fresh attention and a new chapter.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p09e" id="p09e"></a>
    </p>
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    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch10b" id="ch10b"></a>CHAPTER X.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS RELATED THE CRAFTY DEVICE SANCHO ADOPTED TO ENCHANT THE LADY
      DULCINEA, AND OTHER INCIDENTS AS LUDICROUS AS THEY ARE TRUE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p10a" id="p10a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p10a.jpg (142K)" src="images/p10a.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <a href="images/p10a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      When the author of this great history comes to relate what is set down in
      this chapter he says he would have preferred to pass it over in silence,
      fearing it would not be believed, because here Don Quixote's madness
      reaches the confines of the greatest that can be conceived, and even goes
      a couple of bowshots beyond the greatest. But after all, though still
      under the same fear and apprehension, he has recorded it without adding to
      the story or leaving out a particle of the truth, and entirely
      disregarding the charges of falsehood that might be brought against him;
      and he was right, for the truth may run fine but will not break, and
      always rises above falsehood as oil above water; and so, going on with his
      story, he says that as soon as Don Quixote had ensconced himself in the
      forest, oak grove, or wood near El Toboso, he bade Sancho return to the
      city, and not come into his presence again without having first spoken on
      his behalf to his lady, and begged of her that it might be her good
      pleasure to permit herself to be seen by her enslaved knight, and deign to
      bestow her blessing upon him, so that he might thereby hope for a happy
      issue in all his encounters and difficult enterprises. Sancho undertook to
      execute the task according to the instructions, and to bring back an
      answer as good as the one he brought back before.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Go, my son," said Don Quixote, "and be not dazed when thou findest
      thyself exposed to the light of that sun of beauty thou art going to seek.
      Happy thou, above all the squires in the world! Bear in mind, and let it
      not escape thy memory, how she receives thee; if she changes colour while
      thou art giving her my message; if she is agitated and disturbed at
      hearing my name; if she cannot rest upon her cushion, shouldst thou haply
      find her seated in the sumptuous state chamber proper to her rank; and
      should she be standing, observe if she poises herself now on one foot, now
      on the other; if she repeats two or three times the reply she gives thee;
      if she passes from gentleness to austerity, from asperity to tenderness;
      if she raises her hand to smooth her hair though it be not disarranged. In
      short, my son, observe all her actions and motions, for if thou wilt
      report them to me as they were, I will gather what she hides in the
      recesses of her heart as regards my love; for I would have thee know,
      Sancho, if thou knowest it not, that with lovers the outward actions and
      motions they give way to when their loves are in question are the faithful
      messengers that carry the news of what is going on in the depths of their
      hearts. Go, my friend, may better fortune than mine attend thee, and bring
      thee a happier issue than that which I await in dread in this dreary
      solitude."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will go and return quickly," said Sancho; "cheer up that little heart
      of yours, master mine, for at the present moment you seem to have got one
      no bigger than a hazel nut; remember what they say, that a stout heart
      breaks bad luck, and that where there are no fletches there are no pegs;
      and moreover they say, the hare jumps up where it's not looked for. I say
      this because, if we could not find my lady's palaces or castles to-night,
      now that it is daylight I count upon finding them when I least expect it,
      and once found, leave it to me to manage her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Verily, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "thou dost always bring in thy
      proverbs happily, whatever we deal with; may God give me better luck in
      what I am anxious about."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this, Sancho wheeled about and gave Dapple the stick, and Don Quixote
      remained behind, seated on his horse, resting in his stirrups and leaning
      on the end of his lance, filled with sad and troubled forebodings; and
      there we will leave him, and accompany Sancho, who went off no less
      serious and troubled than he left his master; so much so, that as soon as
      he had got out of the thicket, and looking round saw that Don Quixote was
      not within sight, he dismounted from his ass, and seating himself at the
      foot of a tree began to commune with himself, saying, "Now, brother
      Sancho, let us know where your worship is going. Are you going to look for
      some ass that has been lost? Not at all. Then what are you going to look
      for? I am going to look for a princess, that's all; and in her for the sun
      of beauty and the whole heaven at once. And where do you expect to find
      all this, Sancho? Where? Why, in the great city of El Toboso. Well, and
      for whom are you going to look for her? For the famous knight Don Quixote
      of La Mancha, who rights wrongs, gives food to those who thirst and drink
      to the hungry. That's all very well, but do you know her house, Sancho? My
      master says it will be some royal palace or grand castle. And have you
      ever seen her by any chance? Neither I nor my master ever saw her. And
      does it strike you that it would be just and right if the El Toboso
      people, finding out that you were here with the intention of going to
      tamper with their princesses and trouble their ladies, were to come and
      cudgel your ribs, and not leave a whole bone in you? They would, indeed,
      have very good reason, if they did not see that I am under orders, and
      that 'you are a messenger, my friend, no blame belongs to you.' Don't you
      trust to that, Sancho, for the Manchegan folk are as hot-tempered as they
      are honest, and won't put up with liberties from anybody. By the Lord, if
      they get scent of you, it will be worse for you, I promise you. Be off,
      you scoundrel! Let the bolt fall. Why should I go looking for three feet
      on a cat, to please another man; and what is more, when looking for
      Dulcinea will be looking for Marica in Ravena, or the bachelor in
      Salamanca? The devil, the devil and nobody else, has mixed me up in this
      business!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the soliloquy Sancho held with himself, and all the conclusion he
      could come to was to say to himself again, "Well, there's remedy for
      everything except death, under whose yoke we have all to pass, whether we
      like it or not, when life's finished. I have seen by a thousand signs that
      this master of mine is a madman fit to be tied, and for that matter, I
      too, am not behind him; for I'm a greater fool than he is when I follow
      him and serve him, if there's any truth in the proverb that says, 'Tell me
      what company thou keepest, and I'll tell thee what thou art,' or in that
      other, 'Not with whom thou art bred, but with whom thou art fed.' Well
      then, if he be mad, as he is, and with a madness that mostly takes one
      thing for another, and white for black, and black for white, as was seen
      when he said the windmills were giants, and the monks' mules dromedaries,
      flocks of sheep armies of enemies, and much more to the same tune, it will
      not be very hard to make him believe that some country girl, the first I
      come across here, is the lady Dulcinea; and if he does not believe it,
      I'll swear it; and if he should swear, I'll swear again; and if he
      persists I'll persist still more, so as, come what may, to have my quoit
      always over the peg. Maybe, by holding out in this way, I may put a stop
      to his sending me on messages of this kind another time; or maybe he will
      think, as I suspect he will, that one of those wicked enchanters, who he
      says have a spite against him, has changed her form for the sake of doing
      him an ill turn and injuring him."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this reflection Sancho made his mind easy, counting the business as
      good as settled, and stayed there till the afternoon so as to make Don
      Quixote think he had time enough to go to El Toboso and return; and things
      turned out so luckily for him that as he got up to mount Dapple, he spied,
      coming from El Toboso towards the spot where he stood, three peasant girls
      on three colts, or fillies&mdash;for the author does not make the point
      clear, though it is more likely they were she-asses, the usual mount with
      village girls; but as it is of no great consequence, we need not stop to
      prove it.
    </p>
    <p>
      To be brief, the instant Sancho saw the peasant girls, he returned full
      speed to seek his master, and found him sighing and uttering a thousand
      passionate lamentations. When Don Quixote saw him he exclaimed, "What
      news, Sancho, my friend? Am I to mark this day with a white stone or a
      black?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your worship," replied Sancho, "had better mark it with ruddle, like the
      inscriptions on the walls of class rooms, that those who see it may see it
      plain."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then thou bringest good news," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So good," replied Sancho, "that your worship has only to spur Rocinante
      and get out into the open field to see the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, who,
      with two others, damsels of hers, is coming to see your worship."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Holy God! what art thou saying, Sancho, my friend?" exclaimed Don
      Quixote. "Take care thou art not deceiving me, or seeking by false joy to
      cheer my real sadness."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What could I get by deceiving your worship," returned Sancho, "especially
      when it will so soon be shown whether I tell the truth or not? Come,
      senor, push on, and you will see the princess our mistress coming, robed
      and adorned&mdash;in fact, like what she is. Her damsels and she are all
      one glow of gold, all bunches of pearls, all diamonds, all rubies, all
      cloth of brocade of more than ten borders; with their hair loose on their
      shoulders like so many sunbeams playing with the wind; and moreover, they
      come mounted on three piebald cackneys, the finest sight ever you saw."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hackneys, you mean, Sancho," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is not much difference between cackneys and hackneys," said Sancho;
      "but no matter what they come on, there they are, the finest ladies one
      could wish for, especially my lady the princess Dulcinea, who staggers
      one's senses."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let us go, Sancho, my son," said Don Quixote, "and in guerdon of this
      news, as unexpected as it is good, I bestow upon thee the best spoil I
      shall win in the first adventure I may have; or if that does not satisfy
      thee, I promise thee the foals I shall have this year from my three mares
      that thou knowest are in foal on our village common."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'll take the foals," said Sancho; "for it is not quite certain that the
      spoils of the first adventure will be good ones."
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time they had cleared the wood, and saw the three village lasses
      close at hand. Don Quixote looked all along the road to El Toboso, and as
      he could see nobody except the three peasant girls, he was completely
      puzzled, and asked Sancho if it was outside the city he had left them.
    </p>
    <p>
      "How outside the city?" returned Sancho. "Are your worship's eyes in the
      back of your head, that you can't see that they are these who are coming
      here, shining like the very sun at noonday?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I see nothing, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "but three country girls on
      three jackasses."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, may God deliver me from the devil!" said Sancho, "and can it be that
      your worship takes three hackneys&mdash;or whatever they're called&mdash;as
      white as the driven snow, for jackasses? By the Lord, I could tear my
      beard if that was the case!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, I can only say, Sancho, my friend," said Don Quixote, "that it is
      as plain they are jackasses&mdash;or jennyasses&mdash;as that I am Don
      Quixote, and thou Sancho Panza: at any rate, they seem to me to be so."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hush, senor," said Sancho, "don't talk that way, but open your eyes, and
      come and pay your respects to the lady of your thoughts, who is close upon
      us now;" and with these words he advanced to receive the three village
      lasses, and dismounting from Dapple, caught hold of one of the asses of
      the three country girls by the halter, and dropping on both knees on the
      ground, he said, "Queen and princess and duchess of beauty, may it please
      your haughtiness and greatness to receive into your favour and good-will
      your captive knight who stands there turned into marble stone, and quite
      stupefied and benumbed at finding himself in your magnificent presence. I
      am Sancho Panza, his squire, and he the vagabond knight Don Quixote of La
      Mancha, otherwise called 'The Knight of the Rueful Countenance.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote had by this time placed himself on his knees beside Sancho,
      and, with eyes starting out of his head and a puzzled gaze, was regarding
      her whom Sancho called queen and lady; and as he could see nothing in her
      except a village lass, and not a very well-favoured one, for she was
      platter-faced and snub-nosed, he was perplexed and bewildered, and did not
      venture to open his lips. The country girls, at the same time, were
      astonished to see these two men, so different in appearance, on their
      knees, preventing their companion from going on. She, however, who had
      been stopped, breaking silence, said angrily and testily, "Get out of the
      way, bad luck to you, and let us pass, for we are in a hurry."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p10b" id="p10b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p10b.jpg (319K)" src="images/p10b.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <a href="images/p10b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Sancho returned, "Oh, princess and universal lady of El Toboso,
      is not your magnanimous heart softened by seeing the pillar and prop of
      knight-errantry on his knees before your sublimated presence?"
    </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this, one of the others exclaimed, "Woa then! why, I'm rubbing
      thee down, she-ass of my father-in-law! See how the lordlings come to make
      game of the village girls now, as if we here could not chaff as well as
      themselves. Go your own way, and let us go ours, and it will be better for
      you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Get up, Sancho," said Don Quixote at this; "I see that fortune, 'with
      evil done to me unsated still,' has taken possession of all the roads by
      which any comfort may reach 'this wretched soul' that I carry in my flesh.
      And thou, highest perfection of excellence that can be desired, utmost
      limit of grace in human shape, sole relief of this afflicted heart that
      adores thee, though the malign enchanter that persecutes me has brought
      clouds and cataracts on my eyes, and to them, and them only, transformed
      thy unparagoned beauty and changed thy features into those of a poor
      peasant girl, if so be he has not at the same time changed mine into those
      of some monster to render them loathsome in thy sight, refuse not to look
      upon me with tenderness and love; seeing in this submission that I make on
      my knees to thy transformed beauty the humility with which my soul adores
      thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hey-day! My grandfather!" cried the girl, "much I care for your
      love-making! Get out of the way and let us pass, and we'll thank you."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho stood aside and let her go, very well pleased to have got so well
      out of the hobble he was in. The instant the village lass who had done
      duty for Dulcinea found herself free, prodding her "cackney" with a spike
      she had at the end of a stick, she set off at full speed across the field.
      The she-ass, however, feeling the point more acutely than usual, began
      cutting such capers, that it flung the lady Dulcinea to the ground; seeing
      which, Don Quixote ran to raise her up, and Sancho to fix and girth the
      pack-saddle, which also had slipped under the ass's belly. The pack-saddle
      being secured, as Don Quixote was about to lift up his enchanted mistress
      in his arms and put her upon her beast, the lady, getting up from the
      ground, saved him the trouble, for, going back a little, she took a short
      run, and putting both hands on the croup of the ass she dropped into the
      saddle more lightly than a falcon, and sat astride like a man, whereat
      Sancho said, "Rogue! but our lady is lighter than a lanner, and might
      teach the cleverest Cordovan or Mexican how to mount; she cleared the back
      of the saddle in one jump, and without spurs she is making the hackney go
      like a zebra; and her damsels are no way behind her, for they all fly like
      the wind;" which was the truth, for as soon as they saw Dulcinea mounted,
      they pushed on after her, and sped away without looking back, for more
      than half a league.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote followed them with his eyes, and when they were no longer in
      sight, he turned to Sancho and said, "How now, Sancho? thou seest how I am
      hated by enchanters! And see to what a length the malice and spite they
      bear me go, when they seek to deprive me of the happiness it would give me
      to see my lady in her own proper form. The fact is I was born to be an
      example of misfortune, and the target and mark at which the arrows of
      adversity are aimed and directed. Observe too, Sancho, that these traitors
      were not content with changing and transforming my Dulcinea, but they
      transformed and changed her into a shape as mean and ill-favoured as that
      of the village girl yonder; and at the same time they robbed her of that
      which is such a peculiar property of ladies of distinction, that is to
      say, the sweet fragrance that comes of being always among perfumes and
      flowers. For I must tell thee, Sancho, that when I approached to put
      Dulcinea upon her hackney (as thou sayest it was, though to me it appeared
      a she-ass), she gave me a whiff of raw garlic that made my head reel, and
      poisoned my very heart."
    </p>
    <p>
      "O scum of the earth!" cried Sancho at this, "O miserable, spiteful
      enchanters! O that I could see you all strung by the gills, like sardines
      on a twig! Ye know a great deal, ye can do a great deal, and ye do a great
      deal more. It ought to have been enough for you, ye scoundrels, to have
      changed the pearls of my lady's eyes into oak galls, and her hair of
      purest gold into the bristles of a red ox's tail, and in short, all her
      features from fair to foul, without meddling with her smell; for by that
      we might somehow have found out what was hidden underneath that ugly rind;
      though, to tell the truth, I never perceived her ugliness, but only her
      beauty, which was raised to the highest pitch of perfection by a mole she
      had on her right lip, like a moustache, with seven or eight red hairs like
      threads of gold, and more than a palm long."
    </p>
    <p>
      "From the correspondence which exists between those of the face and those
      of the body," said Don Quixote, "Dulcinea must have another mole
      resembling that on the thick of the thigh on that side on which she has
      the one on her face; but hairs of the length thou hast mentioned are very
      long for moles."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, all I can say is there they were as plain as could be," replied
      Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I believe it, my friend," returned Don Quixote; "for nature bestowed
      nothing on Dulcinea that was not perfect and well-finished; and so, if she
      had a hundred moles like the one thou hast described, in her they would
      not be moles, but moons and shining stars. But tell me, Sancho, that which
      seemed to me to be a pack-saddle as thou wert fixing it, was it a
      flat-saddle or a side-saddle?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was neither," replied Sancho, "but a jineta saddle, with a field
      covering worth half a kingdom, so rich is it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And that I could not see all this, Sancho!" said Don Quixote; "once more
      I say, and will say a thousand times, I am the most unfortunate of men."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho, the rogue, had enough to do to hide his laughter, at hearing the
      simplicity of the master he had so nicely befooled. At length, after a
      good deal more conversation had passed between them, they remounted their
      beasts, and followed the road to Saragossa, which they expected to reach
      in time to take part in a certain grand festival which is held every year
      in that illustrious city; but before they got there things happened to
      them, so many, so important, and so strange, that they deserve to be
      recorded and read, as will be seen farther on.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p10e" id="p10e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p10e.jpg (56K)" src="images/p10e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p10e.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch11b" id="ch11b"></a>CHAPTER XI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE CAR OR
      CART OF "THE CORTES OF DEATH"
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p11a" id="p11a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p11a.jpg (172K)" src="images/p11a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p11a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Dejected beyond measure did Don Quixote pursue his journey, turning over
      in his mind the cruel trick the enchanters had played him in changing his
      lady Dulcinea into the vile shape of the village lass, nor could he think
      of any way of restoring her to her original form; and these reflections so
      absorbed him, that without being aware of it he let go Rocinante's bridle,
      and he, perceiving the liberty that was granted him, stopped at every step
      to crop the fresh grass with which the plain abounded.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho recalled him from his reverie. "Melancholy, senor," said he, "was
      made, not for beasts, but for men; but if men give way to it overmuch they
      turn to beasts; control yourself, your worship; be yourself again; gather
      up Rocinante's reins; cheer up, rouse yourself and show that gallant
      spirit that knights-errant ought to have. What the devil is this? What
      weakness is this? Are we here or in France? The devil fly away with all
      the Dulcineas in the world; for the well-being of a single knight-errant
      is of more consequence than all the enchantments and transformations on
      earth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hush, Sancho," said Don Quixote in a weak and faint voice, "hush and
      utter no blasphemies against that enchanted lady; for I alone am to blame
      for her misfortune and hard fate; her calamity has come of the hatred the
      wicked bear me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So say I," returned Sancho; "his heart rend in twain, I trow, who saw her
      once, to see her now."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou mayest well say that, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "as thou sawest
      her in the full perfection of her beauty; for the enchantment does not go
      so far as to pervert thy vision or hide her loveliness from thee; against
      me alone and against my eyes is the strength of its venom directed.
      Nevertheless, there is one thing which has occurred to me, and that is
      that thou didst ill describe her beauty to me, for, as well as I
      recollect, thou saidst that her eyes were pearls; but eyes that are like
      pearls are rather the eyes of a sea-bream than of a lady, and I am
      persuaded that Dulcinea's must be green emeralds, full and soft, with two
      rainbows for eyebrows; take away those pearls from her eyes and transfer
      them to her teeth; for beyond a doubt, Sancho, thou hast taken the one for
      the other, the eyes for the teeth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very likely," said Sancho; "for her beauty bewildered me as much as her
      ugliness did your worship; but let us leave it all to God, who alone knows
      what is to happen in this vale of tears, in this evil world of ours, where
      there is hardly a thing to be found without some mixture of wickedness,
      roguery, and rascality. But one thing, senor, troubles me more than all
      the rest, and that is thinking what is to be done when your worship
      conquers some giant, or some other knight, and orders him to go and
      present himself before the beauty of the lady Dulcinea. Where is this poor
      giant, or this poor wretch of a vanquished knight, to find her? I think I
      can see them wandering all over El Toboso, looking like noddies, and
      asking for my lady Dulcinea; and even if they meet her in the middle of
      the street they won't know her any more than they would my father."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Perhaps, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "the enchantment does not go so
      far as to deprive conquered and presented giants and knights of the power
      of recognising Dulcinea; we will try by experiment with one or two of the
      first I vanquish and send to her, whether they see her or not, by
      commanding them to return and give me an account of what happened to them
      in this respect."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I declare, I think what your worship has proposed is excellent," said
      Sancho; "and that by this plan we shall find out what we want to know; and
      if it be that it is only from your worship she is hidden, the misfortune
      will be more yours than hers; but so long as the lady Dulcinea is well and
      happy, we on our part will make the best of it, and get on as well as we
      can, seeking our adventures, and leaving Time to take his own course; for
      he is the best physician for these and greater ailments."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote was about to reply to Sancho Panza, but he was prevented by a
      cart crossing the road full of the most diverse and strange personages and
      figures that could be imagined. He who led the mules and acted as carter
      was a hideous demon; the cart was open to the sky, without a tilt or cane
      roof, and the first figure that presented itself to Don Quixote's eyes was
      that of Death itself with a human face; next to it was an angel with large
      painted wings, and at one side an emperor, with a crown, to all appearance
      of gold, on his head. At the feet of Death was the god called Cupid,
      without his bandage, but with his bow, quiver, and arrows; there was also
      a knight in full armour, except that he had no morion or helmet, but only
      a hat decked with plumes of divers colours; and along with these there
      were others with a variety of costumes and faces. All this, unexpectedly
      encountered, took Don Quixote somewhat aback, and struck terror into the
      heart of Sancho; but the next instant Don Quixote was glad of it,
      believing that some new perilous adventure was presenting itself to him,
      and under this impression, and with a spirit prepared to face any danger,
      he planted himself in front of the cart, and in a loud and menacing tone,
      exclaimed, "Carter, or coachman, or devil, or whatever thou art, tell me
      at once who thou art, whither thou art going, and who these folk are thou
      carriest in thy wagon, which looks more like Charon's boat than an
      ordinary cart."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which the devil, stopping the cart, answered quietly, "Senor, we are
      players of Angulo el Malo's company; we have been acting the play of 'The
      Cortes of Death' this morning, which is the octave of Corpus Christi, in a
      village behind that hill, and we have to act it this afternoon in that
      village which you can see from this; and as it is so near, and to save the
      trouble of undressing and dressing again, we go in the costumes in which
      we perform. That lad there appears as Death, that other as an angel, that
      woman, the manager's wife, plays the queen, this one the soldier, that the
      emperor, and I the devil; and I am one of the principal characters of the
      play, for in this company I take the leading parts. If you want to know
      anything more about us, ask me and I will answer with the utmost
      exactitude, for as I am a devil I am up to everything."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By the faith of a knight-errant," replied Don Quixote, "when I saw this
      cart I fancied some great adventure was presenting itself to me; but I
      declare one must touch with the hand what appears to the eye, if illusions
      are to be avoided. God speed you, good people; keep your festival, and
      remember, if you demand of me ought wherein I can render you a service, I
      will do it gladly and willingly, for from a child I was fond of the play,
      and in my youth a keen lover of the actor's art."
    </p>
    <p>
      While they were talking, fate so willed it that one of the company in a
      mummers' dress with a great number of bells, and armed with three blown
      ox-bladders at the end of a stick, joined them, and this merry-andrew
      approaching Don Quixote, began flourishing his stick and banging the
      ground with the bladders and cutting capers with great jingling of the
      bells, which untoward apparition so startled Rocinante that, in spite of
      Don Quixote's efforts to hold him in, taking the bit between his teeth he
      set off across the plain with greater speed than the bones of his anatomy
      ever gave any promise of.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p11b" id="p11b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p11b.jpg (327K)" src="images/p11b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p11b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho, who thought his master was in danger of being thrown, jumped off
      Dapple, and ran in all haste to help him; but by the time he reached him
      he was already on the ground, and beside him was Rocinante, who had come
      down with his master, the usual end and upshot of Rocinante's vivacity and
      high spirits. But the moment Sancho quitted his beast to go and help Don
      Quixote, the dancing devil with the bladders jumped up on Dapple, and
      beating him with them, more by the fright and the noise than by the pain
      of the blows, made him fly across the fields towards the village where
      they were going to hold their festival. Sancho witnessed Dapple's career
      and his master's fall, and did not know which of the two cases of need he
      should attend to first; but in the end, like a good squire and good
      servant, he let his love for his master prevail over his affection for his
      ass; though every time he saw the bladders rise in the air and come down
      on the hind quarters of his Dapple he felt the pains and terrors of death,
      and he would have rather had the blows fall on the apples of his own eyes
      than on the least hair of his ass's tail. In this trouble and perplexity
      he came to where Don Quixote lay in a far sorrier plight than he liked,
      and having helped him to mount Rocinante, he said to him, "Senor, the
      devil has carried off my Dapple."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What devil?" asked Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The one with the bladders," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then I will recover him," said Don Quixote, "even if he be shut up with
      him in the deepest and darkest dungeons of hell. Follow me, Sancho, for
      the cart goes slowly, and with the mules of it I will make good the loss
      of Dapple."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You need not take the trouble, senor," said Sancho; "keep cool, for as I
      now see, the devil has let Dapple go and he is coming back to his old
      quarters;" and so it turned out, for, having come down with Dapple, in
      imitation of Don Quixote and Rocinante, the devil made off on foot to the
      town, and the ass came back to his master.
    </p>
    <p>
      "For all that," said Don Quixote, "it will be well to visit the
      discourtesy of that devil upon some of those in the cart, even if it were
      the emperor himself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Don't think of it, your worship," returned Sancho; "take my advice and
      never meddle with actors, for they are a favoured class; I myself have
      known an actor taken up for two murders, and yet come off scot-free;
      remember that, as they are merry folk who give pleasure, everyone favours
      and protects them, and helps and makes much of them, above all when they
      are those of the royal companies and under patent, all or most of whom in
      dress and appearance look like princes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Still, for all that," said Don Quixote, "the player devil must not go off
      boasting, even if the whole human race favours him."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he made for the cart, which was now very near the town,
      shouting out as he went, "Stay! halt! ye merry, jovial crew! I want to
      teach you how to treat asses and animals that serve the squires of
      knights-errant for steeds."
    </p>
    <p>
      So loud were the shouts of Don Quixote, that those in the cart heard and
      understood them, and, guessing by the words what the speaker's intention
      was, Death in an instant jumped out of the cart, and the emperor, the
      devil carter and the angel after him, nor did the queen or the god Cupid
      stay behind; and all armed themselves with stones and formed in line,
      prepared to receive Don Quixote on the points of their pebbles. Don
      Quixote, when he saw them drawn up in such a gallant array with uplifted
      arms ready for a mighty discharge of stones, checked Rocinante and began
      to consider in what way he could attack them with the least danger to
      himself. As he halted Sancho came up, and seeing him disposed to attack
      this well-ordered squadron, said to him, "It would be the height of
      madness to attempt such an enterprise; remember, senor, that against sops
      from the brook, and plenty of them, there is no defensive armour in the
      world, except to stow oneself away under a brass bell; and besides, one
      should remember that it is rashness, and not valour, for a single man to
      attack an army that has Death in it, and where emperors fight in person,
      with angels, good and bad, to help them; and if this reflection will not
      make you keep quiet, perhaps it will to know for certain that among all
      these, though they look like kings, princes, and emperors, there is not a
      single knight-errant."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now indeed thou hast hit the point, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "which may
      and should turn me from the resolution I had already formed. I cannot and
      must not draw sword, as I have many a time before told thee, against
      anyone who is not a dubbed knight; it is for thee, Sancho, if thou wilt,
      to take vengeance for the wrong done to thy Dapple; and I will help thee
      from here by shouts and salutary counsels."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no occasion to take vengeance on anyone, senor," replied Sancho;
      "for it is not the part of good Christians to revenge wrongs; and besides,
      I will arrange it with my ass to leave his grievance to my good-will and
      pleasure, and that is to live in peace as long as heaven grants me life."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well," said Don Quixote, "if that be thy determination, good Sancho,
      sensible Sancho, Christian Sancho, honest Sancho, let us leave these
      phantoms alone and turn to the pursuit of better and worthier adventures;
      for, from what I see of this country, we cannot fail to find plenty of
      marvellous ones in it."
    </p>
    <p>
      He at once wheeled about, Sancho ran to take possession of his Dapple,
      Death and his flying squadron returned to their cart and pursued their
      journey, and thus the dread adventure of the cart of Death ended happily,
      thanks to the advice Sancho gave his master; who had, the following day, a
      fresh adventure, of no less thrilling interest than the last, with an
      enamoured knight-errant.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p11e" id="p11e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p11e.jpg (20K)" src="images/p11e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch12b" id="ch12b"></a>CHAPTER XII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE STRANGE ADVENTURE WHICH BEFELL THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE WITH THE
      BOLD KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p12a" id="p12a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p12a.jpg (98K)" src="images/p12a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p12a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The night succeeding the day of the encounter with Death, Don Quixote and
      his squire passed under some tall shady trees, and Don Quixote at Sancho's
      persuasion ate a little from the store carried by Dapple, and over their
      supper Sancho said to his master, "Senor, what a fool I should have looked
      if I had chosen for my reward the spoils of the first adventure your
      worship achieved, instead of the foals of the three mares. After all, 'a
      sparrow in the hand is better than a vulture on the wing.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "At the same time, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "if thou hadst let me
      attack them as I wanted, at the very least the emperor's gold crown and
      Cupid's painted wings would have fallen to thee as spoils, for I should
      have taken them by force and given them into thy hands."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The sceptres and crowns of those play-actor emperors," said Sancho, "were
      never yet pure gold, but only brass foil or tin."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said Don Quixote, "for it would not be right that the
      accessories of the drama should be real, instead of being mere fictions
      and semblances, like the drama itself; towards which, Sancho&mdash;and, as
      a necessary consequence, towards those who represent and produce it&mdash;I
      would that thou wert favourably disposed, for they are all instruments of
      great good to the State, placing before us at every step a mirror in which
      we may see vividly displayed what goes on in human life; nor is there any
      similitude that shows us more faithfully what we are and ought to be than
      the play and the players. Come, tell me, hast thou not seen a play acted
      in which kings, emperors, pontiffs, knights, ladies, and divers other
      personages were introduced? One plays the villain, another the knave, this
      one the merchant, that the soldier, one the sharp-witted fool, another the
      foolish lover; and when the play is over, and they have put off the
      dresses they wore in it, all the actors become equal."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, I have seen that," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then," said Don Quixote, "the same thing happens in the comedy and
      life of this world, where some play emperors, others popes, and, in short,
      all the characters that can be brought into a play; but when it is over,
      that is to say when life ends, death strips them all of the garments that
      distinguish one from the other, and all are equal in the grave."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A fine comparison!" said Sancho; "though not so new but that I have heard
      it many and many a time, as well as that other one of the game of chess;
      how, so long as the game lasts, each piece has its own particular office,
      and when the game is finished they are all mixed, jumbled up and shaken
      together, and stowed away in the bag, which is much like ending life in
      the grave."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art growing less doltish and more shrewd every day, Sancho," said
      Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay," said Sancho; "it must be that some of your worship's shrewdness
      sticks to me; land that, of itself, is barren and dry, will come to yield
      good fruit if you dung it and till it; what I mean is that your worship's
      conversation has been the dung that has fallen on the barren soil of my
      dry wit, and the time I have been in your service and society has been the
      tillage; and with the help of this I hope to yield fruit in abundance that
      will not fall away or slide from those paths of good breeding that your
      worship has made in my parched understanding."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's affected phraseology, and perceived that
      what he said about his improvement was true, for now and then he spoke in
      a way that surprised him; though always, or mostly, when Sancho tried to
      talk fine and attempted polite language, he wound up by toppling over from
      the summit of his simplicity into the abyss of his ignorance; and where he
      showed his culture and his memory to the greatest advantage was in
      dragging in proverbs, no matter whether they had any bearing or not upon
      the subject in hand, as may have been seen already and will be noticed in
      the course of this history.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p12b" id="p12b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p12b.jpg (298K)" src="images/p12b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p12b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      In conversation of this kind they passed a good part of the night, but
      Sancho felt a desire to let down the curtains of his eyes, as he used to
      say when he wanted to go to sleep; and stripping Dapple he left him at
      liberty to graze his fill. He did not remove Rocinante's saddle, as his
      master's express orders were, that so long as they were in the field or
      not sleeping under a roof Rocinante was not to be stripped&mdash;the
      ancient usage established and observed by knights-errant being to take off
      the bridle and hang it on the saddle-bow, but to remove the saddle from
      the horse&mdash;never! Sancho acted accordingly, and gave him the same
      liberty he had given Dapple, between whom and Rocinante there was a
      friendship so unequalled and so strong, that it is handed down by
      tradition from father to son, that the author of this veracious history
      devoted some special chapters to it, which, in order to preserve the
      propriety and decorum due to a history so heroic, he did not insert
      therein; although at times he forgets this resolution of his and describes
      how eagerly the two beasts would scratch one another when they were
      together and how, when they were tired or full, Rocinante would lay his
      neck across Dapple's, stretching half a yard or more on the other side,
      and the pair would stand thus, gazing thoughtfully on the ground, for
      three days, or at least so long as they were left alone, or hunger did not
      drive them to go and look for food. I may add that they say the author
      left it on record that he likened their friendship to that of Nisus and
      Euryalus, and Pylades and Orestes; and if that be so, it may be perceived,
      to the admiration of mankind, how firm the friendship must have been
      between these two peaceful animals, shaming men, who preserve friendships
      with one another so badly. This was why it was said-
    </p>
    <p>
      For friend no longer is there friend; The reeds turn lances now.
    </p>
    <p>
      And some one else has sung&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Friend to friend the bug, etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      And let no one fancy that the author was at all astray when he compared
      the friendship of these animals to that of men; for men have received many
      lessons from beasts, and learned many important things, as, for example,
      the clyster from the stork, vomit and gratitude from the dog, watchfulness
      from the crane, foresight from the ant, modesty from the elephant, and
      loyalty from the horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho at last fell asleep at the foot of a cork tree, while Don Quixote
      dozed at that of a sturdy oak; but a short time only had elapsed when a
      noise he heard behind him awoke him, and rising up startled, he listened
      and looked in the direction the noise came from, and perceived two men on
      horseback, one of whom, letting himself drop from the saddle, said to the
      other, "Dismount, my friend, and take the bridles off the horses, for, so
      far as I can see, this place will furnish grass for them, and the solitude
      and silence my love-sick thoughts need of." As he said this he stretched
      himself upon the ground, and as he flung himself down, the armour in which
      he was clad rattled, whereby Don Quixote perceived that he must be a
      knight-errant; and going over to Sancho, who was asleep, he shook him by
      the arm and with no small difficulty brought him back to his senses, and
      said in a low voice to him, "Brother Sancho, we have got an adventure."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God send us a good one," said Sancho; "and where may her ladyship the
      adventure be?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Where, Sancho?" replied Don Quixote; "turn thine eyes and look, and thou
      wilt see stretched there a knight-errant, who, it strikes me, is not over
      and above happy, for I saw him fling himself off his horse and throw
      himself on the ground with a certain air of dejection, and his armour
      rattled as he fell."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well," said Sancho, "how does your worship make out that to be an
      adventure?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not mean to say," returned Don Quixote, "that it is a complete
      adventure, but that it is the beginning of one, for it is in this way
      adventures begin. But listen, for it seems he is tuning a lute or guitar,
      and from the way he is spitting and clearing his chest he must be getting
      ready to sing something."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Faith, you are right," said Sancho, "and no doubt he is some enamoured
      knight."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no knight-errant that is not," said Don Quixote; "but let us
      listen to him, for, if he sings, by that thread we shall extract the ball
      of his thoughts; because out of the abundance of the heart the mouth
      speaketh."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho was about to reply to his master, but the Knight of the Grove's
      voice, which was neither very bad nor very good, stopped him, and
      listening attentively the pair heard him sing this
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                SONNET

Your pleasure, prithee, lady mine, unfold;
  Declare the terms that I am to obey;
My will to yours submissively I mould,
  And from your law my feet shall never stray.
  Would you I die, to silent grief a prey?
Then count me even now as dead and cold;
  Would you I tell my woes in some new way?
Then shall my tale by Love itself be told.
The unison of opposites to prove,
  Of the soft wax and diamond hard am I;
But still, obedient to the laws of love,
  Here, hard or soft, I offer you my breast,
  Whate'er you grave or stamp thereon shall rest
    Indelible for all eternity.

</pre>
    <p>
      With an "Ah me!" that seemed to be drawn from the inmost recesses of his
      heart, the Knight of the Grove brought his lay to an end, and shortly
      afterwards exclaimed in a melancholy and piteous voice, "O fairest and
      most ungrateful woman on earth! What! can it be, most serene Casildea de
      Vandalia, that thou wilt suffer this thy captive knight to waste away and
      perish in ceaseless wanderings and rude and arduous toils? It is not
      enough that I have compelled all the knights of Navarre, all the Leonese,
      all the Tartesians, all the Castilians, and finally all the knights of La
      Mancha, to confess thee the most beautiful in the world?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not so," said Don Quixote at this, "for I am of La Mancha, and I have
      never confessed anything of the sort, nor could I nor should I confess a
      thing so much to the prejudice of my lady's beauty; thou seest how this
      knight is raving, Sancho. But let us listen, perhaps he will tell us more
      about himself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That he will," returned Sancho, "for he seems in a mood to bewail himself
      for a month at a stretch."
    </p>
    <p>
      But this was not the case, for the Knight of the Grove, hearing voices
      near him, instead of continuing his lamentation, stood up and exclaimed in
      a distinct but courteous tone, "Who goes there? What are you? Do you
      belong to the number of the happy or of the miserable?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of the miserable," answered Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then come to me," said he of the Grove, "and rest assured that it is to
      woe itself and affliction itself you come."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote, finding himself answered in such a soft and courteous manner,
      went over to him, and so did Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      The doleful knight took Don Quixote by the arm, saying, "Sit down here,
      sir knight; for, that you are one, and of those that profess
      knight-errantry, it is to me a sufficient proof to have found you in this
      place, where solitude and night, the natural couch and proper retreat of
      knights-errant, keep you company." To which Don made answer, "A knight I
      am of the profession you mention, and though sorrows, misfortunes, and
      calamities have made my heart their abode, the compassion I feel for the
      misfortunes of others has not been thereby banished from it. From what you
      have just now sung I gather that yours spring from love, I mean from the
      love you bear that fair ingrate you named in your lament."
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meantime, they had seated themselves together on the hard ground
      peaceably and sociably, just as if, as soon as day broke, they were not
      going to break one another's heads.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Are you, sir knight, in love perchance?" asked he of the Grove of Don
      Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "By mischance I am," replied Don Quixote; "though the ills arising from
      well-bestowed affections should be esteemed favours rather than
      misfortunes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," returned he of the Grove, "if scorn did not unsettle our
      reason and understanding, for if it be excessive it looks like revenge."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was never scorned by my lady," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Certainly not," said Sancho, who stood close by, "for my lady is as a
      lamb, and softer than a roll of butter."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is this your squire?" asked he of the Grove.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He is," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I never yet saw a squire," said he of the Grove, "who ventured to speak
      when his master was speaking; at least, there is mine, who is as big as
      his father, and it cannot be proved that he has ever opened his lips when
      I am speaking."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By my faith then," said Sancho, "I have spoken, and am fit to speak, in
      the presence of one as much, or even&mdash;but never mind&mdash;it only
      makes it worse to stir it."
    </p>
    <p>
      The squire of the Grove took Sancho by the arm, saying to him, "Let us two
      go where we can talk in squire style as much as we please, and leave these
      gentlemen our masters to fight it out over the story of their loves; and,
      depend upon it, daybreak will find them at it without having made an end
      of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So be it by all means," said Sancho; "and I will tell your worship who I
      am, that you may see whether I am to be reckoned among the number of the
      most talkative squires."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this the two squires withdrew to one side, and between them there
      passed a conversation as droll as that which passed between their masters
      was serious.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p12e" id="p12e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p12e.jpg (15K)" src="images/p12e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch13b" id="ch13b"></a>CHAPTER XIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE, TOGETHER
      WITH THE SENSIBLE, ORIGINAL, AND TRANQUIL COLLOQUY THAT PASSED BETWEEN THE
      TWO SQUIRES
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p13a" id="p13a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p13a.jpg (126K)" src="images/p13a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p13a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The knights and the squires made two parties, these telling the story of
      their lives, the others the story of their loves; but the history relates
      first of all the conversation of the servants, and afterwards takes up
      that of the masters; and it says that, withdrawing a little from the
      others, he of the Grove said to Sancho, "A hard life it is we lead and
      live, senor, we that are squires to knights-errant; verily, we eat our
      bread in the sweat of our faces, which is one of the curses God laid on
      our first parents."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It may be said, too," added Sancho, "that we eat it in the chill of our
      bodies; for who gets more heat and cold than the miserable squires of
      knight-errantry? Even so it would not be so bad if we had something to
      eat, for woes are lighter if there's bread; but sometimes we go a day or
      two without breaking our fast, except with the wind that blows."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All that," said he of the Grove, "may be endured and put up with when we
      have hopes of reward; for, unless the knight-errant he serves is
      excessively unlucky, after a few turns the squire will at least find
      himself rewarded with a fine government of some island or some fair
      county."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I," said Sancho, "have already told my master that I shall be content
      with the government of some island, and he is so noble and generous that
      he has promised it to me ever so many times."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I," said he of the Grove, "shall be satisfied with a canonry for my
      services, and my master has already assigned me one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your master," said Sancho, "no doubt is a knight in the Church line, and
      can bestow rewards of that sort on his good squire; but mine is only a
      layman; though I remember some clever, but, to my mind, designing people,
      strove to persuade him to try and become an archbishop. He, however, would
      not be anything but an emperor; but I was trembling all the time lest he
      should take a fancy to go into the Church, not finding myself fit to hold
      office in it; for I may tell you, though I seem a man, I am no better than
      a beast for the Church."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, then, you are wrong there," said he of the Grove; "for those island
      governments are not all satisfactory; some are awkward, some are poor,
      some are dull, and, in short, the highest and choicest brings with it a
      heavy burden of cares and troubles which the unhappy wight to whose lot it
      has fallen bears upon his shoulders. Far better would it be for us who
      have adopted this accursed service to go back to our own houses, and there
      employ ourselves in pleasanter occupations&mdash;in hunting or fishing,
      for instance; for what squire in the world is there so poor as not to have
      a hack and a couple of greyhounds and a fishingrod to amuse himself with
      in his own village?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am not in want of any of those things," said Sancho; "to be sure I have
      no hack, but I have an ass that is worth my master's horse twice over; God
      send me a bad Easter, and that the next one I am to see, if I would swap,
      even if I got four bushels of barley to boot. You will laugh at the value
      I put on my Dapple&mdash;for dapple is the colour of my beast. As to
      greyhounds, I can't want for them, for there are enough and to spare in my
      town; and, moreover, there is more pleasure in sport when it is at other
      people's expense."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In truth and earnest, sir squire," said he of the Grove, "I have made up
      my mind and determined to have done with these drunken vagaries of these
      knights, and go back to my village, and bring up my children; for I have
      three, like three Oriental pearls."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have two," said Sancho, "that might be presented before the Pope
      himself, especially a girl whom I am breeding up for a countess, please
      God, though in spite of her mother."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And how old is this lady that is being bred up for a countess?" asked he
      of the Grove.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fifteen, a couple of years more or less," answered Sancho; "but she is as
      tall as a lance, and as fresh as an April morning, and as strong as a
      porter."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Those are gifts to fit her to be not only a countess but a nymph of the
      greenwood," said he of the Grove; "whoreson strumpet! what pith the rogue
      must have!"
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Sancho made answer, somewhat sulkily, "She's no strumpet, nor was
      her mother, nor will either of them be, please God, while I live; speak
      more civilly; for one bred up among knights-errant, who are courtesy
      itself, your words don't seem to me to be very becoming."
    </p>
    <p>
      "O how little you know about compliments, sir squire," returned he of the
      Grove. "What! don't you know that when a horseman delivers a good lance
      thrust at the bull in the plaza, or when anyone does anything very well,
      the people are wont to say, 'Ha, whoreson rip! how well he has done it!'
      and that what seems to be abuse in the expression is high praise? Disown
      sons and daughters, senor, who don't do what deserves that compliments of
      this sort should be paid to their parents."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do disown them," replied Sancho, "and in this way, and by the same
      reasoning, you might call me and my children and my wife all the strumpets
      in the world, for all they do and say is of a kind that in the highest
      degree deserves the same praise; and to see them again I pray God to
      deliver me from mortal sin, or, what comes to the same thing, to deliver
      me from this perilous calling of squire into which I have fallen a second
      time, decayed and beguiled by a purse with a hundred ducats that I found
      one day in the heart of the Sierra Morena; and the devil is always putting
      a bag full of doubloons before my eyes, here, there, everywhere, until I
      fancy at every stop I am putting my hand on it, and hugging it, and
      carrying it home with me, and making investments, and getting interest,
      and living like a prince; and so long as I think of this I make light of
      all the hardships I endure with this simpleton of a master of mine, who, I
      well know, is more of a madman than a knight."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There's why they say that 'covetousness bursts the bag,'" said he of the
      Grove; "but if you come to talk of that sort, there is not a greater one
      in the world than my master, for he is one of those of whom they say, 'the
      cares of others kill the ass;' for, in order that another knight may
      recover the senses he has lost, he makes a madman of himself and goes
      looking for what, when found, may, for all I know, fly in his own face."
      "And is he in love perchance?" asked Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He is," said of the Grove, "with one Casildea de Vandalia, the rawest and
      best roasted lady the whole world could produce; but that rawness is not
      the only foot he limps on, for he has greater schemes rumbling in his
      bowels, as will be seen before many hours are over."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There's no road so smooth but it has some hole or hindrance in it," said
      Sancho; "in other houses they cook beans, but in mine it's by the potful;
      madness will have more followers and hangers-on than sound sense; but if
      there be any truth in the common saying, that to have companions in
      trouble gives some relief, I may take consolation from you, inasmuch as
      you serve a master as crazy as my own."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Crazy but valiant," replied he of the Grove, "and more roguish than crazy
      or valiant."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mine is not that," said Sancho; "I mean he has nothing of the rogue in
      him; on the contrary, he has the soul of a pitcher; he has no thought of
      doing harm to anyone, only good to all, nor has he any malice whatever in
      him; a child might persuade him that it is night at noonday; and for this
      simplicity I love him as the core of my heart, and I can't bring myself to
      leave him, let him do ever such foolish things."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For all that, brother and senor," said he of the Grove, "if the blind
      lead the blind, both are in danger of falling into the pit. It is better
      for us to beat a quiet retreat and get back to our own quarters; for those
      who seek adventures don't always find good ones."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho kept spitting from time to time, and his spittle seemed somewhat
      ropy and dry, observing which the compassionate squire of the Grove said,
      "It seems to me that with all this talk of ours our tongues are sticking
      to the roofs of our mouths; but I have a pretty good loosener hanging from
      the saddle-bow of my horse," and getting up he came back the next minute
      with a large bota of wine and a pasty half a yard across; and this is no
      exaggeration, for it was made of a house rabbit so big that Sancho, as he
      handled it, took it to be made of a goat, not to say a kid, and looking at
      it he said, "And do you carry this with you, senor?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, what are you thinking about?" said the other; "do you take me for
      some paltry squire? I carry a better larder on my horse's croup than a
      general takes with him when he goes on a march."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho ate without requiring to be pressed, and in the dark bolted
      mouthfuls like the knots on a tether, and said he, "You are a proper
      trusty squire, one of the right sort, sumptuous and grand, as this banquet
      shows, which, if it has not come here by magic art, at any rate has the
      look of it; not like me, unlucky beggar, that have nothing more in my
      alforjas than a scrap of cheese, so hard that one might brain a giant with
      it, and, to keep it company, a few dozen carobs and as many more filberts
      and walnuts; thanks to the austerity of my master, and the idea he has and
      the rule he follows, that knights-errant must not live or sustain
      themselves on anything except dried fruits and the herbs of the field."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By my faith, brother," said he of the Grove, "my stomach is not made for
      thistles, or wild pears, or roots of the woods; let our masters do as they
      like, with their chivalry notions and laws, and eat what those enjoin; I
      carry my prog-basket and this bota hanging to the saddle-bow, whatever
      they may say; and it is such an object of worship with me, and I love it
      so, that there is hardly a moment but I am kissing and embracing it over
      and over again;" and so saying he thrust it into Sancho's hands, who
      raising it aloft pointed to his mouth, gazed at the stars for a quarter of
      an hour; and when he had done drinking let his head fall on one side, and
      giving a deep sigh, exclaimed, "Ah, whoreson rogue, how catholic it is!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "There, you see," said he of the Grove, hearing Sancho's exclamation, "how
      you have called this wine whoreson by way of praise."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well," said Sancho, "I own it, and I grant it is no dishonour to call
      anyone whoreson when it is to be understood as praise. But tell me, senor,
      by what you love best, is this Ciudad Real wine?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "O rare wine-taster!" said he of the Grove; "nowhere else indeed does it
      come from, and it has some years' age too."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Leave me alone for that," said Sancho; "never fear but I'll hit upon the
      place it came from somehow. What would you say, sir squire, to my having
      such a great natural instinct in judging wines that you have only to let
      me smell one and I can tell positively its country, its kind, its flavour
      and soundness, the changes it will undergo, and everything that appertains
      to a wine? But it is no wonder, for I have had in my family, on my
      father's side, the two best wine-tasters that have been known in La Mancha
      for many a long year, and to prove it I'll tell you now a thing that
      happened them. They gave the two of them some wine out of a cask, to try,
      asking their opinion as to the condition, quality, goodness or badness of
      the wine. One of them tried it with the tip of his tongue, the other did
      no more than bring it to his nose. The first said the wine had a flavour
      of iron, the second said it had a stronger flavour of cordovan. The owner
      said the cask was clean, and that nothing had been added to the wine from
      which it could have got a flavour of either iron or leather. Nevertheless,
      these two great wine-tasters held to what they had said. Time went by, the
      wine was sold, and when they came to clean out the cask, they found in it
      a small key hanging to a thong of cordovan; see now if one who comes of
      the same stock has not a right to give his opinion in such like cases."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Therefore, I say," said he of the Grove, "let us give up going in quest
      of adventures, and as we have loaves let us not go looking for cakes, but
      return to our cribs, for God will find us there if it be his will."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Until my master reaches Saragossa," said Sancho, "I'll remain in his
      service; after that we'll see."
    </p>
    <p>
      The end of it was that the two squires talked so much and drank so much
      that sleep had to tie their tongues and moderate their thirst, for to
      quench it was impossible; and so the pair of them fell asleep clinging to
      the now nearly empty bota and with half-chewed morsels in their mouths;
      and there we will leave them for the present, to relate what passed
      between the Knight of the Grove and him of the Rueful Countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p13e" id="p13e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p13e.jpg (43K)" src="images/p13e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch14b" id="ch14b"></a>CHAPTER XIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE GROVE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p14a" id="p14a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p14a.jpg (120K)" src="images/p14a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p14a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Among the things that passed between Don Quixote and the Knight of the
      Wood, the history tells us he of the Grove said to Don Quixote, "In fine,
      sir knight, I would have you know that my destiny, or, more properly
      speaking, my choice led me to fall in love with the peerless Casildea de
      Vandalia. I call her peerless because she has no peer, whether it be in
      bodily stature or in the supremacy of rank and beauty. This same Casildea,
      then, that I speak of, requited my honourable passion and gentle
      aspirations by compelling me, as his stepmother did Hercules, to engage in
      many perils of various sorts, at the end of each promising me that, with
      the end of the next, the object of my hopes should be attained; but my
      labours have gone on increasing link by link until they are past counting,
      nor do I know what will be the last one that is to be the beginning of the
      accomplishment of my chaste desires. On one occasion she bade me go and
      challenge the famous giantess of Seville, La Giralda by name, who is as
      mighty and strong as if made of brass, and though never stirring from one
      spot, is the most restless and changeable woman in the world. I came, I
      saw, I conquered, and I made her stay quiet and behave herself, for
      nothing but north winds blew for more than a week. Another time I was
      ordered to lift those ancient stones, the mighty bulls of Guisando, an
      enterprise that might more fitly be entrusted to porters than to knights.
      Again, she bade me fling myself into the cavern of Cabra&mdash;an
      unparalleled and awful peril&mdash;and bring her a minute account of all
      that is concealed in those gloomy depths. I stopped the motion of the
      Giralda, I lifted the bulls of Guisando, I flung myself into the cavern
      and brought to light the secrets of its abyss; and my hopes are as dead as
      dead can be, and her scorn and her commands as lively as ever. To be
      brief, last of all she has commanded me to go through all the provinces of
      Spain and compel all the knights-errant wandering therein to confess that
      she surpasses all women alive to-day in beauty, and that I am the most
      valiant and the most deeply enamoured knight on earth; in support of which
      claim I have already travelled over the greater part of Spain, and have
      there vanquished several knights who have dared to contradict me; but what
      I most plume and pride myself upon is having vanquished in single combat
      that so famous knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, and made him confess that
      my Casildea is more beautiful than his Dulcinea; and in this one victory I
      hold myself to have conquered all the knights in the world; for this Don
      Quixote that I speak of has vanquished them all, and I having vanquished
      him, his glory, his fame, and his honour have passed and are transferred
      to my person; for
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
The more the vanquished hath of fair renown,
The greater glory gilds the victor's crown.
</pre>
    <p>
      Thus the innumerable achievements of the said Don Quixote are now set down
      to my account and have become mine."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote was amazed when he heard the Knight of the Grove, and was a
      thousand times on the point of telling him he lied, and had the lie direct
      already on the tip of his tongue; but he restrained himself as well as he
      could, in order to force him to confess the lie with his own lips; so he
      said to him quietly, "As to what you say, sir knight, about having
      vanquished most of the knights of Spain, or even of the whole world, I say
      nothing; but that you have vanquished Don Quixote of La Mancha I consider
      doubtful; it may have been some other that resembled him, although there
      are few like him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How! not vanquished?" said he of the Grove; "by the heaven that is above
      us I fought Don Quixote and overcame him and made him yield; and he is a
      man of tall stature, gaunt features, long, lank limbs, with hair turning
      grey, an aquiline nose rather hooked, and large black drooping moustaches;
      he does battle under the name of 'The Countenance,' and he has for squire
      a peasant called Sancho Panza; he presses the loins and rules the reins of
      a famous steed called Rocinante; and lastly, he has for the mistress of
      his will a certain Dulcinea del Toboso, once upon a time called Aldonza
      Lorenzo, just as I call mine Casildea de Vandalia because her name is
      Casilda and she is of Andalusia. If all these tokens are not enough to
      vindicate the truth of what I say, here is my sword, that will compel
      incredulity itself to give credence to it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Calm yourself, sir knight," said Don Quixote, "and give ear to what I am
      about to say to you. I would have you know that this Don Quixote you speak
      of is the greatest friend I have in the world; so much so that I may say I
      regard him in the same light as my own person; and from the precise and
      clear indications you have given I cannot but think that he must be the
      very one you have vanquished. On the other hand, I see with my eyes and
      feel with my hands that it is impossible it can have been the same; unless
      indeed it be that, as he has many enemies who are enchanters, and one in
      particular who is always persecuting him, some one of these may have taken
      his shape in order to allow himself to be vanquished, so as to defraud him
      of the fame that his exalted achievements as a knight have earned and
      acquired for him throughout the known world. And in confirmation of this,
      I must tell you, too, that it is but ten hours since these said enchanters
      his enemies transformed the shape and person of the fair Dulcinea del
      Toboso into a foul and mean village lass, and in the same way they must
      have transformed Don Quixote; and if all this does not suffice to convince
      you of the truth of what I say, here is Don Quixote himself, who will
      maintain it by arms, on foot or on horseback or in any way you please."
    </p>
    <p>
      And so saying he stood up and laid his hand on his sword, waiting to see
      what the Knight of the Grove would do, who in an equally calm voice said
      in reply, "Pledges don't distress a good payer; he who has succeeded in
      vanquishing you once when transformed, Sir Don Quixote, may fairly hope to
      subdue you in your own proper shape; but as it is not becoming for knights
      to perform their feats of arms in the dark, like highwaymen and bullies,
      let us wait till daylight, that the sun may behold our deeds; and the
      conditions of our combat shall be that the vanquished shall be at the
      victor's disposal, to do all that he may enjoin, provided the injunction
      be such as shall be becoming a knight."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am more than satisfied with these conditions and terms," replied Don
      Quixote; and so saying, they betook themselves to where their squires lay,
      and found them snoring, and in the same posture they were in when sleep
      fell upon them. They roused them up, and bade them get the horses ready,
      as at sunrise they were to engage in a bloody and arduous single combat;
      at which intelligence Sancho was aghast and thunderstruck, trembling for
      the safety of his master because of the mighty deeds he had heard the
      squire of the Grove ascribe to his; but without a word the two squires
      went in quest of their cattle; for by this time the three horses and the
      ass had smelt one another out, and were all together.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the way, he of the Grove said to Sancho, "You must know, brother, that
      it is the custom with the fighting men of Andalusia, when they are
      godfathers in any quarrel, not to stand idle with folded arms while their
      godsons fight; I say so to remind you that while our masters are fighting,
      we, too, have to fight, and knock one another to shivers."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That custom, sir squire," replied Sancho, "may hold good among those
      bullies and fighting men you talk of, but certainly not among the squires
      of knights-errant; at least, I have never heard my master speak of any
      custom of the sort, and he knows all the laws of knight-errantry by heart;
      but granting it true that there is an express law that squires are to
      fight while their masters are fighting, I don't mean to obey it, but to
      pay the penalty that may be laid on peacefully minded squires like myself;
      for I am sure it cannot be more than two pounds of wax, and I would rather
      pay that, for I know it will cost me less than the lint I shall be at the
      expense of to mend my head, which I look upon as broken and split already;
      there's another thing that makes it impossible for me to fight, that I
      have no sword, for I never carried one in my life."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know a good remedy for that," said he of the Grove; "I have here two
      linen bags of the same size; you shall take one, and I the other, and we
      will fight at bag blows with equal arms."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If that's the way, so be it with all my heart," said Sancho, "for that
      sort of battle will serve to knock the dust out of us instead of hurting
      us."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That will not do," said the other, "for we must put into the bags, to
      keep the wind from blowing them away, half a dozen nice smooth pebbles,
      all of the same weight; and in this way we shall be able to baste one
      another without doing ourselves any harm or mischief."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Body of my father!" said Sancho, "see what marten and sable, and pads of
      carded cotton he is putting into the bags, that our heads may not be
      broken and our bones beaten to jelly! But even if they are filled with
      toss silk, I can tell you, senor, I am not going to fight; let our masters
      fight, that's their lookout, and let us drink and live; for time will take
      care to ease us of our lives, without our going to look for fillips so
      that they may be finished off before their proper time comes and they drop
      from ripeness."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Still," returned he of the Grove, "we must fight, if it be only for half
      an hour."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By no means," said Sancho; "I am not going to be so discourteous or so
      ungrateful as to have any quarrel, be it ever so small, with one I have
      eaten and drunk with; besides, who the devil could bring himself to fight
      in cold blood, without anger or provocation?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I can remedy that entirely," said he of the Grove, "and in this way:
      before we begin the battle, I will come up to your worship fair and
      softly, and give you three or four buffets, with which I shall stretch you
      at my feet and rouse your anger, though it were sleeping sounder than a
      dormouse."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To match that plan," said Sancho, "I have another that is not a whit
      behind it; I will take a cudgel, and before your worship comes near enough
      to waken my anger I will send yours so sound to sleep with whacks, that it
      won't waken unless it be in the other world, where it is known that I am
      not a man to let my face be handled by anyone; let each look out for the
      arrow&mdash;though the surer way would be to let everyone's anger sleep,
      for nobody knows the heart of anyone, and a man may come for wool and go
      back shorn; God gave his blessing to peace and his curse to quarrels; if a
      hunted cat, surrounded and hard pressed, turns into a lion, God knows what
      I, who am a man, may turn into; and so from this time forth I warn you,
      sir squire, that all the harm and mischief that may come of our quarrel
      will be put down to your account."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very good," said he of the Grove; "God will send the dawn and we shall be
      all right."
    </p>
    <p>
      And now gay-plumaged birds of all sorts began to warble in the trees, and
      with their varied and gladsome notes seemed to welcome and salute the
      fresh morn that was beginning to show the beauty of her countenance at the
      gates and balconies of the east, shaking from her locks a profusion of
      liquid pearls; in which dulcet moisture bathed, the plants, too, seemed to
      shed and shower down a pearly spray, the willows distilled sweet manna,
      the fountains laughed, the brooks babbled, the woods rejoiced, and the
      meadows arrayed themselves in all their glory at her coming. But hardly
      had the light of day made it possible to see and distinguish things, when
      the first object that presented itself to the eyes of Sancho Panza was the
      squire of the Grove's nose, which was so big that it almost overshadowed
      his whole body. It is, in fact, stated, that it was of enormous size,
      hooked in the middle, covered with warts, and of a mulberry colour like an
      egg-plant; it hung down two fingers' length below his mouth, and the size,
      the colour, the warts, and the bend of it, made his face so hideous, that
      Sancho, as he looked at him, began to tremble hand and foot like a child
      in convulsions, and he vowed in his heart to let himself be given two
      hundred buffets, sooner than be provoked to fight that monster. Don
      Quixote examined his adversary, and found that he already had his helmet
      on and visor lowered, so that he could not see his face; he observed,
      however, that he was a sturdily built man, but not very tall in stature.
      Over his armour he wore a surcoat or cassock of what seemed to be the
      finest cloth of gold, all bespangled with glittering mirrors like little
      moons, which gave him an extremely gallant and splendid appearance; above
      his helmet fluttered a great quantity of plumes, green, yellow, and white,
      and his lance, which was leaning against a tree, was very long and stout,
      and had a steel point more than a palm in length.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote observed all, and took note of all, and from what he saw and
      observed he concluded that the said knight must be a man of great
      strength, but he did not for all that give way to fear, like Sancho Panza;
      on the contrary, with a composed and dauntless air, he said to the Knight
      of the Mirrors, "If, sir knight, your great eagerness to fight has not
      banished your courtesy, by it I would entreat you to raise your visor a
      little, in order that I may see if the comeliness of your countenance
      corresponds with that of your equipment."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Whether you come victorious or vanquished out of this emprise, sir
      knight," replied he of the Mirrors, "you will have more than enough time
      and leisure to see me; and if now I do not comply with your request, it is
      because it seems to me I should do a serious wrong to the fair Casildea de
      Vandalia in wasting time while I stopped to raise my visor before
      compelling you to confess what you are already aware I maintain."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then," said Don Quixote, "while we are mounting you can at least
      tell me if I am that Don Quixote whom you said you vanquished."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To that we answer you," said he of the Mirrors, "that you are as like the
      very knight I vanquished as one egg is like another, but as you say
      enchanters persecute you, I will not venture to say positively whether you
      are the said person or not."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That," said Don Quixote, "is enough to convince me that you are under a
      deception; however, entirely to relieve you of it, let our horses be
      brought, and in less time than it would take you to raise your visor, if
      God, my lady, and my arm stand me in good stead, I shall see your face,
      and you shall see that I am not the vanquished Don Quixote you take me to
      be."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this, cutting short the colloquy, they mounted, and Don Quixote
      wheeled Rocinante round in order to take a proper distance to charge back
      upon his adversary, and he of the Mirrors did the same; but Don Quixote
      had not moved away twenty paces when he heard himself called by the other,
      and, each returning half-way, he of the Mirrors said to him, "Remember,
      sir knight, that the terms of our combat are, that the vanquished, as I
      said before, shall be at the victor's disposal."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am aware of it already," said Don Quixote; "provided what is commanded
      and imposed upon the vanquished be things that do not transgress the
      limits of chivalry."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is understood," replied he of the Mirrors.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment the extraordinary nose of the squire presented itself to
      Don Quixote's view, and he was no less amazed than Sancho at the sight;
      insomuch that he set him down as a monster of some kind, or a human being
      of some new species or unearthly breed. Sancho, seeing his master retiring
      to run his course, did not like to be left alone with the nosy man,
      fearing that with one flap of that nose on his own the battle would be all
      over for him and he would be left stretched on the ground, either by the
      blow or with fright; so he ran after his master, holding on to Rocinante's
      stirrup-leather, and when it seemed to him time to turn about, he said, "I
      implore of your worship, senor, before you turn to charge, to help me up
      into this cork tree, from which I will be able to witness the gallant
      encounter your worship is going to have with this knight, more to my taste
      and better than from the ground."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It seems to me rather, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that thou wouldst
      mount a scaffold in order to see the bulls without danger."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To tell the truth," returned Sancho, "the monstrous nose of that squire
      has filled me with fear and terror, and I dare not stay near him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is," said Don Quixote, "such a one that were I not what I am it would
      terrify me too; so, come, I will help thee up where thou wilt."
    </p>
    <p>
      While Don Quixote waited for Sancho to mount into the cork tree he of the
      Mirrors took as much ground as he considered requisite, and, supposing Don
      Quixote to have done the same, without waiting for any sound of trumpet or
      other signal to direct them, he wheeled his horse, which was not more
      agile or better-looking than Rocinante, and at his top speed, which was an
      easy trot, he proceeded to charge his enemy; seeing him, however, engaged
      in putting Sancho up, he drew rein, and halted in mid career, for which
      his horse was very grateful, as he was already unable to go. Don Quixote,
      fancying that his foe was coming down upon him flying, drove his spurs
      vigorously into Rocinante's lean flanks and made him scud along in such
      style that the history tells us that on this occasion only was he known to
      make something like running, for on all others it was a simple trot with
      him; and with this unparalleled fury he bore down where he of the Mirrors
      stood digging his spurs into his horse up to buttons, without being able
      to make him stir a finger's length from the spot where he had come to a
      standstill in his course. At this lucky moment and crisis, Don Quixote
      came upon his adversary, in trouble with his horse, and embarrassed with
      his lance, which he either could not manage, or had no time to lay in
      rest. Don Quixote, however, paid no attention to these difficulties, and
      in perfect safety to himself and without any risk encountered him of the
      Mirrors with such force that he brought him to the ground in spite of
      himself over the haunches of his horse, and with so heavy a fall that he
      lay to all appearance dead, not stirring hand or foot. The instant Sancho
      saw him fall he slid down from the cork tree, and made all haste to where
      his master was, who, dismounting from Rocinante, went and stood over him
      of the Mirrors, and unlacing his helmet to see if he was dead, and to give
      him air if he should happen to be alive, he saw&mdash;who can say what he
      saw, without filling all who hear it with astonishment, wonder, and awe?
      He saw, the history says, the very countenance, the very face, the very
      look, the very physiognomy, the very effigy, the very image of the
      bachelor Samson Carrasco! As soon as he saw it he called out in a loud
      voice, "Make haste here, Sancho, and behold what thou art to see but not
      to believe; quick, my son, and learn what magic can do, and wizards and
      enchanters are capable of."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho came up, and when he saw the countenance of the bachelor Carrasco,
      he fell to crossing himself a thousand times, and blessing himself as many
      more. All this time the prostrate knight showed no signs of life, and
      Sancho said to Don Quixote, "It is my opinion, senor, that in any case
      your worship should take and thrust your sword into the mouth of this one
      here that looks like the bachelor Samson Carrasco; perhaps in him you will
      kill one of your enemies, the enchanters."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thy advice is not bad," said Don Quixote, "for of enemies the fewer the
      better;" and he was drawing his sword to carry into effect Sancho's
      counsel and suggestion, when the squire of the Mirrors came up, now
      without the nose which had made him so hideous, and cried out in a loud
      voice, "Mind what you are about, Senor Don Quixote; that is your friend,
      the bachelor Samson Carrasco, you have at your feet, and I am his squire."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And the nose?" said Sancho, seeing him without the hideous feature he had
      before; to which he replied, "I have it here in my pocket," and putting
      his hand into his right pocket, he pulled out a masquerade nose of
      varnished pasteboard of the make already described; and Sancho, examining
      him more and more closely, exclaimed aloud in a voice of amazement, "Holy
      Mary be good to me! Isn't it Tom Cecial, my neighbour and gossip?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, to be sure I am!" returned the now unnosed squire; "Tom Cecial I am,
      gossip and friend Sancho Panza; and I'll tell you presently the means and
      tricks and falsehoods by which I have been brought here; but in the
      meantime, beg and entreat of your master not to touch, maltreat, wound, or
      slay the Knight of the Mirrors whom he has at his feet; because, beyond
      all dispute, it is the rash and ill-advised bachelor Samson Carrasco, our
      fellow townsman."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment he of the Mirrors came to himself, and Don Quixote
      perceiving it, held the naked point of his sword over his face, and said
      to him, "You are a dead man, knight, unless you confess that the peerless
      Dulcinea del Toboso excels your Casildea de Vandalia in beauty; and in
      addition to this you must promise, if you should survive this encounter
      and fall, to go to the city of El Toboso and present yourself before her
      on my behalf, that she deal with you according to her good pleasure; and
      if she leaves you free to do yours, you are in like manner to return and
      seek me out (for the trail of my mighty deeds will serve you as a guide to
      lead you to where I may be), and tell me what may have passed between you
      and her&mdash;conditions which, in accordance with what we stipulated
      before our combat, do not transgress the just limits of knight-errantry."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I confess," said the fallen knight, "that the dirty tattered shoe of the
      lady Dulcinea del Toboso is better than the ill-combed though clean beard
      of Casildea; and I promise to go and to return from her presence to yours,
      and to give you a full and particular account of all you demand of me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You must also confess and believe," added Don Quixote, "that the knight
      you vanquished was not and could not be Don Quixote of La Mancha, but some
      one else in his likeness, just as I confess and believe that you, though
      you seem to be the bachelor Samson Carrasco, are not so, but some other
      resembling him, whom my enemies have here put before me in his shape, in
      order that I may restrain and moderate the vehemence of my wrath, and make
      a gentle use of the glory of my victory."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I confess, hold, and think everything to be as you believe, hold, and
      think it," the crippled knight; "let me rise, I entreat you; if, indeed,
      the shock of my fall will allow me, for it has left me in a sorry plight
      enough."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote helped him to rise, with the assistance of his squire Tom
      Cecial; from whom Sancho never took his eyes, and to whom he put
      questions, the replies to which furnished clear proof that he was really
      and truly the Tom Cecial he said; but the impression made on Sancho's mind
      by what his master said about the enchanters having changed the face of
      the Knight of the Mirrors into that of the bachelor Samson Carrasco, would
      not permit him to believe what he saw with his eyes. In fine, both master
      and man remained under the delusion; and, down in the mouth, and out of
      luck, he of the Mirrors and his squire parted from Don Quixote and Sancho,
      he meaning to go look for some village where he could plaster and strap
      his ribs. Don Quixote and Sancho resumed their journey to Saragossa, and
      on it the history leaves them in order that it may tell who the Knight of
      the Mirrors and his long-nosed squire were.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p14e" id="p14e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p14e.jpg (56K)" src="images/p14e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch15b" id="ch15b"></a>CHAPTER XV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IT IS TOLD AND KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE MIRRORS AND HIS SQUIRE
      WERE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p15a" id="p15a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p15a.jpg (122K)" src="images/p15a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p15a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote went off satisfied, elated, and vain-glorious in the highest
      degree at having won a victory over such a valiant knight as he fancied
      him of the Mirrors to be, and one from whose knightly word he expected to
      learn whether the enchantment of his lady still continued; inasmuch as the
      said vanquished knight was bound, under the penalty of ceasing to be one,
      to return and render him an account of what took place between him and
      her. But Don Quixote was of one mind, he of the Mirrors of another, for he
      just then had no thought of anything but finding some village where he
      could plaster himself, as has been said already. The history goes on to
      say, then, that when the bachelor Samson Carrasco recommended Don Quixote
      to resume his knight-errantry which he had laid aside, it was in
      consequence of having been previously in conclave with the curate and the
      barber on the means to be adopted to induce Don Quixote to stay at home in
      peace and quiet without worrying himself with his ill-starred adventures;
      at which consultation it was decided by the unanimous vote of all, and on
      the special advice of Carrasco, that Don Quixote should be allowed to go,
      as it seemed impossible to restrain him, and that Samson should sally
      forth to meet him as a knight-errant, and do battle with him, for there
      would be no difficulty about a cause, and vanquish him, that being looked
      upon as an easy matter; and that it should be agreed and settled that the
      vanquished was to be at the mercy of the victor. Then, Don Quixote being
      vanquished, the bachelor knight was to command him to return to his
      village and his house, and not quit it for two years, or until he received
      further orders from him; all which it was clear Don Quixote would
      unhesitatingly obey, rather than contravene or fail to observe the laws of
      chivalry; and during the period of his seclusion he might perhaps forget
      his folly, or there might be an opportunity of discovering some ready
      remedy for his madness. Carrasco undertook the task, and Tom Cecial, a
      gossip and neighbour of Sancho Panza's, a lively, feather-headed fellow,
      offered himself as his squire. Carrasco armed himself in the fashion
      described, and Tom Cecial, that he might not be known by his gossip when
      they met, fitted on over his own natural nose the false masquerade one
      that has been mentioned; and so they followed the same route Don Quixote
      took, and almost came up with him in time to be present at the adventure
      of the cart of Death and finally encountered them in the grove, where all
      that the sagacious reader has been reading about took place; and had it
      not been for the extraordinary fancies of Don Quixote, and his conviction
      that the bachelor was not the bachelor, senor bachelor would have been
      incapacitated for ever from taking his degree of licentiate, all through
      not finding nests where he thought to find birds.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tom Cecial, seeing how ill they had succeeded, and what a sorry end their
      expedition had come to, said to the bachelor, "Sure enough, Senor Samson
      Carrasco, we are served right; it is easy enough to plan and set about an
      enterprise, but it is often a difficult matter to come well out of it. Don
      Quixote a madman, and we sane; he goes off laughing, safe, and sound, and
      you are left sore and sorry! I'd like to know now which is the madder, he
      who is so because he cannot help it, or he who is so of his own choice?"
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Samson replied, "The difference between the two sorts of madmen
      is, that he who is so will he nil he, will be one always, while he who is
      so of his own accord can leave off being one whenever he likes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In that case," said Tom Cecial, "I was a madman of my own accord when I
      volunteered to become your squire, and, of my own accord, I'll leave off
      being one and go home."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's your affair," returned Samson, "but to suppose that I am going
      home until I have given Don Quixote a thrashing is absurd; and it is not
      any wish that he may recover his senses that will make me hunt him out
      now, but a wish for the sore pain I am in with my ribs won't let me
      entertain more charitable thoughts."
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus discoursing, the pair proceeded until they reached a town where it
      was their good luck to find a bone-setter, with whose help the unfortunate
      Samson was cured. Tom Cecial left him and went home, while he stayed
      behind meditating vengeance; and the history will return to him again at
      the proper time, so as not to omit making merry with Don Quixote now.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p15e" id="p15e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p15e.jpg (17K)" src="images/p15e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch16b" id="ch16b"></a>CHAPTER XVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH A DISCREET GENTLEMAN OF LA MANCHA
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p16a" id="p16a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p16a.jpg (85K)" src="images/p16a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p16a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote pursued his journey in the high spirits, satisfaction, and
      self-complacency already described, fancying himself the most valorous
      knight-errant of the age in the world because of his late victory. All the
      adventures that could befall him from that time forth he regarded as
      already done and brought to a happy issue; he made light of enchantments
      and enchanters; he thought no more of the countless drubbings that had
      been administered to him in the course of his knight-errantry, nor of the
      volley of stones that had levelled half his teeth, nor of the ingratitude
      of the galley slaves, nor of the audacity of the Yanguesans and the shower
      of stakes that fell upon him; in short, he said to himself that could he
      discover any means, mode, or way of disenchanting his lady Dulcinea, he
      would not envy the highest fortune that the most fortunate knight-errant
      of yore ever reached or could reach.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was going along entirely absorbed in these fancies, when Sancho said to
      him, "Isn't it odd, senor, that I have still before my eyes that monstrous
      enormous nose of my gossip, Tom Cecial?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And dost thou, then, believe, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that the Knight
      of the Mirrors was the bachelor Carrasco, and his squire Tom Cecial thy
      gossip?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know what to say to that," replied Sancho; "all I know is that
      the tokens he gave me about my own house, wife and children, nobody else
      but himself could have given me; and the face, once the nose was off, was
      the very face of Tom Cecial, as I have seen it many a time in my town and
      next door to my own house; and the sound of the voice was just the same."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let us reason the matter, Sancho," said Don Quixote. "Come now, by what
      process of thinking can it be supposed that the bachelor Samson Carrasco
      would come as a knight-errant, in arms offensive and defensive, to fight
      with me? Have I ever been by any chance his enemy? Have I ever given him
      any occasion to owe me a grudge? Am I his rival, or does he profess arms,
      that he should envy the fame I have acquired in them?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, but what are we to say, senor," returned Sancho, "about that
      knight, whoever he is, being so like the bachelor Carrasco, and his squire
      so like my gossip, Tom Cecial? And if that be enchantment, as your worship
      says, was there no other pair in the world for them to take the likeness
      of?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is all," said Don Quixote, "a scheme and plot of the malignant
      magicians that persecute me, who, foreseeing that I was to be victorious
      in the conflict, arranged that the vanquished knight should display the
      countenance of my friend the bachelor, in order that the friendship I bear
      him should interpose to stay the edge of my sword and might of my arm, and
      temper the just wrath of my heart; so that he who sought to take my life
      by fraud and falsehood should save his own. And to prove it, thou knowest
      already, Sancho, by experience which cannot lie or deceive, how easy it is
      for enchanters to change one countenance into another, turning fair into
      foul, and foul into fair; for it is not two days since thou sawest with
      thine own eyes the beauty and elegance of the peerless Dulcinea in all its
      perfection and natural harmony, while I saw her in the repulsive and mean
      form of a coarse country wench, with cataracts in her eyes and a foul
      smell in her mouth; and when the perverse enchanter ventured to effect so
      wicked a transformation, it is no wonder if he effected that of Samson
      Carrasco and thy gossip in order to snatch the glory of victory out of my
      grasp. For all that, however, I console myself, because, after all, in
      whatever shape he may have been, I have been victorious over my enemy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God knows what's the truth of it all," said Sancho; and knowing as he did
      that the transformation of Dulcinea had been a device and imposition of
      his own, his master's illusions were not satisfactory to him; but he did
      not like to reply lest he should say something that might disclose his
      trickery.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they were engaged in this conversation they were overtaken by a man who
      was following the same road behind them, mounted on a very handsome
      flea-bitten mare, and dressed in a gaban of fine green cloth, with tawny
      velvet facings, and a montera of the same velvet. The trappings of the
      mare were of the field and jineta fashion, and of mulberry colour and
      green. He carried a Moorish cutlass hanging from a broad green and gold
      baldric; the buskins were of the same make as the baldric; the spurs were
      not gilt, but lacquered green, and so brightly polished that, matching as
      they did the rest of his apparel, they looked better than if they had been
      of pure gold.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the traveller came up with them he saluted them courteously, and
      spurring his mare was passing them without stopping, but Don Quixote
      called out to him, "Gallant sir, if so be your worship is going our road,
      and has no occasion for speed, it would be a pleasure to me if we were to
      join company."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In truth," replied he on the mare, "I would not pass you so hastily but
      for fear that horse might turn restive in the company of my mare."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You may safely hold in your mare, senor," said Sancho in reply to this,
      "for our horse is the most virtuous and well-behaved horse in the world;
      he never does anything wrong on such occasions, and the only time he
      misbehaved, my master and I suffered for it sevenfold; I say again your
      worship may pull up if you like; for if she was offered to him between two
      plates the horse would not hanker after her."
    </p>
    <p>
      The traveller drew rein, amazed at the trim and features of Don Quixote,
      who rode without his helmet, which Sancho carried like a valise in front
      of Dapple's pack-saddle; and if the man in green examined Don Quixote
      closely, still more closely did Don Quixote examine the man in green, who
      struck him as being a man of intelligence. In appearance he was about
      fifty years of age, with but few grey hairs, an aquiline cast of features,
      and an expression between grave and gay; and his dress and accoutrements
      showed him to be a man of good condition. What he in green thought of Don
      Quixote of La Mancha was that a man of that sort and shape he had never
      yet seen; he marvelled at the length of his hair, his lofty stature, the
      lankness and sallowness of his countenance, his armour, his bearing and
      his gravity&mdash;a figure and picture such as had not been seen in those
      regions for many a long day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote saw very plainly the attention with which the traveller was
      regarding him, and read his curiosity in his astonishment; and courteous
      as he was and ready to please everybody, before the other could ask him
      any question he anticipated him by saying, "The appearance I present to
      your worship being so strange and so out of the common, I should not be
      surprised if it filled you with wonder; but you will cease to wonder when
      I tell you, as I do, that I am one of those knights who, as people say, go
      seeking adventures. I have left my home, I have mortgaged my estate, I
      have given up my comforts, and committed myself to the arms of Fortune, to
      bear me whithersoever she may please. My desire was to bring to life again
      knight-errantry, now dead, and for some time past, stumbling here, falling
      there, now coming down headlong, now raising myself up again, I have
      carried out a great portion of my design, succouring widows, protecting
      maidens, and giving aid to wives, orphans, and minors, the proper and
      natural duty of knights-errant; and, therefore, because of my many valiant
      and Christian achievements, I have been already found worthy to make my
      way in print to well-nigh all, or most, of the nations of the earth.
      Thirty thousand volumes of my history have been printed, and it is on the
      high-road to be printed thirty thousand thousands of times, if heaven does
      not put a stop to it. In short, to sum up all in a few words, or in a
      single one, I may tell you I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called
      'The Knight of the Rueful Countenance;' for though self-praise is
      degrading, I must perforce sound my own sometimes, that is to say, when
      there is no one at hand to do it for me. So that, gentle sir, neither this
      horse, nor this lance, nor this shield, nor this squire, nor all these
      arms put together, nor the sallowness of my countenance, nor my gaunt
      leanness, will henceforth astonish you, now that you know who I am and
      what profession I follow."
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words Don Quixote held his peace, and, from the time he took to
      answer, the man in green seemed to be at a loss for a reply; after a long
      pause, however, he said to him, "You were right when you saw curiosity in
      my amazement, sir knight; but you have not succeeded in removing the
      astonishment I feel at seeing you; for although you say, senor, that
      knowing who you are ought to remove it, it has not done so; on the
      contrary, now that I know, I am left more amazed and astonished than
      before. What! is it possible that there are knights-errant in the world in
      these days, and histories of real chivalry printed? I cannot realise the
      fact that there can be anyone on earth now-a-days who aids widows, or
      protects maidens, or defends wives, or succours orphans; nor should I
      believe it had I not seen it in your worship with my own eyes. Blessed be
      heaven! for by means of this history of your noble and genuine chivalrous
      deeds, which you say has been printed, the countless stories of fictitious
      knights-errant with which the world is filled, so much to the injury of
      morality and the prejudice and discredit of good histories, will have been
      driven into oblivion."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is a good deal to be said on that point," said Don Quixote, "as to
      whether the histories of the knights-errant are fiction or not."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, is there anyone who doubts that those histories are false?" said the
      man in green.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I doubt it," said Don Quixote, "but never mind that just now; if our
      journey lasts long enough, I trust in God I shall show your worship that
      you do wrong in going with the stream of those who regard it as a matter
      of certainty that they are not true."
    </p>
    <p>
      From this last observation of Don Quixote's, the traveller began to have a
      suspicion that he was some crazy being, and was waiting for him to confirm it
      by something further; but before they could turn to any new subject Don
      Quixote begged him to tell him who he was, since he himself had rendered
      account of his station and life. To this, he in the green gaban replied
      "I, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, am a gentleman by birth, native
      of the village where, please God, we are going to dine today; I am more
      than fairly well off, and my name is Don Diego de Miranda. I pass my life
      with my wife, children, and friends; my pursuits are hunting and fishing,
      but I keep neither hawks nor greyhounds, nothing but a tame partridge or a
      bold ferret or two; I have six dozen or so of books, some in our mother
      tongue, some Latin, some of them history, others devotional; those of
      chivalry have not as yet crossed the threshold of my door; I am more given
      to turning over the profane than the devotional, so long as they are books
      of honest entertainment that charm by their style and attract and interest
      by the invention they display, though of these there are very few in
      Spain. Sometimes I dine with my neighbours and friends, and often invite
      them; my entertainments are neat and well served without stint of
      anything. I have no taste for tattle, nor do I allow tattling in my
      presence; I pry not into my neighbours' lives, nor have I lynx-eyes for
      what others do. I hear mass every day; I share my substance with the poor,
      making no display of good works, lest I let hypocrisy and vainglory, those
      enemies that subtly take possession of the most watchful heart, find an
      entrance into mine. I strive to make peace between those whom I know to be
      at variance; I am the devoted servant of Our Lady, and my trust is ever in
      the infinite mercy of God our Lord."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho listened with the greatest attention to the account of the
      gentleman's life and occupation; and thinking it a good and a holy life,
      and that he who led it ought to work miracles, he threw himself off
      Dapple, and running in haste seized his right stirrup and kissed his foot
      again and again with a devout heart and almost with tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeing this the gentleman asked him, "What are you about, brother? What
      are these kisses for?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let me kiss," said Sancho, "for I think your worship is the first saint
      in the saddle I ever saw all the days of my life."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am no saint," replied the gentleman, "but a great sinner; but you are,
      brother, for you must be a good fellow, as your simplicity shows."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho went back and regained his pack-saddle, having extracted a laugh
      from his master's profound melancholy, and excited fresh amazement in Don
      Diego. Don Quixote then asked him how many children he had, and observed
      that one of the things wherein the ancient philosophers, who were without
      the true knowledge of God, placed the summum bonum was in the gifts of
      nature, in those of fortune, in having many friends, and many and good
      children.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I, Senor Don Quixote," answered the gentleman, "have one son, without
      whom, perhaps, I should count myself happier than I am, not because he is
      a bad son, but because he is not so good as I could wish. He is eighteen
      years of age; he has been for six at Salamanca studying Latin and Greek,
      and when I wished him to turn to the study of other sciences I found him
      so wrapped up in that of poetry (if that can be called a science) that
      there is no getting him to take kindly to the law, which I wished him to
      study, or to theology, the queen of them all. I would like him to be an
      honour to his family, as we live in days when our kings liberally reward
      learning that is virtuous and worthy; for learning without virtue is a
      pearl on a dunghill. He spends the whole day in settling whether Homer
      expressed himself correctly or not in such and such a line of the Iliad,
      whether Martial was indecent or not in such and such an epigram, whether
      such and such lines of Virgil are to be understood in this way or in that;
      in short, all his talk is of the works of these poets, and those of
      Horace, Perseus, Juvenal, and Tibullus; for of the moderns in our own
      language he makes no great account; but with all his seeming indifference
      to Spanish poetry, just now his thoughts are absorbed in making a gloss on
      four lines that have been sent him from Salamanca, which I suspect are for
      some poetical tournament."
    </p>
    <p>
      To all this Don Quixote said in reply, "Children, senor, are portions of
      their parents' bowels, and therefore, be they good or bad, are to be loved
      as we love the souls that give us life; it is for the parents to guide
      them from infancy in the ways of virtue, propriety, and worthy Christian
      conduct, so that when grown up they may be the staff of their parents' old
      age, and the glory of their posterity; and to force them to study this or
      that science I do not think wise, though it may be no harm to persuade
      them; and when there is no need to study for the sake of pane lucrando,
      and it is the student's good fortune that heaven has given him parents who
      provide him with it, it would be my advice to them to let him pursue
      whatever science they may see him most inclined to; and though that of
      poetry is less useful than pleasurable, it is not one of those that bring
      discredit upon the possessor. Poetry, gentle sir, is, as I take it, like a
      tender young maiden of supreme beauty, to array, bedeck, and adorn whom is
      the task of several other maidens, who are all the rest of the sciences;
      and she must avail herself of the help of all, and all derive their lustre
      from her. But this maiden will not bear to be handled, nor dragged through
      the streets, nor exposed either at the corners of the market-places, or in
      the closets of palaces. She is the product of an Alchemy of such virtue
      that he who is able to practise it, will turn her into pure gold of
      inestimable worth. He that possesses her must keep her within bounds, not
      permitting her to break out in ribald satires or soulless sonnets. She
      must on no account be offered for sale, unless, indeed, it be in heroic
      poems, moving tragedies, or sprightly and ingenious comedies. She must not
      be touched by the buffoons, nor by the ignorant vulgar, incapable of
      comprehending or appreciating her hidden treasures. And do not suppose,
      senor, that I apply the term vulgar here merely to plebeians and the lower
      orders; for everyone who is ignorant, be he lord or prince, may and should
      be included among the vulgar. He, then, who shall embrace and cultivate
      poetry under the conditions I have named, shall become famous, and his
      name honoured throughout all the civilised nations of the earth. And with
      regard to what you say, senor, of your son having no great opinion of
      Spanish poetry, I am inclined to think that he is not quite right there,
      and for this reason: the great poet Homer did not write in Latin, because
      he was a Greek, nor did Virgil write in Greek, because he was a Latin; in
      short, all the ancient poets wrote in the language they imbibed with their
      mother's milk, and never went in quest of foreign ones to express their
      sublime conceptions; and that being so, the usage should in justice extend
      to all nations, and the German poet should not be undervalued because he
      writes in his own language, nor the Castilian, nor even the Biscayan, for
      writing in his. But your son, senor, I suspect, is not prejudiced against
      Spanish poetry, but against those poets who are mere Spanish verse
      writers, without any knowledge of other languages or sciences to adorn and
      give life and vigour to their natural inspiration; and yet even in this he
      may be wrong; for, according to a true belief, a poet is born one; that is
      to say, the poet by nature comes forth a poet from his mother's womb; and
      following the bent that heaven has bestowed upon him, without the aid of
      study or art, he produces things that show how truly he spoke who said,
      'Est Deus in nobis,' etc. At the same time, I say that the poet by nature
      who calls in art to his aid will be a far better poet, and will surpass
      him who tries to be one relying upon his knowledge of art alone. The
      reason is, that art does not surpass nature, but only brings it to
      perfection; and thus, nature combined with art, and art with nature, will
      produce a perfect poet. To bring my argument to a close, I would say then,
      gentle sir, let your son go on as his star leads him, for being so
      studious as he seems to be, and having already successfully surmounted the
      first step of the sciences, which is that of the languages, with their
      help he will by his own exertions reach the summit of polite literature,
      which so well becomes an independent gentleman, and adorns, honours, and
      distinguishes him, as much as the mitre does the bishop, or the gown the
      learned counsellor. If your son write satires reflecting on the honour of
      others, chide and correct him, and tear them up; but if he compose
      discourses in which he rebukes vice in general, in the style of Horace,
      and with elegance like his, commend him; for it is legitimate for a poet
      to write against envy and lash the envious in his verse, and the other
      vices too, provided he does not single out individuals; there are,
      however, poets who, for the sake of saying something spiteful, would run
      the risk of being banished to the coast of Pontus. If the poet be pure in
      his morals, he will be pure in his verses too; the pen is the tongue of
      the mind, and as the thought engendered there, so will be the things that
      it writes down. And when kings and princes observe this marvellous science
      of poetry in wise, virtuous, and thoughtful subjects, they honour, value,
      exalt them, and even crown them with the leaves of that tree which the
      thunderbolt strikes not, as if to show that they whose brows are honoured
      and adorned with such a crown are not to be assailed by anyone."
    </p>
    <p>
      He of the green gaban was filled with astonishment at Don Quixote's
      argument, so much so that he began to abandon the notion he had taken up
      about his being crazy. But in the middle of the discourse, it being not
      very much to his taste, Sancho had turned aside out of the road to beg a
      little milk from some shepherds, who were milking their ewes hard by; and
      just as the gentleman, highly pleased, was about to renew the
      conversation, Don Quixote, raising his head, perceived a cart covered with
      royal flags coming along the road they were travelling; and persuaded that
      this must be some new adventure, he called aloud to Sancho to come and
      bring him his helmet. Sancho, hearing himself called, quitted the
      shepherds, and, prodding Dapple vigorously, came up to his master, to whom
      there fell a terrific and desperate adventure.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p16e" id="p16e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p16e.jpg (49K)" src="images/p16e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch17b" id="ch17b"></a>CHAPTER XVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS SHOWN THE FURTHEST AND HIGHEST POINT WHICH THE UNEXAMPLED
      COURAGE OF DON QUIXOTE REACHED OR COULD REACH; TOGETHER WITH THE HAPPILY
      ACHIEVED ADVENTURE OF THE LIONS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p17a" id="p17a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p17a.jpg (137K)" src="images/p17a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p17a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The history tells that when Don Quixote called out to Sancho to bring him
      his helmet, Sancho was buying some curds the shepherds agreed to sell him,
      and flurried by the great haste his master was in did not know what to do
      with them or what to carry them in; so, not to lose them, for he had
      already paid for them, he thought it best to throw them into his master's
      helmet, and acting on this bright idea he went to see what his master
      wanted with him. He, as he approached, exclaimed to him:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Give me that helmet, my friend, for either I know little of adventures,
      or what I observe yonder is one that will, and does, call upon me to arm
      myself."
    </p>
    <p>
      He of the green gaban, on hearing this, looked in all directions, but
      could perceive nothing, except a cart coming towards them with two or
      three small flags, which led him to conclude it must be carrying treasure
      of the King's, and he said so to Don Quixote. He, however, would not
      believe him, being always persuaded and convinced that all that happened
      to him must be adventures and still more adventures; so he replied to the
      gentleman, "He who is prepared has his battle half fought; nothing is lost
      by my preparing myself, for I know by experience that I have enemies,
      visible and invisible, and I know not when, or where, or at what moment,
      or in what shapes they will attack me;" and turning to Sancho, he called
      for his helmet; and Sancho, as he had no time to take out the curds, had
      to give it just as it was. Don Quixote took it, and without perceiving
      what was in it thrust it down in hot haste upon his head; but as the curds
      were pressed and squeezed the whey began to run all over his face and
      beard, whereat he was so startled that he cried out to Sancho:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sancho, what's this? I think my head is softening, or my brains are
      melting, or I am sweating from head to foot! If I am sweating it is not
      indeed from fear. I am convinced beyond a doubt that the adventure which
      is about to befall me is a terrible one. Give me something to wipe myself
      with, if thou hast it, for this profuse sweat is blinding me."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho held his tongue, and gave him a cloth, and gave thanks to God at
      the same time that his master had not found out what was the matter. Don
      Quixote then wiped himself, and took off his helmet to see what it was
      that made his head feel so cool, and seeing all that white mash inside his
      helmet he put it to his nose, and as soon as he had smelt it he exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      "By the life of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, but it is curds thou hast put
      here, thou treacherous, impudent, ill-mannered squire!"
    </p>
    <p>
      To which, with great composure and pretended innocence, Sancho replied,
      "If they are curds let me have them, your worship, and I'll eat them; but
      let the devil eat them, for it must have been he who put them there. I
      dare to dirty your helmet! You have guessed the offender finely! Faith,
      sir, by the light God gives me, it seems I must have enchanters too, that
      persecute me as a creature and limb of your worship, and they must have
      put that nastiness there in order to provoke your patience to anger, and
      make you baste my ribs as you are wont to do. Well, this time, indeed,
      they have missed their aim, for I trust to my master's good sense to see
      that I have got no curds or milk, or anything of the sort; and that if I
      had it is in my stomach I would put it and not in the helmet."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May be so," said Don Quixote. All this the gentleman was observing, and
      with astonishment, more especially when, after having wiped himself clean,
      his head, face, beard, and helmet, Don Quixote put it on, and settling
      himself firmly in his stirrups, easing his sword in the scabbard, and
      grasping his lance, he cried, "Now, come who will, here am I, ready to try
      conclusions with Satan himself in person!"
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time the cart with the flags had come up, unattended by anyone
      except the carter on a mule, and a man sitting in front. Don Quixote
      planted himself before it and said, "Whither are you going, brothers? What
      cart is this? What have you got in it? What flags are those?"
    </p>
    <p>
      To this the carter replied, "The cart is mine; what is in it is a pair of
      wild caged lions, which the governor of Oran is sending to court as a
      present to his Majesty; and the flags are our lord the King's, to show
      that what is here is his property."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And are the lions large?" asked Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So large," replied the man who sat at the door of the cart, "that larger,
      or as large, have never crossed from Africa to Spain; I am the keeper, and
      I have brought over others, but never any like these. They are male and
      female; the male is in that first cage and the female in the one behind,
      and they are hungry now, for they have eaten nothing to-day, so let your
      worship stand aside, for we must make haste to the place where we are to
      feed them."
    </p>
    <p>
      Hereupon, smiling slightly, Don Quixote exclaimed, "Lion-whelps to me! to
      me whelps of lions, and at such a time! Then, by God! those gentlemen who
      send them here shall see if I am a man to be frightened by lions. Get
      down, my good fellow, and as you are the keeper open the cages, and turn
      me out those beasts, and in the midst of this plain I will let them know
      who Don Quixote of La Mancha is, in spite and in the teeth of the
      enchanters who send them to me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So, so," said the gentleman to himself at this; "our worthy knight has
      shown of what sort he is; the curds, no doubt, have softened his skull and
      brought his brains to a head."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this instant Sancho came up to him, saying, "Senor, for God's sake do
      something to keep my master, Don Quixote, from tackling these lions; for
      if he does they'll tear us all to pieces here."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is your master then so mad," asked the gentleman, "that you believe and
      are afraid he will engage such fierce animals?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He is not mad," said Sancho, "but he is venturesome."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will prevent it," said the gentleman; and going over to Don Quixote,
      who was insisting upon the keeper's opening the cages, he said to him,
      "Sir knight, knights-errant should attempt adventures which encourage the
      hope of a successful issue, not those which entirely withhold it; for
      valour that trenches upon temerity savours rather of madness than of
      courage; moreover, these lions do not come to oppose you, nor do they
      dream of such a thing; they are going as presents to his Majesty, and it
      will not be right to stop them or delay their journey."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Gentle sir," replied Don Quixote, "you go and mind your tame partridge
      and your bold ferret, and leave everyone to manage his own business; this
      is mine, and I know whether these gentlemen the lions come to me or not;"
      and then turning to the keeper he exclaimed, "By all that's good, sir
      scoundrel, if you don't open the cages this very instant, I'll pin you to
      the cart with this lance."
    </p>
    <p>
      The carter, seeing the determination of this apparition in armour, said to
      him, "Please your worship, for charity's sake, senor, let me unyoke the
      mules and place myself in safety along with them before the lions are
      turned out; for if they kill them on me I am ruined for life, for all I
      possess is this cart and mules."
    </p>
    <p>
      "O man of little faith," replied Don Quixote, "get down and unyoke; you
      will soon see that you are exerting yourself for nothing, and that you
      might have spared yourself the trouble."
    </p>
    <p>
      The carter got down and with all speed unyoked the mules, and the keeper
      called out at the top of his voice, "I call all here to witness that
      against my will and under compulsion I open the cages and let the lions
      loose, and that I warn this gentleman that he will be accountable for all
      the harm and mischief which these beasts may do, and for my salary and
      dues as well. You, gentlemen, place yourselves in safety before I open,
      for I know they will do me no harm."
    </p>
    <p>
      Once more the gentleman strove to persuade Don Quixote not to do such a
      mad thing, as it was tempting God to engage in such a piece of folly. To
      this, Don Quixote replied that he knew what he was about. The gentleman in
      return entreated him to reflect, for he knew he was under a delusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, senor," answered Don Quixote, "if you do not like to be a spectator
      of this tragedy, as in your opinion it will be, spur your flea-bitten
      mare, and place yourself in safety."
    </p>
    <p>
      Hearing this, Sancho with tears in his eyes entreated him to give up an
      enterprise compared with which the one of the windmills, and the awful one
      of the fulling mills, and, in fact, all the feats he had attempted in the
      whole course of his life, were cakes and fancy bread. "Look ye, senor,"
      said Sancho, "there's no enchantment here, nor anything of the sort, for
      between the bars and chinks of the cage I have seen the paw of a real
      lion, and judging by that I reckon the lion such a paw could belong to
      must be bigger than a mountain."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Fear at any rate," replied Don Quixote, "will make him look bigger to
      thee than half the world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me; and if I die here
      thou knowest our old compact; thou wilt repair to Dulcinea&mdash;I say no
      more." To these he added some further words that banished all hope of his
      giving up his insane project. He of the green gaban would have offered
      resistance, but he found himself ill-matched as to arms, and did not think
      it prudent to come to blows with a madman, for such Don Quixote now showed
      himself to be in every respect; and the latter, renewing his commands to
      the keeper and repeating his threats, gave warning to the gentleman to
      spur his mare, Sancho his Dapple, and the carter his mules, all striving
      to get away from the cart as far as they could before the lions broke
      loose. Sancho was weeping over his master's death, for this time he firmly
      believed it was in store for him from the claws of the lions; and he
      cursed his fate and called it an unlucky hour when he thought of taking
      service with him again; but with all his tears and lamentations he did not
      forget to thrash Dapple so as to put a good space between himself and the
      cart. The keeper, seeing that the fugitives were now some distance off,
      once more entreated and warned him as before; but he replied that he heard
      him, and that he need not trouble himself with any further warnings or
      entreaties, as they would be fruitless, and bade him make haste.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the delay that occurred while the keeper was opening the first
      cage, Don Quixote was considering whether it would not be well to do
      battle on foot, instead of on horseback, and finally resolved to fight on
      foot, fearing that Rocinante might take fright at the sight of the lions;
      he therefore sprang off his horse, flung his lance aside, braced his
      buckler on his arm, and drawing his sword, advanced slowly with marvellous
      intrepidity and resolute courage, to plant himself in front of the cart,
      commending himself with all his heart to God and to his lady Dulcinea.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is to be observed, that on coming to this passage, the author of this
      veracious history breaks out into exclamations. "O doughty Don Quixote!
      high-mettled past extolling! Mirror, wherein all the heroes of the world
      may see themselves! Second modern Don Manuel de Leon, once the glory and
      honour of Spanish knighthood! In what words shall I describe this dread
      exploit, by what language shall I make it credible to ages to come, what
      eulogies are there unmeet for thee, though they be hyperboles piled on
      hyperboles! On foot, alone, undaunted, high-souled, with but a simple
      sword, and that no trenchant blade of the Perrillo brand, a shield, but no
      bright polished steel one, there stoodst thou, biding and awaiting the two
      fiercest lions that Africa's forests ever bred! Thy own deeds be thy
      praise, valiant Manchegan, and here I leave them as they stand, wanting
      the words wherewith to glorify them!"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p17b" id="p17b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p17b.jpg (352K)" src="images/p17b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p17b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the author's outburst came to an end, and he proceeded to take up the
      thread of his story, saying that the keeper, seeing that Don Quixote had
      taken up his position, and that it was impossible for him to avoid letting
      out the male without incurring the enmity of the fiery and daring knight,
      flung open the doors of the first cage, containing, as has been said, the
      lion, which was now seen to be of enormous size, and grim and hideous
      mien. The first thing he did was to turn round in the cage in which he
      lay, and protrude his claws, and stretch himself thoroughly; he next
      opened his mouth, and yawned very leisurely, and with near two palms'
      length of tongue that he had thrust forth, he licked the dust out of his
      eyes and washed his face; having done this, he put his head out of the
      cage and looked all round with eyes like glowing coals, a spectacle and
      demeanour to strike terror into temerity itself. Don Quixote merely
      observed him steadily, longing for him to leap from the cart and come to
      close quarters with him, when he hoped to hew him in pieces.
    </p>
    <p>
      So far did his unparalleled madness go; but the noble lion, more courteous
      than arrogant, not troubling himself about silly bravado, after having
      looked all round, as has been said, turned about and presented his
      hind-quarters to Don Quixote, and very coolly and tranquilly lay down
      again in the cage. Seeing this, Don Quixote ordered the keeper to take a
      stick to him and provoke him to make him come out.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I won't," said the keeper; "for if I anger him, the first he'll tear
      in pieces will be myself. Be satisfied, sir knight, with what you have
      done, which leaves nothing more to be said on the score of courage, and do
      not seek to tempt fortune a second time. The lion has the door open; he is
      free to come out or not to come out; but as he has not come out so far, he
      will not come out to-day. Your worship's great courage has been fully
      manifested already; no brave champion, so it strikes me, is bound to do
      more than challenge his enemy and wait for him on the field; if his
      adversary does not come, on him lies the disgrace, and he who waits for
      him carries off the crown of victory."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said Don Quixote; "close the door, my friend, and let me
      have, in the best form thou canst, what thou hast seen me do, by way of
      certificate; to wit, that thou didst open for the lion, that I waited for
      him, that he did not come out, that I still waited for him, and that still
      he did not come out, and lay down again. I am not bound to do more;
      enchantments avaunt, and God uphold the right, the truth, and true
      chivalry! Close the door as I bade thee, while I make signals to the
      fugitives that have left us, that they may learn this exploit from thy
      lips."
    </p>
    <p>
      The keeper obeyed, and Don Quixote, fixing on the point of his lance the
      cloth he had wiped his face with after the deluge of curds, proceeded to
      recall the others, who still continued to fly, looking back at every step,
      all in a body, the gentleman bringing up the rear. Sancho, however,
      happening to observe the signal of the white cloth, exclaimed, "May I die,
      if my master has not overcome the wild beasts, for he is calling to us."
    </p>
    <p>
      They all stopped, and perceived that it was Don Quixote who was making
      signals, and shaking off their fears to some extent, they approached
      slowly until they were near enough to hear distinctly Don Quixote's voice
      calling to them. They returned at length to the cart, and as they came up,
      Don Quixote said to the carter, "Put your mules to once more, brother, and
      continue your journey; and do thou, Sancho, give him two gold crowns for
      himself and the keeper, to compensate for the delay they have incurred
      through me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That will I give with all my heart," said Sancho; "but what has become of
      the lions? Are they dead or alive?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The keeper, then, in full detail, and bit by bit, described the end of the
      contest, exalting to the best of his power and ability the valour of Don
      Quixote, at the sight of whom the lion quailed, and would not and dared
      not come out of the cage, although he had held the door open ever so long;
      and showing how, in consequence of his having represented to the knight
      that it was tempting God to provoke the lion in order to force him out,
      which he wished to have done, he very reluctantly, and altogether against
      his will, had allowed the door to be closed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What dost thou think of this, Sancho?" said Don Quixote. "Are there any
      enchantments that can prevail against true valour? The enchanters may be
      able to rob me of good fortune, but of fortitude and courage they cannot."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho paid the crowns, the carter put to, the keeper kissed Don Quixote's
      hands for the bounty bestowed upon him, and promised to give an account of
      the valiant exploit to the King himself, as soon as he saw him at court.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then," said Don Quixote, "if his Majesty should happen to ask who
      performed it, you must say THE KNIGHT OF THE LIONS; for it is my desire
      that into this the name I have hitherto borne of Knight of the Rueful
      Countenance be from this time forward changed, altered, transformed, and
      turned; and in this I follow the ancient usage of knights-errant, who
      changed their names when they pleased, or when it suited their purpose."
    </p>
    <p>
      The cart went its way, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and he of the green gaban
      went theirs. All this time, Don Diego de Miranda had not spoken a word,
      being entirely taken up with observing and noting all that Don Quixote did
      and said, and the opinion he formed was that he was a man of brains gone
      mad, and a madman on the verge of rationality. The first part of his
      history had not yet reached him, for, had he read it, the amazement with
      which his words and deeds filled him would have vanished, as he would then
      have understood the nature of his madness; but knowing nothing of it, he
      took him to be rational one moment, and crazy the next, for what he said
      was sensible, elegant, and well expressed, and what he did, absurd, rash,
      and foolish; and said he to himself, "What could be madder than putting on
      a helmet full of curds, and then persuading oneself that enchanters are
      softening one's skull; or what could be greater rashness and folly than
      wanting to fight lions tooth and nail?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote roused him from these reflections and this soliloquy by
      saying, "No doubt, Senor Don Diego de Miranda, you set me down in your
      mind as a fool and a madman, and it would be no wonder if you did, for my
      deeds do not argue anything else. But for all that, I would have you take
      notice that I am neither so mad nor so foolish as I must have seemed to
      you. A gallant knight shows to advantage bringing his lance to bear
      adroitly upon a fierce bull under the eyes of his sovereign, in the midst
      of a spacious plaza; a knight shows to advantage arrayed in glittering
      armour, pacing the lists before the ladies in some joyous tournament, and
      all those knights show to advantage that entertain, divert, and, if we may
      say so, honour the courts of their princes by warlike exercises, or what
      resemble them; but to greater advantage than all these does a
      knight-errant show when he traverses deserts, solitudes, cross-roads,
      forests, and mountains, in quest of perilous adventures, bent on bringing
      them to a happy and successful issue, all to win a glorious and lasting
      renown. To greater advantage, I maintain, does the knight-errant show
      bringing aid to some widow in some lonely waste, than the court knight
      dallying with some city damsel. All knights have their own special parts
      to play; let the courtier devote himself to the ladies, let him add lustre
      to his sovereign's court by his liveries, let him entertain poor gentlemen
      with the sumptuous fare of his table, let him arrange joustings, marshal
      tournaments, and prove himself noble, generous, and magnificent, and above
      all a good Christian, and so doing he will fulfil the duties that are
      especially his; but let the knight-errant explore the corners of the earth
      and penetrate the most intricate labyrinths, at each step let him attempt
      impossibilities, on desolate heaths let him endure the burning rays of the
      midsummer sun, and the bitter inclemency of the winter winds and frosts;
      let no lions daunt him, no monsters terrify him, no dragons make him
      quail; for to seek these, to attack those, and to vanquish all, are in
      truth his main duties. I, then, as it has fallen to my lot to be a member
      of knight-errantry, cannot avoid attempting all that to me seems to come
      within the sphere of my duties; thus it was my bounden duty to attack
      those lions that I just now attacked, although I knew it to be the height
      of rashness; for I know well what valour is, that it is a virtue that
      occupies a place between two vicious extremes, cowardice and temerity; but
      it will be a lesser evil for him who is valiant to rise till he reaches
      the point of rashness, than to sink until he reaches the point of
      cowardice; for, as it is easier for the prodigal than for the miser to
      become generous, so it is easier for a rash man to prove truly valiant
      than for a coward to rise to true valour; and believe me, Senor Don Diego,
      in attempting adventures it is better to lose by a card too many than by a
      card too few; for to hear it said, 'such a knight is rash and daring,'
      sounds better than 'such a knight is timid and cowardly.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I protest, Senor Don Quixote," said Don Diego, "everything you have said
      and done is proved correct by the test of reason itself; and I believe, if
      the laws and ordinances of knight-errantry should be lost, they might be
      found in your worship's breast as in their own proper depository and
      muniment-house; but let us make haste, and reach my village, where you
      shall take rest after your late exertions; for if they have not been of
      the body they have been of the spirit, and these sometimes tend to produce
      bodily fatigue."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I take the invitation as a great favour and honour, Senor Don Diego,"
      replied Don Quixote; and pressing forward at a better pace than before, at
      about two in the afternoon they reached the village and house of Don
      Diego, or, as Don Quixote called him, "The Knight of the Green Gaban."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p17e" id="p17e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p17e.jpg (76K)" src="images/p17e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch18b" id="ch18b"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE OR HOUSE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE
      GREEN GABAN, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS OUT OF THE COMMON
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p18a" id="p18a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p18a.jpg (133K)" src="images/p18a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p18a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote found Don Diego de Miranda's house built in village style,
      with his arms in rough stone over the street door; in the patio was the
      store-room, and at the entrance the cellar, with plenty of wine-jars
      standing round, which, coming from El Toboso, brought back to his memory
      his enchanted and transformed Dulcinea; and with a sigh, and not thinking
      of what he was saying, or in whose presence he was, he exclaimed-
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
  "O ye sweet treasures, to my sorrow found!
  Once sweet and welcome when 'twas heaven's good-will.

"O ye Tobosan jars, how ye bring back to my memory the
sweet object of my bitter regrets!"
</pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p18b" id="p18b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p18b.jpg (300K)" src="images/p18b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p18b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The student poet, Don Diego's son, who had come out with his mother to
      receive him, heard this exclamation, and both mother and son were filled
      with amazement at the extraordinary figure he presented; he, however,
      dismounting from Rocinante, advanced with great politeness to ask
      permission to kiss the lady's hand, while Don Diego said, "Senora, pray
      receive with your wonted kindness Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha, whom you
      see before you, a knight-errant, and the bravest and wisest in the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      The lady, whose name was Dona Christina, received him with every sign of
      good-will and great courtesy, and Don Quixote placed himself at her
      service with an abundance of well-chosen and polished phrases. Almost the
      same civilities were exchanged between him and the student, who listening
      to Don Quixote, took him to be a sensible, clear-headed person.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the author describes minutely everything belonging to Don Diego's
      mansion, putting before us in his picture the whole contents of a rich
      gentleman-farmer's house; but the translator of the history thought it
      best to pass over these and other details of the same sort in silence, as
      they are not in harmony with the main purpose of the story, the strong
      point of which is truth rather than dull digressions.
    </p>
    <p>
      They led Don Quixote into a room, and Sancho removed his armour, leaving
      him in loose Walloon breeches and chamois-leather doublet, all stained
      with the rust of his armour; his collar was a falling one of scholastic
      cut, without starch or lace, his buskins buff-coloured, and his shoes
      polished. He wore his good sword, which hung in a baldric of sea-wolf's
      skin, for he had suffered for many years, they say, from an ailment of the
      kidneys; and over all he threw a long cloak of good grey cloth. But first
      of all, with five or six buckets of water (for as regard the number of
      buckets there is some dispute), he washed his head and face, and still the
      water remained whey-coloured, thanks to Sancho's greediness and purchase
      of those unlucky curds that turned his master so white. Thus arrayed, and
      with an easy, sprightly, and gallant air, Don Quixote passed out into
      another room, where the student was waiting to entertain him while the
      table was being laid; for on the arrival of so distinguished a guest, Dona
      Christina was anxious to show that she knew how and was able to give a
      becoming reception to those who came to her house.
    </p>
    <p>
      While Don Quixote was taking off his armour, Don Lorenzo (for so Don
      Diego's son was called) took the opportunity to say to his father, "What
      are we to make of this gentleman you have brought home to us, sir? For his
      name, his appearance, and your describing him as a knight-errant have
      completely puzzled my mother and me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know what to say, my son," replied. Don Diego; "all I can tell
      thee is that I have seen him act the acts of the greatest madman in the
      world, and heard him make observations so sensible that they efface and
      undo all he does; do thou talk to him and feel the pulse of his wits, and
      as thou art shrewd, form the most reasonable conclusion thou canst as to
      his wisdom or folly; though, to tell the truth, I am more inclined to take
      him to be mad than sane."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this Don Lorenzo went away to entertain Don Quixote as has been said,
      and in the course of the conversation that passed between them Don Quixote
      said to Don Lorenzo, "Your father, Senor Don Diego de Miranda, has told me
      of the rare abilities and subtle intellect you possess, and, above all,
      that you are a great poet."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A poet, it may be," replied Don Lorenzo, "but a great one, by no means.
      It is true that I am somewhat given to poetry and to reading good poets,
      but not so much so as to justify the title of 'great' which my father
      gives me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not dislike that modesty," said Don Quixote; "for there is no poet
      who is not conceited and does not think he is the best poet in the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no rule without an exception," said Don Lorenzo; "there may be
      some who are poets and yet do not think they are."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very few," said Don Quixote; "but tell me, what verses are those which
      you have now in hand, and which your father tells me keep you somewhat
      restless and absorbed? If it be some gloss, I know something about
      glosses, and I should like to hear them; and if they are for a poetical
      tournament, contrive to carry off the second prize; for the first always
      goes by favour or personal standing, the second by simple justice; and so
      the third comes to be the second, and the first, reckoning in this way,
      will be third, in the same way as licentiate degrees are conferred at the
      universities; but, for all that, the title of first is a great
      distinction."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So far," said Don Lorenzo to himself, "I should not take you to be a
      madman; but let us go on." So he said to him, "Your worship has apparently
      attended the schools; what sciences have you studied?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That of knight-errantry," said Don Quixote, "which is as good as that of
      poetry, and even a finger or two above it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not know what science that is," said Don Lorenzo, "and until now I
      have never heard of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is a science," said Don Quixote, "that comprehends in itself all or
      most of the sciences in the world, for he who professes it must be a
      jurist, and must know the rules of justice, distributive and equitable, so
      as to give to each one what belongs to him and is due to him. He must be a
      theologian, so as to be able to give a clear and distinctive reason for
      the Christian faith he professes, wherever it may be asked of him. He must
      be a physician, and above all a herbalist, so as in wastes and solitudes
      to know the herbs that have the property of healing wounds, for a
      knight-errant must not go looking for some one to cure him at every step.
      He must be an astronomer, so as to know by the stars how many hours of the
      night have passed, and what clime and quarter of the world he is in. He
      must know mathematics, for at every turn some occasion for them will
      present itself to him; and, putting it aside that he must be adorned with
      all the virtues, cardinal and theological, to come down to minor
      particulars, he must, I say, be able to swim as well as Nicholas or
      Nicolao the Fish could, as the story goes; he must know how to shoe a
      horse, and repair his saddle and bridle; and, to return to higher matters,
      he must be faithful to God and to his lady; he must be pure in thought,
      decorous in words, generous in works, valiant in deeds, patient in
      suffering, compassionate towards the needy, and, lastly, an upholder of
      the truth though its defence should cost him his life. Of all these
      qualities, great and small, is a true knight-errant made up; judge then,
      Senor Don Lorenzo, whether it be a contemptible science which the knight
      who studies and professes it has to learn, and whether it may not compare
      with the very loftiest that are taught in the schools."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If that be so," replied Don Lorenzo, "this science, I protest, surpasses
      all."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How, if that be so?" said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What I mean to say," said Don Lorenzo, "is, that I doubt whether there
      are now, or ever were, any knights-errant, and adorned with such virtues."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Many a time," replied Don Quixote, "have I said what I now say once more,
      that the majority of the world are of opinion that there never were any
      knights-errant in it; and as it is my opinion that, unless heaven by some
      miracle brings home to them the truth that there were and are, all the
      pains one takes will be in vain (as experience has often proved to me), I
      will not now stop to disabuse you of the error you share with the
      multitude. All I shall do is to pray to heaven to deliver you from it, and
      show you how beneficial and necessary knights-errant were in days of yore,
      and how useful they would be in these days were they but in vogue; but
      now, for the sins of the people, sloth and indolence, gluttony and luxury
      are triumphant."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Our guest has broken out on our hands," said Don Lorenzo to himself at
      this point; "but, for all that, he is a glorious madman, and I should be a
      dull blockhead to doubt it."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here, being summoned to dinner, they brought their colloquy to a close.
      Don Diego asked his son what he had been able to make out as to the wits
      of their guest. To which he replied, "All the doctors and clever scribes
      in the world will not make sense of the scrawl of his madness; he is a
      madman full of streaks, full of lucid intervals."
    </p>
    <p>
      They went in to dinner, and the repast was such as Don Diego said on the
      road he was in the habit of giving to his guests, neat, plentiful, and
      tasty; but what pleased Don Quixote most was the marvellous silence that
      reigned throughout the house, for it was like a Carthusian monastery.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the cloth had been removed, grace said and their hands washed, Don
      Quixote earnestly pressed Don Lorenzo to repeat to him his verses for the
      poetical tournament, to which he replied, "Not to be like those poets who,
      when they are asked to recite their verses, refuse, and when they are not
      asked for them vomit them up, I will repeat my gloss, for which I do not
      expect any prize, having composed it merely as an exercise of ingenuity."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A discerning friend of mine," said Don Quixote, "was of opinion that no
      one ought to waste labour in glossing verses; and the reason he gave was
      that the gloss can never come up to the text, and that often or most
      frequently it wanders away from the meaning and purpose aimed at in the
      glossed lines; and besides, that the laws of the gloss were too strict, as
      they did not allow interrogations, nor 'said he,' nor 'I say,' nor turning
      verbs into nouns, or altering the construction, not to speak of other
      restrictions and limitations that fetter gloss-writers, as you no doubt
      know."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Verily, Senor Don Quixote," said Don Lorenzo, "I wish I could catch your
      worship tripping at a stretch, but I cannot, for you slip through my
      fingers like an eel."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't understand what you say, or mean by slipping," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will explain myself another time," said Don Lorenzo; "for the present
      pray attend to the glossed verses and the gloss, which run thus:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
  Could 'was' become an 'is' for me,
  Then would I ask no more than this;
  Or could, for me, the time that is
  Become the time that is to be!&mdash;



             GLOSS

Dame Fortune once upon a day
  To me was bountiful and kind;
  But all things change; she changed her mind,
And what she gave she took away.
O Fortune, long I've sued to thee;
  The gifts thou gavest me restore,
  For, trust me, I would ask no more,
Could 'was' become an 'is' for me.

No other prize I seek to gain,
  No triumph, glory, or success,
  Only the long-lost happiness,
The memory whereof is pain.
One taste, methinks, of bygone bliss
  The heart-consuming fire might stay;
  And, so it come without delay,
Then would I ask no more than this.

I ask what cannot be, alas!
  That time should ever be, and then
  Come back to us, and be again,
No power on earth can bring to pass;
For fleet of foot is he, I wis,
  And idly, therefore, do we pray
  That what for aye hath left us may
Become for us the time that is.

Perplexed, uncertain, to remain
  'Twixt hope and fear, is death, not life;
  'Twere better, sure, to end the strife,
And dying, seek release from pain.
And yet, thought were the best for me.
  Anon the thought aside I fling,
  And to the present fondly cling,
And dread the time that is to be."
</pre>
    <p>
      When Don Lorenzo had finished reciting his gloss, Don Quixote stood up,
      and in a loud voice, almost a shout, exclaimed as he grasped Don Lorenzo's
      right hand in his, "By the highest heavens, noble youth, but you are the
      best poet on earth, and deserve to be crowned with laurel, not by Cyprus
      or by Gaeta&mdash;as a certain poet, God forgive him, said&mdash;but by
      the Academies of Athens, if they still flourished, and by those that
      flourish now, Paris, Bologna, Salamanca. Heaven grant that the judges who
      rob you of the first prize&mdash;that Phoebus may pierce them with his
      arrows, and the Muses never cross the thresholds of their doors. Repeat me
      some of your long-measure verses, senor, if you will be so good, for I
      want thoroughly to feel the pulse of your rare genius."
    </p>
    <p>
      Is there any need to say that Don Lorenzo enjoyed hearing himself praised
      by Don Quixote, albeit he looked upon him as a madman? power of flattery,
      how far-reaching art thou, and how wide are the bounds of thy pleasant
      jurisdiction! Don Lorenzo gave a proof of it, for he complied with Don
      Quixote's request and entreaty, and repeated to him this sonnet on the
      fable or story of Pyramus and Thisbe.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">

                    SONNET

The lovely maid, she pierces now the wall;
  Heart-pierced by her young Pyramus doth lie;
  And Love spreads wing from Cyprus isle to fly,
A chink to view so wondrous great and small.
There silence speaketh, for no voice at all
  Can pass so strait a strait; but love will ply
  Where to all other power 'twere vain to try;
For love will find a way whate'er befall.
Impatient of delay, with reckless pace
  The rash maid wins the fatal spot where she
Sinks not in lover's arms but death's embrace.
  So runs the strange tale, how the lovers twain
One sword, one sepulchre, one memory,
  Slays, and entombs, and brings to life again.

</pre>
    <p>
      "Blessed be God," said Don Quixote when he had heard Don Lorenzo's sonnet,
      "that among the hosts there are of irritable poets I have found one
      consummate one, which, senor, the art of this sonnet proves to me that you
      are!"
    </p>
    <p>
      For four days was Don Quixote most sumptuously entertained in Don Diego's
      house, at the end of which time he asked his permission to depart, telling
      him he thanked him for the kindness and hospitality he had received in his
      house, but that, as it did not become knights-errant to give themselves up
      for long to idleness and luxury, he was anxious to fulfill the duties of
      his calling in seeking adventures, of which he was informed there was an
      abundance in that neighbourhood, where he hoped to employ his time until
      the day came round for the jousts at Saragossa, for that was his proper
      destination; and that, first of all, he meant to enter the cave of
      Montesinos, of which so many marvellous things were reported all through
      the country, and at the same time to investigate and explore the origin
      and true source of the seven lakes commonly called the lakes of Ruidera.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Diego and his son commended his laudable resolution, and bade him
      furnish himself with all he wanted from their house and belongings, as
      they would most gladly be of service to him; which, indeed, his personal
      worth and his honourable profession made incumbent upon them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The day of his departure came at length, as welcome to Don Quixote as it
      was sad and sorrowful to Sancho Panza, who was very well satisfied with
      the abundance of Don Diego's house, and objected to return to the
      starvation of the woods and wilds and the short-commons of his ill-stocked
      alforjas; these, however, he filled and packed with what he considered
      needful. On taking leave, Don Quixote said to Don Lorenzo, "I know not
      whether I have told you already, but if I have I tell you once more, that
      if you wish to spare yourself fatigue and toil in reaching the
      inaccessible summit of the temple of fame, you have nothing to do but to
      turn aside out of the somewhat narrow path of poetry and take the still
      narrower one of knight-errantry, wide enough, however, to make you an
      emperor in the twinkling of an eye."
    </p>
    <p>
      In this speech Don Quixote wound up the evidence of his madness, but still
      better in what he added when he said, "God knows, I would gladly take Don
      Lorenzo with me to teach him how to spare the humble, and trample the
      proud under foot, virtues that are part and parcel of the profession I
      belong to; but since his tender age does not allow of it, nor his
      praiseworthy pursuits permit it, I will simply content myself with
      impressing it upon your worship that you will become famous as a poet if
      you are guided by the opinion of others rather than by your own; because
      no fathers or mothers ever think their own children ill-favoured, and this
      sort of deception prevails still more strongly in the case of the children
      of the brain."
    </p>
    <p>
      Both father and son were amazed afresh at the strange medley Don Quixote
      talked, at one moment sense, at another nonsense, and at the pertinacity
      and persistence he displayed in going through thick and thin in quest of
      his unlucky adventures, which he made the end and aim of his desires.
      There was a renewal of offers of service and civilities, and then, with
      the gracious permission of the lady of the castle, they took their
      departure, Don Quixote on Rocinante, and Sancho on Dapple.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p18e" id="p18e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p18e.jpg (18K)" src="images/p18e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>

<h2>
      <a name="ch19b" id="ch19b"></a>CHAPTER XIX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD, TOGETHER WITH
      OTHER TRULY DROLL INCIDENTS
    </h3>

    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p19a.jpg (131K)" src="images/p19a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p19a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote had gone but a short distance beyond Don Diego's village, when
      he fell in with a couple of either priests or students, and a couple of
      peasants, mounted on four beasts of the ass kind. One of the students
      carried, wrapped up in a piece of green buckram by way of a portmanteau,
      what seemed to be a little linen and a couple of pairs of ribbed
      stockings; the other carried nothing but a pair of new fencing-foils with
      buttons. The peasants carried divers articles that showed they were on
      their way from some large town where they had bought them, and were taking
      them home to their village; and both students and peasants were struck
      with the same amazement that everybody felt who saw Don Quixote for the
      first time, and were dying to know who this man, so different from
      ordinary men, could be. Don Quixote saluted them, and after ascertaining
      that their road was the same as his, made them an offer of his company,
      and begged them to slacken their pace, as their young asses travelled
      faster than his horse; and then, to gratify them, he told them in a few
      words who he was and the calling and profession he followed, which was
      that of a knight-errant seeking adventures in all parts of the world. He
      informed them that his own name was Don Quixote of La Mancha, and that he
      was called, by way of surname, the Knight of the Lions.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this was Greek or gibberish to the peasants, but not so to the
      students, who very soon perceived the crack in Don Quixote's pate; for all
      that, however, they regarded him with admiration and respect, and one of
      them said to him, "If you, sir knight, have no fixed road, as it is the
      way with those who seek adventures not to have any, let your worship come
      with us; you will see one of the finest and richest weddings that up to
      this day have ever been celebrated in La Mancha, or for many a league
      round."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote asked him if it was some prince's, that he spoke of it in this
      way. "Not at all," said the student; "it is the wedding of a farmer and a
      farmer's daughter, he the richest in all this country, and she the fairest
      mortal ever set eyes on. The display with which it is to be attended will
      be something rare and out of the common, for it will be celebrated in a
      meadow adjoining the town of the bride, who is called, par excellence,
      Quiteria the fair, as the bridegroom is called Camacho the rich. She is
      eighteen, and he twenty-two, and they are fairly matched, though some
      knowing ones, who have all the pedigrees in the world by heart, will have
      it that the family of the fair Quiteria is better than Camacho's; but no
      one minds that now-a-days, for wealth can solder a great many flaws. At
      any rate, Camacho is free-handed, and it is his fancy to screen the whole
      meadow with boughs and cover it in overhead, so that the sun will have
      hard work if he tries to get in to reach the grass that covers the soil.
      He has provided dancers too, not only sword but also bell-dancers, for in
      his own town there are those who ring the changes and jingle the bells to
      perfection; of shoe-dancers I say nothing, for of them he has engaged a
      host. But none of these things, nor of the many others I have omitted to
      mention, will do more to make this a memorable wedding than the part which
      I suspect the despairing Basilio will play in it. This Basilio is a youth
      of the same village as Quiteria, and he lived in the house next door to
      that of her parents, of which circumstance Love took advantage to
      reproduce to the word the long-forgotten loves of Pyramus and Thisbe; for
      Basilio loved Quiteria from his earliest years, and she responded to his
      passion with countless modest proofs of affection, so that the loves of
      the two children, Basilio and Quiteria, were the talk and the amusement of
      the town. As they grew up, the father of Quiteria made up his mind to
      refuse Basilio his wonted freedom of access to the house, and to relieve
      himself of constant doubts and suspicions, he arranged a match for his
      daughter with the rich Camacho, as he did not approve of marrying her to
      Basilio, who had not so large a share of the gifts of fortune as of
      nature; for if the truth be told ungrudgingly, he is the most agile youth
      we know, a mighty thrower of the bar, a first-rate wrestler, and a great
      ball-player; he runs like a deer, and leaps better than a goat, bowls over
      the nine-pins as if by magic, sings like a lark, plays the guitar so as to
      make it speak, and, above all, handles a sword as well as the best."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For that excellence alone," said Don Quixote at this, "the youth deserves
      to marry, not merely the fair Quiteria, but Queen Guinevere herself, were
      she alive now, in spite of Launcelot and all who would try to prevent it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Say that to my wife," said Sancho, who had until now listened in silence,
      "for she won't hear of anything but each one marrying his equal, holding
      with the proverb 'each ewe to her like.' What I would like is that this
      good Basilio (for I am beginning to take a fancy to him already) should
      marry this lady Quiteria; and a blessing and good luck&mdash;I meant to
      say the opposite&mdash;on people who would prevent those who love one
      another from marrying."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If all those who love one another were to marry," said Don Quixote, "it
      would deprive parents of the right to choose, and marry their children to
      the proper person and at the proper time; and if it was left to daughters
      to choose husbands as they pleased, one would be for choosing her father's
      servant, and another, some one she has seen passing in the street and
      fancies gallant and dashing, though he may be a drunken bully; for love
      and fancy easily blind the eyes of the judgment, so much wanted in
      choosing one's way of life; and the matrimonial choice is very liable to
      error, and it needs great caution and the special favour of heaven to make
      it a good one. He who has to make a long journey, will, if he is wise,
      look out for some trusty and pleasant companion to accompany him before he
      sets out. Why, then, should not he do the same who has to make the whole
      journey of life down to the final halting-place of death, more especially
      when the companion has to be his companion in bed, at board, and
      everywhere, as the wife is to her husband? The companionship of one's wife
      is no article of merchandise, that, after it has been bought, may be
      returned, or bartered, or changed; for it is an inseparable accident that
      lasts as long as life lasts; it is a noose that, once you put it round
      your neck, turns into a Gordian knot, which, if the scythe of Death does
      not cut it, there is no untying. I could say a great deal more on this
      subject, were I not prevented by the anxiety I feel to know if the senor
      licentiate has anything more to tell about the story of Basilio."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this the student, bachelor, or, as Don Quixote called him, licentiate,
      replied, "I have nothing whatever to say further, but that from the moment
      Basilio learned that the fair Quiteria was to be married to Camacho the
      rich, he has never been seen to smile, or heard to utter rational word,
      and he always goes about moody and dejected, talking to himself in a way
      that shows plainly he is out of his senses. He eats little and sleeps
      little, and all he eats is fruit, and when he sleeps, if he sleeps at all,
      it is in the field on the hard earth like a brute beast. Sometimes he
      gazes at the sky, at other times he fixes his eyes on the earth in such an
      abstracted way that he might be taken for a clothed statue, with its
      drapery stirred by the wind. In short, he shows such signs of a heart
      crushed by suffering, that all we who know him believe that when to-morrow
      the fair Quiteria says 'yes,' it will be his sentence of death."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God will guide it better," said Sancho, "for God who gives the wound
      gives the salve; nobody knows what will happen; there are a good many
      hours between this and to-morrow, and any one of them, or any moment, the
      house may fall; I have seen the rain coming down and the sun shining all
      at one time; many a one goes to bed in good health who can't stir the next
      day. And tell me, is there anyone who can boast of having driven a nail
      into the wheel of fortune? No, faith; and between a woman's 'yes' and 'no'
      I wouldn't venture to put the point of a pin, for there would not be room
      for it; if you tell me Quiteria loves Basilio heart and soul, then I'll
      give him a bag of good luck; for love, I have heard say, looks through
      spectacles that make copper seem gold, poverty wealth, and bleary eyes
      pearls."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What art thou driving at, Sancho? curses on thee!" said Don Quixote; "for
      when thou takest to stringing proverbs and sayings together, no one can
      understand thee but Judas himself, and I wish he had thee. Tell me, thou
      animal, what dost thou know about nails or wheels, or anything else?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, if you don't understand me," replied Sancho, "it is no wonder my
      words are taken for nonsense; but no matter; I understand myself, and I
      know I have not said anything very foolish in what I have said; only your
      worship, senor, is always gravelling at everything I say, nay, everything
      I do."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Cavilling, not gravelling," said Don Quixote, "thou prevaricator of
      honest language, God confound thee!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Don't find fault with me, your worship," returned Sancho, "for you know I
      have not been bred up at court or trained at Salamanca, to know whether I
      am adding or dropping a letter or so in my words. Why! God bless me, it's
      not fair to force a Sayago-man to speak like a Toledan; maybe there are
      Toledans who do not hit it off when it comes to polished talk."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said the licentiate, "for those who have been bred up in
      the Tanneries and the Zocodover cannot talk like those who are almost all
      day pacing the cathedral cloisters, and yet they are all Toledans. Pure,
      correct, elegant and lucid language will be met with in men of courtly
      breeding and discrimination, though they may have been born in
      Majalahonda; I say of discrimination, because there are many who are not
      so, and discrimination is the grammar of good language, if it be
      accompanied by practice. I, sirs, for my sins have studied canon law at
      Salamanca, and I rather pique myself on expressing my meaning in clear,
      plain, and intelligible language."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If you did not pique yourself more on your dexterity with those foils you
      carry than on dexterity of tongue," said the other student, "you would
      have been head of the degrees, where you are now tail."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Look here, bachelor Corchuelo," returned the licentiate, "you have the
      most mistaken idea in the world about skill with the sword, if you think
      it useless."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is no idea on my part, but an established truth," replied Corchuelo;
      "and if you wish me to prove it to you by experiment, you have swords
      there, and it is a good opportunity; I have a steady hand and a strong
      arm, and these joined with my resolution, which is not small, will make
      you confess that I am not mistaken. Dismount and put in practice your
      positions and circles and angles and science, for I hope to make you see
      stars at noonday with my rude raw swordsmanship, in which, next to God, I
      place my trust that the man is yet to be born who will make me turn my
      back, and that there is not one in the world I will not compel to give
      ground."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As to whether you turn your back or not, I do not concern myself,"
      replied the master of fence; "though it might be that your grave would be
      dug on the spot where you planted your foot the first time; I mean that
      you would be stretched dead there for despising skill with the sword."
    </p>
    <p>
      "We shall soon see," replied Corchuelo, and getting off his ass briskly,
      he drew out furiously one of the swords the licentiate carried on his
      beast.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It must not be that way," said Don Quixote at this point; "I will be the
      director of this fencing match, and judge of this often disputed
      question;" and dismounting from Rocinante and grasping his lance, he
      planted himself in the middle of the road, just as the licentiate, with an
      easy, graceful bearing and step, advanced towards Corchuelo, who came on
      against him, darting fire from his eyes, as the saying is. The other two
      of the company, the peasants, without dismounting from their asses, served
      as spectators of the mortal tragedy. The cuts, thrusts, down strokes, back
      strokes and doubles, that Corchuelo delivered were past counting, and came
      thicker than hops or hail. He attacked like an angry lion, but he was met
      by a tap on the mouth from the button of the licentiate's sword that
      checked him in the midst of his furious onset, and made him kiss it as if
      it were a relic, though not as devoutly as relics are and ought to be
      kissed. The end of it was that the licentiate reckoned up for him by
      thrusts every one of the buttons of the short cassock he wore, tore the
      skirts into strips, like the tails of a cuttlefish, knocked off his hat
      twice, and so completely tired him out, that in vexation, anger, and rage,
      he took the sword by the hilt and flung it away with such force, that one
      of the peasants that were there, who was a notary, and who went for it,
      made an affidavit afterwards that he sent it nearly three-quarters of a
      league, which testimony will serve, and has served, to show and establish
      with all certainty that strength is overcome by skill.
    </p>
    <p>
      Corchuelo sat down wearied, and Sancho approaching him said, "By my faith,
      senor bachelor, if your worship takes my advice, you will never challenge
      anyone to fence again, only to wrestle and throw the bar, for you have the
      youth and strength for that; but as for these fencers as they call them, I
      have heard say they can put the point of a sword through the eye of a
      needle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am satisfied with having tumbled off my donkey," said Corchuelo, "and
      with having had the truth I was so ignorant of proved to me by
      experience;" and getting up he embraced the licentiate, and they were
      better friends than ever; and not caring to wait for the notary who had
      gone for the sword, as they saw he would be a long time about it, they
      resolved to push on so as to reach the village of Quiteria, to which they
      all belonged, in good time.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the remainder of the journey the licentiate held forth to them on
      the excellences of the sword, with such conclusive arguments, and such
      figures and mathematical proofs, that all were convinced of the value of
      the science, and Corchuelo cured of his dogmatism.
    </p>
    <p>
      It grew dark; but before they reached the town it seemed to them all as if
      there was a heaven full of countless glittering stars in front of it. They
      heard, too, the pleasant mingled notes of a variety of instruments,
      flutes, drums, psalteries, pipes, tabors, and timbrels, and as they drew
      near they perceived that the trees of a leafy arcade that had been
      constructed at the entrance of the town were filled with lights unaffected
      by the wind, for the breeze at the time was so gentle that it had not
      power to stir the leaves on the trees. The musicians were the life of the
      wedding, wandering through the pleasant grounds in separate bands, some
      dancing, others singing, others playing the various instruments already
      mentioned. In short, it seemed as though mirth and gaiety were frisking
      and gambolling all over the meadow. Several other persons were engaged in
      erecting raised benches from which people might conveniently see the plays
      and dances that were to be performed the next day on the spot dedicated to
      the celebration of the marriage of Camacho the rich and the obsequies of
      Basilio. Don Quixote would not enter the village, although the peasant as
      well as the bachelor pressed him; he excused himself, however, on the
      grounds, amply sufficient in his opinion, that it was the custom of
      knights-errant to sleep in the fields and woods in preference to towns,
      even were it under gilded ceilings; and so turned aside a little out of
      the road, very much against Sancho's will, as the good quarters he had
      enjoyed in the castle or house of Don Diego came back to his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p19e" id="p19e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p19e.jpg (29K)" src="images/p19e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch20b" id="ch20b"></a>CHAPTER XX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN AN ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF THE WEDDING OF CAMACHO THE RICH, TOGETHER
      WITH THE INCIDENT OF BASILIO THE POOR
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p20a" id="p20a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p20a.jpg (125K)" src="images/p20a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p20a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Scarce had the fair Aurora given bright Phoebus time to dry the liquid
      pearls upon her golden locks with the heat of his fervent rays, when Don
      Quixote, shaking off sloth from his limbs, sprang to his feet and called
      to his squire Sancho, who was still snoring; seeing which Don Quixote ere
      he roused him thus addressed him: "Happy thou, above all the dwellers on
      the face of the earth, that, without envying or being envied, sleepest
      with tranquil mind, and that neither enchanters persecute nor enchantments
      affright. Sleep, I say, and will say a hundred times, without any jealous
      thoughts of thy mistress to make thee keep ceaseless vigils, or any cares
      as to how thou art to pay the debts thou owest, or find to-morrow's food
      for thyself and thy needy little family, to interfere with thy repose.
      Ambition breaks not thy rest, nor doth this world's empty pomp disturb
      thee, for the utmost reach of thy anxiety is to provide for thy ass, since
      upon my shoulders thou hast laid the support of thyself, the counterpoise
      and burden that nature and custom have imposed upon masters. The servant
      sleeps and the master lies awake thinking how he is to feed him, advance
      him, and reward him. The distress of seeing the sky turn brazen, and
      withhold its needful moisture from the earth, is not felt by the servant
      but by the master, who in time of scarcity and famine must support him who
      has served him in times of plenty and abundance."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p20b" id="p20b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p20b.jpg (365K)" src="images/p20b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p20b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      To all this Sancho made no reply because he was asleep, nor would he have
      wakened up so soon as he did had not Don Quixote brought him to his senses
      with the butt of his lance. He awoke at last, drowsy and lazy, and casting
      his eyes about in every direction, observed, "There comes, if I don't
      mistake, from the quarter of that arcade a steam and a smell a great deal
      more like fried rashers than galingale or thyme; a wedding that begins
      with smells like that, by my faith, ought to be plentiful and unstinting."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Have done, thou glutton," said Don Quixote; "come, let us go and witness
      this bridal, and see what the rejected Basilio does."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let him do what he likes," returned Sancho; "be he not poor, he would
      marry Quiteria. To make a grand match for himself, and he without a
      farthing; is there nothing else? Faith, senor, it's my opinion the poor
      man should be content with what he can get, and not go looking for
      dainties in the bottom of the sea. I will bet my arm that Camacho could
      bury Basilio in reals; and if that be so, as no doubt it is, what a fool
      Quiteria would be to refuse the fine dresses and jewels Camacho must have
      given her and will give her, and take Basilio's bar-throwing and
      sword-play. They won't give a pint of wine at the tavern for a good cast
      of the bar or a neat thrust of the sword. Talents and accomplishments that
      can't be turned into money, let Count Dirlos have them; but when such
      gifts fall to one that has hard cash, I wish my condition of life was as
      becoming as they are. On a good foundation you can raise a good building,
      and the best foundation in the world is money."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For God's sake, Sancho," said Don Quixote here, "stop that harangue; it
      is my belief, if thou wert allowed to continue all thou beginnest every
      instant, thou wouldst have no time left for eating or sleeping; for thou
      wouldst spend it all in talking."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If your worship had a good memory," replied Sancho, "you would remember
      the articles of our agreement before we started from home this last time;
      one of them was that I was to be let say all I liked, so long as it was
      not against my neighbour or your worship's authority; and so far, it seems
      to me, I have not broken the said article."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I remember no such article, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "and even if it
      were so, I desire you to hold your tongue and come along; for the
      instruments we heard last night are already beginning to enliven the
      valleys again, and no doubt the marriage will take place in the cool of
      the morning, and not in the heat of the afternoon."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho did as his master bade him, and putting the saddle on Rocinante and
      the pack-saddle on Dapple, they both mounted and at a leisurely pace
      entered the arcade. The first thing that presented itself to Sancho's eyes
      was a whole ox spitted on a whole elm tree, and in the fire at which it
      was to be roasted there was burning a middling-sized mountain of faggots,
      and six stewpots that stood round the blaze had not been made in the
      ordinary mould of common pots, for they were six half wine-jars, each fit
      to hold the contents of a slaughter-house; they swallowed up whole sheep
      and hid them away in their insides without showing any more sign of them
      than if they were pigeons. Countless were the hares ready skinned and the
      plucked fowls that hung on the trees for burial in the pots, numberless
      the wildfowl and game of various sorts suspended from the branches that
      the air might keep them cool. Sancho counted more than sixty wine skins of
      over six gallons each, and all filled, as it proved afterwards, with
      generous wines. There were, besides, piles of the whitest bread, like the
      heaps of corn one sees on the threshing-floors. There was a wall made of
      cheeses arranged like open brick-work, and two cauldrons full of oil,
      bigger than those of a dyer's shop, served for cooking fritters, which
      when fried were taken out with two mighty shovels, and plunged into
      another cauldron of prepared honey that stood close by. Of cooks and
      cook-maids there were over fifty, all clean, brisk, and blithe. In the
      capacious belly of the ox were a dozen soft little sucking-pigs, which,
      sewn up there, served to give it tenderness and flavour. The spices of
      different kinds did not seem to have been bought by the pound but by the
      quarter, and all lay open to view in a great chest. In short, all the
      preparations made for the wedding were in rustic style, but abundant
      enough to feed an army.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p20c" id="p20c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p20c.jpg (415K)" src="images/p20c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p20c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho observed all, contemplated all, and everything won his heart. The
      first to captivate and take his fancy were the pots, out of which he would
      have very gladly helped himself to a moderate pipkinful; then the wine
      skins secured his affections; and lastly, the produce of the frying-pans,
      if, indeed, such imposing cauldrons may be called frying-pans; and unable
      to control himself or bear it any longer, he approached one of the busy
      cooks and civilly but hungrily begged permission to soak a scrap of bread
      in one of the pots; to which the cook made answer, "Brother, this is not a
      day on which hunger is to have any sway, thanks to the rich Camacho; get
      down and look about for a ladle and skim off a hen or two, and much good
      may they do you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't see one," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Wait a bit," said the cook; "sinner that I am! how particular and bashful
      you are!" and so saying, he seized a bucket and plunging it into one of
      the half jars took up three hens and a couple of geese, and said to
      Sancho, "Fall to, friend, and take the edge off your appetite with these
      skimmings until dinner-time comes."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p20d" id="p20d"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p20d.jpg (351K)" src="images/p20d.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p20d.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have nothing to put them in," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then," said the cook, "take spoon and all; for Camacho's wealth and
      happiness furnish everything."
    </p>
    <p>
      While Sancho fared thus, Don Quixote was watching the entrance, at one end
      of the arcade, of some twelve peasants, all in holiday and gala dress,
      mounted on twelve beautiful mares with rich handsome field trappings and a
      number of little bells attached to their petrals, who, marshalled in
      regular order, ran not one but several courses over the meadow, with
      jubilant shouts and cries of "Long live Camacho and Quiteria! he as rich
      as she is fair; and she the fairest on earth!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Hearing this, Don Quixote said to himself, "It is easy to see these folk
      have never seen my Dulcinea del Toboso; for if they had they would be more
      moderate in their praises of this Quiteria of theirs."
    </p>
    <p>
      Shortly after this, several bands of dancers of various sorts began to
      enter the arcade at different points, and among them one of sword-dancers
      composed of some four-and-twenty lads of gallant and high-spirited mien,
      clad in the finest and whitest of linen, and with handkerchiefs
      embroidered in various colours with fine silk; and one of those on the
      mares asked an active youth who led them if any of the dancers had been
      wounded. "As yet, thank God, no one has been wounded," said he, "we are
      all safe and sound;" and he at once began to execute complicated figures
      with the rest of his comrades, with so many turns and so great dexterity,
      that although Don Quixote was well used to see dances of the same kind, he
      thought he had never seen any so good as this. He also admired another
      that came in composed of fair young maidens, none of whom seemed to be
      under fourteen or over eighteen years of age, all clad in green stuff,
      with their locks partly braided, partly flowing loose, but all of such
      bright gold as to vie with the sunbeams, and over them they wore garlands
      of jessamine, roses, amaranth, and honeysuckle. At their head were a
      venerable old man and an ancient dame, more brisk and active, however,
      than might have been expected from their years. The notes of a Zamora
      bagpipe accompanied them, and with modesty in their countenances and in
      their eyes, and lightness in their feet, they looked the best dancers in
      the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p20e" id="p20e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p20e.jpg (361K)" src="images/p20e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p20e.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Following these there came an artistic dance of the sort they call
      "speaking dances." It was composed of eight nymphs in two files, with the
      god Cupid leading one and Interest the other, the former furnished with
      wings, bow, quiver and arrows, the latter in a rich dress of gold and silk
      of divers colours. The nymphs that followed Love bore their names written
      on white parchment in large letters on their backs. "Poetry" was the name
      of the first, "Wit" of the second, "Birth" of the third, and "Valour" of
      the fourth. Those that followed Interest were distinguished in the same
      way; the badge of the first announced "Liberality," that of the second
      "Largess," the third "Treasure," and the fourth "Peaceful Possession." In
      front of them all came a wooden castle drawn by four wild men, all clad in
      ivy and hemp stained green, and looking so natural that they nearly
      terrified Sancho. On the front of the castle and on each of the four sides
      of its frame it bore the inscription "Castle of Caution." Four skillful
      tabor and flute players accompanied them, and the dance having been
      opened, Cupid, after executing two figures, raised his eyes and bent his
      bow against a damsel who stood between the turrets of the castle, and thus
      addressed her:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
I am the mighty God whose sway
  Is potent over land and sea.
The heavens above us own me; nay,
  The shades below acknowledge me.
I know not fear, I have my will,
  Whate'er my whim or fancy be;
For me there's no impossible,
  I order, bind, forbid, set free.

</pre>
    <p>
      Having concluded the stanza he discharged an arrow at the top of the
      castle, and went back to his place. Interest then came forward and went
      through two more figures, and as soon as the tabors ceased, he said:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
But mightier than Love am I,
  Though Love it be that leads me on,
Than mine no lineage is more high,
  Or older, underneath the sun.
To use me rightly few know how,
  To act without me fewer still,
For I am Interest, and I vow
  For evermore to do thy will.

</pre>
    <p>
      Interest retired, and Poetry came forward, and when she had gone through
      her figures like the others, fixing her eyes on the damsel of the castle,
      she said:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
With many a fanciful conceit,
  Fair Lady, winsome Poesy
Her soul, an offering at thy feet,
  Presents in sonnets unto thee.
If thou my homage wilt not scorn,
  Thy fortune, watched by envious eyes,
On wings of poesy upborne
  Shall be exalted to the skies.

</pre>
    <p>
      Poetry withdrew, and on the side of Interest Liberality advanced, and
      after having gone through her figures, said:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
To give, while shunning each extreme,
  The sparing hand, the over-free,
Therein consists, so wise men deem,
  The virtue Liberality.
But thee, fair lady, to enrich,
  Myself a prodigal I'll prove,
A vice not wholly shameful, which
  May find its fair excuse in love.

</pre>
    <p>
      In the same manner all the characters of the two bands advanced and
      retired, and each executed its figures, and delivered its verses, some of
      them graceful, some burlesque, but Don Quixote's memory (though he had an
      excellent one) only carried away those that have been just quoted. All
      then mingled together, forming chains and breaking off again with
      graceful, unconstrained gaiety; and whenever Love passed in front of the
      castle he shot his arrows up at it, while Interest broke gilded pellets
      against it. At length, after they had danced a good while, Interest drew
      out a great purse, made of the skin of a large brindled cat and to all
      appearance full of money, and flung it at the castle, and with the force
      of the blow the boards fell asunder and tumbled down, leaving the damsel
      exposed and unprotected. Interest and the characters of his band advanced,
      and throwing a great chain of gold over her neck pretended to take her and
      lead her away captive, on seeing which, Love and his supporters made as
      though they would release her, the whole action being to the accompaniment
      of the tabors and in the form of a regular dance. The wild men made peace
      between them, and with great dexterity readjusted and fixed the boards of
      the castle, and the damsel once more ensconced herself within; and with
      this the dance wound up, to the great enjoyment of the beholders.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote asked one of the nymphs who it was that had composed and
      arranged it. She replied that it was a beneficiary of the town who had a
      nice taste in devising things of the sort. "I will lay a wager," said Don
      Quixote, "that the same bachelor or beneficiary is a greater friend of
      Camacho's than of Basilio's, and that he is better at satire than at
      vespers; he has introduced the accomplishments of Basilio and the riches
      of Camacho very neatly into the dance." Sancho Panza, who was listening to
      all this, exclaimed, "The king is my cock; I stick to Camacho." "It is
      easy to see thou art a clown, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and one of that
      sort that cry 'Long life to the conqueror.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know of what sort I am," returned Sancho, "but I know very well
      I'll never get such elegant skimmings off Basilio's pots as these I have
      got off Camacho's;" and he showed him the bucketful of geese and hens, and
      seizing one began to eat with great gaiety and appetite, saying, "A fig
      for the accomplishments of Basilio! As much as thou hast so much art thou
      worth, and as much as thou art worth so much hast thou. As a grandmother
      of mine used to say, there are only two families in the world, the Haves
      and the Haven'ts; and she stuck to the Haves; and to this day, Senor Don
      Quixote, people would sooner feel the pulse of 'Have,' than of 'Know;' an
      ass covered with gold looks better than a horse with a pack-saddle. So
      once more I say I stick to Camacho, the bountiful skimmings of whose pots
      are geese and hens, hares and rabbits; but of Basilio's, if any ever come
      to hand, or even to foot, they'll be only rinsings."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hast thou finished thy harangue, Sancho?" said Don Quixote. "Of course I
      have finished it," replied Sancho, "because I see your worship takes
      offence at it; but if it was not for that, there was work enough cut out
      for three days."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God grant I may see thee dumb before I die, Sancho," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "At the rate we are going," said Sancho, "I'll be chewing clay before your
      worship dies; and then, maybe, I'll be so dumb that I'll not say a word
      until the end of the world, or, at least, till the day of judgment."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Even should that happen, O Sancho," said Don Quixote, "thy silence will
      never come up to all thou hast talked, art talking, and wilt talk all thy
      life; moreover, it naturally stands to reason, that my death will come
      before thine; so I never expect to see thee dumb, not even when thou art
      drinking or sleeping, and that is the utmost I can say."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In good faith, senor," replied Sancho, "there's no trusting that
      fleshless one, I mean Death, who devours the lamb as soon as the sheep,
      and, as I have heard our curate say, treads with equal foot upon the lofty
      towers of kings and the lowly huts of the poor. That lady is more mighty
      than dainty, she is in no way squeamish, she devours all and is ready for
      all, and fills her alforjas with people of all sorts, ages, and ranks. She
      is no reaper that sleeps out the noontide; at all times she is reaping and
      cutting down, as well the dry grass as the green; she never seems to chew,
      but bolts and swallows all that is put before her, for she has a canine
      appetite that is never satisfied; and though she has no belly, she shows
      she has a dropsy and is athirst to drink the lives of all that live, as
      one would drink a jug of cold water."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Say no more, Sancho," said Don Quixote at this; "don't try to better it,
      and risk a fall; for in truth what thou hast said about death in thy
      rustic phrase is what a good preacher might have said. I tell thee,
      Sancho, if thou hadst discretion equal to thy mother wit, thou mightst
      take a pulpit in hand, and go about the world preaching fine sermons." "He
      preaches well who lives well," said Sancho, "and I know no more theology
      than that."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nor needst thou," said Don Quixote, "but I cannot conceive or make out
      how it is that, the fear of God being the beginning of wisdom, thou, who
      art more afraid of a lizard than of him, knowest so much."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pass judgment on your chivalries, senor," returned Sancho, "and don't set
      yourself up to judge of other men's fears or braveries, for I am as good a
      fearer of God as my neighbours; but leave me to despatch these skimmings,
      for all the rest is only idle talk that we shall be called to account for
      in the other world;" and so saying, he began a fresh attack on the bucket,
      with such a hearty appetite that he aroused Don Quixote's, who no doubt
      would have helped him had he not been prevented by what must be told
      farther on.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p20f" id="p20f"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p20f.jpg (41K)" src="images/p20f.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch21b" id="ch21b"></a>CHAPTER XXI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH CAMACHO'S WEDDING IS CONTINUED, WITH OTHER DELIGHTFUL INCIDENTS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p21a" id="p21a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p21a.jpg (118K)" src="images/p21a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p21a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      While Don Quixote and Sancho were engaged in the discussion set forth the
      last chapter, they heard loud shouts and a great noise, which were uttered
      and made by the men on the mares as they went at full gallop, shouting, to
      receive the bride and bridegroom, who were approaching with musical
      instruments and pageantry of all sorts around them, and accompanied by the
      priest and the relatives of both, and all the most distinguished people of
      the surrounding villages. When Sancho saw the bride, he exclaimed, "By my
      faith, she is not dressed like a country girl, but like some fine court
      lady; egad, as well as I can make out, the patena she wears rich coral,
      and her green Cuenca stuff is thirty-pile velvet; and then the white linen
      trimming&mdash;by my oath, but it's satin! Look at her hands&mdash;jet
      rings on them! May I never have luck if they're not gold rings, and real
      gold, and set with pearls as white as a curdled milk, and every one of
      them worth an eye of one's head! Whoreson baggage, what hair she has! if
      it's not a wig, I never saw longer or fairer all the days of my life. See
      how bravely she bears herself&mdash;and her shape! Wouldn't you say she
      was like a walking palm tree loaded with clusters of dates? for the
      trinkets she has hanging from her hair and neck look just like them. I
      swear in my heart she is a brave lass, and fit 'to pass over the banks of
      Flanders.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's boorish eulogies and thought that, saving
      his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he had never seen a more beautiful woman.
      The fair Quiteria appeared somewhat pale, which was, no doubt, because of
      the bad night brides always pass dressing themselves out for their wedding
      on the morrow. They advanced towards a theatre that stood on one side of
      the meadow decked with carpets and boughs, where they were to plight their
      troth, and from which they were to behold the dances and plays; but at the
      moment of their arrival at the spot they heard a loud outcry behind them,
      and a voice exclaiming, "Wait a little, ye, as inconsiderate as ye are
      hasty!" At these words all turned round, and perceived that the speaker
      was a man clad in what seemed to be a loose black coat garnished with
      crimson patches like flames. He was crowned (as was presently seen) with a
      crown of gloomy cypress, and in his hand he held a long staff. As he
      approached he was recognised by everyone as the gay Basilio, and all
      waited anxiously to see what would come of his words, in dread of some
      catastrophe in consequence of his appearance at such a moment. He came up
      at last weary and breathless, and planting himself in front of the bridal
      pair, drove his staff, which had a steel spike at the end, into the
      ground, and, with a pale face and eyes fixed on Quiteria, he thus
      addressed her in a hoarse, trembling voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well dost thou know, ungrateful Quiteria, that according to the holy law
      we acknowledge, so long as live thou canst take no husband; nor art thou
      ignorant either that, in my hopes that time and my own exertions would
      improve my fortunes, I have never failed to observe the respect due to thy
      honour; but thou, casting behind thee all thou owest to my true love,
      wouldst surrender what is mine to another whose wealth serves to bring him
      not only good fortune but supreme happiness; and now to complete it (not
      that I think he deserves it, but inasmuch as heaven is pleased to bestow
      it upon him), I will, with my own hands, do away with the obstacle that
      may interfere with it, and remove myself from between you. Long live the
      rich Camacho! many a happy year may he live with the ungrateful Quiteria!
      and let the poor Basilio die, Basilio whose poverty clipped the wings of
      his happiness, and brought him to the grave!"
    </p>
    <p>
      And so saying, he seized the staff he had driven into the ground, and
      leaving one half of it fixed there, showed it to be a sheath that
      concealed a tolerably long rapier; and, what may be called its hilt being
      planted in the ground, he swiftly, coolly, and deliberately threw himself
      upon it, and in an instant the bloody point and half the steel blade
      appeared at his back, the unhappy man falling to the earth bathed in his
      blood, and transfixed by his own weapon.
    </p>
    <p>
      His friends at once ran to his aid, filled with grief at his misery and
      sad fate, and Don Quixote, dismounting from Rocinante, hastened to support
      him, and took him in his arms, and found he had not yet ceased to breathe.
      They were about to draw out the rapier, but the priest who was standing by
      objected to its being withdrawn before he had confessed him, as the
      instant of its withdrawal would be that of this death. Basilio, however,
      reviving slightly, said in a weak voice, as though in pain, "If thou
      wouldst consent, cruel Quiteria, to give me thy hand as my bride in this
      last fatal moment, I might still hope that my rashness would find pardon,
      as by its means I attained the bliss of being thine."
    </p>
    <p>
      Hearing this the priest bade him think of the welfare of his soul rather
      than of the cravings of the body, and in all earnestness implore God's
      pardon for his sins and for his rash resolve; to which Basilio replied
      that he was determined not to confess unless Quiteria first gave him her
      hand in marriage, for that happiness would compose his mind and give him
      courage to make his confession.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote hearing the wounded man's entreaty, exclaimed aloud that what
      Basilio asked was just and reasonable, and moreover a request that might
      be easily complied with; and that it would be as much to Senor Camacho's
      honour to receive the lady Quiteria as the widow of the brave Basilio as
      if he received her direct from her father.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In this case," said he, "it will be only to say 'yes,' and no
      consequences can follow the utterance of the word, for the nuptial couch
      of this marriage must be the grave."
    </p>
    <p>
      Camacho was listening to all this, perplexed and bewildered and not
      knowing what to say or do; but so urgent were the entreaties of Basilio's
      friends, imploring him to allow Quiteria to give him her hand, so that his
      soul, quitting this life in despair, should not be lost, that they moved,
      nay, forced him, to say that if Quiteria were willing to give it he was
      satisfied, as it was only putting off the fulfillment of his wishes for a
      moment. At once all assailed Quiteria and pressed her, some with prayers,
      and others with tears, and others with persuasive arguments, to give her
      hand to poor Basilio; but she, harder than marble and more unmoved than
      any statue, seemed unable or unwilling to utter a word, nor would she have
      given any reply had not the priest bade her decide quickly what she meant
      to do, as Basilio now had his soul at his teeth, and there was no time for
      hesitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p21b" id="p21b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p21b.jpg (374K)" src="images/p21b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p21b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      On this the fair Quiteria, to all appearance distressed, grieved, and
      repentant, advanced without a word to where Basilio lay, his eyes already
      turned in his head, his breathing short and painful, murmuring the name of
      Quiteria between his teeth, and apparently about to die like a heathen and
      not like a Christian. Quiteria approached him, and kneeling, demanded his
      hand by signs without speaking. Basilio opened his eyes and gazing fixedly
      at her, said, "O Quiteria, why hast thou turned compassionate at a moment
      when thy compassion will serve as a dagger to rob me of life, for I have
      not now the strength left either to bear the happiness thou givest me in
      accepting me as thine, or to suppress the pain that is rapidly drawing the
      dread shadow of death over my eyes? What I entreat of thee, O thou fatal
      star to me, is that the hand thou demandest of me and wouldst give me, be
      not given out of complaisance or to deceive me afresh, but that thou
      confess and declare that without any constraint upon thy will thou givest
      it to me as to thy lawful husband; for it is not meet that thou shouldst
      trifle with me at such a moment as this, or have recourse to falsehoods
      with one who has dealt so truly by thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      While uttering these words he showed such weakness that the bystanders
      expected each return of faintness would take his life with it. Then
      Quiteria, overcome with modesty and shame, holding in her right hand the
      hand of Basilio, said, "No force would bend my will; as freely, therefore,
      as it is possible for me to do so, I give thee the hand of a lawful wife,
      and take thine if thou givest it to me of thine own free will, untroubled
      and unaffected by the calamity thy hasty act has brought upon thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, I give it," said Basilio, "not agitated or distracted, but with
      unclouded reason that heaven is pleased to grant me, thus do I give myself
      to be thy husband."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And I give myself to be thy wife," said Quiteria, "whether thou livest
      many years, or they carry thee from my arms to the grave."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For one so badly wounded," observed Sancho at this point, "this young man
      has a great deal to say; they should make him leave off billing and
      cooing, and attend to his soul; for to my thinking he has it more on his
      tongue than at his teeth."
    </p>
    <p>
      Basilio and Quiteria having thus joined hands, the priest, deeply moved
      and with tears in his eyes, pronounced the blessing upon them, and
      implored heaven to grant an easy passage to the soul of the newly wedded
      man, who, the instant he received the blessing, started nimbly to his feet
      and with unparalleled effrontery pulled out the rapier that had been
      sheathed in his body. All the bystanders were astounded, and some, more
      simple than inquiring, began shouting, "A miracle, a miracle!" But Basilio
      replied, "No miracle, no miracle; only a trick, a trick!" The priest,
      perplexed and amazed, made haste to examine the wound with both hands, and
      found that the blade had passed, not through Basilio's flesh and ribs, but
      through a hollow iron tube full of blood, which he had adroitly fixed at
      the place, the blood, as was afterwards ascertained, having been so
      prepared as not to congeal. In short, the priest and Camacho and most of
      those present saw they were tricked and made fools of. The bride showed no
      signs of displeasure at the deception; on the contrary, hearing them say
      that the marriage, being fraudulent, would not be valid, she said that she
      confirmed it afresh, whence they all concluded that the affair had been
      planned by agreement and understanding between the pair, whereat Camacho
      and his supporters were so mortified that they proceeded to revenge
      themselves by violence, and a great number of them drawing their swords
      attacked Basilio, in whose protection as many more swords were in an
      instant unsheathed, while Don Quixote taking the lead on horseback, with
      his lance over his arm and well covered with his shield, made all give way
      before him. Sancho, who never found any pleasure or enjoyment in such
      doings, retreated to the wine-jars from which he had taken his delectable
      skimmings, considering that, as a holy place, that spot would be
      respected.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hold, sirs, hold!" cried Don Quixote in a loud voice; "we have no right
      to take vengeance for wrongs that love may do to us: remember love and war
      are the same thing, and as in war it is allowable and common to make use
      of wiles and stratagems to overcome the enemy, so in the contests and
      rivalries of love the tricks and devices employed to attain the desired
      end are justifiable, provided they be not to the discredit or dishonour of
      the loved object. Quiteria belonged to Basilio and Basilio to Quiteria by
      the just and beneficent disposal of heaven. Camacho is rich, and can
      purchase his pleasure when, where, and as it pleases him. Basilio has but
      this ewe-lamb, and no one, however powerful he may be, shall take her from
      him; these two whom God hath joined man cannot separate; and he who
      attempts it must first pass the point of this lance;" and so saying he
      brandished it so stoutly and dexterously that he overawed all who did not
      know him.
    </p>
    <p>
      But so deep an impression had the rejection of Quiteria made on Camacho's
      mind that it banished her at once from his thoughts; and so the counsels
      of the priest, who was a wise and kindly disposed man, prevailed with him,
      and by their means he and his partisans were pacified and tranquillised,
      and to prove it put up their swords again, inveighing against the pliancy
      of Quiteria rather than the craftiness of Basilio; Camacho maintaining
      that, if Quiteria as a maiden had such a love for Basilio, she would have
      loved him too as a married woman, and that he ought to thank heaven more
      for having taken her than for having given her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Camacho and those of his following, therefore, being consoled and
      pacified, those on Basilio's side were appeased; and the rich Camacho, to
      show that he felt no resentment for the trick, and did not care about it,
      desired the festival to go on just as if he were married in reality.
      Neither Basilio, however, nor his bride, nor their followers would take
      any part in it, and they withdrew to Basilio's village; for the poor, if
      they are persons of virtue and good sense, have those who follow, honour,
      and uphold them, just as the rich have those who flatter and dance
      attendance on them. With them they carried Don Quixote, regarding him as a
      man of worth and a stout one. Sancho alone had a cloud on his soul, for he
      found himself debarred from waiting for Camacho's splendid feast and
      festival, which lasted until night; and thus dragged away, he moodily
      followed his master, who accompanied Basilio's party, and left behind him
      the flesh-pots of Egypt; though in his heart he took them with him, and
      their now nearly finished skimmings that he carried in the bucket conjured
      up visions before his eyes of the glory and abundance of the good cheer he
      was losing. And so, vexed and dejected though not hungry, without
      dismounting from Dapple he followed in the footsteps of Rocinante.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p21c" id="p21c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p21c.jpg (417K)" src="images/p21c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p21c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p21e" id="p21e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p21e.jpg (49K)" src="images/p21e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch22b" id="ch22b"></a>CHAPTER XXII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHERIN IS RELATED THE GRAND ADVENTURE OF THE CAVE OF MONTESINOS IN THE
      HEART OF LA MANCHA, WHICH THE VALIANT DON QUIXOTE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY
      TERMINATION
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p22a" id="p22a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p22a.jpg (112K)" src="images/p22a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p22a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Many and great were the attentions shown to Don Quixote by the newly
      married couple, who felt themselves under an obligation to him for coming
      forward in defence of their cause; and they exalted his wisdom to the same
      level with his courage, rating him as a Cid in arms, and a Cicero in
      eloquence. Worthy Sancho enjoyed himself for three days at the expense of
      the pair, from whom they learned that the sham wound was not a scheme
      arranged with the fair Quiteria, but a device of Basilio's, who counted on
      exactly the result they had seen; he confessed, it is true, that he had
      confided his idea to some of his friends, so that at the proper time they
      might aid him in his purpose and insure the success of the deception.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p22b" id="p22b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p22b.jpg (344K)" src="images/p22b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p22b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "That," said Don Quixote, "is not and ought not to be called deception
      which aims at virtuous ends;" and the marriage of lovers he maintained to
      be a most excellent end, reminding them, however, that love has no greater
      enemy than hunger and constant want; for love is all gaiety, enjoyment,
      and happiness, especially when the lover is in the possession of the
      object of his love, and poverty and want are the declared enemies of all
      these; which he said to urge Senor Basilio to abandon the practice of
      those accomplishments he was skilled in, for though they brought him fame,
      they brought him no money, and apply himself to the acquisition of wealth
      by legitimate industry, which will never fail those who are prudent and
      persevering. The poor man who is a man of honour (if indeed a poor man can
      be a man of honour) has a jewel when he has a fair wife, and if she is
      taken from him, his honour is taken from him and slain. The fair woman who
      is a woman of honour, and whose husband is poor, deserves to be crowned
      with the laurels and crowns of victory and triumph. Beauty by itself
      attracts the desires of all who behold it, and the royal eagles and birds
      of towering flight stoop on it as on a dainty lure; but if beauty be
      accompanied by want and penury, then the ravens and the kites and other
      birds of prey assail it, and she who stands firm against such attacks well
      deserves to be called the crown of her husband. "Remember, O prudent
      Basilio," added Don Quixote, "it was the opinion of a certain sage, I know
      not whom, that there was not more than one good woman in the whole world;
      and his advice was that each one should think and believe that this one
      good woman was his own wife, and in this way he would live happy. I myself
      am not married, nor, so far, has it ever entered my thoughts to be so;
      nevertheless I would venture to give advice to anyone who might ask it, as
      to the mode in which he should seek a wife such as he would be content to
      marry. The first thing I would recommend him, would be to look to good
      name rather than to wealth, for a good woman does not win a good name
      merely by being good, but by letting it be seen that she is so, and open
      looseness and freedom do much more damage to a woman's honour than secret
      depravity. If you take a good woman into your house it will be an easy
      matter to keep her good, and even to make her still better; but if you
      take a bad one you will find it hard work to mend her, for it is no very
      easy matter to pass from one extreme to another. I do not say it is
      impossible, but I look upon it as difficult."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho, listening to all this, said to himself, "This master of mine, when
      I say anything that has weight and substance, says I might take a pulpit
      in hand, and go about the world preaching fine sermons; but I say of him
      that, when he begins stringing maxims together and giving advice not only
      might he take a pulpit in hand, but two on each finger, and go into the
      market-places to his heart's content. Devil take you for a knight-errant,
      what a lot of things you know! I used to think in my heart that the only
      thing he knew was what belonged to his chivalry; but there is nothing he
      won't have a finger in."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho muttered this somewhat aloud, and his master overheard him, and
      asked, "What art thou muttering there, Sancho?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'm not saying anything or muttering anything," said Sancho; "I was only
      saying to myself that I wish I had heard what your worship has said just
      now before I married; perhaps I'd say now, 'The ox that's loose licks
      himself well.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is thy Teresa so bad then, Sancho?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "She is not very bad," replied Sancho; "but she is not very good; at least
      she is not as good as I could wish."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou dost wrong, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "to speak ill of thy wife;
      for after all she is the mother of thy children." "We are quits," returned
      Sancho; "for she speaks ill of me whenever she takes it into her head,
      especially when she is jealous; and Satan himself could not put up with
      her then."
    </p>
    <p>
      In fine, they remained three days with the newly married couple, by whom
      they were entertained and treated like kings. Don Quixote begged the
      fencing licentiate to find him a guide to show him the way to the cave of
      Montesinos, as he had a great desire to enter it and see with his own eyes
      if the wonderful tales that were told of it all over the country were
      true. The licentiate said he would get him a cousin of his own, a famous
      scholar, and one very much given to reading books of chivalry, who would
      have great pleasure in conducting him to the mouth of the very cave, and
      would show him the lakes of Ruidera, which were likewise famous all over
      La Mancha, and even all over Spain; and he assured him he would find him
      entertaining, for he was a youth who could write books good enough to be
      printed and dedicated to princes. The cousin arrived at last, leading an
      ass in foal, with a pack-saddle covered with a parti-coloured carpet or
      sackcloth; Sancho saddled Rocinante, got Dapple ready, and stocked his
      alforjas, along with which went those of the cousin, likewise well filled;
      and so, commending themselves to God and bidding farewell to all, they set
      out, taking the road for the famous cave of Montesinos.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the way Don Quixote asked the cousin of what sort and character his
      pursuits, avocations, and studies were, to which he replied that he was by
      profession a humanist, and that his pursuits and studies were making books
      for the press, all of great utility and no less entertainment to the
      nation. One was called "The Book of Liveries," in which he described seven
      hundred and three liveries, with their colours, mottoes, and ciphers, from
      which gentlemen of the court might pick and choose any they fancied for
      festivals and revels, without having to go a-begging for them from anyone,
      or puzzling their brains, as the saying is, to have them appropriate to
      their objects and purposes; "for," said he, "I give the jealous, the
      rejected, the forgotten, the absent, what will suit them, and fit them
      without fail. I have another book, too, which I shall call 'Metamorphoses,
      or the Spanish Ovid,' one of rare and original invention, for imitating
      Ovid in burlesque style, I show in it who the Giralda of Seville and the
      Angel of the Magdalena were, what the sewer of Vecinguerra at Cordova was,
      what the bulls of Guisando, the Sierra Morena, the Leganitos and Lavapies
      fountains at Madrid, not forgetting those of the Piojo, of the Cano
      Dorado, and of the Priora; and all with their allegories, metaphors, and
      changes, so that they are amusing, interesting, and instructive, all at
      once. Another book I have which I call 'The Supplement to Polydore
      Vergil,' which treats of the invention of things, and is a work of great
      erudition and research, for I establish and elucidate elegantly some
      things of great importance which Polydore omitted to mention. He forgot to
      tell us who was the first man in the world that had a cold in his head,
      and who was the first to try salivation for the French disease, but I give
      it accurately set forth, and quote more than five-and-twenty authors in
      proof of it, so you may perceive I have laboured to good purpose and that
      the book will be of service to the whole world."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho, who had been very attentive to the cousin's words, said to him,
      "Tell me, senor&mdash;and God give you luck in printing your books&mdash;can
      you tell me (for of course you know, as you know everything) who was the
      first man that scratched his head? For to my thinking it must have been
      our father Adam."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So it must," replied the cousin; "for there is no doubt but Adam had a
      head and hair; and being the first man in the world he would have
      scratched himself sometimes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So I think," said Sancho; "but now tell me, who was the first tumbler in
      the world?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Really, brother," answered the cousin, "I could not at this moment say
      positively without having investigated it; I will look it up when I go
      back to where I have my books, and will satisfy you the next time we meet,
      for this will not be the last time."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Look here, senor," said Sancho, "don't give yourself any trouble about
      it, for I have just this minute hit upon what I asked you. The first
      tumbler in the world, you must know, was Lucifer, when they cast or
      pitched him out of heaven; for he came tumbling into the bottomless pit."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are right, friend," said the cousin; and said Don Quixote, "Sancho,
      that question and answer are not thine own; thou hast heard them from some
      one else."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hold your peace, senor," said Sancho; "faith, if I take to asking
      questions and answering, I'll go on from this till to-morrow morning. Nay!
      to ask foolish things and answer nonsense I needn't go looking for help
      from my neighbours."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou hast said more than thou art aware of, Sancho," said Don Quixote;
      "for there are some who weary themselves out in learning and proving
      things that, after they are known and proved, are not worth a farthing to
      the understanding or memory."
    </p>
    <p>
      In this and other pleasant conversation the day went by, and that night
      they put up at a small hamlet whence it was not more than two leagues to
      the cave of Montesinos, so the cousin told Don Quixote, adding, that if he
      was bent upon entering it, it would be requisite for him to provide
      himself with ropes, so that he might be tied and lowered into its depths.
      Don Quixote said that even if it reached to the bottomless pit he meant to
      see where it went to; so they bought about a hundred fathoms of rope, and
      next day at two in the afternoon they arrived at the cave, the mouth of
      which is spacious and wide, but full of thorn and wild-fig bushes and
      brambles and briars, so thick and matted that they completely close it up
      and cover it over.
    </p>
    <p>
      On coming within sight of it the cousin, Sancho, and Don Quixote
      dismounted, and the first two immediately tied the latter very firmly with
      the ropes, and as they were girding and swathing him Sancho said to him,
      "Mind what you are about, master mine; don't go burying yourself alive, or
      putting yourself where you'll be like a bottle put to cool in a well; it's
      no affair or business of your worship's to become the explorer of this,
      which must be worse than a Moorish dungeon."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tie me and hold thy peace," said Don Quixote, "for an emprise like this,
      friend Sancho, was reserved for me;" and said the guide, "I beg of you,
      Senor Don Quixote, to observe carefully and examine with a hundred eyes
      everything that is within there; perhaps there may be some things for me
      to put into my book of 'Transformations.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The drum is in hands that will know how to beat it well enough," said
      Sancho Panza.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he had said this and finished the tying (which was not over the
      armour but only over the doublet) Don Quixote observed, "It was careless
      of us not to have provided ourselves with a small cattle-bell to be tied
      on the rope close to me, the sound of which would show that I was still
      descending and alive; but as that is out of the question now, in God's
      hand be it to guide me;" and forthwith he fell on his knees and in a low
      voice offered up a prayer to heaven, imploring God to aid him and grant
      him success in this to all appearance perilous and untried adventure, and
      then exclaimed aloud, "O mistress of my actions and movements, illustrious
      and peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, if so be the prayers and supplications
      of this fortunate lover can reach thy ears, by thy incomparable beauty I
      entreat thee to listen to them, for they but ask thee not to refuse me thy
      favour and protection now that I stand in such need of them. I am about to
      precipitate, to sink, to plunge myself into the abyss that is here before
      me, only to let the world know that while thou dost favour me there is no
      impossibility I will not attempt and accomplish." With these words he
      approached the cavern, and perceived that it was impossible to let himself
      down or effect an entrance except by sheer force or cleaving a passage; so
      drawing his sword he began to demolish and cut away the brambles at the
      mouth of the cave, at the noise of which a vast multitude of crows and
      choughs flew out of it so thick and so fast that they knocked Don Quixote
      down; and if he had been as much of a believer in augury as he was a
      Catholic Christian he would have taken it as a bad omen and declined to
      bury himself in such a place. He got up, however, and as there came no
      more crows, or night-birds like the bats that flew out at the same time
      with the crows, the cousin and Sancho giving him rope, he lowered himself
      into the depths of the dread cavern; and as he entered it Sancho sent his
      blessing after him, making a thousand crosses over him and saying, "God,
      and the Pena de Francia, and the Trinity of Gaeta guide thee, flower and
      cream of knights-errant. There thou goest, thou dare-devil of the earth,
      heart of steel, arm of brass; once more, God guide thee and send thee back
      safe, sound, and unhurt to the light of this world thou art leaving to
      bury thyself in the darkness thou art seeking there;" and the cousin
      offered up almost the same prayers and supplications.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p22c" id="p22c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p22c.jpg (365K)" src="images/p22c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p22c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote kept calling to them to give him rope and more rope, and they
      gave it out little by little, and by the time the calls, which came out of
      the cave as out of a pipe, ceased to be heard they had let down the
      hundred fathoms of rope. They were inclined to pull Don Quixote up again,
      as they could give him no more rope; however, they waited about half an
      hour, at the end of which time they began to gather in the rope again with
      great ease and without feeling any weight, which made them fancy Don
      Quixote was remaining below; and persuaded that it was so, Sancho wept
      bitterly, and hauled away in great haste in order to settle the question.
      When, however, they had come to, as it seemed, rather more than eighty
      fathoms they felt a weight, at which they were greatly delighted; and at
      last, at ten fathoms more, they saw Don Quixote distinctly, and Sancho
      called out to him, saying, "Welcome back, senor, for we had begun to think
      you were going to stop there to found a family." But Don Quixote answered
      not a word, and drawing him out entirely they perceived he had his eyes
      shut and every appearance of being fast asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      They stretched him on the ground and untied him, but still he did not
      awake; however, they rolled him back and forwards and shook and pulled him
      about, so that after some time he came to himself, stretching himself just
      as if he were waking up from a deep and sound sleep, and looking about him
      he said, "God forgive you, friends; ye have taken me away from the
      sweetest and most delightful existence and spectacle that ever human being
      enjoyed or beheld. Now indeed do I know that all the pleasures of this
      life pass away like a shadow and a dream, or fade like the flower of the
      field. O ill-fated Montesinos! O sore-wounded Durandarte! O unhappy
      Belerma! O tearful Guadiana, and ye O hapless daughters of Ruidera who
      show in your waves the tears that flowed from your beauteous eyes!"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p22d" id="p22d"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p22d.jpg (318K)" src="images/p22d.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p22d.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The cousin and Sancho Panza listened with deep attention to the words of
      Don Quixote, who uttered them as though with immense pain he drew them up
      from his very bowels. They begged of him to explain himself, and tell them
      what he had seen in that hell down there.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hell do you call it?" said Don Quixote; "call it by no such name, for it
      does not deserve it, as ye shall soon see."
    </p>
    <p>
      He then begged them to give him something to eat, as he was very hungry.
      They spread the cousin's sackcloth on the grass, and put the stores of the
      alforjas into requisition, and all three sitting down lovingly and
      sociably, they made a luncheon and a supper of it all in one; and when the
      sackcloth was removed, Don Quixote of La Mancha said, "Let no one rise,
      and attend to me, my sons, both of you."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p22e" id="p22e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p22e.jpg (48K)" src="images/p22e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch23b" id="ch23b"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE WONDERFUL THINGS THE INCOMPARABLE DON QUIXOTE SAID HE SAW IN THE
      PROFOUND CAVE OF MONTESINOS, THE IMPOSSIBILITY AND MAGNITUDE OF WHICH
      CAUSE THIS ADVENTURE TO BE DEEMED APOCRYPHAL
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p23a" id="p23a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p23a.jpg (148K)" src="images/p23a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p23a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      It was about four in the afternoon when the sun, veiled in clouds, with
      subdued light and tempered beams, enabled Don Quixote to relate, without
      heat or inconvenience, what he had seen in the cave of Montesinos to his
      two illustrious hearers, and he began as follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      "A matter of some twelve or fourteen times a man's height down in this
      pit, on the right-hand side, there is a recess or space, roomy enough to
      contain a large cart with its mules. A little light reaches it through
      some chinks or crevices, communicating with it and open to the surface of
      the earth. This recess or space I perceived when I was already growing
      weary and disgusted at finding myself hanging suspended by the rope,
      travelling downwards into that dark region without any certainty or
      knowledge of where I was going, so I resolved to enter it and rest myself
      for a while. I called out, telling you not to let out more rope until I
      bade you, but you cannot have heard me. I then gathered in the rope you
      were sending me, and making a coil or pile of it I seated myself upon it,
      ruminating and considering what I was to do to lower myself to the bottom,
      having no one to hold me up; and as I was thus deep in thought and
      perplexity, suddenly and without provocation a profound sleep fell upon
      me, and when I least expected it, I know not how, I awoke and found myself
      in the midst of the most beautiful, delightful meadow that nature could
      produce or the most lively human imagination conceive. I opened my eyes, I
      rubbed them, and found I was not asleep but thoroughly awake.
      Nevertheless, I felt my head and breast to satisfy myself whether it was I
      myself who was there or some empty delusive phantom; but touch, feeling,
      the collected thoughts that passed through my mind, all convinced me that
      I was the same then and there that I am this moment. Next there presented
      itself to my sight a stately royal palace or castle, with walls that
      seemed built of clear transparent crystal; and through two great doors
      that opened wide therein, I saw coming forth and advancing towards me a
      venerable old man, clad in a long gown of mulberry-coloured serge that
      trailed upon the ground. On his shoulders and breast he had a green satin
      collegiate hood, and covering his head a black Milanese bonnet, and his
      snow-white beard fell below his girdle. He carried no arms whatever,
      nothing but a rosary of beads bigger than fair-sized filberts, each tenth
      bead being like a moderate ostrich egg; his bearing, his gait, his dignity
      and imposing presence held me spellbound and wondering. He approached me,
      and the first thing he did was to embrace me closely, and then he said to
      me, 'For a long time now, O valiant knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, we
      who are here enchanted in these solitudes have been hoping to see thee,
      that thou mayest make known to the world what is shut up and concealed in
      this deep cave, called the cave of Montesinos, which thou hast entered, an
      achievement reserved for thy invincible heart and stupendous courage alone
      to attempt. Come with me, illustrious sir, and I will show thee the
      marvels hidden within this transparent castle, whereof I am the alcaide
      and perpetual warden; for I am Montesinos himself, from whom the cave
      takes its name.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "The instant he told me he was Montesinos, I asked him if the story they
      told in the world above here was true, that he had taken out the heart of
      his great friend Durandarte from his breast with a little dagger, and
      carried it to the lady Belerma, as his friend when at the point of death
      had commanded him. He said in reply that they spoke the truth in every
      respect except as to the dagger, for it was not a dagger, nor little, but
      a burnished poniard sharper than an awl."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That poniard must have been made by Ramon de Hoces the Sevillian," said
      Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not know," said Don Quixote; "it could not have been by that poniard
      maker, however, because Ramon de Hoces was a man of yesterday, and the
      affair of Roncesvalles, where this mishap occurred, was long ago; but the
      question is of no great importance, nor does it affect or make any
      alteration in the truth or substance of the story."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said the cousin; "continue, Senor Don Quixote, for I am
      listening to you with the greatest pleasure in the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And with no less do I tell the tale," said Don Quixote; "and so, to
      proceed&mdash;the venerable Montesinos led me into the palace of crystal,
      where, in a lower chamber, strangely cool and entirely of alabaster, was
      an elaborately wrought marble tomb, upon which I beheld, stretched at full
      length, a knight, not of bronze, or marble, or jasper, as are seen on
      other tombs, but of actual flesh and bone. His right hand (which seemed to
      me somewhat hairy and sinewy, a sign of great strength in its owner) lay
      on the side of his heart; but before I could put any question to
      Montesinos, he, seeing me gazing at the tomb in amazement, said to me,
      'This is my friend Durandarte, flower and mirror of the true lovers and
      valiant knights of his time. He is held enchanted here, as I myself and
      many others are, by that French enchanter Merlin, who, they say, was the
      devil's son; but my belief is, not that he was the devil's son, but that
      he knew, as the saying is, a point more than the devil. How or why he
      enchanted us, no one knows, but time will tell, and I suspect that time is
      not far off. What I marvel at is, that I know it to be as sure as that it
      is now day, that Durandarte ended his life in my arms, and that, after his
      death, I took out his heart with my own hands; and indeed it must have
      weighed more than two pounds, for, according to naturalists, he who has a
      large heart is more largely endowed with valour than he who has a small
      one. Then, as this is the case, and as the knight did really die, how
      comes it that he now moans and sighs from time to time, as if he were
      still alive?'
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p23b" id="p23b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p23b.jpg (243K)" src="images/p23b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p23b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "As he said this, the wretched Durandarte cried out in a loud voice:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
O cousin Montesinos!
  'T was my last request of thee,
When my soul hath left the body,
  And that lying dead I be,
With thy poniard or thy dagger
  Cut the heart from out my breast,
And bear it to Belerma.
  This was my last request."

</pre>
    <p>
      "On hearing which, the venerable Montesinos fell on his knees before the
      unhappy knight, and with tearful eyes exclaimed, 'Long since, Senor
      Durandarte, my beloved cousin, long since have I done what you bade me on
      that sad day when I lost you; I took out your heart as well as I could,
      not leaving an atom of it in your breast, I wiped it with a lace
      handkerchief, and I took the road to France with it, having first laid you
      in the bosom of the earth with tears enough to wash and cleanse my hands
      of the blood that covered them after wandering among your bowels; and more
      by token, O cousin of my soul, at the first village I came to after
      leaving Roncesvalles, I sprinkled a little salt upon your heart to keep it
      sweet, and bring it, if not fresh, at least pickled, into the presence of
      the lady Belerma, whom, together with you, myself, Guadiana your squire,
      the duenna Ruidera and her seven daughters and two nieces, and many more
      of your friends and acquaintances, the sage Merlin has been keeping
      enchanted here these many years; and although more than five hundred have
      gone by, not one of us has died; Ruidera and her daughters and nieces
      alone are missing, and these, because of the tears they shed, Merlin, out
      of the compassion he seems to have felt for them, changed into so many
      lakes, which to this day in the world of the living, and in the province
      of La Mancha, are called the Lakes of Ruidera. The seven daughters belong
      to the kings of Spain and the two nieces to the knights of a very holy
      order called the Order of St. John. Guadiana your squire, likewise
      bewailing your fate, was changed into a river of his own name, but when he
      came to the surface and beheld the sun of another heaven, so great was his
      grief at finding he was leaving you, that he plunged into the bowels of
      the earth; however, as he cannot help following his natural course, he
      from time to time comes forth and shows himself to the sun and the world.
      The lakes aforesaid send him their waters, and with these, and others that
      come to him, he makes a grand and imposing entrance into Portugal; but for
      all that, go where he may, he shows his melancholy and sadness, and takes
      no pride in breeding dainty choice fish, only coarse and tasteless sorts,
      very different from those of the golden Tagus. All this that I tell you
      now, O cousin mine, I have told you many times before, and as you make no
      answer, I fear that either you believe me not, or do not hear me, whereat
      I feel God knows what grief. I have now news to give you, which, if it
      serves not to alleviate your sufferings, will not in any wise increase
      them. Know that you have here before you (open your eyes and you will see)
      that great knight of whom the sage Merlin has prophesied such great
      things; that Don Quixote of La Mancha I mean, who has again, and to better
      purpose than in past times, revived in these days knight-errantry, long
      since forgotten, and by whose intervention and aid it may be we shall be
      disenchanted; for great deeds are reserved for great men.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'And if that may not be,' said the wretched Durandarte in a low and
      feeble voice, 'if that may not be, then, my cousin, I say "patience and
      shuffle;"' and turning over on his side, he relapsed into his former
      silence without uttering another word.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p23c" id="p23c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p23c.jpg (331K)" src="images/p23c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p23c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "And now there was heard a great outcry and lamentation, accompanied by
      deep sighs and bitter sobs. I looked round, and through the crystal wall I
      saw passing through another chamber a procession of two lines of fair
      damsels all clad in mourning, and with white turbans of Turkish fashion on
      their heads. Behind, in the rear of these, there came a lady, for so from
      her dignity she seemed to be, also clad in black, with a white veil so
      long and ample that it swept the ground. Her turban was twice as large as
      the largest of any of the others; her eyebrows met, her nose was rather
      flat, her mouth was large but with ruddy lips, and her teeth, of which at
      times she allowed a glimpse, were seen to be sparse and ill-set, though as
      white as peeled almonds. She carried in her hands a fine cloth, and in it,
      as well as I could make out, a heart that had been mummied, so parched and
      dried was it. Montesinos told me that all those forming the procession
      were the attendants of Durandarte and Belerma, who were enchanted there
      with their master and mistress, and that the last, she who carried the
      heart in the cloth, was the lady Belerma, who, with her damsels, four days
      in the week went in procession singing, or rather weeping, dirges over the
      body and miserable heart of his cousin; and that if she appeared to me
      somewhat ill-favoured or not so beautiful as fame reported her, it was
      because of the bad nights and worse days that she passed in that
      enchantment, as I could see by the great dark circles round her eyes, and
      her sickly complexion; 'her sallowness, and the rings round her eyes,'
      said he, 'are not caused by the periodical ailment usual with women, for
      it is many months and even years since she has had any, but by the grief
      her own heart suffers because of that which she holds in her hand
      perpetually, and which recalls and brings back to her memory the sad fate
      of her lost lover; were it not for this, hardly would the great Dulcinea
      del Toboso, so celebrated in all these parts, and even in the world, come
      up to her for beauty, grace, and gaiety.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Hold hard!' said I at this, 'tell your story as you ought, Senor Don
      Montesinos, for you know very well that all comparisons are odious, and
      there is no occasion to compare one person with another; the peerless
      Dulcinea del Toboso is what she is, and the lady Dona Belerma is what she
      is and has been, and that's enough.' To which he made answer, 'Forgive me,
      Senor Don Quixote; I own I was wrong and spoke unadvisedly in saying that
      the lady Dulcinea could scarcely come up to the lady Belerma; for it were
      enough for me to have learned, by what means I know not, that you are her
      knight, to make me bite my tongue out before I compared her to anything
      save heaven itself.' After this apology which the great Montesinos made
      me, my heart recovered itself from the shock I had received in hearing my
      lady compared with Belerma."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Still I wonder," said Sancho, "that your worship did not get upon the old
      fellow and bruise every bone of him with kicks, and pluck his beard until
      you didn't leave a hair in it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, Sancho, my friend," said Don Quixote, "it would not have been right
      in me to do that, for we are all bound to pay respect to the aged, even
      though they be not knights, but especially to those who are, and who are
      enchanted; I only know I gave him as good as he brought in the many other
      questions and answers we exchanged."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cannot understand, Senor Don Quixote," remarked the cousin here, "how
      it is that your worship, in such a short space of time as you have been
      below there, could have seen so many things, and said and answered so
      much."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How long is it since I went down?" asked Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Little better than an hour," replied Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That cannot be," returned Don Quixote, "because night overtook me while I
      was there, and day came, and it was night again and day again three times;
      so that, by my reckoning, I have been three days in those remote regions
      beyond our ken."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My master must be right," replied Sancho; "for as everything that has
      happened to him is by enchantment, maybe what seems to us an hour would
      seem three days and nights there."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's it," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And did your worship eat anything all that time, senor?" asked the
      cousin.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I never touched a morsel," answered Don Quixote, "nor did I feel hunger,
      or think of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And do the enchanted eat?" said the cousin.
    </p>
    <p>
      "They neither eat," said Don Quixote; "nor are they subject to the greater
      excrements, though it is thought that their nails, beards, and hair grow."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And do the enchanted sleep, now, senor?" asked Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Certainly not," replied Don Quixote; "at least, during those three days I
      was with them not one of them closed an eye, nor did I either."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The proverb, 'Tell me what company thou keepest and I'll tell thee what
      thou art,' is to the point here," said Sancho; "your worship keeps company
      with enchanted people that are always fasting and watching; what wonder is
      it, then, that you neither eat nor sleep while you are with them? But
      forgive me, senor, if I say that of all this you have told us now, may God
      take me&mdash;I was just going to say the devil&mdash;if I believe a
      single particle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What!" said the cousin, "has Senor Don Quixote, then, been lying? Why,
      even if he wished it he has not had time to imagine and put together such
      a host of lies."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't believe my master lies," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "If not, what dost thou believe?" asked Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I believe," replied Sancho, "that this Merlin, or those enchanters who
      enchanted the whole crew your worship says you saw and discoursed with
      down there, stuffed your imagination or your mind with all this rigmarole
      you have been treating us to, and all that is still to come."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All that might be, Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "but it is not so, for
      everything that I have told you I saw with my own eyes, and touched with
      my own hands. But what will you say when I tell you now how, among the
      countless other marvellous things Montesinos showed me (of which at
      leisure and at the proper time I will give thee an account in the course
      of our journey, for they would not be all in place here), he showed me
      three country girls who went skipping and capering like goats over the
      pleasant fields there, and the instant I beheld them I knew one to be the
      peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, and the other two those same country girls
      that were with her and that we spoke to on the road from El Toboso! I
      asked Montesinos if he knew them, and he told me he did not, but he
      thought they must be some enchanted ladies of distinction, for it was only
      a few days before that they had made their appearance in those meadows;
      but I was not to be surprised at that, because there were a great many
      other ladies there of times past and present, enchanted in various strange
      shapes, and among them he had recognised Queen Guinevere and her dame
      Quintanona, she who poured out the wine for Lancelot when he came from
      Britain."
    </p>
    <p>
      When Sancho Panza heard his master say this he was ready to take leave of
      his senses, or die with laughter; for, as he knew the real truth about the
      pretended enchantment of Dulcinea, in which he himself had been the
      enchanter and concocter of all the evidence, he made up his mind at last
      that, beyond all doubt, his master was out of his wits and stark mad, so
      he said to him, "It was an evil hour, a worse season, and a sorrowful day,
      when your worship, dear master mine, went down to the other world, and an
      unlucky moment when you met with Senor Montesinos, who has sent you back
      to us like this. You were well enough here above in your full senses, such
      as God had given you, delivering maxims and giving advice at every turn,
      and not as you are now, talking the greatest nonsense that can be
      imagined."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As I know thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "I heed not thy words."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nor I your worship's," said Sancho, "whether you beat me or kill me for
      those I have spoken, and will speak if you don't correct and mend your
      own. But tell me, while we are still at peace, how or by what did you
      recognise the lady our mistress; and if you spoke to her, what did you
      say, and what did she answer?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I recognised her," said Don Quixote, "by her wearing the same garments
      she wore when thou didst point her out to me. I spoke to her, but she did
      not utter a word in reply; on the contrary, she turned her back on me and
      took to flight, at such a pace that crossbow bolt could not have overtaken
      her. I wished to follow her, and would have done so had not Montesinos
      recommended me not to take the trouble as it would be useless,
      particularly as the time was drawing near when it would be necessary for
      me to quit the cavern. He told me, moreover, that in course of time he
      would let me know how he and Belerma, and Durandarte, and all who were
      there, were to be disenchanted. But of all I saw and observed down there,
      what gave me most pain was, that while Montesinos was speaking to me, one
      of the two companions of the hapless Dulcinea approached me on one without
      my having seen her coming, and with tears in her eyes said to me, in a
      low, agitated voice, 'My lady Dulcinea del Toboso kisses your worship's
      hands, and entreats you to do her the favour of letting her know how you
      are; and, being in great need, she also entreats your worship as earnestly
      as she can to be so good as to lend her half a dozen reals, or as much as
      you may have about you, on this new dimity petticoat that I have here; and
      she promises to repay them very speedily.' I was amazed and taken aback by
      such a message, and turning to Senor Montesinos I asked him, 'Is it
      possible, Senor Montesinos, that persons of distinction under enchantment
      can be in need?' To which he replied, 'Believe me, Senor Don Quixote, that
      which is called need is to be met with everywhere, and penetrates all
      quarters and reaches everyone, and does not spare even the enchanted; and
      as the lady Dulcinea del Toboso sends to beg those six reals, and the
      pledge is to all appearance a good one, there is nothing for it but to
      give them to her, for no doubt she must be in some great strait.' 'I will
      take no pledge of her,' I replied, 'nor yet can I give her what she asks,
      for all I have is four reals; which I gave (they were those which thou,
      Sancho, gavest me the other day to bestow in alms upon the poor I met
      along the road), and I said, 'Tell your mistress, my dear, that I am
      grieved to the heart because of her distresses, and wish I was a Fucar to
      remedy them, and that I would have her know that I cannot be, and ought
      not be, in health while deprived of the happiness of seeing her and
      enjoying her discreet conversation, and that I implore her as earnestly as
      I can, to allow herself to be seen and addressed by this her captive
      servant and forlorn knight. Tell her, too, that when she least expects it
      she will hear it announced that I have made an oath and vow after the
      fashion of that which the Marquis of Mantua made to avenge his nephew
      Baldwin, when he found him at the point of death in the heart of the
      mountains, which was, not to eat bread off a tablecloth, and other
      trifling matters which he added, until he had avenged him; and I will make
      the same to take no rest, and to roam the seven regions of the earth more
      thoroughly than the Infante Don Pedro of Portugal ever roamed them, until
      I have disenchanted her.' 'All that and more, you owe my lady,' the
      damsel's answer to me, and taking the four reals, instead of making me a
      curtsey she cut a caper, springing two full yards into the air."
    </p>
    <p>
      "O blessed God!" exclaimed Sancho aloud at this, "is it possible that such
      things can be in the world, and that enchanters and enchantments can have
      such power in it as to have changed my master's right senses into a craze
      so full of absurdity! O senor, senor, for God's sake, consider yourself,
      have a care for your honour, and give no credit to this silly stuff that
      has left you scant and short of wits."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou talkest in this way because thou lovest me, Sancho," said Don
      Quixote; "and not being experienced in the things of the world, everything
      that has some difficulty about it seems to thee impossible; but time will
      pass, as I said before, and I will tell thee some of the things I saw down
      there which will make thee believe what I have related now, the truth of
      which admits of neither reply nor question."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p23e" id="p23e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p23e.jpg (54K)" src="images/p23e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch24b" id="ch24b"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN ARE RELATED A THOUSAND TRIFLING MATTERS, AS TRIVIAL AS THEY ARE
      NECESSARY TO THE RIGHT UNDERSTANDING OF THIS GREAT HISTORY
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p24a" id="p24a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p24a.jpg (137K)" src="images/p24a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p24a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      He who translated this great history from the original written by its
      first author, Cide Hamete Benengeli, says that on coming to the chapter
      giving the adventures of the cave of Montesinos he found written on the
      margin of it, in Hamete's own hand, these exact words:
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cannot convince or persuade myself that everything that is written in
      the preceding chapter could have precisely happened to the valiant Don
      Quixote; and for this reason, that all the adventures that have occurred
      up to the present have been possible and probable; but as for this one of
      the cave, I see no way of accepting it as true, as it passes all
      reasonable bounds. For me to believe that Don Quixote could lie, he being
      the most truthful gentleman and the noblest knight of his time, is
      impossible; he would not have told a lie though he were shot to death with
      arrows. On the other hand, I reflect that he related and told the story
      with all the circumstances detailed, and that he could not in so short a
      space have fabricated such a vast complication of absurdities; if, then,
      this adventure seems apocryphal, it is no fault of mine; and so, without
      affirming its falsehood or its truth, I write it down. Decide for thyself
      in thy wisdom, reader; for I am not bound, nor is it in my power, to do
      more; though certain it is they say that at the time of his death he
      retracted, and said he had invented it, thinking it matched and tallied
      with the adventures he had read of in his histories." And then he goes on
      to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      The cousin was amazed as well at Sancho's boldness as at the patience of
      his master, and concluded that the good temper the latter displayed arose
      from the happiness he felt at having seen his lady Dulcinea, even
      enchanted as she was; because otherwise the words and language Sancho had
      addressed to him deserved a thrashing; for indeed he seemed to him to have
      been rather impudent to his master, to whom he now observed, "I, Senor Don
      Quixote of La Mancha, look upon the time I have spent in travelling with
      your worship as very well employed, for I have gained four things in the
      course of it; the first is that I have made your acquaintance, which I
      consider great good fortune; the second, that I have learned what the cave
      of Montesinos contains, together with the transformations of Guadiana and
      of the lakes of Ruidera; which will be of use to me for the Spanish Ovid
      that I have in hand; the third, to have discovered the antiquity of cards,
      that they were in use at least in the time of Charlemagne, as may be
      inferred from the words you say Durandarte uttered when, at the end of
      that long spell while Montesinos was talking to him, he woke up and said,
      'Patience and shuffle.' This phrase and expression he could not have
      learned while he was enchanted, but only before he had become so, in
      France, and in the time of the aforesaid emperor Charlemagne. And this
      demonstration is just the thing for me for that other book I am writing,
      the 'Supplement to Polydore Vergil on the Invention of Antiquities;' for I
      believe he never thought of inserting that of cards in his book, as I mean
      to do in mine, and it will be a matter of great importance, particularly
      when I can cite so grave and veracious an authority as Senor Durandarte.
      And the fourth thing is, that I have ascertained the source of the river
      Guadiana, heretofore unknown to mankind."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are right," said Don Quixote; "but I should like to know, if by God's
      favour they grant you a licence to print those books of yours&mdash;which
      I doubt&mdash;to whom do you mean to dedicate them?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "There are lords and grandees in Spain to whom they can be dedicated,"
      said the cousin.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not many," said Don Quixote; "not that they are unworthy of it, but
      because they do not care to accept books and incur the obligation of
      making the return that seems due to the author's labour and courtesy. One
      prince I know who makes up for all the rest, and more&mdash;how much more,
      if I ventured to say, perhaps I should stir up envy in many a noble
      breast; but let this stand over for some more convenient time, and let us
      go and look for some place to shelter ourselves in to-night."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not far from this," said the cousin, "there is a hermitage, where there
      lives a hermit, who they say was a soldier, and who has the reputation of
      being a good Christian and a very intelligent and charitable man. Close to
      the hermitage he has a small house which he built at his own cost, but
      though small it is large enough for the reception of guests."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Has this hermit any hens, do you think?" asked Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Few hermits are without them," said Don Quixote; "for those we see
      now-a-days are not like the hermits of the Egyptian deserts who were clad
      in palm-leaves, and lived on the roots of the earth. But do not think that
      by praising these I am disparaging the others; all I mean to say is that
      the penances of those of the present day do not come up to the asceticism
      and austerity of former times; but it does not follow from this that they
      are not all worthy; at least I think them so; and at the worst the
      hypocrite who pretends to be good does less harm than the open sinner."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this point they saw approaching the spot where they stood a man on
      foot, proceeding at a rapid pace, and beating a mule loaded with lances
      and halberds. When he came up to them, he saluted them and passed on
      without stopping. Don Quixote called to him, "Stay, good fellow; you seem
      to be making more haste than suits that mule."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I cannot stop, senor," answered the man; "for the arms you see I carry
      here are to be used tomorrow, so I must not delay; God be with you. But if
      you want to know what I am carrying them for, I mean to lodge to-night at
      the inn that is beyond the hermitage, and if you be going the same road
      you will find me there, and I will tell you some curious things; once more
      God be with you;" and he urged on his mule at such a pace that Don Quixote
      had no time to ask him what these curious things were that he meant to
      tell them; and as he was somewhat inquisitive, and always tortured by his
      anxiety to learn something new, he decided to set out at once, and go and
      pass the night at the inn instead of stopping at the hermitage, where the
      cousin would have had them halt. Accordingly they mounted and all three
      took the direct road for the inn, which they reached a little before
      nightfall. On the road the cousin proposed they should go up to the
      hermitage to drink a sup. The instant Sancho heard this he steered his
      Dapple towards it, and Don Quixote and the cousin did the same; but it
      seems Sancho's bad luck so ordered it that the hermit was not at home, for
      so a sub-hermit they found in the hermitage told them. They called for
      some of the best. She replied that her master had none, but that if they
      liked cheap water she would give it with great pleasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      "If I found any in water," said Sancho, "there are wells along the road
      where I could have had enough of it. Ah, Camacho's wedding, and plentiful
      house of Don Diego, how often do I miss you!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Leaving the hermitage, they pushed on towards the inn, and a little
      farther they came upon a youth who was pacing along in front of them at no
      great speed, so that they overtook him. He carried a sword over his
      shoulder, and slung on it a budget or bundle of his clothes apparently,
      probably his breeches or pantaloons, and his cloak and a shirt or two; for
      he had on a short jacket of velvet with a gloss like satin on it in
      places, and had his shirt out; his stockings were of silk, and his shoes
      square-toed as they wear them at court. His age might have been eighteen
      or nineteen; he was of a merry countenance, and to all appearance of an
      active habit, and he went along singing seguidillas to beguile the
      wearisomeness of the road. As they came up with him he was just finishing
      one, which the cousin got by heart and they say ran thus&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
I'm off to the wars
  For the want of pence,
Oh, had I but money
  I'd show more sense.
</pre>
    <p>
      The first to address him was Don Quixote, who said, "You travel very
      airily, sir gallant; whither bound, may we ask, if it is your pleasure to
      tell us?"
    </p>
    <p>
      To which the youth replied, "The heat and my poverty are the reason of my
      travelling so airily, and it is to the wars that I am bound."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How poverty?" asked Don Quixote; "the heat one can understand."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor," replied the youth, "in this bundle I carry velvet pantaloons to
      match this jacket; if I wear them out on the road, I shall not be able to
      make a decent appearance in them in the city, and I have not the
      wherewithal to buy others; and so for this reason, as well as to keep
      myself cool, I am making my way in this fashion to overtake some companies
      of infantry that are not twelve leagues off, in which I shall enlist, and
      there will be no want of baggage trains to travel with after that to the
      place of embarkation, which they say will be Carthagena; I would rather
      have the King for a master, and serve him in the wars, than serve a court
      pauper."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And did you get any bounty, now?" asked the cousin.
    </p>
    <p>
      "If I had been in the service of some grandee of Spain or personage of
      distinction," replied the youth, "I should have been safe to get it; for
      that is the advantage of serving good masters, that out of the servants'
      hall men come to be ancients or captains, or get a good pension. But I, to
      my misfortune, always served place-hunters and adventurers, whose keep and
      wages were so miserable and scanty that half went in paying for the
      starching of one's collars; it would be a miracle indeed if a page
      volunteer ever got anything like a reasonable bounty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And tell me, for heaven's sake," asked Don Quixote, "is it possible, my
      friend, that all the time you served you never got any livery?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "They gave me two," replied the page; "but just as when one quits a
      religious community before making profession, they strip him of the dress
      of the order and give him back his own clothes, so did my masters return
      me mine; for as soon as the business on which they came to court was
      finished, they went home and took back the liveries they had given merely
      for show."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What spilorceria!&mdash;as an Italian would say," said Don Quixote; "but
      for all that, consider yourself happy in having left court with as worthy
      an object as you have, for there is nothing on earth more honourable or
      profitable than serving, first of all God, and then one's king and natural
      lord, particularly in the profession of arms, by which, if not more
      wealth, at least more honour is to be won than by letters, as I have said
      many a time; for though letters may have founded more great houses than
      arms, still those founded by arms have I know not what superiority over
      those founded by letters, and a certain splendour belonging to them that
      distinguishes them above all. And bear in mind what I am now about to say
      to you, for it will be of great use and comfort to you in time of trouble;
      it is, not to let your mind dwell on the adverse chances that may befall
      you; for the worst of all is death, and if it be a good death, the best of
      all is to die. They asked Julius Caesar, the valiant Roman emperor, what
      was the best death. He answered, that which is unexpected, which comes
      suddenly and unforeseen; and though he answered like a pagan, and one
      without the knowledge of the true God, yet, as far as sparing our feelings
      is concerned, he was right; for suppose you are killed in the first
      engagement or skirmish, whether by a cannon ball or blown up by mine, what
      matters it? It is only dying, and all is over; and according to Terence, a
      soldier shows better dead in battle, than alive and safe in flight; and
      the good soldier wins fame in proportion as he is obedient to his captains
      and those in command over him. And remember, my son, that it is better for
      the soldier to smell of gunpowder than of civet, and that if old age
      should come upon you in this honourable calling, though you may be covered
      with wounds and crippled and lame, it will not come upon you without
      honour, and that such as poverty cannot lessen; especially now that
      provisions are being made for supporting and relieving old and disabled
      soldiers; for it is not right to deal with them after the fashion of those
      who set free and get rid of their black slaves when they are old and
      useless, and, turning them out of their houses under the pretence of
      making them free, make them slaves to hunger, from which they cannot
      expect to be released except by death. But for the present I won't say
      more than get ye up behind me on my horse as far as the inn, and sup with
      me there, and to-morrow you shall pursue your journey, and God give you as
      good speed as your intentions deserve."
    </p>
    <p>
      The page did not accept the invitation to mount, though he did that to
      supper at the inn; and here they say Sancho said to himself, "God be with
      you for a master; is it possible that a man who can say things so many and
      so good as he has said just now, can say that he saw the impossible
      absurdities he reports about the cave of Montesinos? Well, well, we shall
      see."
    </p>
    <p>
      And now, just as night was falling, they reached the inn, and it was not
      without satisfaction that Sancho perceived his master took it for a real
      inn, and not for a castle as usual. The instant they entered Don Quixote
      asked the landlord after the man with the lances and halberds, and was
      told that he was in the stable seeing to his mule; which was what Sancho
      and the cousin proceeded to do for their beasts, giving the best manger
      and the best place in the stable to Rocinante.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p24e" id="p24e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p24e.jpg (61K)" src="images/p24e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch25b" id="ch25b"></a>CHAPTER XXV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS SET DOWN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, AND THE DROLL ONE OF THE
      PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER WITH THE MEMORABLE DIVINATIONS OF THE DIVINING
      APE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p25a" id="p25a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p25a.jpg (154K)" src="images/p25a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p25a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote's bread would not bake, as the common saying is, until he had
      heard and learned the curious things promised by the man who carried the
      arms. He went to seek him where the innkeeper said he was and having found
      him, bade him say now at any rate what he had to say in answer to the
      question he had asked him on the road. "The tale of my wonders must be
      taken more leisurely and not standing," said the man; "let me finish
      foddering my beast, good sir; and then I'll tell you things that will
      astonish you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Don't wait for that," said Don Quixote; "I'll help you in everything,"
      and so he did, sifting the barley for him and cleaning out the manger; a
      degree of humility which made the other feel bound to tell him with a good
      grace what he had asked; so seating himself on a bench, with Don Quixote
      beside him, and the cousin, the page, Sancho Panza, and the landlord, for
      a senate and an audience, he began his story in this way:
    </p>
    <p>
      "You must know that in a village four leagues and a half from this inn, it
      so happened that one of the regidors, by the tricks and roguery of a
      servant girl of his (it's too long a tale to tell), lost an ass; and
      though he did all he possibly could to find it, it was all to no purpose.
      A fortnight might have gone by, so the story goes, since the ass had been
      missing, when, as the regidor who had lost it was standing in the plaza,
      another regidor of the same town said to him, 'Pay me for good news,
      gossip; your ass has turned up.' 'That I will, and well, gossip,' said the
      other; 'but tell us, where has he turned up?' 'In the forest,' said the
      finder; 'I saw him this morning without pack-saddle or harness of any
      sort, and so lean that it went to one's heart to see him. I tried to drive
      him before me and bring him to you, but he is already so wild and shy that
      when I went near him he made off into the thickest part of the forest. If
      you have a mind that we two should go back and look for him, let me put up
      this she-ass at my house and I'll be back at once.' 'You will be doing me
      a great kindness,' said the owner of the ass, 'and I'll try to pay it back
      in the same coin.' It is with all these circumstances, and in the very
      same way I am telling it now, that those who know all about the matter
      tell the story. Well then, the two regidors set off on foot, arm in arm,
      for the forest, and coming to the place where they hoped to find the ass
      they could not find him, nor was he to be seen anywhere about, search as
      they might. Seeing, then, that there was no sign of him, the regidor who
      had seen him said to the other, 'Look here, gossip; a plan has occurred to
      me, by which, beyond a doubt, we shall manage to discover the animal, even
      if he is stowed away in the bowels of the earth, not to say the forest.
      Here it is. I can bray to perfection, and if you can ever so little, the
      thing's as good as done.' 'Ever so little did you say, gossip?' said the
      other; 'by God, I'll not give in to anybody, not even to the asses
      themselves.' 'We'll soon see,' said the second regidor, 'for my plan is
      that you should go one side of the forest, and I the other, so as to go
      all round about it; and every now and then you will bray and I will bray;
      and it cannot be but that the ass will hear us, and answer us if he is in
      the forest.' To which the owner of the ass replied, 'It's an excellent
      plan, I declare, gossip, and worthy of your great genius;' and the two
      separating as agreed, it so fell out that they brayed almost at the same
      moment, and each, deceived by the braying of the other, ran to look,
      fancying the ass had turned up at last. When they came in sight of one
      another, said the loser, 'Is it possible, gossip, that it was not my ass
      that brayed?' 'No, it was I,' said the other. 'Well then, I can tell you,
      gossip,' said the ass's owner, 'that between you and an ass there is not
      an atom of difference as far as braying goes, for I never in all my life
      saw or heard anything more natural.' 'Those praises and compliments belong
      to you more justly than to me, gossip,' said the inventor of the plan;
      'for, by the God that made me, you might give a couple of brays odds to
      the best and most finished brayer in the world; the tone you have got is
      deep, your voice is well kept up as to time and pitch, and your finishing
      notes come thick and fast; in fact, I own myself beaten, and yield the
      palm to you, and give in to you in this rare accomplishment.' 'Well then,'
      said the owner, 'I'll set a higher value on myself for the future, and
      consider that I know something, as I have an excellence of some sort; for
      though I always thought I brayed well, I never supposed I came up to the
      pitch of perfection you say.' 'And I say too,' said the second, 'that
      there are rare gifts going to loss in the world, and that they are ill
      bestowed upon those who don't know how to make use of them.' 'Ours,' said
      the owner of the ass, 'unless it is in cases like this we have now in
      hand, cannot be of any service to us, and even in this God grant they may
      be of some use.' So saying they separated, and took to their braying once
      more, but every instant they were deceiving one another, and coming to
      meet one another again, until they arranged by way of countersign, so as
      to know that it was they and not the ass, to give two brays, one after the
      other. In this way, doubling the brays at every step, they made the
      complete circuit of the forest, but the lost ass never gave them an answer
      or even the sign of one. How could the poor ill-starred brute have
      answered, when, in the thickest part of the forest, they found him
      devoured by wolves? As soon as he saw him his owner said, 'I was wondering
      he did not answer, for if he wasn't dead he'd have brayed when he heard
      us, or he'd have been no ass; but for the sake of having heard you bray to
      such perfection, gossip, I count the trouble I have taken to look for him
      well bestowed, even though I have found him dead.' 'It's in a good hand,
      gossip,' said the other; 'if the abbot sings well, the acolyte is not much
      behind him.' So they returned disconsolate and hoarse to their village,
      where they told their friends, neighbours, and acquaintances what had
      befallen them in their search for the ass, each crying up the other's
      perfection in braying. The whole story came to be known and spread abroad
      through the villages of the neighbourhood; and the devil, who never
      sleeps, with his love for sowing dissensions and scattering discord
      everywhere, blowing mischief about and making quarrels out of nothing,
      contrived to make the people of the other towns fall to braying whenever
      they saw anyone from our village, as if to throw the braying of our
      regidors in our teeth. Then the boys took to it, which was the same thing
      for it as getting into the hands and mouths of all the devils of hell; and
      braying spread from one town to another in such a way that the men of the
      braying town are as easy to be known as blacks are to be known from
      whites, and the unlucky joke has gone so far that several times the
      scoffed have come out in arms and in a body to do battle with the
      scoffers, and neither king nor rook, fear nor shame, can mend matters.
      To-morrow or the day after, I believe, the men of my town, that is, of the
      braying town, are going to take the field against another village two
      leagues away from ours, one of those that persecute us most; and that we
      may turn out well prepared I have bought these lances and halberds you
      have seen. These are the curious things I told you I had to tell, and if
      you don't think them so, I have got no others;" and with this the worthy
      fellow brought his story to a close.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just at this moment there came in at the gate of the inn a man entirely
      clad in chamois leather, hose, breeches, and doublet, who said in a loud
      voice, "Senor host, have you room? Here's the divining ape and the show of
      the Release of Melisendra just coming."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ods body!" said the landlord, "why, it's Master Pedro! We're in for a
      grand night!" I forgot to mention that the said Master Pedro had his left
      eye and nearly half his cheek covered with a patch of green taffety,
      showing that something ailed all that side. "Your worship is welcome,
      Master Pedro," continued the landlord; "but where are the ape and the
      show, for I don't see them?" "They are close at hand," said he in the
      chamois leather, "but I came on first to know if there was any room." "I'd
      make the Duke of Alva himself clear out to make room for Master Pedro,"
      said the landlord; "bring in the ape and the show; there's company in the
      inn to-night that will pay to see that and the cleverness of the ape." "So
      be it by all means," said the man with the patch; "I'll lower the price,
      and be well satisfied if I only pay my expenses; and now I'll go back and
      hurry on the cart with the ape and the show;" and with this he went out of
      the inn.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote at once asked the landlord what this Master Pedro was, and
      what was the show and what was the ape he had with him; which the landlord
      replied, "This is a famous puppet-showman, who for some time past has been
      going about this Mancha de Aragon, exhibiting a show of the release of
      Melisendra by the famous Don Gaiferos, one of the best and
      best-represented stories that have been seen in this part of the kingdom
      for many a year; he has also with him an ape with the most extraordinary
      gift ever seen in an ape or imagined in a human being; for if you ask him
      anything, he listens attentively to the question, and then jumps on his
      master's shoulder, and pressing close to his ear tells him the answer
      which Master Pedro then delivers. He says a great deal more about things
      past than about things to come; and though he does not always hit the
      truth in every case, most times he is not far wrong, so that he makes us
      fancy he has got the devil in him. He gets two reals for every question if
      the ape answers; I mean if his master answers for him after he has
      whispered into his ear; and so it is believed that this same Master Pedro
      is very rich. He is a 'gallant man' as they say in Italy, and good
      company, and leads the finest life in the world; talks more than six,
      drinks more than a dozen, and all by his tongue, and his ape, and his
      show."
    </p>
    <p>
      Master Pedro now came back, and in a cart followed the show and the ape&mdash;a
      big one, without a tail and with buttocks as bare as felt, but not
      vicious-looking. As soon as Don Quixote saw him, he asked him, "Can you
      tell me, sir fortune-teller, what fish do we catch, and how will it be
      with us? See, here are my two reals," and he bade Sancho give them to
      Master Pedro; but he answered for the ape and said, "Senor, this animal
      does not give any answer or information touching things that are to come;
      of things past he knows something, and more or less of things present."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Gad," said Sancho, "I would not give a farthing to be told what's past
      with me, for who knows that better than I do myself? And to pay for being
      told what I know would be mighty foolish. But as you know things present,
      here are my two reals, and tell me, most excellent sir ape, what is my
      wife Teresa Panza doing now, and what is she diverting herself with?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Master Pedro refused to take the money, saying, "I will not receive
      payment in advance or until the service has been first rendered;" and then
      with his right hand he gave a couple of slaps on his left shoulder, and
      with one spring the ape perched himself upon it, and putting his mouth to
      his master's ear began chattering his teeth rapidly; and having kept this
      up as long as one would be saying a credo, with another spring he brought
      himself to the ground, and the same instant Master Pedro ran in great
      haste and fell upon his knees before Don Quixote, and embracing his legs
      exclaimed, "These legs do I embrace as I would embrace the two pillars of
      Hercules, O illustrious reviver of knight-errantry, so long consigned to
      oblivion! O never yet duly extolled knight, Don Quixote of La Mancha,
      courage of the faint-hearted, prop of the tottering, arm of the fallen,
      staff and counsel of all who are unfortunate!"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p25b" id="p25b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p25b.jpg (373K)" src="images/p25b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p25b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote was thunderstruck, Sancho astounded, the cousin staggered, the
      page astonished, the man from the braying town agape, the landlord in
      perplexity, and, in short, everyone amazed at the words of the
      puppet-showman, who went on to say, "And thou, worthy Sancho Panza, the
      best squire and squire to the best knight in the world! Be of good cheer,
      for thy good wife Teresa is well, and she is at this moment hackling a
      pound of flax; and more by token she has at her left hand a jug with a
      broken spout that holds a good drop of wine, with which she solaces
      herself at her work."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I can well believe," said Sancho. "She is a lucky one, and if it was
      not for her jealousy I would not change her for the giantess Andandona,
      who by my master's account was a very clever and worthy woman; my Teresa
      is one of those that won't let themselves want for anything, though their
      heirs may have to pay for it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now I declare," said Don Quixote, "he who reads much and travels much
      sees and knows a great deal. I say so because what amount of persuasion
      could have persuaded me that there are apes in the world that can divine
      as I have seen now with my own eyes? For I am that very Don Quixote of La
      Mancha this worthy animal refers to, though he has gone rather too far in
      my praise; but whatever I may be, I thank heaven that it has endowed me
      with a tender and compassionate heart, always disposed to do good to all
      and harm to none."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If I had money," said the page, "I would ask senor ape what will happen
      to me in the peregrination I am making."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this Master Pedro, who had by this time risen from Don Quixote's feet,
      replied, "I have already said that this little beast gives no answer as to
      the future; but if he did, not having money would be of no consequence,
      for to oblige Senor Don Quixote, here present, I would give up all the
      profits in the world. And now, because I have promised it, and to afford
      him pleasure, I will set up my show and offer entertainment to all who are
      in the inn, without any charge whatever." As soon as he heard this, the
      landlord, delighted beyond measure, pointed out a place where the show
      might be fixed, which was done at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote was not very well satisfied with the divinations of the ape,
      as he did not think it proper that an ape should divine anything, either
      past or future; so while Master Pedro was arranging the show, he retired
      with Sancho into a corner of the stable, where, without being overheard by
      anyone, he said to him, "Look here, Sancho, I have been seriously thinking
      over this ape's extraordinary gift, and have come to the conclusion that
      beyond doubt this Master Pedro, his master, has a pact, tacit or express,
      with the devil."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If the packet is express from the devil," said Sancho, "it must be a very
      dirty packet no doubt; but what good can it do Master Pedro to have such
      packets?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou dost not understand me, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "I only mean he
      must have made some compact with the devil to infuse this power into the
      ape, that he may get his living, and after he has grown rich he will give
      him his soul, which is what the enemy of mankind wants; this I am led to
      believe by observing that the ape only answers about things past or
      present, and the devil's knowledge extends no further; for the future he
      knows only by guesswork, and that not always; for it is reserved for God
      alone to know the times and the seasons, and for him there is neither past
      nor future; all is present. This being as it is, it is clear that this ape
      speaks by the spirit of the devil; and I am astonished they have not
      denounced him to the Holy Office, and put him to the question, and forced
      it out of him by whose virtue it is that he divines; because it is certain
      this ape is not an astrologer; neither his master nor he sets up, or knows
      how to set up, those figures they call judiciary, which are now so common
      in Spain that there is not a jade, or page, or old cobbler, that will not
      undertake to set up a figure as readily as pick up a knave of cards from
      the ground, bringing to nought the marvellous truth of the science by
      their lies and ignorance. I know of a lady who asked one of these figure
      schemers whether her little lap-dog would be in pup and would breed, and
      how many and of what colour the little pups would be. To which senor
      astrologer, after having set up his figure, made answer that the bitch
      would be in pup, and would drop three pups, one green, another bright red,
      and the third parti-coloured, provided she conceived between eleven and
      twelve either of the day or night, and on a Monday or Saturday; but as
      things turned out, two days after this the bitch died of a surfeit, and
      senor planet-ruler had the credit all over the place of being a most
      profound astrologer, as most of these planet-rulers have."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Still," said Sancho, "I would be glad if your worship would make Master
      Pedro ask his ape whether what happened your worship in the cave of
      Montesinos is true; for, begging your worship's pardon, I, for my part,
      take it to have been all flam and lies, or at any rate something you
      dreamt."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That may be," replied Don Quixote; "however, I will do what you suggest;
      though I have my own scruples about it."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this point Master Pedro came up in quest of Don Quixote, to tell him
      the show was now ready and to come and see it, for it was worth seeing.
      Don Quixote explained his wish, and begged him to ask his ape at once to
      tell him whether certain things which had happened to him in the cave of
      Montesinos were dreams or realities, for to him they appeared to partake
      of both. Upon this Master Pedro, without answering, went back to fetch the
      ape, and, having placed it in front of Don Quixote and Sancho, said: "See
      here, senor ape, this gentleman wishes to know whether certain things
      which happened to him in the cave called the cave of Montesinos were false
      or true." On his making the usual sign the ape mounted on his left
      shoulder and seemed to whisper in his ear, and Master Pedro said at once,
      "The ape says that the things you saw or that happened to you in that cave
      are, part of them false, part true; and that he only knows this and no
      more as regards this question; but if your worship wishes to know more, on
      Friday next he will answer all that may be asked him, for his virtue is at
      present exhausted, and will not return to him till Friday, as he has
      said."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did I not say, senor," said Sancho, "that I could not bring myself to
      believe that all your worship said about the adventures in the cave was
      true, or even the half of it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The course of events will tell, Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "time, that
      discloses all things, leaves nothing that it does not drag into the light
      of day, though it be buried in the bosom of the earth. But enough of that
      for the present; let us go and see Master Pedro's show, for I am sure
      there must be something novel in it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Something!" said Master Pedro; "this show of mine has sixty thousand
      novel things in it; let me tell you, Senor Don Quixote, it is one of the
      best-worth-seeing things in the world this day; but operibus credite et
      non verbis, and now let's get to work, for it is growing late, and we have
      a great deal to do and to say and show."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote and Sancho obeyed him and went to where the show was already
      put up and uncovered, set all around with lighted wax tapers which made it
      look splendid and bright. When they came to it Master Pedro ensconced
      himself inside it, for it was he who had to work the puppets, and a boy, a
      servant of his, posted himself outside to act as showman and explain the
      mysteries of the exhibition, having a wand in his hand to point to the
      figures as they came out. And so, all who were in the inn being arranged
      in front of the show, some of them standing, and Don Quixote, Sancho, the
      page, and cousin, accommodated with the best places, the interpreter began
      to say what he will hear or see who reads or hears the next chapter.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p25e" id="p25e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p25e.jpg (28K)" src="images/p25e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch26b" id="ch26b"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE DROLL ADVENTURE OF THE PUPPET-SHOWMAN, TOGETHER
      WITH OTHER THINGS IN TRUTH RIGHT GOOD
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p26a" id="p26a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p26a.jpg (157K)" src="images/p26a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p26a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      All were silent, Tyrians and Trojans; I mean all who were watching the
      show were hanging on the lips of the interpreter of its wonders, when
      drums and trumpets were heard to sound inside it and cannon to go off. The
      noise was soon over, and then the boy lifted up his voice and said, "This
      true story which is here represented to your worships is taken word for
      word from the French chronicles and from the Spanish ballads that are in
      everybody's mouth, and in the mouth of the boys about the streets. Its
      subject is the release by Senor Don Gaiferos of his wife Melisendra, when
      a captive in Spain at the hands of the Moors in the city of Sansuena, for
      so they called then what is now called Saragossa; and there you may see
      how Don Gaiferos is playing at the tables, just as they sing it-
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
At tables playing Don Gaiferos sits,
For Melisendra is forgotten now.

</pre>
    <p>
      And that personage who appears there with a crown on his head and a
      sceptre in his hand is the Emperor Charlemagne, the supposed father of
      Melisendra, who, angered to see his son-in-law's inaction and unconcern,
      comes in to chide him; and observe with what vehemence and energy he
      chides him, so that you would fancy he was going to give him half a dozen
      raps with his sceptre; and indeed there are authors who say he did give
      them, and sound ones too; and after having said a great deal to him about
      imperilling his honour by not effecting the release of his wife, he said,
      so the tale runs,
    </p>
    <p>
      Enough I've said, see to it now.
    </p>
    <p>
      Observe, too, how the emperor turns away, and leaves Don Gaiferos fuming;
      and you see now how in a burst of anger, he flings the table and the board
      far from him and calls in haste for his armour, and asks his cousin Don
      Roland for the loan of his sword, Durindana, and how Don Roland refuses to
      lend it, offering him his company in the difficult enterprise he is
      undertaking; but he, in his valour and anger, will not accept it, and says
      that he alone will suffice to rescue his wife, even though she were
      imprisoned deep in the centre of the earth, and with this he retires to
      arm himself and set out on his journey at once. Now let your worships turn
      your eyes to that tower that appears there, which is supposed to be one of
      the towers of the alcazar of Saragossa, now called the Aljaferia; that
      lady who appears on that balcony dressed in Moorish fashion is the
      peerless Melisendra, for many a time she used to gaze from thence upon the
      road to France, and seek consolation in her captivity by thinking of Paris
      and her husband. Observe, too, a new incident which now occurs, such as,
      perhaps, never was seen. Do you not see that Moor, who silently and
      stealthily, with his finger on his lip, approaches Melisendra from behind?
      Observe now how he prints a kiss upon her lips, and what a hurry she is in
      to spit, and wipe them with the white sleeve of her smock, and how she
      bewails herself, and tears her fair hair as though it were to blame for
      the wrong. Observe, too, that the stately Moor who is in that corridor is
      King Marsilio of Sansuena, who, having seen the Moor's insolence, at once
      orders him (though his kinsman and a great favourite of his) to be seized
      and given two hundred lashes, while carried through the streets of the
      city according to custom, with criers going before him and officers of
      justice behind; and here you see them come out to execute the sentence,
      although the offence has been scarcely committed; for among the Moors
      there are no indictments nor remands as with us."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Don Quixote called out, "Child, child, go straight on with your
      story, and don't run into curves and slants, for to establish a fact
      clearly there is need of a great deal of proof and confirmation;" and said
      Master Pedro from within, "Boy, stick to your text and do as the gentleman
      bids you; it's the best plan; keep to your plain song, and don't attempt
      harmonies, for they are apt to break down from being over fine."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will," said the boy, and he went on to say, "This figure that you see
      here on horseback, covered with a Gascon cloak, is Don Gaiferos himself,
      whom his wife, now avenged of the insult of the amorous Moor, and taking
      her stand on the balcony of the tower with a calmer and more tranquil
      countenance, has perceived without recognising him; and she addresses her
      husband, supposing him to be some traveller, and holds with him all that
      conversation and colloquy in the ballad that runs&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
If you, sir knight, to France are bound,
Oh! for Gaiferos ask&mdash;

</pre>
    <p>
      which I do not repeat here because prolixity begets disgust; suffice it to
      observe how Don Gaiferos discovers himself, and that by her joyful
      gestures Melisendra shows us she has recognised him; and what is more, we
      now see she lowers herself from the balcony to place herself on the
      haunches of her good husband's horse. But ah! unhappy lady, the edge of
      her petticoat has caught on one of the bars of the balcony and she is left
      hanging in the air, unable to reach the ground. But you see how
      compassionate heaven sends aid in our sorest need; Don Gaiferos advances,
      and without minding whether the rich petticoat is torn or not, he seizes
      her and by force brings her to the ground, and then with one jerk places
      her on the haunches of his horse, astraddle like a man, and bids her hold
      on tight and clasp her arms round his neck, crossing them on his breast so
      as not to fall, for the lady Melisendra was not used to that style of
      riding. You see, too, how the neighing of the horse shows his satisfaction
      with the gallant and beautiful burden he bears in his lord and lady. You
      see how they wheel round and quit the city, and in joy and gladness take
      the road to Paris. Go in peace, O peerless pair of true lovers! May you
      reach your longed-for fatherland in safety, and may fortune interpose no
      impediment to your prosperous journey; may the eyes of your friends and
      kinsmen behold you enjoying in peace and tranquillity the remaining days
      of your life&mdash;and that they may be as many as those of Nestor!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Master Pedro called out again and said, "Simplicity, boy! None of
      your high flights; all affectation is bad."
    </p>
    <p>
      The interpreter made no answer, but went on to say, "There was no want of
      idle eyes, that see everything, to see Melisendra come down and mount, and
      word was brought to King Marsilio, who at once gave orders to sound the
      alarm; and see what a stir there is, and how the city is drowned with the
      sound of the bells pealing in the towers of all the mosques."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, nay," said Don Quixote at this; "on that point of the bells Master
      Pedro is very inaccurate, for bells are not in use among the Moors; only
      kettledrums, and a kind of small trumpet somewhat like our clarion; to
      ring bells this way in Sansuena is unquestionably a great absurdity."
    </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this, Master Pedro stopped ringing, and said, "Don't look into
      trifles, Senor Don Quixote, or want to have things up to a pitch of
      perfection that is out of reach. Are there not almost every day a thousand
      comedies represented all round us full of thousands of inaccuracies and
      absurdities, and, for all that, they have a successful run, and are
      listened to not only with applause, but with admiration and all the rest
      of it? Go on, boy, and don't mind; for so long as I fill my pouch, no
      matter if I show as many inaccuracies as there are motes in a sunbeam."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True enough," said Don Quixote; and the boy went on: "See what a numerous
      and glittering crowd of horsemen issues from the city in pursuit of the
      two faithful lovers, what a blowing of trumpets there is, what sounding of
      horns, what beating of drums and tabors; I fear me they will overtake them
      and bring them back tied to the tail of their own horse, which would be a
      dreadful sight."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p26b" id="p26b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p26b.jpg (342K)" src="images/p26b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p26b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote, however, seeing such a swarm of Moors and hearing such a din,
      thought it would be right to aid the fugitives, and standing up he
      exclaimed in a loud voice, "Never, while I live, will I permit foul play
      to be practised in my presence on such a famous knight and fearless lover
      as Don Gaiferos. Halt! ill-born rabble, follow him not nor pursue him, or
      ye will have to reckon with me in battle!" and suiting the action to the
      word, he drew his sword, and with one bound placed himself close to the
      show, and with unexampled rapidity and fury began to shower down blows on
      the puppet troop of Moors, knocking over some, decapitating others,
      maiming this one and demolishing that; and among many more he delivered
      one down stroke which, if Master Pedro had not ducked, made himself small,
      and got out of the way, would have sliced off his head as easily as if it
      had been made of almond-paste. Master Pedro kept shouting, "Hold hard!
      Senor Don Quixote! can't you see they're not real Moors you're knocking
      down and killing and destroying, but only little pasteboard figures! Look&mdash;sinner
      that I am!&mdash;how you're wrecking and ruining all that I'm worth!" But
      in spite of this, Don Quixote did not leave off discharging a continuous
      rain of cuts, slashes, downstrokes, and backstrokes, and at length, in
      less than the space of two credos, he brought the whole show to the
      ground, with all its fittings and figures shivered and knocked to pieces,
      King Marsilio badly wounded, and the Emperor Charlemagne with his crown
      and head split in two. The whole audience was thrown into confusion, the
      ape fled to the roof of the inn, the cousin was frightened, and even
      Sancho Panza himself was in mighty fear, for, as he swore after the storm
      was over, he had never seen his master in such a furious passion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The complete destruction of the show being thus accomplished, Don Quixote
      became a little calmer, said, "I wish I had here before me now all those
      who do not or will not believe how useful knights-errant are in the world;
      just think, if I had not been here present, what would have become of the
      brave Don Gaiferos and the fair Melisendra! Depend upon it, by this time
      those dogs would have overtaken them and inflicted some outrage upon them.
      So, then, long live knight-errantry beyond everything living on earth this
      day!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let it live, and welcome," said Master Pedro at this in a feeble voice,
      "and let me die, for I am so unfortunate that I can say with King Don
      Rodrigo&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Yesterday was I lord of Spain
To-day I've not a turret left
That I may call mine own.

</pre>
    <p>
      Not half an hour, nay, barely a minute ago, I saw myself lord of kings and
      emperors, with my stables filled with countless horses, and my trunks and
      bags with gay dresses unnumbered; and now I find myself ruined and laid
      low, destitute and a beggar, and above all without my ape, for, by my
      faith, my teeth will have to sweat for it before I have him caught; and
      all through the reckless fury of sir knight here, who, they say, protects
      the fatherless, and rights wrongs, and does other charitable deeds; but
      whose generous intentions have been found wanting in my case only, blessed
      and praised be the highest heavens! Verily, knight of the rueful figure he
      must be to have disfigured mine."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho Panza was touched by Master Pedro's words, and said to him, "Don't
      weep and lament, Master Pedro; you break my heart; let me tell you my
      master, Don Quixote, is so catholic and scrupulous a Christian that, if he
      can make out that he has done you any wrong, he will own it, and be
      willing to pay for it and make it good, and something over and above."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Only let Senor Don Quixote pay me for some part of the work he has
      destroyed," said Master Pedro, "and I would be content, and his worship
      would ease his conscience, for he cannot be saved who keeps what is
      another's against the owner's will, and makes no restitution."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said Don Quixote; "but at present I am not aware that I
      have got anything of yours, Master Pedro."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What!" returned Master Pedro; "and these relics lying here on the bare
      hard ground&mdash;what scattered and shattered them but the invincible
      strength of that mighty arm? And whose were the bodies they belonged to
      but mine? And what did I get my living by but by them?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now am I fully convinced," said Don Quixote, "of what I had many a time
      before believed; that the enchanters who persecute me do nothing more than
      put figures like these before my eyes, and then change and turn them into
      what they please. In truth and earnest, I assure you gentlemen who now
      hear me, that to me everything that has taken place here seemed to take
      place literally, that Melisendra was Melisendra, Don Gaiferos Don
      Gaiferos, Marsilio Marsilio, and Charlemagne Charlemagne. That was why my
      anger was roused; and to be faithful to my calling as a knight-errant I
      sought to give aid and protection to those who fled, and with this good
      intention I did what you have seen. If the result has been the opposite of
      what I intended, it is no fault of mine, but of those wicked beings that
      persecute me; but, for all that, I am willing to condemn myself in costs
      for this error of mine, though it did not proceed from malice; let Master
      Pedro see what he wants for the spoiled figures, for I agree to pay it at
      once in good and current money of Castile."
    </p>
    <p>
      Master Pedro made him a bow, saying, "I expected no less of the rare
      Christianity of the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha, true helper and
      protector of all destitute and needy vagabonds; master landlord here and
      the great Sancho Panza shall be the arbitrators and appraisers between
      your worship and me of what these dilapidated figures are worth or may be
      worth."
    </p>
    <p>
      The landlord and Sancho consented, and then Master Pedro picked up from
      the ground King Marsilio of Saragossa with his head off, and said, "Here
      you see how impossible it is to restore this king to his former state, so
      I think, saving your better judgments, that for his death, decease, and
      demise, four reals and a half may be given me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Proceed," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then, for this cleavage from top to bottom," continued Master Pedro,
      taking up the split Emperor Charlemagne, "it would not be much if I were
      to ask five reals and a quarter."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's not little," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nor is it much," said the landlord; "make it even, and say five reals."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let him have the whole five and a quarter," said Don Quixote; "for the
      sum total of this notable disaster does not stand on a quarter more or
      less; and make an end of it quickly, Master Pedro, for it's getting on to
      supper-time, and I have some hints of hunger."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For this figure," said Master Pedro, "that is without a nose, and wants
      an eye, and is the fair Melisendra, I ask, and I am reasonable in my
      charge, two reals and twelve maravedis."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The very devil must be in it," said Don Quixote, "if Melisendra and her
      husband are not by this time at least on the French border, for the horse
      they rode on seemed to me to fly rather than gallop; so you needn't try to
      sell me the cat for the hare, showing me here a noseless Melisendra when
      she is now, may be, enjoying herself at her ease with her husband in
      France. God help every one to his own, Master Pedro, and let us all
      proceed fairly and honestly; and now go on."
    </p>
    <p>
      Master Pedro, perceiving that Don Quixote was beginning to wander, and
      return to his original fancy, was not disposed to let him escape, so he
      said to him, "This cannot be Melisendra, but must be one of the damsels
      that waited on her; so if I'm given sixty maravedis for her, I'll be
      content and sufficiently paid."
    </p>
    <p>
      And so he went on, putting values on ever so many more smashed figures,
      which, after the two arbitrators had adjusted them to the satisfaction of
      both parties, came to forty reals and three-quarters; and over and above
      this sum, which Sancho at once disbursed, Master Pedro asked for two reals
      for his trouble in catching the ape.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let him have them, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "not to catch the ape, but
      to get drunk; and two hundred would I give this minute for the good news,
      to anyone who could tell me positively, that the lady Dona Melisandra and
      Senor Don Gaiferos were now in France and with their own people."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No one could tell us that better than my ape," said Master Pedro; "but
      there's no devil that could catch him now; I suspect, however, that
      affection and hunger will drive him to come looking for me to-night; but
      to-morrow will soon be here and we shall see."
    </p>
    <p>
      In short, the puppet-show storm passed off, and all supped in peace and
      good fellowship at Don Quixote's expense, for he was the height of
      generosity. Before it was daylight the man with the lances and halberds
      took his departure, and soon after daybreak the cousin and the page came
      to bid Don Quixote farewell, the former returning home, the latter
      resuming his journey, towards which, to help him, Don Quixote gave him
      twelve reals. Master Pedro did not care to engage in any more palaver with
      Don Quixote, whom he knew right well; so he rose before the sun, and
      having got together the remains of his show and caught his ape, he too
      went off to seek his adventures. The landlord, who did not know Don
      Quixote, was as much astonished at his mad freaks as at his generosity. To
      conclude, Sancho, by his master's orders, paid him very liberally, and
      taking leave of him they quitted the inn at about eight in the morning and
      took to the road, where we will leave them to pursue their journey, for
      this is necessary in order to allow certain other matters to be set forth,
      which are required to clear up this famous history.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p26e" id="p26e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p26e.jpg (34K)" src="images/p26e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch27b" id="ch27b"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IT IS SHOWN WHO MASTER PEDRO AND HIS APE WERE, TOGETHER WITH THE
      MISHAP DON QUIXOTE HAD IN THE BRAYING ADVENTURE, WHICH HE DID NOT CONCLUDE
      AS HE WOULD HAVE LIKED OR AS HE HAD EXPECTED
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p27a" id="p27a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p27a.jpg (135K)" src="images/p27a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p27a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Cide Hamete, the chronicler of this great history, begins this chapter
      with these words, "I swear as a Catholic Christian;" with regard to which
      his translator says that Cide Hamete's swearing as a Catholic Christian,
      he being&mdash;as no doubt he was&mdash;a Moor, only meant that, just as a
      Catholic Christian taking an oath swears, or ought to swear, what is true,
      and tell the truth in what he avers, so he was telling the truth, as much
      as if he swore as a Catholic Christian, in all he chose to write about
      Quixote, especially in declaring who Master Pedro was and what was the
      divining ape that astonished all the villages with his divinations. He
      says, then, that he who has read the First Part of this history will
      remember well enough the Gines de Pasamonte whom, with other galley
      slaves, Don Quixote set free in the Sierra Morena: a kindness for which he
      afterwards got poor thanks and worse payment from that evil-minded,
      ill-conditioned set. This Gines de Pasamonte&mdash;Don Ginesillo de
      Parapilla, Don Quixote called him&mdash;it was that stole Dapple from
      Sancho Panza; which, because by the fault of the printers neither the how
      nor the when was stated in the First Part, has been a puzzle to a good
      many people, who attribute to the bad memory of the author what was the
      error of the press. In fact, however, Gines stole him while Sancho Panza
      was asleep on his back, adopting the plan and device that Brunello had
      recourse to when he stole Sacripante's horse from between his legs at the
      siege of Albracca; and, as has been told, Sancho afterwards recovered him.
      This Gines, then, afraid of being caught by the officers of justice, who
      were looking for him to punish him for his numberless rascalities and
      offences (which were so many and so great that he himself wrote a big book
      giving an account of them), resolved to shift his quarters into the
      kingdom of Aragon, and cover up his left eye, and take up the trade of a
      puppet-showman; for this, as well as juggling, he knew how to practise to
      perfection. From some released Christians returning from Barbary, it so
      happened, he bought the ape, which he taught to mount upon his shoulder on
      his making a certain sign, and to whisper, or seem to do so, in his ear.
      Thus prepared, before entering any village whither he was bound with his
      show and his ape, he used to inform himself at the nearest village, or
      from the most likely person he could find, as to what particular things
      had happened there, and to whom; and bearing them well in mind, the first
      thing he did was to exhibit his show, sometimes one story, sometimes
      another, but all lively, amusing, and familiar. As soon as the exhibition
      was over he brought forward the accomplishments of his ape, assuring the
      public that he divined all the past and the present, but as to the future
      he had no skill. For each question answered he asked two reals, and for
      some he made a reduction, just as he happened to feel the pulse of the
      questioners; and when now and then he came to houses where things that he
      knew of had happened to the people living there, even if they did not ask
      him a question, not caring to pay for it, he would make the sign to the
      ape and then declare that it had said so and so, which fitted the case
      exactly. In this way he acquired a prodigious name and all ran after him;
      on other occasions, being very crafty, he would answer in such a way that
      the answers suited the questions; and as no one cross-questioned him or
      pressed him to tell how his ape divined, he made fools of them all and
      filled his pouch. The instant he entered the inn he knew Don Quixote and
      Sancho, and with that knowledge it was easy for him to astonish them and
      all who were there; but it would have cost him dear had Don Quixote
      brought down his hand a little lower when he cut off King Marsilio's head
      and destroyed all his horsemen, as related in the preceeding chapter.
    </p>
    <p>
      So much for Master Pedro and his ape; and now to return to Don Quixote of
      La Mancha. After he had left the inn he determined to visit, first of all,
      the banks of the Ebro and that neighbourhood, before entering the city of
      Saragossa, for the ample time there was still to spare before the jousts
      left him enough for all. With this object in view he followed the road and
      travelled along it for two days, without meeting any adventure worth
      committing to writing until on the third day, as he was ascending a hill,
      he heard a great noise of drums, trumpets, and musket-shots. At first he
      imagined some regiment of soldiers was passing that way, and to see them
      he spurred Rocinante and mounted the hill. On reaching the top he saw at
      the foot of it over two hundred men, as it seemed to him, armed with
      weapons of various sorts, lances, crossbows, partisans, halberds, and
      pikes, and a few muskets and a great many bucklers. He descended the slope
      and approached the band near enough to see distinctly the flags, make out
      the colours and distinguish the devices they bore, especially one on a
      standard or ensign of white satin, on which there was painted in a very
      life-like style an ass like a little sard, with its head up, its mouth
      open and its tongue out, as if it were in the act and attitude of braying;
      and round it were inscribed in large characters these two lines&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
They did not bray in vain,
Our alcaldes twain.

</pre>
    <p>
      From this device Don Quixote concluded that these people must be from the
      braying town, and he said so to Sancho, explaining to him what was written
      on the standard. At the same time be observed that the man who had told
      them about the matter was wrong in saying that the two who brayed were
      regidors, for according to the lines of the standard they were alcaldes.
      To which Sancho replied, "Senor, there's nothing to stick at in that, for
      maybe the regidors who brayed then came to be alcaldes of their town
      afterwards, and so they may go by both titles; moreover, it has nothing to
      do with the truth of the story whether the brayers were alcaldes or
      regidors, provided at any rate they did bray; for an alcalde is just as
      likely to bray as a regidor." They perceived, in short, clearly that the
      town which had been twitted had turned out to do battle with some other
      that had jeered it more than was fair or neighbourly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote proceeded to join them, not a little to Sancho's uneasiness,
      for he never relished mixing himself up in expeditions of that sort. The
      members of the troop received him into the midst of them, taking him to be
      some one who was on their side. Don Quixote, putting up his visor,
      advanced with an easy bearing and demeanour to the standard with the ass,
      and all the chief men of the army gathered round him to look at him,
      staring at him with the usual amazement that everybody felt on seeing him
      for the first time. Don Quixote, seeing them examining him so attentively,
      and that none of them spoke to him or put any question to him, determined
      to take advantage of their silence; so, breaking his own, he lifted up his
      voice and said, "Worthy sirs, I entreat you as earnestly as I can not to
      interrupt an argument I wish to address to you, until you find it
      displeases or wearies you; and if that come to pass, on the slightest hint
      you give me I will put a seal upon my lips and a gag upon my tongue."
    </p>
    <p>
      They all bade him say what he liked, for they would listen to him
      willingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p27b" id="p27b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p27b.jpg (330K)" src="images/p27b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p27b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      With this permission Don Quixote went on to say, "I, sirs, am a
      knight-errant whose calling is that of arms, and whose profession is to
      protect those who require protection, and give help to such as stand in
      need of it. Some days ago I became acquainted with your misfortune and the
      cause which impels you to take up arms again and again to revenge
      yourselves upon your enemies; and having many times thought over your
      business in my mind, I find that, according to the laws of combat, you are
      mistaken in holding yourselves insulted; for a private individual cannot
      insult an entire community; unless it be by defying it collectively as a
      traitor, because he cannot tell who in particular is guilty of the treason
      for which he defies it. Of this we have an example in Don Diego Ordonez de
      Lara, who defied the whole town of Zamora, because he did not know that
      Vellido Dolfos alone had committed the treachery of slaying his king; and
      therefore he defied them all, and the vengeance and the reply concerned
      all; though, to be sure, Senor Don Diego went rather too far, indeed very
      much beyond the limits of a defiance; for he had no occasion to defy the
      dead, or the waters, or the fishes, or those yet unborn, and all the rest
      of it as set forth; but let that pass, for when anger breaks out there's
      no father, governor, or bridle to check the tongue. The case being, then,
      that no one person can insult a kingdom, province, city, state, or entire
      community, it is clear there is no reason for going out to avenge the
      defiance of such an insult, inasmuch as it is not one. A fine thing it
      would be if the people of the clock town were to be at loggerheads every
      moment with everyone who called them by that name,&mdash;or the Cazoleros,
      Berengeneros, Ballenatos, Jaboneros, or the bearers of all the other names
      and titles that are always in the mouth of the boys and common people! It
      would be a nice business indeed if all these illustrious cities were to
      take huff and revenge themselves and go about perpetually making trombones
      of their swords in every petty quarrel! No, no; God forbid! There are four
      things for which sensible men and well-ordered States ought to take up
      arms, draw their swords, and risk their persons, lives, and properties.
      The first is to defend the Catholic faith; the second, to defend one's
      life, which is in accordance with natural and divine law; the third, in
      defence of one's honour, family, and property; the fourth, in the service
      of one's king in a just war; and if to these we choose to add a fifth
      (which may be included in the second), in defence of one's country. To
      these five, as it were capital causes, there may be added some others that
      may be just and reasonable, and make it a duty to take up arms; but to
      take them up for trifles and things to laugh at and he amused by rather
      than offended, looks as though he who did so was altogether wanting in
      common sense. Moreover, to take an unjust revenge (and there cannot be any
      just one) is directly opposed to the sacred law that we acknowledge,
      wherein we are commanded to do good to our enemies and to love them that
      hate us; a command which, though it seems somewhat difficult to obey, is
      only so to those who have in them less of God than of the world, and more
      of the flesh than of the spirit; for Jesus Christ, God and true man, who
      never lied, and could not and cannot lie, said, as our law-giver, that his
      yoke was easy and his burden light; he would not, therefore, have laid any
      command upon us that it was impossible to obey. Thus, sirs, you are bound
      to keep quiet by human and divine law."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The devil take me," said Sancho to himself at this, "but this master of
      mine is a theologian; or, if not, faith, he's as like one as one egg is like
      another."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote stopped to take breath, and, observing that silence was still
      preserved, had a mind to continue his discourse, and would have done so
      had not Sancho interposed with his smartness; for he, seeing his master
      pause, took the lead, saying, "My lord Don Quixote of La Mancha, who once
      was called the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, but now is called the
      Knight of the Lions, is a gentleman of great discretion who knows Latin
      and his mother tongue like a bachelor, and in everything that he deals
      with or advises proceeds like a good soldier, and has all the laws and
      ordinances of what they call combat at his fingers' ends; so you have
      nothing to do but to let yourselves be guided by what he says, and on my
      head be it if it is wrong. Besides which, you have been told that it is
      folly to take offence at merely hearing a bray. I remember when I was a
      boy I brayed as often as I had a fancy, without anyone hindering me, and
      so elegantly and naturally that when I brayed all the asses in the town
      would bray; but I was none the less for that the son of my parents who
      were greatly respected; and though I was envied because of the gift by
      more than one of the high and mighty ones of the town, I did not care two
      farthings for it; and that you may see I am telling the truth, wait a bit
      and listen, for this art, like swimming, once learnt is never forgotten;"
      and then, taking hold of his nose, he began to bray so vigorously that all
      the valleys around rang again.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of those, however, that stood near him, fancying he was mocking them,
      lifted up a long staff he had in his hand and smote him such a blow with
      it that Sancho dropped helpless to the ground. Don Quixote, seeing him so
      roughly handled, attacked the man who had struck him lance in hand, but so
      many thrust themselves between them that he could not avenge him. Far from
      it, finding a shower of stones rained upon him, and crossbows and muskets
      unnumbered levelled at him, he wheeled Rocinante round and, as fast as his
      best gallop could take him, fled from the midst of them, commending
      himself to God with all his heart to deliver him out of this peril, in
      dread every step of some ball coming in at his back and coming out at his
      breast, and every minute drawing his breath to see whether it had gone
      from him. The members of the band, however, were satisfied with seeing him
      take to flight, and did not fire on him. They put up Sancho, scarcely
      restored to his senses, on his ass, and let him go after his master; not
      that he was sufficiently in his wits to guide the beast, but Dapple
      followed the footsteps of Rocinante, from whom he could not remain a
      moment separated. Don Quixote having got some way off looked back, and
      seeing Sancho coming, waited for him, as he perceived that no one followed
      him. The men of the troop stood their ground till night, and as the enemy
      did not come out to battle, they returned to their town exulting; and had
      they been aware of the ancient custom of the Greeks, they would have
      erected a trophy on the spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p27e" id="p27e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p27e.jpg (47K)" src="images/p27e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p27e.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch28b" id="ch28b"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF MATTERS THAT BENENGELI SAYS HE WHO READS THEM WILL KNOW, IF HE READS
      THEM WITH ATTENTION
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p28a" id="p28a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p28a.jpg (111K)" src="images/p28a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p28a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      When the brave man flees, treachery is manifest and it is for wise men to
      reserve themselves for better occasions. This proved to be the case with
      Don Quixote, who, giving way before the fury of the townsfolk and the
      hostile intentions of the angry troop, took to flight and, without a
      thought of Sancho or the danger in which he was leaving him, retreated to
      such a distance as he thought made him safe. Sancho, lying across his ass,
      followed him, as has been said, and at length came up, having by this time
      recovered his senses, and on joining him let himself drop off Dapple at
      Rocinante's feet, sore, bruised, and belaboured. Don Quixote dismounted to
      examine his wounds, but finding him whole from head to foot, he said to
      him, angrily enough, "In an evil hour didst thou take to braying, Sancho!
      Where hast thou learned that it is well done to mention the rope in the
      house of the man that has been hanged? To the music of brays what
      harmonies couldst thou expect to get but cudgels? Give thanks to God,
      Sancho, that they signed the cross on thee just now with a stick, and did
      not mark thee per signum crucis with a cutlass."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'm not equal to answering," said Sancho, "for I feel as if I was
      speaking through my shoulders; let us mount and get away from this; I'll
      keep from braying, but not from saying that knights-errant fly and leave
      their good squires to be pounded like privet, or made meal of at the hands
      of their enemies."
    </p>
    <p>
      "He does not fly who retires," returned Don Quixote; "for I would have
      thee know, Sancho, that the valour which is not based upon a foundation of
      prudence is called rashness, and the exploits of the rash man are to be
      attributed rather to good fortune than to courage; and so I own that I
      retired, but not that I fled; and therein I have followed the example of
      many valiant men who have reserved themselves for better times; the
      histories are full of instances of this, but as it would not be any good
      to thee or pleasure to me, I will not recount them to thee now."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho was by this time mounted with the help of Don Quixote, who then
      himself mounted Rocinante, and at a leisurely pace they proceeded to take
      shelter in a grove which was in sight about a quarter of a league off.
      Every now and then Sancho gave vent to deep sighs and dismal groans, and
      on Don Quixote asking him what caused such acute suffering, he replied
      that, from the end of his back-bone up to the nape of his neck, he was so
      sore that it nearly drove him out of his senses.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The cause of that soreness," said Don Quixote, "will be, no doubt, that
      the staff wherewith they smote thee being a very long one, it caught thee
      all down the back, where all the parts that are sore are situated, and had
      it reached any further thou wouldst be sorer still."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By God," said Sancho, "your worship has relieved me of a great doubt, and
      cleared up the point for me in elegant style! Body o' me! is the cause of
      my soreness such a mystery that there's any need to tell me I am sore
      everywhere the staff hit me? If it was my ankles that pained me there
      might be something in going divining why they did, but it is not much to
      divine that I'm sore where they thrashed me. By my faith, master mine, the
      ills of others hang by a hair; every day I am discovering more and more
      how little I have to hope for from keeping company with your worship; for
      if this time you have allowed me to be drubbed, the next time, or a
      hundred times more, we'll have the blanketings of the other day over
      again, and all the other pranks which, if they have fallen on my shoulders
      now, will be thrown in my teeth by-and-by. I would do a great deal better
      (if I was not an ignorant brute that will never do any good all my life),
      I would do a great deal better, I say, to go home to my wife and children
      and support them and bring them up on what God may please to give me,
      instead of following your worship along roads that lead nowhere and paths
      that are none at all, with little to drink and less to eat. And then when
      it comes to sleeping! Measure out seven feet on the earth, brother squire,
      and if that's not enough for you, take as many more, for you may have it
      all your own way and stretch yourself to your heart's content. Oh that I
      could see burnt and turned to ashes the first man that meddled with
      knight-errantry or at any rate the first who chose to be squire to such
      fools as all the knights-errant of past times must have been! Of those of
      the present day I say nothing, because, as your worship is one of them, I
      respect them, and because I know your worship knows a point more than the
      devil in all you say and think."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would lay a good wager with you, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that now
      that you are talking on without anyone to stop you, you don't feel a pain
      in your whole body. Talk away, my son, say whatever comes into your head
      or mouth, for so long as you feel no pain, the irritation your
      impertinences give me will be a pleasure to me; and if you are so anxious
      to go home to your wife and children, God forbid that I should prevent
      you; you have money of mine; see how long it is since we left our village
      this third time, and how much you can and ought to earn every month, and
      pay yourself out of your own hand."
    </p>
    <p>
      "When I worked for Tom Carrasco, the father of the bachelor Samson
      Carrasco that your worship knows," replied Sancho, "I used to earn two
      ducats a month besides my food; I can't tell what I can earn with your
      worship, though I know a knight-errant's squire has harder times of it
      than he who works for a farmer; for after all, we who work for farmers,
      however much we toil all day, at the worst, at night, we have our olla
      supper and sleep in a bed, which I have not slept in since I have been in
      your worship's service, if it wasn't the short time we were in Don Diego
      de Miranda's house, and the feast I had with the skimmings I took off
      Camacho's pots, and what I ate, drank, and slept in Basilio's house; all
      the rest of the time I have been sleeping on the hard ground under the
      open sky, exposed to what they call the inclemencies of heaven, keeping
      life in me with scraps of cheese and crusts of bread, and drinking water
      either from the brooks or from the springs we come to on these by-paths we
      travel."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I own, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that all thou sayest is true; how
      much, thinkest thou, ought I to give thee over and above what Tom Carrasco
      gave thee?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I think," said Sancho, "that if your worship was to add on two reals a
      month I'd consider myself well paid; that is, as far as the wages of my
      labour go; but to make up to me for your worship's pledge and promise to
      me to give me the government of an island, it would be fair to add six
      reals more, making thirty in all."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very good," said Don Quixote; "it is twenty-five days since we left our
      village, so reckon up, Sancho, according to the wages you have made out
      for yourself, and see how much I owe you in proportion, and pay yourself,
      as I said before, out of your own hand."
    </p>
    <p>
      "O body o' me!" said Sancho, "but your worship is very much out in that
      reckoning; for when it comes to the promise of the island we must count
      from the day your worship promised it to me to this present hour we are at
      now."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, how long is it, Sancho, since I promised it to you?" said Don
      Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "If I remember rightly," said Sancho, "it must be over twenty years, three
      days more or less."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote gave himself a great slap on the forehead and began to laugh
      heartily, and said he, "Why, I have not been wandering, either in the
      Sierra Morena or in the whole course of our sallies, but barely two
      months, and thou sayest, Sancho, that it is twenty years since I promised
      thee the island. I believe now thou wouldst have all the money thou hast
      of mine go in thy wages. If so, and if that be thy pleasure, I give it to
      thee now, once and for all, and much good may it do thee, for so long as I
      see myself rid of such a good-for-nothing squire I'll be glad to be left a
      pauper without a rap. But tell me, thou perverter of the squirely rules of
      knight-errantry, where hast thou ever seen or read that any
      knight-errant's squire made terms with his lord, 'you must give me so much
      a month for serving you'? Plunge, scoundrel, rogue, monster&mdash;for such
      I take thee to be&mdash;plunge, I say, into the mare magnum of their
      histories; and if thou shalt find that any squire ever said or thought
      what thou hast said now, I will let thee nail it on my forehead, and give
      me, over and above, four sound slaps in the face. Turn the rein, or the
      halter, of thy Dapple, and begone home; for one single step further thou
      shalt not make in my company. O bread thanklessly received! O promises
      ill-bestowed! O man more beast than human being! Now, when I was about to
      raise thee to such a position, that, in spite of thy wife, they would call
      thee 'my lord,' thou art leaving me? Thou art going now when I had a firm
      and fixed intention of making thee lord of the best island in the world?
      Well, as thou thyself hast said before now, honey is not for the mouth of
      the ass. Ass thou art, ass thou wilt be, and ass thou wilt end when the
      course of thy life is run; for I know it will come to its close before
      thou dost perceive or discern that thou art a beast."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho regarded Don Quixote earnestly while he was giving him this rating,
      and was so touched by remorse that the tears came to his eyes, and in a
      piteous and broken voice he said to him, "Master mine, I confess that, to
      be a complete ass, all I want is a tail; if your worship will only fix one
      on to me, I'll look on it as rightly placed, and I'll serve you as an ass
      all the remaining days of my life. Forgive me and have pity on my folly,
      and remember I know but little, and, if I talk much, it's more from
      infirmity than malice; but he who sins and mends commends himself to God."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I should have been surprised, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "if thou hadst
      not introduced some bit of a proverb into thy speech. Well, well, I
      forgive thee, provided thou dost mend and not show thyself in future so
      fond of thine own interest, but try to be of good cheer and take heart,
      and encourage thyself to look forward to the fulfillment of my promises,
      which, by being delayed, does not become impossible."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho said he would do so, and keep up his heart as best he could. They
      then entered the grove, and Don Quixote settled himself at the foot of an
      elm, and Sancho at that of a beech, for trees of this kind and others like
      them always have feet but no hands. Sancho passed the night in pain, for
      with the evening dews the blow of the staff made itself felt all the more.
      Don Quixote passed it in his never-failing meditations; but, for all that,
      they had some winks of sleep, and with the appearance of daylight they
      pursued their journey in quest of the banks of the famous Ebro, where that
      befell them which will be told in the following chapter.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p28e" id="p28e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p28e.jpg (36K)" src="images/p28e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />

    <h2>
      <a name="ch29b" id="ch29b"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE FAMOUS ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED BARK
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p29a" id="p29a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p29a.jpg (127K)" src="images/p29a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p29a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      By stages as already described or left undescribed, two days after
      quitting the grove Don Quixote and Sancho reached the river Ebro, and the
      sight of it was a great delight to Don Quixote as he contemplated and
      gazed upon the charms of its banks, the clearness of its stream, the
      gentleness of its current and the abundance of its crystal waters; and the
      pleasant view revived a thousand tender thoughts in his mind. Above all,
      he dwelt upon what he had seen in the cave of Montesinos; for though
      Master Pedro's ape had told him that of those things part was true, part
      false, he clung more to their truth than to their falsehood, the very
      reverse of Sancho, who held them all to be downright lies.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they were thus proceeding, then, they discovered a small boat, without
      oars or any other gear, that lay at the water's edge tied to the stem of a
      tree growing on the bank. Don Quixote looked all round, and seeing nobody,
      at once, without more ado, dismounted from Rocinante and bade Sancho get
      down from Dapple and tie both beasts securely to the trunk of a poplar or
      willow that stood there. Sancho asked him the reason of this sudden
      dismounting and tying. Don Quixote made answer, "Thou must know, Sancho,
      that this bark is plainly, and without the possibility of any alternative,
      calling and inviting me to enter it, and in it go to give aid to some
      knight or other person of distinction in need of it, who is no doubt in
      some sore strait; for this is the way of the books of chivalry and of the
      enchanters who figure and speak in them. When a knight is involved in some
      difficulty from which he cannot be delivered save by the hand of another
      knight, though they may be at a distance of two or three thousand leagues
      or more one from the other, they either take him up on a cloud, or they
      provide a bark for him to get into, and in less than the twinkling of an
      eye they carry him where they will and where his help is required; and so,
      Sancho, this bark is placed here for the same purpose; this is as true as
      that it is now day, and ere this one passes tie Dapple and Rocinante
      together, and then in God's hand be it to guide us; for I would not hold
      back from embarking, though barefooted friars were to beg me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As that's the case," said Sancho, "and your worship chooses to give in to
      these&mdash;I don't know if I may call them absurdities&mdash;at every
      turn, there's nothing for it but to obey and bow the head, bearing in mind
      the proverb, 'Do as thy master bids thee, and sit down to table with him;'
      but for all that, for the sake of easing my conscience, I warn your
      worship that it is my opinion this bark is no enchanted one, but belongs
      to some of the fishermen of the river, for they catch the best shad in the
      world here."
    </p>
    <p>
      As Sancho said this, he tied the beasts, leaving them to the care and
      protection of the enchanters with sorrow enough in his heart. Don Quixote
      bade him not be uneasy about deserting the animals, "for he who would
      carry themselves over such longinquous roads and regions would take care
      to feed them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't understand that logiquous," said Sancho, "nor have I ever heard
      the word all the days of my life."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Longinquous," replied Don Quixote, "means far off; but it is no wonder
      thou dost not understand it, for thou art not bound to know Latin, like
      some who pretend to know it and don't."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now they are tied," said Sancho; "what are we to do next?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "What?" said Don Quixote, "cross ourselves and weigh anchor; I mean,
      embark and cut the moorings by which the bark is held;" and the bark began
      to drift away slowly from the bank. But when Sancho saw himself somewhere
      about two yards out in the river, he began to tremble and give himself up
      for lost; but nothing distressed him more than hearing Dapple bray and
      seeing Rocinante struggling to get loose, and said he to his master,
      "Dapple is braying in grief at our leaving him, and Rocinante is trying to
      escape and plunge in after us. O dear friends, peace be with you, and may
      this madness that is taking us away from you, turned into sober sense,
      bring us back to you." And with this he fell weeping so bitterly, that Don
      Quixote said to him, sharply and angrily, "What art thou afraid of,
      cowardly creature? What art thou weeping at, heart of butter-paste? Who
      pursues or molests thee, thou soul of a tame mouse? What dost thou want,
      unsatisfied in the very heart of abundance? Art thou, perchance, tramping
      barefoot over the Riphaean mountains, instead of being seated on a bench
      like an archduke on the tranquil stream of this pleasant river, from which
      in a short space we shall come out upon the broad sea? But we must have
      already emerged and gone seven hundred or eight hundred leagues; and if I
      had here an astrolabe to take the altitude of the pole, I could tell thee
      how many we have travelled, though either I know little, or we have
      already crossed or shall shortly cross the equinoctial line which parts
      the two opposite poles midway."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And when we come to that line your worship speaks of," said Sancho, "how
      far shall we have gone?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very far," said Don Quixote, "for of the three hundred and sixty degrees
      that this terraqueous globe contains, as computed by Ptolemy, the greatest
      cosmographer known, we shall have travelled one-half when we come to the
      line I spoke of."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By God," said Sancho, "your worship gives me a nice authority for what
      you say, putrid Dolly something transmogrified, or whatever it is."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote laughed at the interpretation Sancho put upon "computed," and
      the name of the cosmographer Ptolemy, and said he, "Thou must know,
      Sancho, that with the Spaniards and those who embark at Cadiz for the East
      Indies, one of the signs they have to show them when they have passed the
      equinoctial line I told thee of, is, that the lice die upon everybody on
      board the ship, and not a single one is left, or to be found in the whole
      vessel if they gave its weight in gold for it; so, Sancho, thou mayest as
      well pass thy hand down thy thigh, and if thou comest upon anything alive
      we shall be no longer in doubt; if not, then we have crossed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't believe a bit of it," said Sancho; "still, I'll do as your
      worship bids me; though I don't know what need there is for trying these
      experiments, for I can see with my own eyes that we have not moved five
      yards away from the bank, or shifted two yards from where the animals
      stand, for there are Rocinante and Dapple in the very same place where we
      left them; and watching a point, as I do now, I swear by all that's good,
      we are not stirring or moving at the pace of an ant."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Try the test I told thee of, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and don't mind
      any other, for thou knowest nothing about colures, lines, parallels,
      zodiacs, ecliptics, poles, solstices, equinoxes, planets, signs, bearings,
      the measures of which the celestial and terrestrial spheres are composed;
      if thou wert acquainted with all these things, or any portion of them,
      thou wouldst see clearly how many parallels we have cut, what signs we
      have seen, and what constellations we have left behind and are now leaving
      behind. But again I tell thee, feel and hunt, for I am certain thou art
      cleaner than a sheet of smooth white paper."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho felt, and passing his hand gently and carefully down to the hollow
      of his left knee, he looked up at his master and said, "Either the test is
      a false one, or we have not come to where your worship says, nor within
      many leagues of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, how so?" asked Don Quixote; "hast thou come upon aught?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, and aughts," replied Sancho; and shaking his fingers he washed his
      whole hand in the river along which the boat was quietly gliding in
      midstream, not moved by any occult intelligence or invisible enchanter,
      but simply by the current, just there smooth and gentle.
    </p>
    <p>
      They now came in sight of some large water mills that stood in the middle
      of the river, and the instant Don Quixote saw them he cried out, "Seest
      thou there, my friend? there stands the castle or fortress, where there
      is, no doubt, some knight in durance, or ill-used queen, or infanta, or
      princess, in whose aid I am brought hither."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What the devil city, fortress, or castle is your worship talking about,
      senor?" said Sancho; "don't you see that those are mills that stand in the
      river to grind corn?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hold thy peace, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "though they look like mills
      they are not so; I have already told thee that enchantments transform
      things and change their proper shapes; I do not mean to say they really
      change them from one form into another, but that it seems as though they
      did, as experience proved in the transformation of Dulcinea, sole refuge
      of my hopes."
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time, the boat, having reached the middle of the stream, began to
      move less slowly than hitherto. The millers belonging to the mills, when
      they saw the boat coming down the river, and on the point of being sucked
      in by the draught of the wheels, ran out in haste, several of them, with
      long poles to stop it, and being all mealy, with faces and garments
      covered with flour, they presented a sinister appearance. They raised loud
      shouts, crying, "Devils of men, where are you going to? Are you mad? Do
      you want to drown yourselves, or dash yourselves to pieces among these
      wheels?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Did I not tell thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote at this, "that we had
      reached the place where I am to show what the might of my arm can do? See
      what ruffians and villains come out against me; see what monsters oppose
      me; see what hideous countenances come to frighten us! You shall soon see,
      scoundrels!" And then standing up in the boat he began in a loud voice to
      hurl threats at the millers, exclaiming, "Ill-conditioned and
      worse-counselled rabble, restore to liberty and freedom the person ye hold
      in durance in this your fortress or prison, high or low or of whatever
      rank or quality he be, for I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called
      the Knight of the Lions, for whom, by the disposition of heaven above, it
      is reserved to give a happy issue to this adventure;" and so saying he
      drew his sword and began making passes in the air at the millers, who,
      hearing but not understanding all this nonsense, strove to stop the boat,
      which was now getting into the rushing channel of the wheels. Sancho fell
      upon his knees devoutly appealing to heaven to deliver him from such
      imminent peril; which it did by the activity and quickness of the millers,
      who, pushing against the boat with their poles, stopped it, not, however,
      without upsetting and throwing Don Quixote and Sancho into the water; and
      lucky it was for Don Quixote that he could swim like a goose, though the
      weight of his armour carried him twice to the bottom; and had it not been
      for the millers, who plunged in and hoisted them both out, it would have
      been Troy town with the pair of them. As soon as, more drenched than
      thirsty, they were landed, Sancho went down on his knees and with clasped
      hands and eyes raised to heaven, prayed a long and fervent prayer to God
      to deliver him evermore from the rash projects and attempts of his master.
      The fishermen, the owners of the boat, which the mill-wheels had knocked
      to pieces, now came up, and seeing it smashed they proceeded to strip
      Sancho and to demand payment for it from Don Quixote; but he with great
      calmness, just as if nothing had happened him, told the millers and
      fishermen that he would pay for the bark most cheerfully, on condition
      that they delivered up to him, free and unhurt, the person or persons that
      were in durance in that castle of theirs.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p29b" id="p29b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p29b.jpg (314K)" src="images/p29b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p29b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "What persons or what castle art thou talking of, madman? Art thou for
      carrying off the people who come to grind corn in these mills?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's enough," said Don Quixote to himself, "it would be preaching in
      the desert to attempt by entreaties to induce this rabble to do any
      virtuous action. In this adventure two mighty enchanters must have
      encountered one another, and one frustrates what the other attempts; one
      provided the bark for me, and the other upset me; God help us, this world
      is all machinations and schemes at cross purposes one with the other. I
      can do no more." And then turning towards the mills he said aloud,
      "Friends, whoe'er ye be that are immured in that prison, forgive me that,
      to my misfortune and yours, I cannot deliver you from your misery; this
      adventure is doubtless reserved and destined for some other knight."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying he settled with the fishermen, and paid fifty reals for the
      boat, which Sancho handed to them very much against the grain, saying,
      "With a couple more bark businesses like this we shall have sunk our whole
      capital."
    </p>
    <p>
      The fishermen and the millers stood staring in amazement at the two
      figures, so very different to all appearance from ordinary men, and were
      wholly unable to make out the drift of the observations and questions Don
      Quixote addressed to them; and coming to the conclusion that they were
      madmen, they left them and betook themselves, the millers to their mills,
      and the fishermen to their huts. Don Quixote and Sancho returned to their
      beasts, and to their life of beasts, and so ended the adventure of the
      enchanted bark.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p29e" id="p29e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p29e.jpg (54K)" src="images/p29e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch30b" id="ch30b"></a>CHAPTER XXX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF DON QUIXOTE'S ADVENTURE WITH A FAIR HUNTRESS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p30a" id="p30a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p30a.jpg (134K)" src="images/p30a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p30a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      They reached their beasts in low spirits and bad humour enough, knight and
      squire, Sancho particularly, for with him what touched the stock of money
      touched his heart, and when any was taken from him he felt as if he was
      robbed of the apples of his eyes. In fine, without exchanging a word, they
      mounted and quitted the famous river, Don Quixote absorbed in thoughts of
      his love, Sancho in thinking of his advancement, which just then, it
      seemed to him, he was very far from securing; for, fool as he was, he saw
      clearly enough that his master's acts were all or most of them utterly
      senseless; and he began to cast about for an opportunity of retiring from
      his service and going home some day, without entering into any
      explanations or taking any farewell of him. Fortune, however, ordered
      matters after a fashion very much the opposite of what he contemplated.
    </p>
    <p>
      It so happened that the next day towards sunset, on coming out of a wood,
      Don Quixote cast his eyes over a green meadow, and at the far end of it
      observed some people, and as he drew nearer saw that it was a hawking
      party. Coming closer, he distinguished among them a lady of graceful mien,
      on a pure white palfrey or hackney caparisoned with green trappings and a
      silver-mounted side-saddle. The lady was also in green, and so richly and
      splendidly dressed that splendour itself seemed personified in her. On her
      left hand she bore a hawk, a proof to Don Quixote's mind that she must be
      some great lady and the mistress of the whole hunting party, which was the
      fact; so he said to Sancho, "Run Sancho, my son, and say to that lady on
      the palfrey with the hawk that I, the Knight of the Lions, kiss the hands
      of her exalted beauty, and if her excellence will grant me leave I will go
      and kiss them in person and place myself at her service for aught that may
      be in my power and her highness may command; and mind, Sancho, how thou
      speakest, and take care not to thrust in any of thy proverbs into thy
      message."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p30b" id="p30b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p30b.jpg (334K)" src="images/p30b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p30b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "You've got a likely one here to thrust any in!" said Sancho; "leave me
      alone for that! Why, this is not the first time in my life I have carried
      messages to high and exalted ladies."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Except that thou didst carry to the lady Dulcinea," said Don Quixote, "I
      know not that thou hast carried any other, at least in my service."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," replied Sancho; "but pledges don't distress a good payer,
      and in a house where there's plenty supper is soon cooked; I mean there's
      no need of telling or warning me about anything; for I'm ready for
      everything and know a little of everything."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I believe, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "go and good luck to thee, and
      God speed thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho went off at top speed, forcing Dapple out of his regular pace, and
      came to where the fair huntress was standing, and dismounting knelt before
      her and said, "Fair lady, that knight that you see there, the Knight of
      the Lions by name, is my master, and I am a squire of his, and at home
      they call me Sancho Panza. This same Knight of the Lions, who was called
      not long since the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, sends by me to say
      may it please your highness to give him leave that, with your permission,
      approbation, and consent, he may come and carry out his wishes, which are,
      as he says and I believe, to serve your exalted loftiness and beauty; and
      if you give it, your ladyship will do a thing which will redound to your
      honour, and he will receive a most distinguished favour and happiness."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have indeed, squire," said the lady, "delivered your message with all
      the formalities such messages require; rise up, for it is not right that
      the squire of a knight so great as he of the Rueful Countenance, of whom
      we have heard a great deal here, should remain on his knees; rise, my
      friend, and bid your master welcome to the services of myself and the duke
      my husband, in a country house we have here."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho got up, charmed as much by the beauty of the good lady as by her
      high-bred air and her courtesy, but, above all, by what she had said about
      having heard of his master, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance; for if
      she did not call him Knight of the Lions it was no doubt because he had so
      lately taken the name. "Tell me, brother squire," asked the duchess (whose
      title, however, is not known), "this master of yours, is he not one of
      whom there is a history extant in print, called 'The Ingenious Gentleman,
      Don Quixote of La Mancha,' who has for the lady of his heart a certain
      Dulcinea del Toboso?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He is the same, senora," replied Sancho; "and that squire of his who
      figures, or ought to figure, in the said history under the name of Sancho
      Panza, is myself, unless they have changed me in the cradle, I mean in the
      press."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am rejoiced at all this," said the duchess; "go, brother Panza, and
      tell your master that he is welcome to my estate, and that nothing could
      happen to me that could give me greater pleasure."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho returned to his master mightily pleased with this gratifying
      answer, and told him all the great lady had said to him, lauding to the
      skies, in his rustic phrase, her rare beauty, her graceful gaiety, and her
      courtesy. Don Quixote drew himself up briskly in his saddle, fixed himself
      in his stirrups, settled his visor, gave Rocinante the spur, and with an
      easy bearing advanced to kiss the hands of the duchess, who, having sent
      to summon the duke her husband, told him while Don Quixote was approaching
      all about the message; and as both of them had read the First Part of this
      history, and from it were aware of Don Quixote's crazy turn, they awaited
      him with the greatest delight and anxiety to make his acquaintance,
      meaning to fall in with his humour and agree with everything he said, and,
      so long as he stayed with them, to treat him as a knight-errant, with all
      the ceremonies usual in the books of chivalry they had read, for they
      themselves were very fond of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote now came up with his visor raised, and as he seemed about to
      dismount Sancho made haste to go and hold his stirrup for him; but in
      getting down off Dapple he was so unlucky as to hitch his foot in one of
      the ropes of the pack-saddle in such a way that he was unable to free it,
      and was left hanging by it with his face and breast on the ground. Don
      Quixote, who was not used to dismount without having the stirrup held,
      fancying that Sancho had by this time come to hold it for him, threw
      himself off with a lurch and brought Rocinante's saddle after him, which
      was no doubt badly girthed, and saddle and he both came to the ground; not
      without discomfiture to him and abundant curses muttered between his teeth
      against the unlucky Sancho, who had his foot still in the shackles. The
      duke ordered his huntsmen to go to the help of knight and squire, and they
      raised Don Quixote, sorely shaken by his fall; and he, limping, advanced
      as best he could to kneel before the noble pair. This, however, the duke
      would by no means permit; on the contrary, dismounting from his horse, he
      went and embraced Don Quixote, saying, "I am grieved, Sir Knight of the
      Rueful Countenance, that your first experience on my ground should have
      been such an unfortunate one as we have seen; but the carelessness of
      squires is often the cause of worse accidents."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That which has happened me in meeting you, mighty prince," replied Don
      Quixote, "cannot be unfortunate, even if my fall had not stopped short of
      the depths of the bottomless pit, for the glory of having seen you would
      have lifted me up and delivered me from it. My squire, God's curse upon
      him, is better at unloosing his tongue in talking impertinence than in
      tightening the girths of a saddle to keep it steady; but however I may be,
      fallen or raised up, on foot or on horseback, I shall always be at your
      service and that of my lady the duchess, your worthy consort, worthy queen
      of beauty and paramount princess of courtesy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Gently, Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha," said the duke; "where my lady
      Dona Dulcinea del Toboso is, it is not right that other beauties should be
      praised."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho, by this time released from his entanglement, was standing by, and
      before his master could answer he said, "There is no denying, and it must
      be maintained, that my lady Dulcinea del Toboso is very beautiful; but the
      hare jumps up where one least expects it; and I have heard say that what
      we call nature is like a potter that makes vessels of clay, and he who
      makes one fair vessel can as well make two, or three, or a hundred; I say
      so because, by my faith, my lady the duchess is in no way behind my
      mistress the lady Dulcinea del Toboso."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote turned to the duchess and said, "Your highness may conceive
      that never had knight-errant in this world a more talkative or a droller
      squire than I have, and he will prove the truth of what I say, if your
      highness is pleased to accept of my services for a few days."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which the duchess made answer, "that worthy Sancho is droll I consider
      a very good thing, because it is a sign that he is shrewd; for drollery
      and sprightliness, Senor Don Quixote, as you very well know, do not take
      up their abode with dull wits; and as good Sancho is droll and sprightly I
      here set him down as shrewd."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And talkative," added Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So much the better," said the duke, "for many droll things cannot be said
      in few words; but not to lose time in talking, come, great Knight of the
      Rueful Countenance-"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of the Lions, your highness must say," said Sancho, "for there is no
      Rueful Countenance nor any such character now."
    </p>
    <p>
      "He of the Lions be it," continued the duke; "I say, let Sir Knight of the
      Lions come to a castle of mine close by, where he shall be given that
      reception which is due to so exalted a personage, and which the duchess
      and I are wont to give to all knights-errant who come there."
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time Sancho had fixed and girthed Rocinante's saddle, and Don
      Quixote having got on his back and the duke mounted a fine horse, they
      placed the duchess in the middle and set out for the castle. The duchess
      desired Sancho to come to her side, for she found infinite enjoyment in
      listening to his shrewd remarks. Sancho required no pressing, but pushed
      himself in between them and the duke, who thought it rare good fortune to
      receive such a knight-errant and such a homely squire in their castle.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p30e" id="p30e"></a>
    </p>
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      <img alt="p30e.jpg (54K)" src="images/p30e.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch31b" id="ch31b"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TREATS OF MANY AND GREAT MATTERS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p31a" id="p31a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
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      <a href="images/p31a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Supreme was the satisfaction that Sancho felt at seeing himself, as it
      seemed, an established favourite with the duchess, for he looked forward
      to finding in her castle what he had found in Don Diego's house and in
      Basilio's; he was always fond of good living, and always seized by the
      forelock any opportunity of feasting himself whenever it presented itself.
      The history informs us, then, that before they reached the country house
      or castle, the duke went on in advance and instructed all his servants how
      they were to treat Don Quixote; and so the instant he came up to the
      castle gates with the duchess, two lackeys or equerries, clad in what they
      call morning gowns of fine crimson satin reaching to their feet, hastened
      out, and catching Don Quixote in their arms before he saw or heard them,
      said to him, "Your highness should go and take my lady the duchess off her
      horse."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p31b" id="p31b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p31b.jpg (334K)" src="images/p31b.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <a href="images/p31b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote obeyed, and great bandying of compliments followed between the
      two over the matter; but in the end the duchess's determination carried
      the day, and she refused to get down or dismount from her palfrey except
      in the arms of the duke, saying she did not consider herself worthy to
      impose so unnecessary a burden on so great a knight. At length the duke
      came out to take her down, and as they entered a spacious court two fair
      damsels came forward and threw over Don Quixote's shoulders a large mantle
      of the finest scarlet cloth, and at the same instant all the galleries of
      the court were lined with the men-servants and women-servants of the
      household, crying, "Welcome, flower and cream of knight-errantry!" while
      all or most of them flung pellets filled with scented water over Don
      Quixote and the duke and duchess; at all which Don Quixote was greatly
      astonished, and this was the first time that he thoroughly felt and
      believed himself to be a knight-errant in reality and not merely in fancy,
      now that he saw himself treated in the same way as he had read of such
      knights being treated in days of yore.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho, deserting Dapple, hung on to the duchess and entered the castle,
      but feeling some twinges of conscience at having left the ass alone, he
      approached a respectable duenna who had come out with the rest to receive
      the duchess, and in a low voice he said to her, "Senora Gonzalez, or
      however your grace may be called-"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am called Dona Rodriguez de Grijalba," replied the duenna; "what is
      your will, brother?" To which Sancho made answer, "I should be glad if
      your worship would do me the favour to go out to the castle gate, where
      you will find a grey ass of mine; make them, if you please, put him in the
      stable, or put him there yourself, for the poor little beast is rather
      easily frightened, and cannot bear being alone at all."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If the master is as wise as the man," said the duenna, "we have got a
      fine bargain. Be off with you, brother, and bad luck to you and him who
      brought you here; go, look after your ass, for we, the duennas of this
      house, are not used to work of that sort."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then, in troth," returned Sancho, "I have heard my master, who is
      the very treasure-finder of stories, telling the story of Lancelot when he
      came from Britain, say that ladies waited upon him and duennas upon his
      hack; and, if it comes to my ass, I wouldn't change him for Senor
      Lancelot's hack."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If you are a jester, brother," said the duenna, "keep your drolleries for
      some place where they'll pass muster and be paid for; for you'll get
      nothing from me but a fig."
    </p>
    <p>
      "At any rate, it will be a very ripe one," said Sancho, "for you won't
      lose the trick in years by a point too little."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Son of a bitch," said the duenna, all aglow with anger, "whether I'm old
      or not, it's with God I have to reckon, not with you, you garlic-stuffed
      scoundrel!" and she said it so loud, that the duchess heard it, and
      turning round and seeing the duenna in such a state of excitement, and her
      eyes flaming so, asked whom she was wrangling with.
    </p>
    <p>
      "With this good fellow here," said the duenna, "who has particularly
      requested me to go and put an ass of his that is at the castle gate into
      the stable, holding it up to me as an example that they did the same I
      don't know where&mdash;that some ladies waited on one Lancelot, and
      duennas on his hack; and what is more, to wind up with, he called me old."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That," said the duchess, "I should have considered the greatest affront
      that could be offered me;" and addressing Sancho, she said to him, "You
      must know, friend Sancho, that Dona Rodriguez is very youthful, and that
      she wears that hood more for authority and custom's sake than because of her
      years."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May all the rest of mine be unlucky," said Sancho, "if I meant it that
      way; I only spoke because the affection I have for my ass is so great, and
      I thought I could not commend him to a more kind-hearted person than the
      lady Dona Rodriguez."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote, who was listening, said to him, "Is this proper conversation
      for the place, Sancho?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor," replied Sancho, "every one must mention what he wants wherever he
      may be; I thought of Dapple here, and I spoke of him here; if I had
      thought of him in the stable I would have spoken there."
    </p>
    <p>
      On which the duke observed, "Sancho is quite right, and there is no reason
      at all to find fault with him; Dapple shall be fed to his heart's content,
      and Sancho may rest easy, for he shall be treated like himself."
    </p>
    <p>
      While this conversation, amusing to all except Don Quixote, was
      proceeding, they ascended the staircase and ushered Don Quixote into a
      chamber hung with rich cloth of gold and brocade; six damsels relieved him
      of his armour and waited on him like pages, all of them prepared and
      instructed by the duke and duchess as to what they were to do, and how
      they were to treat Don Quixote, so that he might see and believe they were
      treating him like a knight-errant. When his armour was removed, there
      stood Don Quixote in his tight-fitting breeches and chamois doublet, lean,
      lanky, and long, with cheeks that seemed to be kissing each other inside;
      such a figure, that if the damsels waiting on him had not taken care to
      check their merriment (which was one of the particular directions their
      master and mistress had given them), they would have burst with laughter.
      They asked him to let himself be stripped that they might put a shirt on
      him, but he would not on any account, saying that modesty became
      knights-errant just as much as valour. However, he said they might give
      the shirt to Sancho; and shutting himself in with him in a room where
      there was a sumptuous bed, he undressed and put on the shirt; and then,
      finding himself alone with Sancho, he said to him, "Tell me, thou
      new-fledged buffoon and old booby, dost thou think it right to offend and
      insult a duenna so deserving of reverence and respect as that one just
      now? Was that a time to bethink thee of thy Dapple, or are these noble
      personages likely to let the beasts fare badly when they treat their
      owners in such elegant style? For God's sake, Sancho, restrain thyself,
      and don't show the thread so as to let them see what a coarse, boorish
      texture thou art of. Remember, sinner that thou art, the master is the
      more esteemed the more respectable and well-bred his servants are; and
      that one of the greatest advantages that princes have over other men is
      that they have servants as good as themselves to wait on them. Dost thou
      not see&mdash;shortsighted being that thou art, and unlucky mortal that I
      am!&mdash;that if they perceive thee to be a coarse clown or a dull
      blockhead, they will suspect me to be some impostor or swindler? Nay, nay,
      Sancho friend, keep clear, oh, keep clear of these stumbling-blocks; for
      he who falls into the way of being a chatterbox and droll, drops into a
      wretched buffoon the first time he trips; bridle thy tongue, consider and
      weigh thy words before they escape thy mouth, and bear in mind we are now
      in quarters whence, by God's help, and the strength of my arm, we shall
      come forth mightily advanced in fame and fortune."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho promised him with much earnestness to keep his mouth shut, and to
      bite off his tongue before he uttered a word that was not altogether to
      the purpose and well considered, and told him he might make his mind easy
      on that point, for it should never be discovered through him what they
      were.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote dressed himself, put on his baldric with his sword, threw the
      scarlet mantle over his shoulders, placed on his head a montera of green
      satin that the damsels had given him, and thus arrayed passed out into the
      large room, where he found the damsels drawn up in double file, the same
      number on each side, all with the appliances for washing the hands, which
      they presented to him with profuse obeisances and ceremonies. Then came
      twelve pages, together with the seneschal, to lead him to dinner, as his
      hosts were already waiting for him. They placed him in the midst of them,
      and with much pomp and stateliness they conducted him into another room,
      where there was a sumptuous table laid with but four covers. The duchess
      and the duke came out to the door of the room to receive him, and with
      them a grave ecclesiastic, one of those who rule noblemen's houses; one of
      those who, not being born magnates themselves, never know how to teach
      those who are how to behave as such; one of those who would have the
      greatness of great folk measured by their own narrowness of mind; one of
      those who, when they try to introduce economy into the household they
      rule, lead it into meanness. One of this sort, I say, must have been the
      grave churchman who came out with the duke and duchess to receive Don
      Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      A vast number of polite speeches were exchanged, and at length, taking Don
      Quixote between them, they proceeded to sit down to table. The duke
      pressed Don Quixote to take the head of the table, and, though he refused,
      the entreaties of the duke were so urgent that he had to accept it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ecclesiastic took his seat opposite to him, and the duke and duchess
      those at the sides. All this time Sancho stood by, gaping with amazement
      at the honour he saw shown to his master by these illustrious persons; and
      observing all the ceremonious pressing that had passed between the duke
      and Don Quixote to induce him to take his seat at the head of the table,
      he said, "If your worship will give me leave I will tell you a story of
      what happened in my village about this matter of seats."
    </p>
    <p>
      The moment Sancho said this Don Quixote trembled, making sure that he was
      about to say something foolish. Sancho glanced at him, and guessing his
      thoughts, said, "Don't be afraid of my going astray, senor, or saying
      anything that won't be pat to the purpose; I haven't forgotten the advice
      your worship gave me just now about talking much or little, well or ill."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have no recollection of anything, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "say what
      thou wilt, only say it quickly."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then," said Sancho, "what I am going to say is so true that my
      master Don Quixote, who is here present, will keep me from lying."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lie as much as thou wilt for all I care, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for
      I am not going to stop thee, but consider what thou art going to say."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have so considered and reconsidered," said Sancho, "that the
      bell-ringer's in a safe berth; as will be seen by what follows."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It would be well," said Don Quixote, "if your highnesses would order them
      to turn out this idiot, for he will talk a heap of nonsense."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By the life of the duke, Sancho shall not be taken away from me for a
      moment," said the duchess; "I am very fond of him, for I know he is very
      discreet."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Discreet be the days of your holiness," said Sancho, "for the good
      opinion you have of my wit, though there's none in me; but the story I
      want to tell is this. There was an invitation given by a gentleman of my
      town, a very rich one, and one of quality, for he was one of the Alamos of
      Medina del Campo, and married to Dona Mencia de Quinones, the daughter of
      Don Alonso de Maranon, Knight of the Order of Santiago, that was drowned
      at the Herradura&mdash;him there was that quarrel about years ago in our
      village, that my master Don Quixote was mixed up in, to the best of my
      belief, that Tomasillo the scapegrace, the son of Balbastro the smith, was
      wounded in.&mdash;Isn't all this true, master mine? As you live, say so,
      that these gentlefolk may not take me for some lying chatterer."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So far," said the ecclesiastic, "I take you to be more a chatterer than a
      liar; but I don't know what I shall take you for by-and-by."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou citest so many witnesses and proofs, Sancho," said Don Quixote,
      "that I have no choice but to say thou must be telling the truth; go on,
      and cut the story short, for thou art taking the way not to make an end
      for two days to come."
    </p>
    <p>
      "He is not to cut it short," said the duchess; "on the contrary, for my
      gratification, he is to tell it as he knows it, though he should not
      finish it these six days; and if he took so many they would be to me the
      pleasantest I ever spent."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then, sirs, I say," continued Sancho, "that this same gentleman,
      whom I know as well as I do my own hands, for it's not a bowshot from my
      house to his, invited a poor but respectable labourer-"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Get on, brother," said the churchman; "at the rate you are going you will
      not stop with your story short of the next world."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'll stop less than half-way, please God," said Sancho; "and so I say
      this labourer, coming to the house of the gentleman I spoke of that
      invited him&mdash;rest his soul, he is now dead; and more by token he died
      the death of an angel, so they say; for I was not there, for just at that
      time I had gone to reap at Tembleque-"
    </p>
    <p>
      "As you live, my son," said the churchman, "make haste back from
      Tembleque, and finish your story without burying the gentleman, unless you
      want to make more funerals."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then, it so happened," said Sancho, "that as the pair of them were
      going to sit down to table&mdash;and I think I can see them now plainer
      than ever-"
    </p>
    <p>
      Great was the enjoyment the duke and duchess derived from the irritation
      the worthy churchman showed at the long-winded, halting way Sancho had of
      telling his story, while Don Quixote was chafing with rage and vexation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "So, as I was saying," continued Sancho, "as the pair of them were going
      to sit down to table, as I said, the labourer insisted upon the
      gentleman's taking the head of the table, and the gentleman insisted upon
      the labourer's taking it, as his orders should be obeyed in his house; but
      the labourer, who plumed himself on his politeness and good breeding,
      would not on any account, until the gentleman, out of patience, putting
      his hands on his shoulders, compelled him by force to sit down, saying,
      'Sit down, you stupid lout, for wherever I sit will be the head to you;
      and that's the story, and, troth, I think it hasn't been brought in amiss
      here."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote turned all colours, which, on his sunburnt face, mottled it
      till it looked like jasper. The duke and duchess suppressed their laughter
      so as not altogether to mortify Don Quixote, for they saw through Sancho's
      impertinence; and to change the conversation, and keep Sancho from
      uttering more absurdities, the duchess asked Don Quixote what news he had
      of the lady Dulcinea, and if he had sent her any presents of giants or
      miscreants lately, for he could not but have vanquished a good many.
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Don Quixote replied, "Senora, my misfortunes, though they had a
      beginning, will never have an end. I have vanquished giants and I have
      sent her caitiffs and miscreants; but where are they to find her if she is
      enchanted and turned into the most ill-favoured peasant wench that can be
      imagined?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know," said Sancho Panza; "to me she seems the fairest creature
      in the world; at any rate, in nimbleness and jumping she won't give in to
      a tumbler; by my faith, senora duchess, she leaps from the ground on to
      the back of an ass like a cat."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Have you seen her enchanted, Sancho?" asked the duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What, seen her!" said Sancho; "why, who the devil was it but myself that
      first thought of the enchantment business? She is as much enchanted as my
      father."
    </p>
    <p>
      The ecclesiastic, when he heard them talking of giants and caitiffs and
      enchantments, began to suspect that this must be Don Quixote of La Mancha,
      whose story the duke was always reading; and he had himself often reproved
      him for it, telling him it was foolish to read such fooleries; and
      becoming convinced that his suspicion was correct, addressing the duke, he
      said very angrily to him, "Senor, your excellence will have to give
      account to God for what this good man does. This Don Quixote, or Don
      Simpleton, or whatever his name is, cannot, I imagine, be such a blockhead
      as your excellence would have him, holding out encouragement to him to go
      on with his vagaries and follies." Then turning to address Don Quixote he
      said, "And you, num-skull, who put it into your head that you are a
      knight-errant, and vanquish giants and capture miscreants? Go your ways in
      a good hour, and in a good hour be it said to you. Go home and bring up
      your children if you have any, and attend to your business, and give over
      going wandering about the world, gaping and making a laughing-stock of
      yourself to all who know you and all who don't. Where, in heaven's name,
      have you discovered that there are or ever were knights-errant? Where are
      there giants in Spain or miscreants in La Mancha, or enchanted Dulcineas,
      or all the rest of the silly things they tell about you?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote listened attentively to the reverend gentleman's words, and as
      soon as he perceived he had done speaking, regardless of the presence of
      the duke and duchess, he sprang to his feet with angry looks and an
      agitated countenance, and said&mdash;But the reply deserves a chapter to
      itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p31e" id="p31e"></a>
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      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch32b" id="ch32b"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE REPLY DON QUIXOTE GAVE HIS CENSURER, WITH OTHER INCIDENTS, GRAVE
      AND DROLL
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p32a" id="p32a"></a>
    </p>
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      <a href="images/p32a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote, then, having risen to his feet, trembling from head to foot
      like a man dosed with mercury, said in a hurried, agitated voice, "The
      place I am in, the presence in which I stand, and the respect I have and
      always have had for the profession to which your worship belongs, hold and
      bind the hands of my just indignation; and as well for these reasons as
      because I know, as everyone knows, that a gownsman's weapon is the same as
      a woman's, the tongue, I will with mine engage in equal combat with your
      worship, from whom one might have expected good advice instead of foul
      abuse. Pious, well-meant reproof requires a different demeanour and
      arguments of another sort; at any rate, to have reproved me in public, and
      so roughly, exceeds the bounds of proper reproof, for that comes better
      with gentleness than with rudeness; and it is not seemly to call the
      sinner roundly blockhead and booby, without knowing anything of the sin
      that is reproved. Come, tell me, for which of the stupidities you have
      observed in me do you condemn and abuse me, and bid me go home and look
      after my house and wife and children, without knowing whether I have any?
      Is nothing more needed than to get a footing, by hook or by crook, in
      other people's houses to rule over the masters (and that, perhaps, after
      having been brought up in all the straitness of some seminary, and without
      having ever seen more of the world than may lie within twenty or thirty
      leagues round), to fit one to lay down the law rashly for chivalry, and
      pass judgment on knights-errant? Is it, haply, an idle occupation, or is
      the time ill-spent that is spent in roaming the world in quest, not of its
      enjoyments, but of those arduous toils whereby the good mount upwards to
      the abodes of everlasting life? If gentlemen, great lords, nobles, men of
      high birth, were to rate me as a fool I should take it as an irreparable
      insult; but I care not a farthing if clerks who have never entered upon or
      trod the paths of chivalry should think me foolish. Knight I am, and
      knight I will die, if such be the pleasure of the Most High. Some take the
      broad road of overweening ambition; others that of mean and servile
      flattery; others that of deceitful hypocrisy, and some that of true
      religion; but I, led by my star, follow the narrow path of
      knight-errantry, and in pursuit of that calling I despise wealth, but not
      honour. I have redressed injuries, righted wrongs, punished insolences,
      vanquished giants, and crushed monsters; I am in love, for no other reason
      than that it is incumbent on knights-errant to be so; but though I am, I
      am no carnal-minded lover, but one of the chaste, platonic sort. My
      intentions are always directed to worthy ends, to do good to all and evil
      to none; and if he who means this, does this, and makes this his practice
      deserves to be called a fool, it is for your highnesses to say, O most
      excellent duke and duchess."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Good, by God!" cried Sancho; "say no more in your own defence, master
      mine, for there's nothing more in the world to be said, thought, or
      insisted on; and besides, when this gentleman denies, as he has, that
      there are or ever have been any knights-errant in the world, is it any
      wonder if he knows nothing of what he has been talking about?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Perhaps, brother," said the ecclesiastic, "you are that Sancho Panza that
      is mentioned, to whom your master has promised an island?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, I am," said Sancho, "and what's more, I am one who deserves it as
      much as anyone; I am one of the sort&mdash;'Attach thyself to the good,
      and thou wilt be one of them,' and of those, 'Not with whom thou art bred,
      but with whom thou art fed,' and of those, 'Who leans against a good tree,
      a good shade covers him;' I have leant upon a good master, and I have been
      for months going about with him, and please God I shall be just such
      another; long life to him and long life to me, for neither will he be in
      any want of empires to rule, or I of islands to govern."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, Sancho my friend, certainly not," said the duke, "for in the name of
      Senor Don Quixote I confer upon you the government of one of no small
      importance that I have at my disposal."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Go down on thy knees, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and kiss the feet of
      his excellence for the favour he has bestowed upon thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho obeyed, and on seeing this the ecclesiastic stood up from table
      completely out of temper, exclaiming, "By the gown I wear, I am almost
      inclined to say that your excellence is as great a fool as these sinners.
      No wonder they are mad, when people who are in their senses sanction their
      madness! I leave your excellence with them, for so long as they are in the
      house, I will remain in my own, and spare myself the trouble of reproving
      what I cannot remedy;" and without uttering another word, or eating
      another morsel, he went off, the entreaties of the duke and duchess being
      entirely unavailing to stop him; not that the duke said much to him, for
      he could not, because of the laughter his uncalled-for anger provoked.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he had done laughing, he said to Don Quixote, "You have replied on
      your own behalf so stoutly, Sir Knight of the Lions, that there is no
      occasion to seek further satisfaction for this, which, though it may look
      like an offence, is not so at all, for, as women can give no offence, no
      more can ecclesiastics, as you very well know."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said Don Quixote, "and the reason is, that he who is not
      liable to offence cannot give offence to anyone. Women, children, and
      ecclesiastics, as they cannot defend themselves, though they may receive
      offence cannot be insulted, because between the offence and the insult
      there is, as your excellence very well knows, this difference: the insult
      comes from one who is capable of offering it, and does so, and maintains
      it; the offence may come from any quarter without carrying insult. To take
      an example: a man is standing unsuspectingly in the street and ten others
      come up armed and beat him; he draws his sword and quits himself like a
      man, but the number of his antagonists makes it impossible for him to
      effect his purpose and avenge himself; this man suffers an offence but not
      an insult. Another example will make the same thing plain: a man is
      standing with his back turned, another comes up and strikes him, and after
      striking him takes to flight, without waiting an instant, and the other
      pursues him but does not overtake him; he who received the blow received
      an offence, but not an insult, because an insult must be maintained. If he
      who struck him, though he did so sneakingly and treacherously, had drawn
      his sword and stood and faced him, then he who had been struck would have
      received offence and insult at the same time; offence because he was
      struck treacherously, insult because he who struck him maintained what he
      had done, standing his ground without taking to flight. And so, according
      to the laws of the accursed duel, I may have received offence, but not
      insult, for neither women nor children can maintain it, nor can they
      wound, nor have they any way of standing their ground, and it is just the
      same with those connected with religion; for these three sorts of persons
      are without arms offensive or defensive, and so, though naturally they are
      bound to defend themselves, they have no right to offend anybody; and
      though I said just now I might have received offence, I say now certainly
      not, for he who cannot receive an insult can still less give one; for
      which reasons I ought not to feel, nor do I feel, aggrieved at what that
      good man said to me; I only wish he had stayed a little longer, that I
      might have shown him the mistake he makes in supposing and maintaining
      that there are not and never have been any knights-errant in the world;
      had Amadis or any of his countless descendants heard him say as much, I am
      sure it would not have gone well with his worship."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will take my oath of that," said Sancho; "they would have given him a
      slash that would have slit him down from top to toe like a pomegranate or
      a ripe melon; they were likely fellows to put up with jokes of that sort!
      By my faith, I'm certain if Reinaldos of Montalvan had heard the little
      man's words he would have given him such a spank on the mouth that he
      wouldn't have spoken for the next three years; ay, let him tackle them,
      and he'll see how he'll get out of their hands!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The duchess, as she listened to Sancho, was ready to die with laughter,
      and in her own mind she set him down as droller and madder than his
      master; and there were a good many just then who were of the same opinion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote finally grew calm, and dinner came to an end, and as the cloth
      was removed four damsels came in, one of them with a silver basin, another
      with a jug also of silver, a third with two fine white towels on her
      shoulder, and the fourth with her arms bared to the elbows, and in her
      white hands (for white they certainly were) a round ball of Naples soap.
      The one with the basin approached, and with arch composure and impudence,
      thrust it under Don Quixote's chin, who, wondering at such a ceremony,
      said never a word, supposing it to be the custom of that country to wash
      beards instead of hands; he therefore stretched his out as far as he
      could, and at the same instant the jug began to pour and the damsel with
      the soap rubbed his beard briskly, raising snow-flakes, for the soap
      lather was no less white, not only over the beard, but all over the face,
      and over the eyes of the submissive knight, so that they were perforce
      obliged to keep shut. The duke and duchess, who had not known anything
      about this, waited to see what came of this strange washing. The barber
      damsel, when she had him a hand's breadth deep in lather, pretended that
      there was no more water, and bade the one with the jug go and fetch some,
      while Senor Don Quixote waited. She did so, and Don Quixote was left the
      strangest and most ludicrous figure that could be imagined. All those
      present, and there were a good many, were watching him, and as they saw
      him there with half a yard of neck, and that uncommonly brown, his eyes
      shut, and his beard full of soap, it was a great wonder, and only by great
      discretion, that they were able to restrain their laughter. The damsels,
      the concocters of the joke, kept their eyes down, not daring to look at
      their master and mistress; and as for them, laughter and anger struggled
      within them, and they knew not what to do, whether to punish the audacity
      of the girls, or to reward them for the amusement they had received from
      seeing Don Quixote in such a plight.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length the damsel with the jug returned and they made an end of washing
      Don Quixote, and the one who carried the towels very deliberately wiped
      him and dried him; and all four together making him a profound obeisance
      and curtsey, they were about to go, when the duke, lest Don Quixote should
      see through the joke, called out to the one with the basin saying, "Come
      and wash me, and take care that there is water enough." The girl,
      sharp-witted and prompt, came and placed the basin for the duke as she had
      done for Don Quixote, and they soon had him well soaped and washed, and
      having wiped him dry they made their obeisance and retired. It appeared
      afterwards that the duke had sworn that if they had not washed him as they
      had Don Quixote he would have punished them for their impudence, which
      they adroitly atoned for by soaping him as well.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho observed the ceremony of the washing very attentively, and said to
      himself, "God bless me, if it were only the custom in this country to wash
      squires' beards too as well as knights'. For by God and upon my soul I
      want it badly; and if they gave me a scrape of the razor besides I'd take
      it as a still greater kindness."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What are you saying to yourself, Sancho?" asked the duchess.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was saying, senora," he replied, "that in the courts of other princes,
      when the cloth is taken away, I have always heard say they give water for
      the hands, but not lye for the beard; and that shows it is good to live
      long that you may see much; to be sure, they say too that he who lives a
      long life must undergo much evil, though to undergo a washing of that sort
      is pleasure rather than pain."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Don't be uneasy, friend Sancho," said the duchess; "I will take care that
      my damsels wash you, and even put you in the tub if necessary."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'll be content with the beard," said Sancho, "at any rate for the
      present; and as for the future, God has decreed what is to be."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Attend to worthy Sancho's request, seneschal," said the duchess, "and do
      exactly what he wishes."
    </p>
    <p>
      The seneschal replied that Senor Sancho should be obeyed in everything;
      and with that he went away to dinner and took Sancho along with him, while
      the duke and duchess and Don Quixote remained at table discussing a great
      variety of things, but all bearing on the calling of arms and
      knight-errantry.
    </p>
    <p>
      The duchess begged Don Quixote, as he seemed to have a retentive memory,
      to describe and portray to her the beauty and features of the lady
      Dulcinea del Toboso, for, judging by what fame trumpeted abroad of her
      beauty, she felt sure she must be the fairest creature in the world, nay,
      in all La Mancha.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote sighed on hearing the duchess's request, and said, "If I could
      pluck out my heart, and lay it on a plate on this table here before your
      highness's eyes, it would spare my tongue the pain of telling what can
      hardly be thought of, for in it your excellence would see her portrayed in
      full. But why should I attempt to depict and describe in detail, and
      feature by feature, the beauty of the peerless Dulcinea, the burden being
      one worthy of other shoulders than mine, an enterprise wherein the pencils
      of Parrhasius, Timantes, and Apelles, and the graver of Lysippus ought to
      be employed, to paint it in pictures and carve it in marble and bronze,
      and Ciceronian and Demosthenian eloquence to sound its praises?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "What does Demosthenian mean, Senor Don Quixote?" said the duchess; "it is
      a word I never heard in all my life."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Demosthenian eloquence," said Don Quixote, "means the eloquence of
      Demosthenes, as Ciceronian means that of Cicero, who were the two most
      eloquent orators in the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True," said the duke; "you must have lost your wits to ask such a
      question. Nevertheless, Senor Don Quixote would greatly gratify us if he
      would depict her to us; for never fear, even in an outline or sketch she
      will be something to make the fairest envious."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would do so certainly," said Don Quixote, "had she not been blurred to
      my mind's eye by the misfortune that fell upon her a short time since, one
      of such a nature that I am more ready to weep over it than to describe it.
      For your highnesses must know that, going a few days back to kiss her
      hands and receive her benediction, approbation, and permission for this
      third sally, I found her altogether a different being from the one I
      sought; I found her enchanted and changed from a princess into a peasant,
      from fair to foul, from an angel into a devil, from fragrant to
      pestiferous, from refined to clownish, from a dignified lady into a
      jumping tomboy, and, in a word, from Dulcinea del Toboso into a coarse
      Sayago wench."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God bless me!" said the duke aloud at this, "who can have done the world
      such an injury? Who can have robbed it of the beauty that gladdened it, of
      the grace and gaiety that charmed it, of the modesty that shed a lustre
      upon it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who?" replied Don Quixote; "who could it be but some malignant enchanter
      of the many that persecute me out of envy&mdash;that accursed race born
      into the world to obscure and bring to naught the achievements of the
      good, and glorify and exalt the deeds of the wicked? Enchanters have
      persecuted me, enchanters persecute me still, and enchanters will continue
      to persecute me until they have sunk me and my lofty chivalry in the deep
      abyss of oblivion; and they injure and wound me where they know I feel it
      most. For to deprive a knight-errant of his lady is to deprive him of the
      eyes he sees with, of the sun that gives him light, of the food whereby he
      lives. Many a time before have I said it, and I say it now once more, a
      knight-errant without a lady is like a tree without leaves, a building
      without a foundation, or a shadow without the body that causes it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no denying it," said the duchess; "but still, if we are to
      believe the history of Don Quixote that has come out here lately with
      general applause, it is to be inferred from it, if I mistake not, that you
      never saw the lady Dulcinea, and that the said lady is nothing in the
      world but an imaginary lady, one that you yourself begot and gave birth to
      in your brain, and adorned with whatever charms and perfections you
      chose."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is a good deal to be said on that point," said Don Quixote; "God
      knows whether there be any Dulcinea or not in the world, or whether she is
      imaginary or not imaginary; these are things the proof of which must not
      be pushed to extreme lengths. I have not begotten nor given birth to my
      lady, though I behold her as she needs must be, a lady who contains in
      herself all the qualities to make her famous throughout the world,
      beautiful without blemish, dignified without haughtiness, tender and yet
      modest, gracious from courtesy and courteous from good breeding, and
      lastly, of exalted lineage, because beauty shines forth and excels with a
      higher degree of perfection upon good blood than in the fair of lowly
      birth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said the duke; "but Senor Don Quixote will give me leave
      to say what I am constrained to say by the story of his exploits that I
      have read, from which it is to be inferred that, granting there is a
      Dulcinea in El Toboso, or out of it, and that she is in the highest degree
      beautiful as you have described her to us, as regards the loftiness of her
      lineage she is not on a par with the Orianas, Alastrajareas, Madasimas, or
      others of that sort, with whom, as you well know, the histories abound."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To that I may reply," said Don Quixote, "that Dulcinea is the daughter of
      her own works, and that virtues rectify blood, and that lowly virtue is
      more to be regarded and esteemed than exalted vice. Dulcinea, besides, has
      that within her that may raise her to be a crowned and sceptred queen; for
      the merit of a fair and virtuous woman is capable of performing greater
      miracles; and virtually, though not formally, she has in herself higher
      fortunes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I protest, Senor Don Quixote," said the duchess, "that in all you say,
      you go most cautiously and lead in hand, as the saying is; henceforth I
      will believe myself, and I will take care that everyone in my house
      believes, even my lord the duke if needs be, that there is a Dulcinea in
      El Toboso, and that she is living to-day, and that she is beautiful and
      nobly born and deserves to have such a knight as Senor Don Quixote in her
      service, and that is the highest praise that it is in my power to give her
      or that I can think of. But I cannot help entertaining a doubt, and having
      a certain grudge against Sancho Panza; the doubt is this, that the
      aforesaid history declares that the said Sancho Panza, when he carried a
      letter on your worship's behalf to the said lady Dulcinea, found her
      sifting a sack of wheat; and more by token it says it was red wheat; a
      thing which makes me doubt the loftiness of her lineage."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this Don Quixote made answer, "Senora, your highness must know that
      everything or almost everything that happens me transcends the ordinary
      limits of what happens to other knights-errant; whether it be that it is
      directed by the inscrutable will of destiny, or by the malice of some
      jealous enchanter. Now it is an established fact that all or most famous
      knights-errant have some special gift, one that of being proof against
      enchantment, another that of being made of such invulnerable flesh that he
      cannot be wounded, as was the famous Roland, one of the twelve peers of
      France, of whom it is related that he could not be wounded except in the
      sole of his left foot, and that it must be with the point of a stout pin
      and not with any other sort of weapon whatever; and so, when Bernardo del
      Carpio slew him at Roncesvalles, finding that he could not wound him with
      steel, he lifted him up from the ground in his arms and strangled him,
      calling to mind seasonably the death which Hercules inflicted on Antaeus,
      the fierce giant that they say was the son of Terra. I would infer from
      what I have mentioned that perhaps I may have some gift of this kind, not
      that of being invulnerable, because experience has many times proved to me
      that I am of tender flesh and not at all impenetrable; nor that of being
      proof against enchantment, for I have already seen myself thrust into a
      cage, in which all the world would not have been able to confine me except
      by force of enchantments. But as I delivered myself from that one, I am
      inclined to believe that there is no other that can hurt me; and so, these
      enchanters, seeing that they cannot exert their vile craft against my
      person, revenge themselves on what I love most, and seek to rob me of life
      by maltreating that of Dulcinea in whom I live; and therefore I am
      convinced that when my squire carried my message to her, they changed her
      into a common peasant girl, engaged in such a mean occupation as sifting
      wheat; I have already said, however, that that wheat was not red wheat,
      nor wheat at all, but grains of orient pearl. And as a proof of all this,
      I must tell your highnesses that, coming to El Toboso a short time back, I
      was altogether unable to discover the palace of Dulcinea; and that the
      next day, though Sancho, my squire, saw her in her own proper shape, which
      is the fairest in the world, to me she appeared to be a coarse,
      ill-favoured farm-wench, and by no means a well-spoken one, she who is
      propriety itself. And so, as I am not and, so far as one can judge, cannot
      be enchanted, she it is that is enchanted, that is smitten, that is
      altered, changed, and transformed; in her have my enemies revenged
      themselves upon me, and for her shall I live in ceaseless tears, until I
      see her in her pristine state. I have mentioned this lest anybody should
      mind what Sancho said about Dulcinea's winnowing or sifting; for, as they
      changed her to me, it is no wonder if they changed her to him. Dulcinea is
      illustrious and well-born, and of one of the gentle families of El Toboso,
      which are many, ancient, and good. Therein, most assuredly, not small is
      the share of the peerless Dulcinea, through whom her town will be famous
      and celebrated in ages to come, as Troy was through Helen, and Spain
      through La Cava, though with a better title and tradition. For another
      thing; I would have your graces understand that Sancho Panza is one of the
      drollest squires that ever served knight-errant; sometimes there is a
      simplicity about him so acute that it is an amusement to try and make out
      whether he is simple or sharp; he has mischievous tricks that stamp him
      rogue, and blundering ways that prove him a booby; he doubts everything
      and believes everything; when I fancy he is on the point of coming down
      headlong from sheer stupidity, he comes out with something shrewd that
      sends him up to the skies. After all, I would not exchange him for another
      squire, though I were given a city to boot, and therefore I am in doubt
      whether it will be well to send him to the government your highness has
      bestowed upon him; though I perceive in him a certain aptitude for the
      work of governing, so that, with a little trimming of his understanding,
      he would manage any government as easily as the king does his taxes; and
      moreover, we know already ample experience that it does not require much
      cleverness or much learning to be a governor, for there are a hundred
      round about us that scarcely know how to read, and govern like gerfalcons.
      The main point is that they should have good intentions and be desirous of
      doing right in all things, for they will never be at a loss for persons to
      advise and direct them in what they have to do, like those
      knight-governors who, being no lawyers, pronounce sentences with the aid
      of an assessor. My advice to him will be to take no bribe and surrender no
      right, and I have some other little matters in reserve, that shall be
      produced in due season for Sancho's benefit and the advantage of the
      island he is to govern."
    </p>
    <p>
      The duke, duchess, and Don Quixote had reached this point in their
      conversation, when they heard voices and a great hubbub in the palace, and
      Sancho burst abruptly into the room all glowing with anger, with a
      straining-cloth by way of a bib, and followed by several servants, or,
      more properly speaking, kitchen-boys and other underlings, one of whom
      carried a small trough full of water, that from its colour and impurity
      was plainly dishwater. The one with the trough pursued him and followed
      him everywhere he went, endeavouring with the utmost persistence to thrust
      it under his chin, while another kitchen-boy seemed anxious to wash his
      beard.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What is all this, brothers?" asked the duchess. "What is it? What do you
      want to do to this good man? Do you forget he is a governor-elect?"
    </p>
    <p>
      To which the barber kitchen-boy replied, "The gentleman will not let
      himself be washed as is customary, and as my lord and the senor his master
      have been."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, I will," said Sancho, in a great rage; "but I'd like it to be with
      cleaner towels, clearer lye, and not such dirty hands; for there's not so
      much difference between me and my master that he should be washed with
      angels' water and I with devil's lye. The customs of countries and
      princes' palaces are only good so long as they give no annoyance; but the
      way of washing they have here is worse than doing penance. I have a clean
      beard, and I don't require to be refreshed in that fashion, and whoever
      comes to wash me or touch a hair of my head, I mean to say my beard, with
      all due respect be it said, I'll give him a punch that will leave my fist
      sunk in his skull; for cirimonies and soapings of this sort are more like
      jokes than the polite attentions of one's host."
    </p>
    <p>
      The duchess was ready to die with laughter when she saw Sancho's rage and
      heard his words; but it was no pleasure to Don Quixote to see him in such
      a sorry trim, with the dingy towel about him, and the hangers-on of the
      kitchen all round him; so making a low bow to the duke and duchess, as if
      to ask their permission to speak, he addressed the rout in a dignified
      tone: "Holloa, gentlemen! you let that youth alone, and go back to where
      you came from, or anywhere else if you like; my squire is as clean as any
      other person, and those troughs are as bad as narrow thin-necked jars to
      him; take my advice and leave him alone, for neither he nor I understand
      joking."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho took the word out of his mouth and went on, "Nay, let them come and
      try their jokes on the country bumpkin, for it's about as likely I'll
      stand them as that it's now midnight! Let them bring me a comb here, or
      what they please, and curry this beard of mine, and if they get anything
      out of it that offends against cleanliness, let them clip me to the skin."
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon this, the duchess, laughing all the while, said, "Sancho Panza is
      right, and always will be in all he says; he is clean, and, as he says
      himself, he does not require to be washed; and if our ways do not please
      him, he is free to choose. Besides, you promoters of cleanliness have been
      excessively careless and thoughtless, I don't know if I ought not to say
      audacious, to bring troughs and wooden utensils and kitchen dishclouts,
      instead of basins and jugs of pure gold and towels of holland, to such a
      person and such a beard; but, after all, you are ill-conditioned and
      ill-bred, and spiteful as you are, you cannot help showing the grudge you
      have against the squires of knights-errant."
    </p>
    <p>
      The impudent servitors, and even the seneschal who came with them, took
      the duchess to be speaking in earnest, so they removed the straining-cloth
      from Sancho's neck, and with something like shame and confusion of face
      went off all of them and left him; whereupon he, seeing himself safe out
      of that extreme danger, as it seemed to him, ran and fell on his knees
      before the duchess, saying, "From great ladies great favours may be looked
      for; this which your grace has done me today cannot be requited with less
      than wishing I was dubbed a knight-errant, to devote myself all the days
      of my life to the service of so exalted a lady. I am a labouring man, my
      name is Sancho Panza, I am married, I have children, and I am serving as a
      squire; if in any one of these ways I can serve your highness, I will not
      be longer in obeying than your grace in commanding."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is easy to see, Sancho," replied the duchess, "that you have learned
      to be polite in the school of politeness itself; I mean to say it is easy
      to see that you have been nursed in the bosom of Senor Don Quixote, who
      is, of course, the cream of good breeding and flower of ceremony&mdash;or
      cirimony, as you would say yourself. Fair be the fortunes of such a master
      and such a servant, the one the cynosure of knight-errantry, the other the
      star of squirely fidelity! Rise, Sancho, my friend; I will repay your
      courtesy by taking care that my lord the duke makes good to you the
      promised gift of the government as soon as possible."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this, the conversation came to an end, and Don Quixote retired to
      take his midday sleep; but the duchess begged Sancho, unless he had a very
      great desire to go to sleep, to come and spend the afternoon with her and
      her damsels in a very cool chamber. Sancho replied that, though he
      certainly had the habit of sleeping four or five hours in the heat of the
      day in summer, to serve her excellence he would try with all his might not
      to sleep even one that day, and that he would come in obedience to her
      command, and with that he went off. The duke gave fresh orders with
      respect to treating Don Quixote as a knight-errant, without departing even
      in smallest particular from the style in which, as the stories tell us,
      they used to treat the knights of old.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p32e" id="p32e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p32e.jpg (16K)" src="images/p32e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch33b" id="ch33b"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE DELECTABLE DISCOURSE WHICH THE DUCHESS AND HER DAMSELS HELD WITH
      SANCHO PANZA, WELL WORTH READING AND NOTING
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p33a" id="p33a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p33a.jpg (138K)" src="images/p33a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p33a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The history records that Sancho did not sleep that afternoon, but in order
      to keep his word came, before he had well done dinner, to visit the
      duchess, who, finding enjoyment in listening to him, made him sit down
      beside her on a low seat, though Sancho, out of pure good breeding, wanted
      not to sit down; the duchess, however, told him he was to sit down as
      governor and talk as squire, as in both respects he was worthy of even the
      chair of the Cid Ruy Diaz the Campeador. Sancho shrugged his shoulders,
      obeyed, and sat down, and all the duchess's damsels and duennas gathered
      round him, waiting in profound silence to hear what he would say. It was
      the duchess, however, who spoke first, saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now that we are alone, and that there is nobody here to overhear us, I
      should be glad if the senor governor would relieve me of certain doubts I
      have, rising out of the history of the great Don Quixote that is now in
      print. One is: inasmuch as worthy Sancho never saw Dulcinea, I mean the
      lady Dulcinea del Toboso, nor took Don Quixote's letter to her, for it was
      left in the memorandum book in the Sierra Morena, how did he dare to
      invent the answer and all that about finding her sifting wheat, the whole
      story being a deception and falsehood, and so much to the prejudice of the
      peerless Dulcinea's good name, a thing that is not at all becoming the
      character and fidelity of a good squire?"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p33b" id="p33b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p33b.jpg (326K)" src="images/p33b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p33b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      At these words, Sancho, without uttering one in reply, got up from his
      chair, and with noiseless steps, with his body bent and his finger on his
      lips, went all round the room lifting up the hangings; and this done, he
      came back to his seat and said, "Now, senora, that I have seen that there
      is no one except the bystanders listening to us on the sly, I will answer
      what you have asked me, and all you may ask me, without fear or dread. And
      the first thing I have got to say is, that for my own part I hold my
      master Don Quixote to be stark mad, though sometimes he says things that,
      to my mind, and indeed everybody's that listens to him, are so wise, and
      run in such a straight furrow, that Satan himself could not have said them
      better; but for all that, really, and beyond all question, it's my firm
      belief he is cracked. Well, then, as this is clear to my mind, I can
      venture to make him believe things that have neither head nor tail, like
      that affair of the answer to the letter, and that other of six or eight
      days ago, which is not yet in history, that is to say, the affair of the
      enchantment of my lady Dulcinea; for I made him believe she is enchanted,
      though there's no more truth in it than over the hills of Ubeda."
    </p>
    <p>
      The duchess begged him to tell her about the enchantment or deception, so
      Sancho told the whole story exactly as it had happened, and his hearers
      were not a little amused by it; and then resuming, the duchess said, "In
      consequence of what worthy Sancho has told me, a doubt starts up in my
      mind, and there comes a kind of whisper to my ear that says, 'If Don
      Quixote be mad, crazy, and cracked, and Sancho Panza his squire knows it,
      and, notwithstanding, serves and follows him, and goes trusting to his
      empty promises, there can be no doubt he must be still madder and sillier
      than his master; and that being so, it will be cast in your teeth, senora
      duchess, if you give the said Sancho an island to govern; for how will he
      who does not know how to govern himself know how to govern others?'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "By God, senora," said Sancho, "but that doubt comes timely; but your
      grace may say it out, and speak plainly, or as you like; for I know what
      you say is true, and if I were wise I should have left my master long ago;
      but this was my fate, this was my bad luck; I can't help it, I must follow
      him; we're from the same village, I've eaten his bread, I'm fond of him,
      I'm grateful, he gave me his ass-colts, and above all I'm faithful; so
      it's quite impossible for anything to separate us, except the pickaxe and
      shovel. And if your highness does not like to give me the government you
      promised, God made me without it, and maybe your not giving it to me will
      be all the better for my conscience, for fool as I am I know the proverb
      'to her hurt the ant got wings,' and it may be that Sancho the squire will
      get to heaven sooner than Sancho the governor. 'They make as good bread
      here as in France,' and 'by night all cats are grey,' and 'a hard case
      enough his, who hasn't broken his fast at two in the afternoon,' and
      'there's no stomach a hand's breadth bigger than another,' and the same
      can be filled 'with straw or hay,' as the saying is, and 'the little birds
      of the field have God for their purveyor and caterer,' and 'four yards of
      Cuenca frieze keep one warmer than four of Segovia broad-cloth,' and 'when
      we quit this world and are put underground the prince travels by as narrow
      a path as the journeyman,' and 'the Pope's body does not take up more feet
      of earth than the sacristan's,' for all that the one is higher than the
      other; for when we go to our graves we all pack ourselves up and make
      ourselves small, or rather they pack us up and make us small in spite of
      us, and then&mdash;good night to us. And I say once more, if your ladyship
      does not like to give me the island because I'm a fool, like a wise man I
      will take care to give myself no trouble about it; I have heard say that
      'behind the cross there's the devil,' and that 'all that glitters is not
      gold,' and that from among the oxen, and the ploughs, and the yokes, Wamba
      the husbandman was taken to be made King of Spain, and from among
      brocades, and pleasures, and riches, Roderick was taken to be devoured by
      adders, if the verses of the old ballads don't lie."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To be sure they don't lie!" exclaimed Dona Rodriguez, the duenna, who was
      one of the listeners. "Why, there's a ballad that says they put King
      Rodrigo alive into a tomb full of toads, and adders, and lizards, and that
      two days afterwards the king, in a plaintive, feeble voice, cried out from
      within the tomb-
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
They gnaw me now, they gnaw me now,
There where I most did sin.

</pre>
    <p>
      And according to that the gentleman has good reason to say he would rather
      be a labouring man than a king, if vermin are to eat him."
    </p>
    <p>
      The duchess could not help laughing at the simplicity of her duenna, or
      wondering at the language and proverbs of Sancho, to whom she said,
      "Worthy Sancho knows very well that when once a knight has made a promise
      he strives to keep it, though it should cost him his life. My lord and
      husband the duke, though not one of the errant sort, is none the less a
      knight for that reason, and will keep his word about the promised island,
      in spite of the envy and malice of the world. Let Sancho be of good cheer;
      for when he least expects it he will find himself seated on the throne of
      his island and seat of dignity, and will take possession of his government
      that he may discard it for another of three-bordered brocade. The charge I
      give him is to be careful how he governs his vassals, bearing in mind that
      they are all loyal and well-born."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As to governing them well," said Sancho, "there's no need of charging me
      to do that, for I'm kind-hearted by nature, and full of compassion for the
      poor; there's no stealing the loaf from him who kneads and bakes;' and by
      my faith it won't do to throw false dice with me; I am an old dog, and I
      know all about 'tus, tus;' I can be wide-awake if need be, and I don't let
      clouds come before my eyes, for I know where the shoe pinches me; I say
      so, because with me the good will have support and protection, and the bad
      neither footing nor access. And it seems to me that, in governments, to
      make a beginning is everything; and maybe, after having been governor a
      fortnight, I'll take kindly to the work and know more about it than the
      field labour I have been brought up to."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are right, Sancho," said the duchess, "for no one is born ready
      taught, and the bishops are made out of men and not out of stones. But to
      return to the subject we were discussing just now, the enchantment of the
      lady Dulcinea, I look upon it as certain, and something more than evident,
      that Sancho's idea of practising a deception upon his master, making him
      believe that the peasant girl was Dulcinea and that if he did not
      recognise her it must be because she was enchanted, was all a device of
      one of the enchanters that persecute Don Quixote. For in truth and
      earnest, I know from good authority that the coarse country wench who
      jumped up on the ass was and is Dulcinea del Toboso, and that worthy
      Sancho, though he fancies himself the deceiver, is the one that is
      deceived; and that there is no more reason to doubt the truth of this,
      than of anything else we never saw. Senor Sancho Panza must know that we
      too have enchanters here that are well disposed to us, and tell us what
      goes on in the world, plainly and distinctly, without subterfuge or
      deception; and believe me, Sancho, that agile country lass was and is
      Dulcinea del Toboso, who is as much enchanted as the mother that bore her;
      and when we least expect it, we shall see her in her own proper form, and
      then Sancho will be disabused of the error he is under at present."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All that's very possible," said Sancho Panza; "and now I'm willing to
      believe what my master says about what he saw in the cave of Montesinos,
      where he says he saw the lady Dulcinea del Toboso in the very same dress
      and apparel that I said I had seen her in when I enchanted her all to
      please myself. It must be all exactly the other way, as your ladyship
      says; because it is impossible to suppose that out of my poor wit such a
      cunning trick could be concocted in a moment, nor do I think my master is
      so mad that by my weak and feeble persuasion he could be made to believe a
      thing so out of all reason. But, senora, your excellence must not
      therefore think me ill-disposed, for a dolt like me is not bound to see
      into the thoughts and plots of those vile enchanters. I invented all that
      to escape my master's scolding, and not with any intention of hurting him;
      and if it has turned out differently, there is a God in heaven who judges
      our hearts."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said the duchess; "but tell me, Sancho, what is this you
      say about the cave of Montesinos, for I should like to know."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho upon this related to her, word for word, what has been said already
      touching that adventure, and having heard it the duchess said, "From this
      occurrence it may be inferred that, as the great Don Quixote says he saw
      there the same country wench Sancho saw on the way from El Toboso, it is,
      no doubt, Dulcinea, and that there are some very active and exceedingly
      busy enchanters about."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So I say," said Sancho, "and if my lady Dulcinea is enchanted, so much
      the worse for her, and I'm not going to pick a quarrel with my master's
      enemies, who seem to be many and spiteful. The truth is that the one I saw
      was a country wench, and I set her down to be a country wench; and if that
      was Dulcinea it must not be laid at my door, nor should I be called to
      answer for it or take the consequences. But they must go nagging at me at
      every step&mdash;'Sancho said it, Sancho did it, Sancho here, Sancho
      there,' as if Sancho was nobody at all, and not that same Sancho Panza
      that's now going all over the world in books, so Samson Carrasco told me,
      and he's at any rate one that's a bachelor of Salamanca; and people of
      that sort can't lie, except when the whim seizes them or they have some
      very good reason for it. So there's no occasion for anybody to quarrel
      with me; and then I have a good character, and, as I have heard my master
      say, 'a good name is better than great riches;' let them only stick me
      into this government and they'll see wonders, for one who has been a good
      squire will be a good governor."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All worthy Sancho's observations," said the duchess, "are Catonian
      sentences, or at any rate out of the very heart of Michael Verino himself,
      who florentibus occidit annis. In fact, to speak in his own style, 'under
      a bad cloak there's often a good drinker.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Indeed, senora," said Sancho, "I never yet drank out of wickedness; from
      thirst I have very likely, for I have nothing of the hypocrite in me; I
      drink when I'm inclined, or, if I'm not inclined, when they offer it to
      me, so as not to look either strait-laced or ill-bred; for when a friend
      drinks one's health what heart can be so hard as not to return it? But if
      I put on my shoes I don't dirty them; besides, squires to knights-errant
      mostly drink water, for they are always wandering among woods, forests and
      meadows, mountains and crags, without a drop of wine to be had if they
      gave their eyes for it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So I believe," said the duchess; "and now let Sancho go and take his
      sleep, and we will talk by-and-by at greater length, and settle how he may
      soon go and stick himself into the government, as he says."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho once more kissed the duchess's hand, and entreated her to let good
      care be taken of his Dapple, for he was the light of his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What is Dapple?" said the duchess.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My ass," said Sancho, "which, not to mention him by that name, I'm
      accustomed to call Dapple; I begged this lady duenna here to take care of
      him when I came into the castle, and she got as angry as if I had said she
      was ugly or old, though it ought to be more natural and proper for duennas
      to feed asses than to ornament chambers. God bless me! what a spite a
      gentleman of my village had against these ladies!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He must have been some clown," said Dona Rodriguez the duenna; "for if he
      had been a gentleman and well-born he would have exalted them higher than
      the horns of the moon."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That will do," said the duchess; "no more of this; hush, Dona Rodriguez,
      and let Senor Panza rest easy and leave the treatment of Dapple in my
      charge, for as he is a treasure of Sancho's, I'll put him on the apple of
      my eye."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It will be enough for him to be in the stable," said Sancho, "for neither
      he nor I are worthy to rest a moment in the apple of your highness's eye,
      and I'd as soon stab myself as consent to it; for though my master says
      that in civilities it is better to lose by a card too many than a card too
      few, when it comes to civilities to asses we must mind what we are about
      and keep within due bounds."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Take him to your government, Sancho," said the duchess, "and there you
      will be able to make as much of him as you like, and even release him from
      work and pension him off."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Don't think, senora duchess, that you have said anything absurd," said
      Sancho; "I have seen more than two asses go to governments, and for me to
      take mine with me would be nothing new."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho's words made the duchess laugh again and gave her fresh amusement,
      and dismissing him to sleep she went away to tell the duke the
      conversation she had had with him, and between them they plotted and
      arranged to play a joke upon Don Quixote that was to be a rare one and
      entirely in knight-errantry style, and in that same style they practised
      several upon him, so much in keeping and so clever that they form the best
      adventures this great history contains.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p33e" id="p33e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p33e.jpg (34K)" src="images/p33e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch34b" id="ch34b"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH RELATES HOW THEY LEARNED THE WAY IN WHICH THEY WERE TO DISENCHANT
      THE PEERLESS DULCINEA DEL TOBOSO, WHICH IS ONE OF THE RAREST ADVENTURES IN
      THIS BOOK
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p34a" id="p34a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p34a.jpg (141K)" src="images/p34a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p34a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Great was the pleasure the duke and duchess took in the conversation of
      Don Quixote and Sancho Panza; and, more bent than ever upon the plan they
      had of practising some jokes upon them that should have the look and
      appearance of adventures, they took as their basis of action what Don
      Quixote had already told them about the cave of Montesinos, in order to
      play him a famous one. But what the duchess marvelled at above all was
      that Sancho's simplicity could be so great as to make him believe as
      absolute truth that Dulcinea had been enchanted, when it was he himself
      who had been the enchanter and trickster in the business. Having,
      therefore, instructed their servants in everything they were to do, six
      days afterwards they took him out to hunt, with as great a retinue of
      huntsmen and beaters as a crowned king.
    </p>
    <p>
      They presented Don Quixote with a hunting suit, and Sancho with another of
      the finest green cloth; but Don Quixote declined to put his on, saying
      that he must soon return to the hard pursuit of arms, and could not carry
      wardrobes or stores with him. Sancho, however, took what they gave him,
      meaning to sell it at the first opportunity.
    </p>
    <p>
      The appointed day having arrived, Don Quixote armed himself, and Sancho
      arrayed himself, and mounted on his Dapple (for he would not give him up
      though they offered him a horse), he placed himself in the midst of the
      troop of huntsmen. The duchess came out splendidly attired, and Don
      Quixote, in pure courtesy and politeness, held the rein of her palfrey,
      though the duke wanted not to allow him; and at last they reached a wood
      that lay between two high mountains, where, after occupying various posts,
      ambushes, and paths, and distributing the party in different positions,
      the hunt began with great noise, shouting, and hallooing, so that, between
      the baying of the hounds and the blowing of the horns, they could not hear
      one another. The duchess dismounted, and with a sharp boar-spear in her
      hand posted herself where she knew the wild boars were in the habit of
      passing. The duke and Don Quixote likewise dismounted and placed
      themselves one at each side of her. Sancho took up a position in the rear
      of all without dismounting from Dapple, whom he dared not desert lest some
      mischief should befall him. Scarcely had they taken their stand in a line
      with several of their servants, when they saw a huge boar, closely pressed
      by the hounds and followed by the huntsmen, making towards them, grinding
      his teeth and tusks, and scattering foam from his mouth. As soon as he saw
      him Don Quixote, bracing his shield on his arm, and drawing his sword,
      advanced to meet him; the duke with boar-spear did the same; but the
      duchess would have gone in front of them all had not the duke prevented
      her. Sancho alone, deserting Dapple at the sight of the mighty beast, took
      to his heels as hard as he could and strove in vain to mount a tall oak.
      As he was clinging to a branch, however, half-way up in his struggle to
      reach the top, the bough, such was his ill-luck and hard fate, gave way,
      and caught in his fall by a broken limb of the oak, he hung suspended in
      the air unable to reach the ground. Finding himself in this position, and
      that the green coat was beginning to tear, and reflecting that if the
      fierce animal came that way he might be able to get at him, he began to
      utter such cries, and call for help so earnestly, that all who heard him
      and did not see him felt sure he must be in the teeth of some wild beast.
      In the end the tusked boar fell pierced by the blades of the many spears
      they held in front of him; and Don Quixote, turning round at the cries of
      Sancho, for he knew by them that it was he, saw him hanging from the oak
      head downwards, with Dapple, who did not forsake him in his distress,
      close beside him; and Cide Hamete observes that he seldom saw Sancho Panza
      without seeing Dapple, or Dapple without seeing Sancho Panza; such was
      their attachment and loyalty one to the other. Don Quixote went over and
      unhooked Sancho, who, as soon as he found himself on the ground, looked at
      the rent in his huntingcoat and was grieved to the heart, for he thought
      he had got a patrimonial estate in that suit.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile they had slung the mighty boar across the back of a mule, and
      having covered it with sprigs of rosemary and branches of myrtle, they
      bore it away as the spoils of victory to some large field-tents which had
      been pitched in the middle of the wood, where they found the tables laid
      and dinner served, in such grand and sumptuous style that it was easy to
      see the rank and magnificence of those who had provided it. Sancho, as he
      showed the rents in his torn suit to the duchess, observed, "If we had
      been hunting hares, or after small birds, my coat would have been safe
      from being in the plight it's in; I don't know what pleasure one can find
      in lying in wait for an animal that may take your life with his tusk if he
      gets at you. I recollect having heard an old ballad sung that says,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
  By bears be thou devoured, as erst
  Was famous Favila."


</pre>
    <p>
      "That," said Don Quixote, "was a Gothic king, who, going a-hunting, was
      devoured by a bear."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Just so," said Sancho; "and I would not have kings and princes expose
      themselves to such dangers for the sake of a pleasure which, to my mind,
      ought not to be one, as it consists in killing an animal that has done no
      harm whatever."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Quite the contrary, Sancho; you are wrong there," said the duke; "for
      hunting is more suitable and requisite for kings and princes than for
      anybody else. The chase is the emblem of war; it has stratagems, wiles,
      and crafty devices for overcoming the enemy in safety; in it extreme cold
      and intolerable heat have to be borne, indolence and sleep are despised,
      the bodily powers are invigorated, the limbs of him who engages in it are
      made supple, and, in a word, it is a pursuit which may be followed without
      injury to anyone and with enjoyment to many; and the best of it is, it is
      not for everybody, as field-sports of other sorts are, except hawking,
      which also is only for kings and great lords. Reconsider your opinion
      therefore, Sancho, and when you are governor take to hunting, and you will
      find the good of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay," said Sancho, "the good governor should have a broken leg and keep
      at home;" it would be a nice thing if, after people had been at the
      trouble of coming to look for him on business, the governor were to be
      away in the forest enjoying himself; the government would go on badly in
      that fashion. By my faith, senor, hunting and amusements are more fit for
      idlers than for governors; what I intend to amuse myself with is playing
      all fours at Eastertime, and bowls on Sundays and holidays; for these
      huntings don't suit my condition or agree with my conscience."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God grant it may turn out so," said the duke; "because it's a long step
      from saying to doing."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be that as it may," said Sancho, "'pledges don't distress a good payer,'
      and 'he whom God helps does better than he who gets up early,' and 'it's
      the tripes that carry the feet and not the feet the tripes;' I mean to say
      that if God gives me help and I do my duty honestly, no doubt I'll govern
      better than a gerfalcon. Nay, let them only put a finger in my mouth, and
      they'll see whether I can bite or not."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The curse of God and all his saints upon thee, thou accursed Sancho!"
      exclaimed Don Quixote; "when will the day come&mdash;as I have often said
      to thee&mdash;when I shall hear thee make one single coherent, rational
      remark without proverbs? Pray, your highnesses, leave this fool alone, for
      he will grind your souls between, not to say two, but two thousand
      proverbs, dragged in as much in season, and as much to the purpose as&mdash;may
      God grant as much health to him, or to me if I want to listen to them!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sancho Panza's proverbs," said the duchess, "though more in number than
      the Greek Commander's, are not therefore less to be esteemed for the
      conciseness of the maxims. For my own part, I can say they give me more
      pleasure than others that may be better brought in and more seasonably
      introduced."
    </p>
    <p>
      In pleasant conversation of this sort they passed out of the tent into the
      wood, and the day was spent in visiting some of the posts and
      hiding-places, and then night closed in, not, however, as brilliantly or
      tranquilly as might have been expected at the season, for it was then
      midsummer; but bringing with it a kind of haze that greatly aided the
      project of the duke and duchess; and thus, as night began to fall, and a
      little after twilight set in, suddenly the whole wood on all four sides
      seemed to be on fire, and shortly after, here, there, on all sides, a vast
      number of trumpets and other military instruments were heard, as if
      several troops of cavalry were passing through the wood. The blaze of the
      fire and the noise of the warlike instruments almost blinded the eyes and
      deafened the ears of those that stood by, and indeed of all who were in
      the wood. Then there were heard repeated lelilies after the fashion of the
      Moors when they rush to battle; trumpets and clarions brayed, drums beat,
      fifes played, so unceasingly and so fast that he could not have had any
      senses who did not lose them with the confused din of so many instruments.
      The duke was astounded, the duchess amazed, Don Quixote wondering, Sancho
      Panza trembling, and indeed, even they who were aware of the cause were
      frightened. In their fear, silence fell upon them, and a postillion, in
      the guise of a demon, passed in front of them, blowing, in lieu of a
      bugle, a huge hollow horn that gave out a horrible hoarse note.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ho there! brother courier," cried the duke, "who are you? Where are you
      going? What troops are these that seem to be passing through the wood?"
    </p>
    <p>
      To which the courier replied in a harsh, discordant voice, "I am the
      devil; I am in search of Don Quixote of La Mancha; those who are coming
      this way are six troops of enchanters, who are bringing on a triumphal car
      the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso; she comes under enchantment, together
      with the gallant Frenchman Montesinos, to give instructions to Don Quixote
      as to how, she the said lady, may be disenchanted."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If you were the devil, as you say and as your appearance indicates," said
      the duke, "you would have known the said knight Don Quixote of La Mancha,
      for you have him here before you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By God and upon my conscience," said the devil, "I never observed it, for
      my mind is occupied with so many different things that I was forgetting
      the main thing I came about."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This demon must be an honest fellow and a good Christian," said Sancho;
      "for if he wasn't he wouldn't swear by God and his conscience; I feel sure
      now there must be good souls even in hell itself."
    </p>
    <p>
      Without dismounting, the demon then turned to Don Quixote and said, "The
      unfortunate but valiant knight Montesinos sends me to thee, the Knight of
      the Lions (would that I saw thee in their claws), bidding me tell thee to
      wait for him wherever I may find thee, as he brings with him her whom they
      call Dulcinea del Toboso, that he may show thee what is needful in order
      to disenchant her; and as I came for no more I need stay no longer; demons
      of my sort be with thee, and good angels with these gentles;" and so
      saying he blew his huge horn, turned about and went off without waiting
      for a reply from anyone.
    </p>
    <p>
      They all felt fresh wonder, but particularly Sancho and Don Quixote;
      Sancho to see how, in defiance of the truth, they would have it that
      Dulcinea was enchanted; Don Quixote because he could not feel sure whether
      what had happened to him in the cave of Montesinos was true or not; and as
      he was deep in these cogitations the duke said to him, "Do you mean to
      wait, Senor Don Quixote?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why not?" replied he; "here will I wait, fearless and firm, though all
      hell should come to attack me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then, if I see another devil or hear another horn like the last,
      I'll wait here as much as in Flanders," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      Night now closed in more completely, and many lights began to flit through
      the wood, just as those fiery exhalations from the earth, that look like
      shooting-stars to our eyes, flit through the heavens; a frightful noise,
      too, was heard, like that made by the solid wheels the ox-carts usually
      have, by the harsh, ceaseless creaking of which, they say, the bears and
      wolves are put to flight, if there happen to be any where they are
      passing. In addition to all this commotion, there came a further
      disturbance to increase the tumult, for now it seemed as if in truth, on
      all four sides of the wood, four encounters or battles were going on at
      the same time; in one quarter resounded the dull noise of a terrible
      cannonade, in another numberless muskets were being discharged, the shouts
      of the combatants sounded almost close at hand, and farther away the
      Moorish lelilies were raised again and again. In a word, the bugles, the
      horns, the clarions, the trumpets, the drums, the cannon, the musketry,
      and above all the tremendous noise of the carts, all made up together a
      din so confused and terrific that Don Quixote had need to summon up all
      his courage to brave it; but Sancho's gave way, and he fell fainting on
      the skirt of the duchess's robe, who let him lie there and promptly bade
      them throw water in his face. This was done, and he came to himself by the
      time that one of the carts with the creaking wheels reached the spot. It
      was drawn by four plodding oxen all covered with black housings; on each
      horn they had fixed a large lighted wax taper, and on the top of the cart
      was constructed a raised seat, on which sat a venerable old man with a
      beard whiter than the very snow, and so long that it fell below his waist;
      he was dressed in a long robe of black buckram; for as the cart was
      thickly set with a multitude of candles it was easy to make out everything
      that was on it. Leading it were two hideous demons, also clad in buckram,
      with countenances so frightful that Sancho, having once seen them, shut
      his eyes so as not to see them again. As soon as the cart came opposite
      the spot the old man rose from his lofty seat, and standing up said in a
      loud voice, "I am the sage Lirgandeo," and without another word the cart
      then passed on. Behind it came another of the same form, with another aged
      man enthroned, who, stopping the cart, said in a voice no less solemn than
      that of the first, "I am the sage Alquife, the great friend of Urganda the
      Unknown," and passed on. Then another cart came by at the same pace, but
      the occupant of the throne was not old like the others, but a man stalwart
      and robust, and of a forbidding countenance, who as he came up said in a
      voice far hoarser and more devilish, "I am the enchanter Archelaus, the
      mortal enemy of Amadis of Gaul and all his kindred," and then passed on.
      Having gone a short distance the three carts halted and the monotonous
      noise of their wheels ceased, and soon after they heard another, not
      noise, but sound of sweet, harmonious music, of which Sancho was very
      glad, taking it to be a good sign; and said he to the duchess, from whom
      he did not stir a step, or for a single instant, "Senora, where there's
      music there can't be mischief."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nor where there are lights and it is bright," said the duchess; to which
      Sancho replied, "Fire gives light, and it's bright where there are
      bonfires, as we see by those that are all round us and perhaps may burn
      us; but music is a sign of mirth and merrymaking."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That remains to be seen," said Don Quixote, who was listening to all that
      passed; and he was right, as is shown in the following chapter.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p34e" id="p34e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p34e.jpg (47K)" src="images/p34e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch35b" id="ch35b"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE INSTRUCTION GIVEN TO DON QUIXOTE TOUCHING THE
      DISENCHANTMENT OF DULCINEA, TOGETHER WITH OTHER MARVELLOUS INCIDENTS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p35a" id="p35a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p35a.jpg (108K)" src="images/p35a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p35a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      They saw advancing towards them, to the sound of this pleasing music, what
      they call a triumphal car, drawn by six grey mules with white linen
      housings, on each of which was mounted a penitent, robed also in white,
      with a large lighted wax taper in his hand. The car was twice or, perhaps,
      three times as large as the former ones, and in front and on the sides
      stood twelve more penitents, all as white as snow and all with lighted
      tapers, a spectacle to excite fear as well as wonder; and on a raised
      throne was seated a nymph draped in a multitude of silver-tissue veils
      with an embroidery of countless gold spangles glittering all over them,
      that made her appear, if not richly, at least brilliantly, apparelled. She
      had her face covered with thin transparent sendal, the texture of which
      did not prevent the fair features of a maiden from being distinguished,
      while the numerous lights made it possible to judge of her beauty and of
      her years, which seemed to be not less than seventeen but not to have yet
      reached twenty. Beside her was a figure in a robe of state, as they call
      it, reaching to the feet, while the head was covered with a black veil.
      But the instant the car was opposite the duke and duchess and Don Quixote
      the music of the clarions ceased, and then that of the lutes and harps on
      the car, and the figure in the robe rose up, and flinging it apart and
      removing the veil from its face, disclosed to their eyes the shape of
      Death itself, fleshless and hideous, at which sight Don Quixote felt
      uneasy, Sancho frightened, and the duke and duchess displayed a certain
      trepidation. Having risen to its feet, this living death, in a sleepy
      voice and with a tongue hardly awake, held forth as follows:
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p35b" id="p35b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p35b.jpg (232K)" src="images/p35b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p35b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
I am that Merlin who the legends say
The devil had for father, and the lie
Hath gathered credence with the lapse of time.
Of magic prince, of Zoroastric lore
Monarch and treasurer, with jealous eye
I view the efforts of the age to hide
The gallant deeds of doughty errant knights,
Who are, and ever have been, dear to me.
  Enchanters and magicians and their kind

Are mostly hard of heart; not so am I;
For mine is tender, soft, compassionate,
And its delight is doing good to all.
In the dim caverns of the gloomy Dis,
Where, tracing mystic lines and characters,
My soul abideth now, there came to me
The sorrow-laden plaint of her, the fair,
The peerless Dulcinea del Toboso.
I knew of her enchantment and her fate,
From high-born dame to peasant wench transformed
And touched with pity, first I turned the leaves
Of countless volumes of my devilish craft,
And then, in this grim grisly skeleton
Myself encasing, hither have I come
To show where lies the fitting remedy
To give relief in such a piteous case.
  O thou, the pride and pink of all that wear

The adamantine steel! O shining light,
O beacon, polestar, path and guide of all
Who, scorning slumber and the lazy down,
Adopt the toilsome life of bloodstained arms!
To thee, great hero who all praise transcends,
La Mancha's lustre and Iberia's star,
Don Quixote, wise as brave, to thee I say&mdash;
For peerless Dulcinea del Toboso
Her pristine form and beauty to regain,
'T is needful that thy esquire Sancho shall,
On his own sturdy buttocks bared to heaven,
Three thousand and three hundred lashes lay,
And that they smart and sting and hurt him well.
Thus have the authors of her woe resolved.
And this is, gentles, wherefore I have come.

</pre>
    <p>
      "By all that's good," exclaimed Sancho at this, "I'll just as soon give
      myself three stabs with a dagger as three, not to say three thousand,
      lashes. The devil take such a way of disenchanting! I don't see what my
      backside has got to do with enchantments. By God, if Senor Merlin has not
      found out some other way of disenchanting the lady Dulcinea del Toboso,
      she may go to her grave enchanted."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But I'll take you, Don Clown stuffed with garlic," said Don Quixote, "and
      tie you to a tree as naked as when your mother brought you forth, and give
      you, not to say three thousand three hundred, but six thousand six hundred
      lashes, and so well laid on that they won't be got rid of if you try three
      thousand three hundred times; don't answer me a word or I'll tear your
      soul out."
    </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this Merlin said, "That will not do, for the lashes worthy
      Sancho has to receive must be given of his own free will and not by force,
      and at whatever time he pleases, for there is no fixed limit assigned to
      him; but it is permitted him, if he likes to commute by half the pain of
      this whipping, to let them be given by the hand of another, though it may
      be somewhat weighty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not a hand, my own or anybody else's, weighty or weighable, shall touch
      me," said Sancho. "Was it I that gave birth to the lady Dulcinea del
      Toboso, that my backside is to pay for the sins of her eyes? My master,
      indeed, that's a part of her&mdash;for, he's always calling her 'my life'
      and 'my soul,' and his stay and prop&mdash;may and ought to whip himself
      for her and take all the trouble required for her disenchantment. But for
      me to whip myself! Abernuncio!"
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as Sancho had done speaking the nymph in silver that was at the
      side of Merlin's ghost stood up, and removing the thin veil from her face
      disclosed one that seemed to all something more than exceedingly
      beautiful; and with a masculine freedom from embarrassment and in a voice
      not very like a lady's, addressing Sancho directly, said, "Thou wretched
      squire, soul of a pitcher, heart of a cork tree, with bowels of flint and
      pebbles; if, thou impudent thief, they bade thee throw thyself down from
      some lofty tower; if, enemy of mankind, they asked thee to swallow a dozen
      of toads, two of lizards, and three of adders; if they wanted thee to slay
      thy wife and children with a sharp murderous scimitar, it would be no
      wonder for thee to show thyself stubborn and squeamish. But to make a
      piece of work about three thousand three hundred lashes, what every poor
      little charity-boy gets every month&mdash;it is enough to amaze, astonish,
      astound the compassionate bowels of all who hear it, nay, all who come to
      hear it in the course of time. Turn, O miserable, hard-hearted animal,
      turn, I say, those timorous owl's eyes upon these of mine that are
      compared to radiant stars, and thou wilt see them weeping trickling
      streams and rills, and tracing furrows, tracks, and paths over the fair
      fields of my cheeks. Let it move thee, crafty, ill-conditioned monster, to
      see my blooming youth&mdash;still in its teens, for I am not yet twenty&mdash;wasting
      and withering away beneath the husk of a rude peasant wench; and if I do
      not appear in that shape now, it is a special favour Senor Merlin here has
      granted me, to the sole end that my beauty may soften thee; for the tears
      of beauty in distress turn rocks into cotton and tigers into ewes. Lay on
      to that hide of thine, thou great untamed brute, rouse up thy lusty vigour
      that only urges thee to eat and eat, and set free the softness of my
      flesh, the gentleness of my nature, and the fairness of my face. And if
      thou wilt not relent or come to reason for me, do so for the sake of that
      poor knight thou hast beside thee; thy master I mean, whose soul I can
      this moment see, how he has it stuck in his throat not ten fingers from
      his lips, and only waiting for thy inflexible or yielding reply to make
      its escape by his mouth or go back again into his stomach."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote on hearing this felt his throat, and turning to the duke he
      said, "By God, senor, Dulcinea says true, I have my soul stuck here in my
      throat like the nut of a crossbow."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What say you to this, Sancho?" said the duchess.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I say, senora," returned Sancho, "what I said before; as for the lashes,
      abernuncio!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Abrenuncio, you should say, Sancho, and not as you do," said the duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let me alone, your highness," said Sancho. "I'm not in a humour now to
      look into niceties or a letter more or less, for these lashes that are to
      be given me, or I'm to give myself, have so upset me, that I don't know
      what I'm saying or doing. But I'd like to know of this lady, my lady
      Dulcinea del Toboso, where she learned this way she has of asking favours.
      She comes to ask me to score my flesh with lashes, and she calls me soul
      of a pitcher, and great untamed brute, and a string of foul names that the
      devil is welcome to. Is my flesh brass? or is it anything to me whether
      she is enchanted or not? Does she bring with her a basket of fair linen,
      shirts, kerchiefs, socks&mdash;not that I wear any&mdash;to coax me? No,
      nothing but one piece of abuse after another, though she knows the proverb
      they have here that 'an ass loaded with gold goes lightly up a mountain,'
      and that 'gifts break rocks,' and 'praying to God and plying the hammer,'
      and that 'one "take" is better than two "I'll give thee's."' Then there's
      my master, who ought to stroke me down and pet me to make me turn wool and
      carded cotton; he says if he gets hold of me he'll tie me naked to a tree
      and double the tale of lashes on me. These tender-hearted gentry should
      consider that it's not merely a squire, but a governor they are asking to
      whip himself; just as if it was 'drink with cherries.' Let them learn,
      plague take them, the right way to ask, and beg, and behave themselves;
      for all times are not alike, nor are people always in good humour. I'm now
      ready to burst with grief at seeing my green coat torn, and they come to
      ask me to whip myself of my own free will, I having as little fancy for it
      as for turning cacique."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then, the fact is, friend Sancho," said the duke, "that unless you
      become softer than a ripe fig, you shall not get hold of the government.
      It would be a nice thing for me to send my islanders a cruel governor with
      flinty bowels, who won't yield to the tears of afflicted damsels or to the
      prayers of wise, magisterial, ancient enchanters and sages. In short,
      Sancho, either you must be whipped by yourself, or they must whip you, or
      you shan't be governor."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor," said Sancho, "won't two days' grace be given me in which to
      consider what is best for me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, certainly not," said Merlin; "here, this minute, and on the spot, the
      matter must be settled; either Dulcinea will return to the cave of
      Montesinos and to her former condition of peasant wench, or else in her
      present form shall be carried to the Elysian fields, where she will remain
      waiting until the number of stripes is completed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now then, Sancho!" said the duchess, "show courage, and gratitude for
      your master Don Quixote's bread that you have eaten; we are all bound to
      oblige and please him for his benevolent disposition and lofty chivalry.
      Consent to this whipping, my son; to the devil with the devil, and leave
      fear to milksops, for 'a stout heart breaks bad luck,' as you very well
      know."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this Sancho replied with an irrelevant remark, which, addressing
      Merlin, he made to him, "Will your worship tell me, Senor Merlin&mdash;when
      that courier devil came up he gave my master a message from Senor
      Montesinos, charging him to wait for him here, as he was coming to arrange
      how the lady Dona Dulcinea del Toboso was to be disenchanted; but up to
      the present we have not seen Montesinos, nor anything like him."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Merlin made answer, "The devil, Sancho, is a blockhead and a
      great scoundrel; I sent him to look for your master, but not with a
      message from Montesinos but from myself; for Montesinos is in his cave
      expecting, or more properly speaking, waiting for his disenchantment; for
      there's the tail to be skinned yet for him; if he owes you anything, or
      you have any business to transact with him, I'll bring him to you and put
      him where you choose; but for the present make up your mind to consent to
      this penance, and believe me it will be very good for you, for soul as
      well for body&mdash;for your soul because of the charity with which you
      perform it, for your body because I know that you are of a sanguine habit
      and it will do you no harm to draw a little blood."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There are a great many doctors in the world; even the enchanters are
      doctors," said Sancho; "however, as everybody tells me the same thing&mdash;though
      I can't see it myself&mdash;I say I am willing to give myself the three
      thousand three hundred lashes, provided I am to lay them on whenever I
      like, without any fixing of days or times; and I'll try and get out of
      debt as quickly as I can, that the world may enjoy the beauty of the lady
      Dulcinea del Toboso; as it seems, contrary to what I thought, that she is
      beautiful after all. It must be a condition, too, that I am not to be
      bound to draw blood with the scourge, and that if any of the lashes happen
      to be fly-flappers they are to count. Item, that, in case I should make
      any mistake in the reckoning, Senor Merlin, as he knows everything, is to
      keep count, and let me know how many are still wanting or over the
      number."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There will be no need to let you know of any over," said Merlin,
      "because, when you reach the full number, the lady Dulcinea will at once,
      and that very instant, be disenchanted, and will come in her gratitude to
      seek out the worthy Sancho, and thank him, and even reward him for the
      good work. So you have no cause to be uneasy about stripes too many or too
      few; heaven forbid I should cheat anyone of even a hair of his head."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then, in God's hands be it," said Sancho; "in the hard case I'm in I
      give in; I say I accept the penance on the conditions laid down."
    </p>
    <p>
      The instant Sancho uttered these last words the music of the clarions
      struck up once more, and again a host of muskets were discharged, and Don
      Quixote hung on Sancho's neck kissing him again and again on the forehead
      and cheeks. The duchess and the duke expressed the greatest satisfaction,
      the car began to move on, and as it passed the fair Dulcinea bowed to the
      duke and duchess and made a low curtsey to Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p35c" id="p35c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p35c.jpg (284K)" src="images/p35c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p35c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      And now bright smiling dawn came on apace; the flowers of the field,
      revived, raised up their heads, and the crystal waters of the brooks,
      murmuring over the grey and white pebbles, hastened to pay their tribute
      to the expectant rivers; the glad earth, the unclouded sky, the fresh
      breeze, the clear light, each and all showed that the day that came
      treading on the skirts of morning would be calm and bright. The duke and
      duchess, pleased with their hunt and at having carried out their plans so
      cleverly and successfully, returned to their castle resolved to follow up
      their joke; for to them there was no reality that could afford them more
      amusement.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p35e" id="p35e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p35e.jpg (10K)" src="images/p35e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch36b" id="ch36b"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE AND UNDREAMT-OF ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED
      DUENNA, ALIAS THE COUNTESS TRIFALDI, TOGETHER WITH A LETTER WHICH SANCHO
      PANZA WROTE TO HIS WIFE, TERESA PANZA
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p36a" id="p36a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p36a.jpg (150K)" src="images/p36a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p36a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The duke had a majordomo of a very facetious and sportive turn, and he it
      was that played the part of Merlin, made all the arrangements for the late
      adventure, composed the verses, and got a page to represent Dulcinea; and
      now, with the assistance of his master and mistress, he got up another of
      the drollest and strangest contrivances that can be imagined.
    </p>
    <p>
      The duchess asked Sancho the next day if he had made a beginning with his
      penance task which he had to perform for the disenchantment of Dulcinea.
      He said he had, and had given himself five lashes overnight.
    </p>
    <p>
      The duchess asked him what he had given them with.
    </p>
    <p>
      He said with his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That," said the duchess, "is more like giving oneself slaps than lashes;
      I am sure the sage Merlin will not be satisfied with such tenderness;
      worthy Sancho must make a scourge with claws, or a cat-o'-nine tails, that
      will make itself felt; for it's with blood that letters enter, and the
      release of so great a lady as Dulcinea will not be granted so cheaply, or
      at such a paltry price; and remember, Sancho, that works of charity done
      in a lukewarm and half-hearted way are without merit and of no avail."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Sancho replied, "If your ladyship will give me a proper scourge
      or cord, I'll lay on with it, provided it does not hurt too much; for you
      must know, boor as I am, my flesh is more cotton than hemp, and it won't
      do for me to destroy myself for the good of anybody else."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So be it by all means," said the duchess; "tomorrow I'll give you a
      scourge that will be just the thing for you, and will accommodate itself
      to the tenderness of your flesh, as if it was its own sister."
    </p>
    <p>
      Then said Sancho, "Your highness must know, dear lady of my soul, that I
      have a letter written to my wife, Teresa Panza, giving her an account of
      all that has happened me since I left her; I have it here in my bosom, and
      there's nothing wanting but to put the address to it; I'd be glad if your
      discretion would read it, for I think it runs in the governor style; I
      mean the way governors ought to write."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And who dictated it?" asked the duchess.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who should have dictated but myself, sinner as I am?" said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And did you write it yourself?" said the duchess.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I didn't," said Sancho; "for I can neither read nor write, though I
      can sign my name."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let us see it," said the duchess, "for never fear but you display in it
      the quality and quantity of your wit."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho drew out an open letter from his bosom, and the duchess, taking it,
      found it ran in this fashion:
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p>
        SANCHO PANZA'S LETTER TO HIS WIFE, TERESA PANZA
      </p>
      <p>
        If I was well whipped I went mounted like a gentleman; if I have got a
        good government it is at the cost of a good whipping. Thou wilt not
        understand this just now, my Teresa; by-and-by thou wilt know what it
        means. I may tell thee, Teresa, I mean thee to go in a coach, for that
        is a matter of importance, because every other way of going is going on
        all-fours. Thou art a governor's wife; take care that nobody speaks evil
        of thee behind thy back. I send thee here a green hunting suit that my
        lady the duchess gave me; alter it so as to make a petticoat and bodice
        for our daughter. Don Quixote, my master, if I am to believe what I hear
        in these parts, is a madman of some sense, and a droll blockhead, and I
        am in no way behind him. We have been in the cave of Montesinos, and the
        sage Merlin has laid hold of me for the disenchantment of Dulcinea del
        Toboso, her that is called Aldonza Lorenzo over there. With three
        thousand three hundred lashes, less five, that I'm to give myself, she
        will be left as entirely disenchanted as the mother that bore her. Say
        nothing of this to anyone; for, make thy affairs public, and some will
        say they are white and others will say they are black. I shall leave
        this in a few days for my government, to which I am going with a mighty
        great desire to make money, for they tell me all new governors set out
        with the same desire; I will feel the pulse of it and will let thee know
        if thou art to come and live with me or not. Dapple is well and sends
        many remembrances to thee; I am not going to leave him behind though
        they took me away to be Grand Turk. My lady the duchess kisses thy hands
        a thousand times; do thou make a return with two thousand, for as my
        master says, nothing costs less or is cheaper than civility. God has not
        been pleased to provide another valise for me with another hundred
        crowns, like the one the other day; but never mind, my Teresa, the
        bell-ringer is in safe quarters, and all will come out in the scouring
        of the government; only it troubles me greatly what they tell me&mdash;that
        once I have tasted it I will eat my hands off after it; and if that is
        so it will not come very cheap to me; though to be sure the maimed have
        a benefice of their own in the alms they beg for; so that one way or
        another thou wilt be rich and in luck. God give it to thee as he can,
        and keep me to serve thee. From this castle, the 20th of July, 1614.
      </p>
      <p>
        Thy husband, the governor.
      </p>
      <p>
        SANCHO PANZA
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      When she had done reading the letter the duchess said to Sancho, "On two
      points the worthy governor goes rather astray; one is in saying or hinting
      that this government has been bestowed upon him for the lashes that he is
      to give himself, when he knows (and he cannot deny it) that when my lord
      the duke promised it to him nobody ever dreamt of such a thing as lashes;
      the other is that he shows himself here to be very covetous; and I would
      not have him a money-seeker, for 'covetousness bursts the bag,' and the
      covetous governor does ungoverned justice."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't mean it that way, senora," said Sancho; "and if you think the
      letter doesn't run as it ought to do, it's only to tear it up and make
      another; and maybe it will be a worse one if it is left to my gumption."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, no," said the duchess, "this one will do, and I wish the duke to see
      it."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this they betook themselves to a garden where they were to dine, and
      the duchess showed Sancho's letter to the duke, who was highly delighted
      with it. They dined, and after the cloth had been removed and they had
      amused themselves for a while with Sancho's rich conversation, the
      melancholy sound of a fife and harsh discordant drum made itself heard.
      All seemed somewhat put out by this dull, confused, martial harmony,
      especially Don Quixote, who could not keep his seat from pure disquietude;
      as to Sancho, it is needless to say that fear drove him to his usual
      refuge, the side or the skirts of the duchess; and indeed and in truth the
      sound they heard was a most doleful and melancholy one. While they were
      still in uncertainty they saw advancing towards them through the garden
      two men clad in mourning robes so long and flowing that they trailed upon
      the ground. As they marched they beat two great drums which were likewise
      draped in black, and beside them came the fife player, black and sombre
      like the others. Following these came a personage of gigantic stature
      enveloped rather than clad in a gown of the deepest black, the skirt of
      which was of prodigious dimensions. Over the gown, girdling or crossing
      his figure, he had a broad baldric which was also black, and from which
      hung a huge scimitar with a black scabbard and furniture. He had his face
      covered with a transparent black veil, through which might be descried a
      very long beard as white as snow. He came on keeping step to the sound of
      the drums with great gravity and dignity; and, in short, his stature, his
      gait, the sombreness of his appearance and his following might well have
      struck with astonishment, as they did, all who beheld him without knowing
      who he was. With this measured pace and in this guise he advanced to kneel
      before the duke, who, with the others, awaited him standing. The duke,
      however, would not on any account allow him to speak until he had risen.
      The prodigious scarecrow obeyed, and standing up, removed the veil from
      his face and disclosed the most enormous, the longest, the whitest and the
      thickest beard that human eyes had ever beheld until that moment, and then
      fetching up a grave, sonorous voice from the depths of his broad,
      capacious chest, and fixing his eyes on the duke, he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Most high and mighty senor, my name is Trifaldin of the White Beard; I am
      squire to the Countess Trifaldi, otherwise called the Distressed Duenna,
      on whose behalf I bear a message to your highness, which is that your
      magnificence will be pleased to grant her leave and permission to come and
      tell you her trouble, which is one of the strangest and most wonderful
      that the mind most familiar with trouble in the world could have imagined;
      but first she desires to know if the valiant and never vanquished knight,
      Don Quixote of La Mancha, is in this your castle, for she has come in
      quest of him on foot and without breaking her fast from the kingdom of
      Kandy to your realms here; a thing which may and ought to be regarded as a
      miracle or set down to enchantment; she is even now at the gate of this
      fortress or plaisance, and only waits for your permission to enter. I have
      spoken." And with that he coughed, and stroked down his beard with both
      his hands, and stood very tranquilly waiting for the response of the duke,
      which was to this effect: "Many days ago, worthy squire Trifaldin of the
      White Beard, we heard of the misfortune of my lady the Countess Trifaldi,
      whom the enchanters have caused to be called the Distressed Duenna. Bid
      her enter, O stupendous squire, and tell her that the valiant knight Don
      Quixote of La Mancha is here, and from his generous disposition she may
      safely promise herself every protection and assistance; and you may tell
      her, too, that if my aid be necessary it will not be withheld, for I am
      bound to give it to her by my quality of knight, which involves the
      protection of women of all sorts, especially widowed, wronged, and
      distressed dames, such as her ladyship seems to be."
    </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this Trifaldin bent the knee to the ground, and making a sign
      to the fifer and drummers to strike up, he turned and marched out of the
      garden to the same notes and at the same pace as when he entered, leaving
      them all amazed at his bearing and solemnity. Turning to Don Quixote, the
      duke said, "After all, renowned knight, the mists of malice and ignorance
      are unable to hide or obscure the light of valour and virtue. I say so,
      because your excellence has been barely six days in this castle, and
      already the unhappy and the afflicted come in quest of you from lands far
      distant and remote, and not in coaches or on dromedaries, but on foot and
      fasting, confident that in that mighty arm they will find a cure for their
      sorrows and troubles; thanks to your great achievements, which are
      circulated all over the known earth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I wish, senor duke," replied Don Quixote, "that blessed ecclesiastic, who
      at table the other day showed such ill-will and bitter spite against
      knights-errant, were here now to see with his own eyes whether knights of
      the sort are needed in the world; he would at any rate learn by experience
      that those suffering any extraordinary affliction or sorrow, in extreme
      cases and unusual misfortunes do not go to look for a remedy to the houses
      of jurists or village sacristans, or to the knight who has never attempted
      to pass the bounds of his own town, or to the indolent courtier who only
      seeks for news to repeat and talk of, instead of striving to do deeds and
      exploits for others to relate and record. Relief in distress, help in
      need, protection for damsels, consolation for widows, are to be found in
      no sort of persons better than in knights-errant; and I give unceasing
      thanks to heaven that I am one, and regard any misfortune or suffering
      that may befall me in the pursuit of so honourable a calling as endured to
      good purpose. Let this duenna come and ask what she will, for I will
      effect her relief by the might of my arm and the dauntless resolution of
      my bold heart."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p36e" id="p36e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p36e.jpg (22K)" src="images/p36e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch37b" id="ch37b"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE DISTRESSED DUENNA
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p37a" id="p37a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p37a.jpg (94K)" src="images/p37a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p37a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The duke and duchess were extremely glad to see how readily Don Quixote
      fell in with their scheme; but at this moment Sancho observed, "I hope
      this senora duenna won't be putting any difficulties in the way of the
      promise of my government; for I have heard a Toledo apothecary, who talked
      like a goldfinch, say that where duennas were mixed up nothing good could
      happen. God bless me, how he hated them, that same apothecary! And so what
      I'm thinking is, if all duennas, of whatever sort or condition they may
      be, are plagues and busybodies, what must they be that are distressed,
      like this Countess Three-skirts or Three-tails!&mdash;for in my country
      skirts or tails, tails or skirts, it's all one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hush, friend Sancho," said Don Quixote; "since this lady duenna comes in
      quest of me from such a distant land she cannot be one of those the
      apothecary meant; moreover this is a countess, and when countesses serve
      as duennas it is in the service of queens and empresses, for in their own
      houses they are mistresses paramount and have other duennas to wait on
      them."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this Dona Rodriguez, who was present, made answer, "My lady the duchess
      has duennas in her service that might be countesses if it was the will of
      fortune; 'but laws go as kings like;' let nobody speak ill of duennas,
      above all of ancient maiden ones; for though I am not one myself, I know
      and am aware of the advantage a maiden duenna has over one that is a
      widow; but 'he who clipped us has kept the scissors.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "For all that," said Sancho, "there's so much to be clipped about duennas,
      so my barber said, that 'it will be better not to stir the rice even
      though it sticks.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "These squires," returned Dona Rodriguez, "are always our enemies; and as
      they are the haunting spirits of the antechambers and watch us at every
      step, whenever they are not saying their prayers (and that's often enough)
      they spend their time in tattling about us, digging up our bones and
      burying our good name. But I can tell these walking blocks that we will
      live in spite of them, and in great houses too, though we die of hunger
      and cover our flesh, be it delicate or not, with widow's weeds, as one
      covers or hides a dunghill on a procession day. By my faith, if it were
      permitted me and time allowed, I could prove, not only to those here
      present, but to all the world, that there is no virtue that is not to be
      found in a duenna."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have no doubt," said the duchess, "that my good Dona Rodriguez is
      right, and very much so; but she had better bide her time for fighting her
      own battle and that of the rest of the duennas, so as to crush the calumny
      of that vile apothecary, and root out the prejudice in the great Sancho
      Panza's mind."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Sancho replied, "Ever since I have sniffed the governorship I
      have got rid of the humours of a squire, and I don't care a wild fig for
      all the duennas in the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      They would have carried on this duenna dispute further had they not heard
      the notes of the fife and drums once more, from which they concluded that
      the Distressed Duenna was making her entrance. The duchess asked the duke
      if it would be proper to go out to receive her, as she was a countess and
      a person of rank.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In respect of her being a countess," said Sancho, before the duke could
      reply, "I am for your highnesses going out to receive her; but in respect
      of her being a duenna, it is my opinion you should not stir a step."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who bade thee meddle in this, Sancho?" said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who, senor?" said Sancho; "I meddle for I have a right to meddle, as a
      squire who has learned the rules of courtesy in the school of your
      worship, the most courteous and best-bred knight in the whole world of
      courtliness; and in these things, as I have heard your worship say, as
      much is lost by a card too many as by a card too few, and to one who has
      his ears open, few words."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sancho is right," said the duke; "we'll see what the countess is like,
      and by that measure the courtesy that is due to her."
    </p>
    <p>
      And now the drums and fife made their entrance as before; and here the
      author brought this short chapter to an end and began the next, following
      up the same adventure, which is one of the most notable in the history.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p37e" id="p37e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p37e.jpg (21K)" src="images/p37e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch38b" id="ch38b"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS TOLD THE DISTRESSED DUENNA'S TALE OF HER MISFORTUNES
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p38a" id="p38a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p38a.jpg (54K)" src="images/p38a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p38a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Following the melancholy musicians there filed into the garden as many as
      twelve duennas, in two lines, all dressed in ample mourning robes
      apparently of milled serge, with hoods of fine white gauze so long that
      they allowed only the border of the robe to be seen. Behind them came the
      Countess Trifaldi, the squire Trifaldin of the White Beard leading her by
      the hand, clad in the finest unnapped black baize, such that, had it a
      nap, every tuft would have shown as big as a Martos chickpea; the tail, or
      skirt, or whatever it might be called, ended in three points which were
      borne up by the hands of three pages, likewise dressed in mourning,
      forming an elegant geometrical figure with the three acute angles made by
      the three points, from which all who saw the peaked skirt concluded that
      it must be because of it the countess was called Trifaldi, as though it
      were Countess of the Three Skirts; and Benengeli says it was so, and that
      by her right name she was called the Countess Lobuna, because wolves bred
      in great numbers in her country; and if, instead of wolves, they had been
      foxes, she would have been called the Countess Zorruna, as it was the
      custom in those parts for lords to take distinctive titles from the thing
      or things most abundant in their dominions; this countess, however, in
      honour of the new fashion of her skirt, dropped Lobuna and took up
      Trifaldi.
    </p>
    <p>
      The twelve duennas and the lady came on at procession pace, their faces
      being covered with black veils, not transparent ones like Trifaldin's, but
      so close that they allowed nothing to be seen through them. As soon as the
      band of duennas was fully in sight, the duke, the duchess, and Don Quixote
      stood up, as well as all who were watching the slow-moving procession. The
      twelve duennas halted and formed a lane, along which the Distressed One
      advanced, Trifaldin still holding her hand. On seeing this the duke, the
      duchess, and Don Quixote went some twelve paces forward to meet her. She
      then, kneeling on the ground, said in a voice hoarse and rough, rather
      than fine and delicate, "May it please your highnesses not to offer such
      courtesies to this your servant, I should say to this your handmaid, for I
      am in such distress that I shall never be able to make a proper return,
      because my strange and unparalleled misfortune has carried off my wits,
      and I know not whither; but it must be a long way off, for the more I look
      for them the less I find them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "He would be wanting in wits, senora countess," said the duke, "who did
      not perceive your worth by your person, for at a glance it may be seen it
      deserves all the cream of courtesy and flower of polite usage;" and
      raising her up by the hand he led her to a seat beside the duchess, who
      likewise received her with great urbanity. Don Quixote remained silent,
      while Sancho was dying to see the features of Trifaldi and one or two of
      her many duennas; but there was no possibility of it until they themselves
      displayed them of their own accord and free will.
    </p>
    <p>
      All kept still, waiting to see who would break silence, which the
      Distressed Duenna did in these words: "I am confident, most mighty lord,
      most fair lady, and most discreet company, that my most miserable misery
      will be accorded a reception no less dispassionate than generous and
      condolent in your most valiant bosoms, for it is one that is enough to
      melt marble, soften diamonds, and mollify the steel of the most hardened
      hearts in the world; but ere it is proclaimed to your hearing, not to say
      your ears, I would fain be enlightened whether there be present in this
      society, circle, or company, that knight immaculatissimus, Don Quixote de
      la Manchissima, and his squirissimus Panza."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The Panza is here," said Sancho, before anyone could reply, "and Don
      Quixotissimus too; and so, most distressedest Duenissima, you may say what
      you willissimus, for we are all readissimus to do you any servissimus."
    </p>
    <p>
      On this Don Quixote rose, and addressing the Distressed Duenna, said, "If
      your sorrows, afflicted lady, can indulge in any hope of relief from the
      valour or might of any knight-errant, here are mine, which, feeble and
      limited though they be, shall be entirely devoted to your service. I am
      Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose calling it is to give aid to the needy of
      all sorts; and that being so, it is not necessary for you, senora, to make
      any appeal to benevolence, or deal in preambles, only to tell your woes
      plainly and straightforwardly: for you have hearers that will know how, if
      not to remedy them, to sympathise with them."
    </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this, the Distressed Duenna made as though she would throw
      herself at Don Quixote's feet, and actually did fall before them and said,
      as she strove to embrace them, "Before these feet and legs I cast myself,
      O unconquered knight, as before, what they are, the foundations and
      pillars of knight-errantry; these feet I desire to kiss, for upon their
      steps hangs and depends the sole remedy for my misfortune, O valorous
      errant, whose veritable achievements leave behind and eclipse the fabulous
      ones of the Amadises, Esplandians, and Belianises!" Then turning from Don
      Quixote to Sancho Panza, and grasping his hands, she said, "O thou, most
      loyal squire that ever served knight-errant in this present age or ages
      past, whose goodness is more extensive than the beard of Trifaldin my
      companion here of present, well mayest thou boast thyself that, in serving
      the great Don Quixote, thou art serving, summed up in one, the whole host
      of knights that have ever borne arms in the world. I conjure thee, by what
      thou owest to thy most loyal goodness, that thou wilt become my kind
      intercessor with thy master, that he speedily give aid to this most humble
      and most unfortunate countess."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this Sancho made answer, "As to my goodness, senora, being as long and
      as great as your squire's beard, it matters very little to me; may I have
      my soul well bearded and moustached when it comes to quit this life,
      that's the point; about beards here below I care little or nothing; but
      without all these blandishments and prayers, I will beg my master (for I
      know he loves me, and, besides, he has need of me just now for a certain
      business) to help and aid your worship as far as he can; unpack your woes
      and lay them before us, and leave us to deal with them, for we'll be all
      of one mind."
    </p>
    <p>
      The duke and duchess, as it was they who had made the experiment of this
      adventure, were ready to burst with laughter at all this, and between
      themselves they commended the clever acting of the Trifaldi, who,
      returning to her seat, said, "Queen Dona Maguncia reigned over the famous
      kingdom of Kandy, which lies between the great Trapobana and the Southern
      Sea, two leagues beyond Cape Comorin. She was the widow of King
      Archipiela, her lord and husband, and of their marriage they had issue the
      Princess Antonomasia, heiress of the kingdom; which Princess Antonomasia
      was reared and brought up under my care and direction, I being the oldest
      and highest in rank of her mother's duennas. Time passed, and the young
      Antonomasia reached the age of fourteen, and such a perfection of beauty,
      that nature could not raise it higher. Then, it must not be supposed her
      intelligence was childish; she was as intelligent as she was fair, and she
      was fairer than all the world; and is so still, unless the envious fates
      and hard-hearted sisters three have cut for her the thread of life. But
      that they have not, for Heaven will not suffer so great a wrong to Earth,
      as it would be to pluck unripe the grapes of the fairest vineyard on its
      surface. Of this beauty, to which my poor feeble tongue has failed to do
      justice, countless princes, not only of that country, but of others, were
      enamoured, and among them a private gentleman, who was at the court, dared
      to raise his thoughts to the heaven of so great beauty, trusting to his
      youth, his gallant bearing, his numerous accomplishments and graces, and
      his quickness and readiness of wit; for I may tell your highnesses, if I
      am not wearying you, that he played the guitar so as to make it speak, and
      he was, besides, a poet and a great dancer, and he could make birdcages so
      well, that by making them alone he might have gained a livelihood, had he
      found himself reduced to utter poverty; and gifts and graces of this kind
      are enough to bring down a mountain, not to say a tender young girl. But
      all his gallantry, wit, and gaiety, all his graces and accomplishments,
      would have been of little or no avail towards gaining the fortress of my
      pupil, had not the impudent thief taken the precaution of gaining me over
      first. First, the villain and heartless vagabond sought to win my
      good-will and purchase my compliance, so as to get me, like a treacherous
      warder, to deliver up to him the keys of the fortress I had in charge. In
      a word, he gained an influence over my mind, and overcame my resolutions
      with I know not what trinkets and jewels he gave me; but it was some
      verses I heard him singing one night from a grating that opened on the
      street where he lived, that, more than anything else, made me give way and
      led to my fall; and if I remember rightly they ran thus:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
From that sweet enemy of mine
  My bleeding heart hath had its wound;
  And to increase the pain I'm bound
To suffer and to make no sign.

</pre>
    <p>
      The lines seemed pearls to me and his voice sweet as syrup; and
      afterwards, I may say ever since then, looking at the misfortune into
      which I have fallen, I have thought that poets, as Plato advised, ought to
      be banished from all well-ordered States; at least the amatory ones, for
      they write verses, not like those of 'The Marquis of Mantua,' that delight
      and draw tears from the women and children, but sharp-pointed conceits
      that pierce the heart like soft thorns, and like the lightning strike it,
      leaving the raiment uninjured. Another time he sang:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Come Death, so subtly veiled that I
  Thy coming know not, how or when,
  Lest it should give me life again
To find how sweet it is to die.

</pre>
    <p>
      -and other verses and burdens of the same sort, such as enchant when sung
      and fascinate when written. And then, when they condescend to compose a
      sort of verse that was at that time in vogue in Kandy, which they call
      seguidillas! Then it is that hearts leap and laughter breaks forth, and
      the body grows restless and all the senses turn quicksilver. And so I say,
      sirs, that these troubadours richly deserve to be banished to the isles of
      the lizards. Though it is not they that are in fault, but the simpletons
      that extol them, and the fools that believe in them; and had I been the
      faithful duenna I should have been, his stale conceits would have never
      moved me, nor should I have been taken in by such phrases as 'in death I
      live,' 'in ice I burn,' 'in flames I shiver,' 'hopeless I hope,' 'I go and
      stay,' and paradoxes of that sort which their writings are full of. And
      then when they promise the Phoenix of Arabia, the crown of Ariadne, the
      horses of the Sun, the pearls of the South, the gold of Tibar, and the
      balsam of Panchaia! Then it is they give a loose to their pens, for it
      costs them little to make promises they have no intention or power of
      fulfilling. But where am I wandering to? Woe is me, unfortunate being!
      What madness or folly leads me to speak of the faults of others, when
      there is so much to be said about my own? Again, woe is me, hapless that I
      am! it was not verses that conquered me, but my own simplicity; it was not
      music made me yield, but my own imprudence; my own great ignorance and
      little caution opened the way and cleared the path for Don Clavijo's
      advances, for that was the name of the gentleman I have referred to; and
      so, with my help as go-between, he found his way many a time into the
      chamber of the deceived Antonomasia (deceived not by him but by me) under
      the title of a lawful husband; for, sinner though I was, would not have
      allowed him to approach the edge of her shoe-sole without being her
      husband. No, no, not that; marriage must come first in any business of
      this sort that I take in hand. But there was one hitch in this case, which
      was that of inequality of rank, Don Clavijo being a private gentleman, and
      the Princess Antonomasia, as I said, heiress to the kingdom. The
      entanglement remained for some time a secret, kept hidden by my cunning
      precautions, until I perceived that a certain expansion of waist in
      Antonomasia must before long disclose it, the dread of which made us all
      there take counsel together, and it was agreed that before the mischief
      came to light, Don Clavijo should demand Antonomasia as his wife before
      the Vicar, in virtue of an agreement to marry him made by the princess,
      and drafted by my wit in such binding terms that the might of Samson could
      not have broken it. The necessary steps were taken; the Vicar saw the
      agreement, and took the lady's confession; she confessed everything in
      full, and he ordered her into the custody of a very worthy alguacil of the
      court."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Are there alguacils of the court in Kandy, too," said Sancho at this,
      "and poets, and seguidillas? I swear I think the world is the same all
      over! But make haste, Senora Trifaldi; for it is late, and I am dying to
      know the end of this long story."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will," replied the countess.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p38e" id="p38e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p38e.jpg (22K)" src="images/p38e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch39b" id="ch39b"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      IN WHICH THE TRIFALDI CONTINUES HER MARVELLOUS AND MEMORABLE STORY
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p39a" id="p39a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p39a.jpg (96K)" src="images/p39a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p39a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      By every word that Sancho uttered, the duchess was as much delighted as
      Don Quixote was driven to desperation. He bade him hold his tongue, and
      the Distressed One went on to say: "At length, after much questioning and
      answering, as the princess held to her story, without changing or varying
      her previous declaration, the Vicar gave his decision in favour of Don
      Clavijo, and she was delivered over to him as his lawful wife; which the
      Queen Dona Maguncia, the Princess Antonomasia's mother, so took to heart,
      that within the space of three days we buried her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "She died, no doubt," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of course," said Trifaldin; "they don't bury living people in Kandy, only
      the dead."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor Squire," said Sancho, "a man in a swoon has been known to be buried
      before now, in the belief that he was dead; and it struck me that Queen
      Maguncia ought to have swooned rather than died; because with life a great
      many things come right, and the princess's folly was not so great that she
      need feel it so keenly. If the lady had married some page of hers, or some
      other servant of the house, as many another has done, so I have heard say,
      then the mischief would have been past curing. But to marry such an
      elegant accomplished gentleman as has been just now described to us&mdash;indeed,
      indeed, though it was a folly, it was not such a great one as you think;
      for according to the rules of my master here&mdash;and he won't allow me
      to lie&mdash;as of men of letters bishops are made, so of gentlemen
      knights, specially if they be errant, kings and emperors may be made."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art right, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for with a knight-errant, if
      he has but two fingers' breadth of good fortune, it is on the cards to
      become the mightiest lord on earth. But let senora the Distressed One
      proceed; for I suspect she has got yet to tell us the bitter part of this
      so far sweet story."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The bitter is indeed to come," said the countess; "and such bitter that
      colocynth is sweet and oleander toothsome in comparison. The queen, then,
      being dead, and not in a swoon, we buried her; and hardly had we covered
      her with earth, hardly had we said our last farewells, when, quis talia
      fando temperet a lachrymis? over the queen's grave there appeared, mounted
      upon a wooden horse, the giant Malambruno, Maguncia's first cousin, who
      besides being cruel is an enchanter; and he, to revenge the death of his
      cousin, punish the audacity of Don Clavijo, and in wrath at the contumacy
      of Antonomasia, left them both enchanted by his art on the grave itself;
      she being changed into an ape of brass, and he into a horrible crocodile
      of some unknown metal; while between the two there stands a pillar, also
      of metal, with certain characters in the Syriac language inscribed upon
      it, which, being translated into Kandian, and now into Castilian, contain
      the following sentence: 'These two rash lovers shall not recover their
      former shape until the valiant Manchegan comes to do battle with me in
      single combat; for the Fates reserve this unexampled adventure for his
      mighty valour alone.' This done, he drew from its sheath a huge broad
      scimitar, and seizing me by the hair he made as though he meant to cut my
      throat and shear my head clean off. I was terror-stricken, my voice stuck
      in my throat, and I was in the deepest distress; nevertheless I summoned
      up my strength as well as I could, and in a trembling and piteous voice I
      addressed such words to him as induced him to stay the infliction of a
      punishment so severe. He then caused all the duennas of the palace, those
      that are here present, to be brought before him; and after having dwelt
      upon the enormity of our offence, and denounced duennas, their characters,
      their evil ways and worse intrigues, laying to the charge of all what I
      alone was guilty of, he said he would not visit us with capital
      punishment, but with others of a slow nature which would be in effect
      civil death for ever; and the very instant he ceased speaking we all felt
      the pores of our faces opening, and pricking us, as if with the points of
      needles. We at once put our hands up to our faces and found ourselves in
      the state you now see."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the Distressed One and the other duennas raised the veils with which
      they were covered, and disclosed countenances all bristling with beards,
      some red, some black, some white, and some grizzled, at which spectacle
      the duke and duchess made a show of being filled with wonder. Don Quixote
      and Sancho were overwhelmed with amazement, and the bystanders lost in
      astonishment, while the Trifaldi went on to say: "Thus did that malevolent
      villain Malambruno punish us, covering the tenderness and softness of our
      faces with these rough bristles! Would to heaven that he had swept off our
      heads with his enormous scimitar instead of obscuring the light of our
      countenances with these wool-combings that cover us! For if we look into
      the matter, sirs (and what I am now going to say I would say with eyes
      flowing like fountains, only that the thought of our misfortune and the
      oceans they have already wept, keep them as dry as barley spears, and so I
      say it without tears), where, I ask, can a duenna with a beard to to? What
      father or mother will feel pity for her? Who will help her? For, if even
      when she has a smooth skin, and a face tortured by a thousand kinds of
      washes and cosmetics, she can hardly get anybody to love her, what will
      she do when she shows a countenace turned into a thicket? Oh duennas,
      companions mine! it was an unlucky moment when we were born and an
      ill-starred hour when our fathers begot us!" And as she said this she
      showed signs of being about to faint.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p39e" id="p39e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p39e.jpg (27K)" src="images/p39e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch40b" id="ch40b"></a>CHAPTER XL.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF MATTERS RELATING AND BELONGING TO THIS ADVENTURE AND TO THIS MEMORABLE
      HISTORY
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p40a" id="p40a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p40a.jpg (129K)" src="images/p40a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p40a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Verily and truly all those who find pleasure in histories like this ought
      show their gratitude to Cide Hamete, its original author, for the
      scrupulous care he has taken to set before us all its minute particulars,
      not leaving anything, however trifling it may be, that he does not make
      clear and plain. He portrays the thoughts, he reveals the fancies, he
      answers implied questions, clears up doubts, sets objections at rest, and,
      in a word, makes plain the smallest points the most inquisitive can desire
      to know. O renowned author! O happy Don Quixote! O famous famous droll
      Sancho! All and each, may ye live countless ages for the delight and
      amusement of the dwellers on earth!
    </p>
    <p>
      The history goes on to say that when Sancho saw the Distressed One faint
      he exclaimed: "I swear by the faith of an honest man and the shades of all
      my ancestors the Panzas, that never I did see or hear of, nor has my
      master related or conceived in his mind, such an adventure as this. A
      thousand devils&mdash;not to curse thee&mdash;take thee, Malambruno, for
      an enchanter and a giant! Couldst thou find no other sort of punishment
      for these sinners but bearding them? Would it not have been better&mdash;it
      would have been better for them&mdash;to have taken off half their noses
      from the middle upwards, even though they'd have snuffled when they spoke,
      than to have put beards on them? I'll bet they have not the means of
      paying anybody to shave them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is the truth, senor," said one of the twelve; "we have not the money
      to get ourselves shaved, and so we have, some of us, taken to using
      sticking-plasters by way of an economical remedy, for by applying them to
      our faces and plucking them off with a jerk we are left as bare and smooth
      as the bottom of a stone mortar. There are, to be sure, women in Kandy
      that go about from house to house to remove down, and trim eyebrows, and
      make cosmetics for the use of the women, but we, the duennas of my lady,
      would never let them in, for most of them have a flavour of agents that
      have ceased to be principals; and if we are not relieved by Senor Don
      Quixote we shall be carried to our graves with beards."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will pluck out my own in the land of the Moors," said Don Quixote, "if
      I don't cure yours."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this instant the Trifaldi recovered from her swoon and said, "The chink
      of that promise, valiant knight, reached my ears in the midst of my swoon,
      and has been the means of reviving me and bringing back my senses; and so
      once more I implore you, illustrious errant, indomitable sir, to let your
      gracious promises be turned into deeds."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There shall be no delay on my part," said Don Quixote. "Bethink you,
      senora, of what I must do, for my heart is most eager to serve you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The fact is," replied the Distressed One, "it is five thousand leagues, a
      couple more or less, from this to the kingdom of Kandy, if you go by land;
      but if you go through the air and in a straight line, it is three thousand
      two hundred and twenty-seven. You must know, too, that Malambruno told me
      that, whenever fate provided the knight our deliverer, he himself would
      send him a steed far better and with less tricks than a post-horse; for he
      will be that same wooden horse on which the valiant Pierres carried off
      the fair Magalona; which said horse is guided by a peg he has in his
      forehead that serves for a bridle, and flies through the air with such
      rapidity that you would fancy the very devils were carrying him. This
      horse, according to ancient tradition, was made by Merlin. He lent him to
      Pierres, who was a friend of his, and who made long journeys with him,
      and, as has been said, carried off the fair Magalona, bearing her through
      the air on its haunches and making all who beheld them from the earth gape
      with astonishment; and he never lent him save to those whom he loved or
      those who paid him well; and since the great Pierres we know of no one
      having mounted him until now. From him Malambruno stole him by his magic
      art, and he has him now in his possession, and makes use of him in his
      journeys which he constantly makes through different parts of the world;
      he is here to-day, to-morrow in France, and the next day in Potosi; and
      the best of it is the said horse neither eats nor sleeps nor wears out
      shoes, and goes at an ambling pace through the air without wings, so that
      he whom he has mounted upon him can carry a cup full of water in his hand
      without spilling a drop, so smoothly and easily does he go, for which
      reason the fair Magalona enjoyed riding him greatly."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For going smoothly and easily," said Sancho at this, "give me my Dapple,
      though he can't go through the air; but on the ground I'll back him
      against all the amblers in the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      They all laughed, and the Distressed One continued: "And this same horse,
      if so be that Malambruno is disposed to put an end to our sufferings, will
      be here before us ere the night shall have advanced half an hour; for he
      announced to me that the sign he would give me whereby I might know that I
      had found the knight I was in quest of, would be to send me the horse
      wherever he might be, speedily and promptly."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And how many is there room for on this horse?" asked Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Two," said the Distressed One, "one in the saddle, and the other on the
      croup; and generally these two are knight and squire, when there is no
      damsel that's being carried off."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'd like to know, Senora Distressed One," said Sancho, "what is the name
      of this horse?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "His name," said the Distressed One, "is not the same as Bellerophon's
      horse that was called Pegasus, or Alexander the Great's, called
      Bucephalus, or Orlando Furioso's, the name of which was Brigliador, nor
      yet Bayard, the horse of Reinaldos of Montalvan, nor Frontino like
      Ruggiero's, nor Bootes or Peritoa, as they say the horses of the sun were
      called, nor is he called Orelia, like the horse on which the unfortunate
      Rodrigo, the last king of the Goths, rode to the battle where he lost his
      life and his kingdom."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'll bet," said Sancho, "that as they have given him none of these famous
      names of well-known horses, no more have they given him the name of my
      master's Rocinante, which for being apt surpasses all that have been
      mentioned."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said the bearded countess, "still it fits him very well,
      for he is called Clavileno the Swift, which name is in accordance with his
      being made of wood, with the peg he has in his forehead, and with the
      swift pace at which he travels; and so, as far as name goes, he may
      compare with the famous Rocinante."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have nothing to say against his name," said Sancho; "but with what sort
      of bridle or halter is he managed?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have said already," said the Trifaldi, "that it is with a peg, by
      turning which to one side or the other the knight who rides him makes him
      go as he pleases, either through the upper air, or skimming and almost
      sweeping the earth, or else in that middle course that is sought and
      followed in all well-regulated proceedings."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'd like to see him," said Sancho; "but to fancy I'm going to mount him,
      either in the saddle or on the croup, is to ask pears of the elm tree. A
      good joke indeed! I can hardly keep my seat upon Dapple, and on a
      pack-saddle softer than silk itself, and here they'd have me hold on upon
      haunches of plank without pad or cushion of any sort! Gad, I have no
      notion of bruising myself to get rid of anyone's beard; let each one shave
      himself as best he can; I'm not going to accompany my master on any such
      long journey; besides, I can't give any help to the shaving of these
      beards as I can to the disenchantment of my lady Dulcinea."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, you can, my friend," replied the Trifaldi; "and so much, that
      without you, so I understand, we shall be able to do nothing."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the king's name!" exclaimed Sancho, "what have squires got to do with
      the adventures of their masters? Are they to have the fame of such as they
      go through, and we the labour? Body o' me! if the historians would only
      say, 'Such and such a knight finished such and such an adventure, but with
      the help of so and so, his squire, without which it would have been
      impossible for him to accomplish it;' but they write curtly, "Don
      Paralipomenon of the Three Stars accomplished the adventure of the six
      monsters;' without mentioning such a person as his squire, who was there
      all the time, just as if there was no such being. Once more, sirs, I say
      my master may go alone, and much good may it do him; and I'll stay here in
      the company of my lady the duchess; and maybe when he comes back, he will
      find the lady Dulcinea's affair ever so much advanced; for I mean in
      leisure hours, and at idle moments, to give myself a spell of whipping
      without so much as a hair to cover me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For all that you must go if it be necessary, my good Sancho," said the
      duchess, "for they are worthy folk who ask you; and the faces of these
      ladies must not remain overgrown in this way because of your idle fears;
      that would be a hard case indeed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In the king's name, once more!" said Sancho; "If this charitable work
      were to be done for the sake of damsels in confinement or charity-girls, a
      man might expose himself to some hardships; but to bear it for the sake of
      stripping beards off duennas! Devil take it! I'd sooner see them all
      bearded, from the highest to the lowest, and from the most prudish to the
      most affected."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are very hard on duennas, Sancho my friend," said the duchess; "you
      incline very much to the opinion of the Toledo apothecary. But indeed you
      are wrong; there are duennas in my house that may serve as patterns of
      duennas; and here is my Dona Rodriguez, who will not allow me to say
      otherwise."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your excellence may say it if you like," said the Rodriguez; "for God
      knows the truth of everything; and whether we duennas are good or bad,
      bearded or smooth, we are our mothers' daughters like other women; and as
      God sent us into the world, he knows why he did, and on his mercy I rely,
      and not on anybody's beard."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, Senora Rodriguez, Senora Trifaldi, and present company," said Don
      Quixote, "I trust in Heaven that it will look with kindly eyes upon your
      troubles, for Sancho will do as I bid him. Only let Clavileno come and let
      me find myself face to face with Malambruno, and I am certain no razor
      will shave you more easily than my sword shall shave Malambruno's head off
      his shoulders; for 'God bears with the wicked, but not for ever."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah!" exclaimed the Distressed One at this, "may all the stars of the
      celestial regions look down upon your greatness with benign eyes, valiant
      knight, and shed every prosperity and valour upon your heart, that it may
      be the shield and safeguard of the abused and downtrodden race of duennas,
      detested by apothecaries, sneered at by squires, and made game of by
      pages. Ill betide the jade that in the flower of her youth would not
      sooner become a nun than a duenna! Unfortunate beings that we are, we
      duennas! Though we may be descended in the direct male line from Hector of
      Troy himself, our mistresses never fail to address us as 'you' if they
      think it makes queens of them. O giant Malambruno, though thou art an
      enchanter, thou art true to thy promises. Send us now the peerless
      Clavileno, that our misfortune may be brought to an end; for if the hot
      weather sets in and these beards of ours are still there, alas for our
      lot!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The Trifaldi said this in such a pathetic way that she drew tears from the
      eyes of all and even Sancho's filled up; and he resolved in his heart to
      accompany his master to the uttermost ends of the earth, if so be the
      removal of the wool from those venerable countenances depended upon it.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p40e" id="p40e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p40e.jpg (13K)" src="images/p40e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch41b" id="ch41b"></a>CHAPTER XLI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE ARRIVAL OF CLAVILENO AND THE END OF THIS PROTRACTED ADVENTURE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p41a" id="p41a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p41a.jpg (138K)" src="images/p41a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p41a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      And now night came, and with it the appointed time for the arrival of the
      famous horse Clavileno, the non-appearance of which was already beginning
      to make Don Quixote uneasy, for it struck him that, as Malambruno was so
      long about sending it, either he himself was not the knight for whom the
      adventure was reserved, or else Malambruno did not dare to meet him in
      single combat. But lo! suddenly there came into the garden four wild-men
      all clad in green ivy bearing on their shoulders a great wooden horse.
      They placed it on its feet on the ground, and one of the wild-men said,
      "Let the knight who has heart for it mount this machine."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Sancho exclaimed, "I don't mount, for neither have I the heart nor am
      I a knight."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And let the squire, if he has one," continued the wild-man, "take his
      seat on the croup, and let him trust the valiant Malambruno; for by no
      sword save his, nor by the malice of any other, shall he be assailed. It
      is but to turn this peg the horse has in his neck, and he will bear them
      through the air to where Malambruno awaits them; but lest the vast
      elevation of their course should make them giddy, their eyes must be
      covered until the horse neighs, which will be the sign of their having
      completed their journey."
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words, leaving Clavileno behind them, they retired with easy
      dignity the way they came. As soon as the Distressed One saw the horse,
      almost in tears she exclaimed to Don Quixote, "Valiant knight, the promise
      of Malambruno has proved trustworthy; the horse has come, our beards are
      growing, and by every hair in them all of us implore thee to shave and
      shear us, as it is only mounting him with thy squire and making a happy
      beginning with your new journey."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I will, Senora Countess Trifaldi," said Don Quixote, "most gladly
      and with right goodwill, without stopping to take a cushion or put on my
      spurs, so as not to lose time, such is my desire to see you and all these
      duennas shaved clean."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I won't," said Sancho, "with good-will or bad-will, or any way at
      all; and if this shaving can't be done without my mounting on the croup,
      my master had better look out for another squire to go with him, and these
      ladies for some other way of making their faces smooth; I'm no witch to
      have a taste for travelling through the air. What would my islanders say
      when they heard their governor was going, strolling about on the winds?
      And another thing, as it is three thousand and odd leagues from this to
      Kandy, if the horse tires, or the giant takes huff, we'll be half a dozen
      years getting back, and there won't be isle or island in the world that
      will know me: and so, as it is a common saying 'in delay there's danger,'
      and 'when they offer thee a heifer run with a halter,' these ladies'
      beards must excuse me; 'Saint Peter is very well in Rome;' I mean I am
      very well in this house where so much is made of me, and I hope for such a
      good thing from the master as to see myself a governor."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Friend Sancho," said the duke at this, "the island that I have promised
      you is not a moving one, or one that will run away; it has roots so deeply
      buried in the bowels of the earth that it will be no easy matter to pluck
      it up or shift it from where it is; you know as well as I do that there is
      no sort of office of any importance that is not obtained by a bribe of
      some kind, great or small; well then, that which I look to receive for
      this government is that you go with your master Don Quixote, and bring
      this memorable adventure to a conclusion; and whether you return on
      Clavileno as quickly as his speed seems to promise, or adverse fortune
      brings you back on foot travelling as a pilgrim from hostel to hostel and
      from inn to inn, you will always find your island on your return where you
      left it, and your islanders with the same eagerness they have always had
      to receive you as their governor, and my good-will will remain the same;
      doubt not the truth of this, Senor Sancho, for that would be grievously
      wronging my disposition to serve you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Say no more, senor," said Sancho; "I am a poor squire and not equal to
      carrying so much courtesy; let my master mount; bandage my eyes and commit
      me to God's care, and tell me if I may commend myself to our Lord or call
      upon the angels to protect me when we go towering up there."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this the Trifaldi made answer, "Sancho, you may freely commend yourself
      to God or whom you will; for Malambruno though an enchanter is a
      Christian, and works his enchantments with great circumspection, taking
      very good care not to fall out with anyone."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then," said Sancho, "God and the most holy Trinity of Gaeta give me
      help!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Since the memorable adventure of the fulling mills," said Don Quixote, "I
      have never seen Sancho in such a fright as now; were I as superstitious as
      others his abject fear would cause me some little trepidation of spirit.
      But come here, Sancho, for with the leave of these gentles I would say a
      word or two to thee in private;" and drawing Sancho aside among the trees
      of the garden and seizing both his hands he said, "Thou seest, brother
      Sancho, the long journey we have before us, and God knows when we shall
      return, or what leisure or opportunities this business will allow us; I
      wish thee therefore to retire now to thy chamber, as though thou wert
      going to fetch something required for the road, and in a trice give
      thyself if it be only five hundred lashes on account of the three thousand
      three hundred to which thou art bound; it will be all to the good, and to
      make a beginning with a thing is to have it half finished."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By God," said Sancho, "but your worship must be out of your senses! This
      is like the common saying, 'You see me with child, and you want me a
      virgin.' Just as I'm about to go sitting on a bare board, your worship
      would have me score my backside! Indeed, your worship is not reasonable.
      Let us be off to shave these duennas; and on our return I promise on my
      word to make such haste to wipe off all that's due as will satisfy your
      worship; I can't say more."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, I will comfort myself with that promise, my good Sancho," replied
      Don Quixote, "and I believe thou wilt keep it; for indeed though stupid
      thou art veracious."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'm not voracious," said Sancho, "only peckish; but even if I was a
      little, still I'd keep my word."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this they went back to mount Clavileno, and as they were about to do
      so Don Quixote said, "Cover thine eyes, Sancho, and mount; for one who
      sends for us from lands so far distant cannot mean to deceive us for the
      sake of the paltry glory to be derived from deceiving persons who trust in
      him; though all should turn out the contrary of what I hope, no malice
      will be able to dim the glory of having undertaken this exploit."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let us be off, senor," said Sancho, "for I have taken the beards and
      tears of these ladies deeply to heart, and I shan't eat a bit to relish it
      until I have seen them restored to their former smoothness. Mount, your
      worship, and blindfold yourself, for if I am to go on the croup, it is
      plain the rider in the saddle must mount first."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said Don Quixote, and, taking a handkerchief out of his
      pocket, he begged the Distressed One to bandage his eyes very carefully;
      but after having them bandaged he uncovered them again, saying, "If my
      memory does not deceive me, I have read in Virgil of the Palladium of
      Troy, a wooden horse the Greeks offered to the goddess Pallas, which was
      big with armed knights, who were afterwards the destruction of Troy; so it
      would be as well to see, first of all, what Clavileno has in his stomach."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no occasion," said the Distressed One; "I will be bail for him,
      and I know that Malambruno has nothing tricky or treacherous about him;
      you may mount without any fear, Senor Don Quixote; on my head be it if any
      harm befalls you."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote thought that to say anything further with regard to his safety
      would be putting his courage in an unfavourable light; and so, without
      more words, he mounted Clavileno, and tried the peg, which turned easily;
      and as he had no stirrups and his legs hung down, he looked like nothing
      so much as a figure in some Roman triumph painted or embroidered on a
      Flemish tapestry.
    </p>
    <p>
      Much against the grain, and very slowly, Sancho proceeded to mount, and,
      after settling himself as well as he could on the croup, found it rather
      hard, and not at all soft, and asked the duke if it would be possible to
      oblige him with a pad of some kind, or a cushion; even if it were off the
      couch of his lady the duchess, or the bed of one of the pages; as the
      haunches of that horse were more like marble than wood. On this the
      Trifaldi observed that Clavileno would not bear any kind of harness or
      trappings, and that his best plan would be to sit sideways like a woman,
      as in that way he would not feel the hardness so much.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho did so, and, bidding them farewell, allowed his eyes to be
      bandaged, but immediately afterwards uncovered them again, and looking
      tenderly and tearfully on those in the garden, bade them help him in his
      present strait with plenty of Paternosters and Ave Marias, that God might
      provide some one to say as many for them, whenever they found themselves
      in a similar emergency.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this Don Quixote exclaimed, "Art thou on the gallows, thief, or at thy
      last moment, to use pitiful entreaties of that sort? Cowardly, spiritless
      creature, art thou not in the very place the fair Magalona occupied, and
      from which she descended, not into the grave, but to become Queen of
      France; unless the histories lie? And I who am here beside thee, may I not
      put myself on a par with the valiant Pierres, who pressed this very spot
      that I now press? Cover thine eyes, cover thine eyes, abject animal, and
      let not thy fear escape thy lips, at least in my presence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Blindfold me," said Sancho; "as you won't let me commend myself or be
      commended to God, is it any wonder if I am afraid there is a region of
      devils about here that will carry us off to Peralvillo?"
    </p>
    <p>
      They were then blindfolded, and Don Quixote, finding himself settled to
      his satisfaction, felt for the peg, and the instant he placed his fingers
      on it, all the duennas and all who stood by lifted up their voices
      exclaiming, "God guide thee, valiant knight! God be with thee, intrepid
      squire! Now, now ye go cleaving the air more swiftly than an arrow! Now ye
      begin to amaze and astonish all who are gazing at you from the earth! Take
      care not to wobble about, valiant Sancho! Mind thou fall not, for thy fall
      will be worse than that rash youth's who tried to steer the chariot of his
      father the Sun!"
    </p>
    <p>
      As Sancho heard the voices, clinging tightly to his master and winding his
      arms round him, he said, "Senor, how do they make out we are going up so
      high, if their voices reach us here and they seem to be speaking quite
      close to us?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Don't mind that, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "for as affairs of this sort,
      and flights like this are out of the common course of things, you can see
      and hear as much as you like a thousand leagues off; but don't squeeze me
      so tight or thou wilt upset me; and really I know not what thou hast to be
      uneasy or frightened at, for I can safely swear I never mounted a
      smoother-going steed all the days of my life; one would fancy we never
      stirred from one place. Banish fear, my friend, for indeed everything is
      going as it ought, and we have the wind astern."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's true," said Sancho, "for such a strong wind comes against me on
      this side, that it seems as if people were blowing on me with a thousand
      pair of bellows;" which was the case; they were puffing at him with a
      great pair of bellows; for the whole adventure was so well planned by the
      duke, the duchess, and their majordomo, that nothing was omitted to make
      it perfectly successful.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote now, feeling the blast, said, "Beyond a doubt, Sancho, we must
      have already reached the second region of the air, where the hail and snow
      are generated; the thunder, the lightning, and the thunderbolts are
      engendered in the third region, and if we go on ascending at this rate, we
      shall shortly plunge into the region of fire, and I know not how to
      regulate this peg, so as not to mount up where we shall be burned."
    </p>
    <p>
      And now they began to warm their faces, from a distance, with tow that
      could be easily set on fire and extinguished again, fixed on the end of a
      cane. On feeling the heat Sancho said, "May I die if we are not already in
      that fire place, or very near it, for a good part of my beard has been
      singed, and I have a mind, senor, to uncover and see whereabouts we are."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do nothing of the kind," said Don Quixote; "remember the true story of
      the licentiate Torralva that the devils carried flying through the air
      riding on a stick with his eyes shut; who in twelve hours reached Rome and
      dismounted at Torre di Nona, which is a street of the city, and saw the
      whole sack and storming and the death of Bourbon, and was back in Madrid
      the next morning, where he gave an account of all he had seen; and he said
      moreover that as he was going through the air, the devil bade him open his
      eyes, and he did so, and saw himself so near the body of the moon, so it
      seemed to him, that he could have laid hold of it with his hand, and that
      he did not dare to look at the earth lest he should be seized with
      giddiness. So that, Sancho, it will not do for us to uncover ourselves,
      for he who has us in charge will be responsible for us; and perhaps we are
      gaining an altitude and mounting up to enable us to descend at one swoop
      on the kingdom of Kandy, as the saker or falcon does on the heron, so as
      to seize it however high it may soar; and though it seems to us not half
      an hour since we left the garden, believe me we must have travelled a
      great distance."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know how that may be," said Sancho; "all I know is that if the
      Senora Magallanes or Magalona was satisfied with this croup, she could not
      have been very tender of flesh."
    </p>
    <p>
      The duke, the duchess, and all in the garden were listening to the
      conversation of the two heroes, and were beyond measure amused by it; and
      now, desirous of putting a finishing touch to this rare and well-contrived
      adventure, they applied a light to Clavileno's tail with some tow, and the
      horse, being full of squibs and crackers, immediately blew up with a
      prodigious noise, and brought Don Quixote and Sancho Panza to the ground
      half singed. By this time the bearded band of duennas, the Trifaldi and
      all, had vanished from the garden, and those that remained lay stretched
      on the ground as if in a swoon. Don Quixote and Sancho got up rather
      shaken, and, looking about them, were filled with amazement at finding
      themselves in the same garden from which they had started, and seeing such
      a number of people stretched on the ground; and their astonishment was
      increased when at one side of the garden they perceived a tall lance
      planted in the ground, and hanging from it by two cords of green silk a
      smooth white parchment on which there was the following inscription in
      large gold letters: "The illustrious knight Don Quixote of La Mancha has,
      by merely attempting it, finished and concluded the adventure of the
      Countess Trifaldi, otherwise called the Distressed Duenna; Malambruno is
      now satisfied on every point, the chins of the duennas are now smooth and
      clean, and King Don Clavijo and Queen Antonomasia in their original form;
      and when the squirely flagellation shall have been completed, the white
      dove shall find herself delivered from the pestiferous gerfalcons that
      persecute her, and in the arms of her beloved mate; for such is the decree
      of the sage Merlin, arch-enchanter of enchanters."
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as Don Quixote had read the inscription on the parchment he
      perceived clearly that it referred to the disenchantment of Dulcinea, and
      returning hearty thanks to heaven that he had with so little danger
      achieved so grand an exploit as to restore to their former complexion the
      countenances of those venerable duennas, he advanced towards the duke and
      duchess, who had not yet come to themselves, and taking the duke by the
      hand he said, "Be of good cheer, worthy sir, be of good cheer; it's
      nothing at all; the adventure is now over and without any harm done, as
      the inscription fixed on this post shows plainly."
    </p>
    <p>
      The duke came to himself slowly and like one recovering consciousness
      after a heavy sleep, and the duchess and all who had fallen prostrate
      about the garden did the same, with such demonstrations of wonder and
      amazement that they would have almost persuaded one that what they
      pretended so adroitly in jest had happened to them in reality. The duke
      read the placard with half-shut eyes, and then ran to embrace Don Quixote
      with open arms, declaring him to be the best knight that had ever been
      seen in any age. Sancho kept looking about for the Distressed One, to see
      what her face was like without the beard, and if she was as fair as her
      elegant person promised; but they told him that, the instant Clavileno
      descended flaming through the air and came to the ground, the whole band
      of duennas with the Trifaldi vanished, and that they were already shaved
      and without a stump left.
    </p>
    <p>
      The duchess asked Sancho how he had fared on that long journey, to which
      Sancho replied, "I felt, senora, that we were flying through the region of
      fire, as my master told me, and I wanted to uncover my eyes for a bit; but
      my master, when I asked leave to uncover myself, would not let me; but as
      I have a little bit of curiosity about me, and a desire to know what is
      forbidden and kept from me, quietly and without anyone seeing me I drew
      aside the handkerchief covering my eyes ever so little, close to my nose,
      and from underneath looked towards the earth, and it seemed to me that it
      was altogether no bigger than a grain of mustard seed, and that the men
      walking on it were little bigger than hazel nuts; so you may see how high
      we must have got to then."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this the duchess said, "Sancho, my friend, mind what you are saying; it
      seems you could not have seen the earth, but only the men walking on it;
      for if the earth looked to you like a grain of mustard seed, and each man
      like a hazel nut, one man alone would have covered the whole earth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said Sancho, "but for all that I got a glimpse of a bit of
      one side of it, and saw it all."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Take care, Sancho," said the duchess, "with a bit of one side one does
      not see the whole of what one looks at."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't understand that way of looking at things," said Sancho; "I only
      know that your ladyship will do well to bear in mind that as we were
      flying by enchantment so I might have seen the whole earth and all the men
      by enchantment whatever way I looked; and if you won't believe this, no
      more will you believe that, uncovering myself nearly to the eyebrows, I
      saw myself so close to the sky that there was not a palm and a half
      between me and it; and by everything that I can swear by, senora, it is
      mighty great! And it so happened we came by where the seven goats are, and
      by God and upon my soul, as in my youth I was a goatherd in my own
      country, as soon as I saw them I felt a longing to be among them for a
      little, and if I had not given way to it I think I'd have burst. So I come
      and take, and what do I do? without saying anything to anybody, not even
      to my master, softly and quietly I got down from Clavileno and amused
      myself with the goats&mdash;which are like violets, like flowers&mdash;for
      nigh three-quarters of an hour; and Clavileno never stirred or moved from
      one spot."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And while the good Sancho was amusing himself with the goats," said the
      duke, "how did Senor Don Quixote amuse himself?"
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Don Quixote replied, "As all these things and such like
      occurrences are out of the ordinary course of nature, it is no wonder that
      Sancho says what he does; for my own part I can only say that I did not
      uncover my eyes either above or below, nor did I see sky or earth or sea
      or shore. It is true I felt that I was passing through the region of the
      air, and even that I touched that of fire; but that we passed farther I
      cannot believe; for the region of fire being between the heaven of the
      moon and the last region of the air, we could not have reached that heaven
      where the seven goats Sancho speaks of are without being burned; and as we
      were not burned, either Sancho is lying or Sancho is dreaming."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am neither lying nor dreaming," said Sancho; "only ask me the tokens of
      those same goats, and you'll see by that whether I'm telling the truth or
      not."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell us them then, Sancho," said the duchess.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Two of them," said Sancho, "are green, two blood-red, two blue, and one a
      mixture of all colours."
    </p>
    <p>
      "An odd sort of goat, that," said the duke; "in this earthly region of
      ours we have no such colours; I mean goats of such colours."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's very plain," said Sancho; "of course there must be a difference
      between the goats of heaven and the goats of the earth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell me, Sancho," said the duke, "did you see any he-goat among those
      goats?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, senor," said Sancho; "but I have heard say that none ever passed the
      horns of the moon."
    </p>
    <p>
      They did not care to ask him anything more about his journey, for they saw
      he was in the vein to go rambling all over the heavens giving an account
      of everything that went on there, without having ever stirred from the
      garden. Such, in short, was the end of the adventure of the Distressed
      Duenna, which gave the duke and duchess laughing matter not only for the
      time being, but for all their lives, and Sancho something to talk about
      for ages, if he lived so long; but Don Quixote, coming close to his ear,
      said to him, "Sancho, as you would have us believe what you saw in heaven,
      I require you to believe me as to what I saw in the cave of Montesinos; I
      say no more."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p41e" id="p41e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p41e.jpg (38K)" src="images/p41e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch42b" id="ch42b"></a>CHAPTER XLII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE COUNSELS WHICH DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO PANZA BEFORE HE SET OUT TO
      GOVERN THE ISLAND, TOGETHER WITH OTHER WELL-CONSIDERED MATTERS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p42a" id="p42a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p42a.jpg (120K)" src="images/p42a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p42a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The duke and duchess were so well pleased with the successful and droll
      result of the adventure of the Distressed One, that they resolved to carry
      on the joke, seeing what a fit subject they had to deal with for making it
      all pass for reality. So having laid their plans and given instructions to
      their servants and vassals how to behave to Sancho in his government of
      the promised island, the next day, that following Clavileno's flight, the
      duke told Sancho to prepare and get ready to go and be governor, for his
      islanders were already looking out for him as for the showers of May.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho made him an obeisance, and said, "Ever since I came down from
      heaven, and from the top of it beheld the earth, and saw how little it is,
      the great desire I had to be a governor has been partly cooled in me; for
      what is there grand in being ruler on a grain of mustard seed, or what
      dignity or authority in governing half a dozen men about as big as hazel
      nuts; for, so far as I could see, there were no more on the whole earth?
      If your lordship would be so good as to give me ever so small a bit of
      heaven, were it no more than half a league, I'd rather have it than the
      best island in the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Recollect, Sancho," said the duke, "I cannot give a bit of heaven, no not
      so much as the breadth of my nail, to anyone; rewards and favours of that
      sort are reserved for God alone. What I can give I give you, and that is a
      real, genuine island, compact, well proportioned, and uncommonly fertile
      and fruitful, where, if you know how to use your opportunities, you may,
      with the help of the world's riches, gain those of heaven."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then," said Sancho, "let the island come; and I'll try and be such a
      governor, that in spite of scoundrels I'll go to heaven; and it's not from
      any craving to quit my own humble condition or better myself, but from the
      desire I have to try what it tastes like to be a governor."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If you once make trial of it, Sancho," said the duke, "you'll eat your
      fingers off after the government, so sweet a thing is it to command and be
      obeyed. Depend upon it when your master comes to be emperor (as he will
      beyond a doubt from the course his affairs are taking), it will be no easy
      matter to wrest the dignity from him, and he will be sore and sorry at
      heart to have been so long without becoming one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor," said Sancho, "it is my belief it's a good thing to be in command,
      if it's only over a drove of cattle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May I be buried with you, Sancho," said the duke, "but you know
      everything; I hope you will make as good a governor as your sagacity
      promises; and that is all I have to say; and now remember to-morrow is the
      day you must set out for the government of the island, and this evening
      they will provide you with the proper attire for you to wear, and all
      things requisite for your departure."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let them dress me as they like," said Sancho; "however I'm dressed I'll
      be Sancho Panza."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's true," said the duke; "but one's dress must be suited to the
      office or rank one holds; for it would not do for a jurist to dress like a
      soldier, or a soldier like a priest. You, Sancho, shall go partly as a
      lawyer, partly as a captain, for, in the island I am giving you, arms are
      needed as much as letters, and letters as much as arms."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of letters I know but little," said Sancho, "for I don't even know the A
      B C; but it is enough for me to have the Christus in my memory to be a
      good governor. As for arms, I'll handle those they give me till I drop,
      and then, God be my help!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "With so good a memory," said the duke, "Sancho cannot go wrong in
      anything."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Don Quixote joined them; and learning what passed, and how soon
      Sancho was to go to his government, he with the duke's permission took him
      by the hand, and retired to his room with him for the purpose of giving
      him advice as to how he was to demean himself in his office. As soon as
      they had entered the chamber he closed the door after him, and almost by
      force made Sancho sit down beside him, and in a quiet tone thus addressed
      him: "I give infinite thanks to heaven, friend Sancho, that, before I have
      met with any good luck, fortune has come forward to meet thee. I who
      counted upon my good fortune to discharge the recompense of thy services,
      find myself still waiting for advancement, while thou, before the time,
      and contrary to all reasonable expectation, seest thyself blessed in the
      fulfillment of thy desires. Some will bribe, beg, solicit, rise early,
      entreat, persist, without attaining the object of their suit; while
      another comes, and without knowing why or wherefore, finds himself
      invested with the place or office so many have sued for; and here it is
      that the common saying, 'There is good luck as well as bad luck in suits,'
      applies. Thou, who, to my thinking, art beyond all doubt a dullard,
      without early rising or night watching or taking any trouble, with the
      mere breath of knight-errantry that has breathed upon thee, seest thyself
      without more ado governor of an island, as though it were a mere matter of
      course. This I say, Sancho, that thou attribute not the favour thou hast
      received to thine own merits, but give thanks to heaven that disposes
      matters beneficently, and secondly thanks to the great power the
      profession of knight-errantry contains in itself. With a heart, then,
      inclined to believe what I have said to thee, attend, my son, to thy Cato
      here who would counsel thee and be thy polestar and guide to direct and
      pilot thee to a safe haven out of this stormy sea wherein thou art about
      to ingulf thyself; for offices and great trusts are nothing else but a
      mighty gulf of troubles.
    </p>
    <p>
      "First of all, my son, thou must fear God, for in the fear of him is
      wisdom, and being wise thou canst not err in aught.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Secondly, thou must keep in view what thou art, striving to know thyself,
      the most difficult thing to know that the mind can imagine. If thou
      knowest thyself, it will follow thou wilt not puff thyself up like the
      frog that strove to make himself as large as the ox; if thou dost, the
      recollection of having kept pigs in thine own country will serve as the
      ugly feet for the wheel of thy folly."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's the truth," said Sancho; "but that was when I was a boy;
      afterwards when I was something more of a man it was geese I kept, not
      pigs. But to my thinking that has nothing to do with it; for all who are
      governors don't come of a kingly stock."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True," said Don Quixote, "and for that reason those who are not of noble
      origin should take care that the dignity of the office they hold be
      accompanied by a gentle suavity, which wisely managed will save them from
      the sneers of malice that no station escapes.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Glory in thy humble birth, Sancho, and be not ashamed of saying thou art
      peasant-born; for when it is seen thou art not ashamed no one will set
      himself to put thee to the blush; and pride thyself rather upon being one
      of lowly virtue than a lofty sinner. Countless are they who, born of mean
      parentage, have risen to the highest dignities, pontifical and imperial,
      and of the truth of this I could give thee instances enough to weary thee.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Remember, Sancho, if thou make virtue thy aim, and take a pride in doing
      virtuous actions, thou wilt have no cause to envy those who have princely
      and lordly ones, for blood is an inheritance, but virtue an acquisition,
      and virtue has in itself alone a worth that blood does not possess.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This being so, if perchance anyone of thy kinsfolk should come to see
      thee when thou art in thine island, thou art not to repel or slight him,
      but on the contrary to welcome him, entertain him, and make much of him;
      for in so doing thou wilt be approved of heaven (which is not pleased that
      any should despise what it hath made), and wilt comply with the laws of
      well-ordered nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      "If thou carriest thy wife with thee (and it is not well for those that
      administer governments to be long without their wives), teach and instruct
      her, and strive to smooth down her natural roughness; for all that may be
      gained by a wise governor may be lost and wasted by a boorish stupid wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      "If perchance thou art left a widower&mdash;a thing which may happen&mdash;and
      in virtue of thy office seekest a consort of higher degree, choose not one
      to serve thee for a hook, or for a fishing-rod, or for the hood of thy
      'won't have it;' for verily, I tell thee, for all the judge's wife
      receives, the husband will be held accountable at the general calling to
      account; where he will have repay in death fourfold, items that in life he
      regarded as naught.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Never go by arbitrary law, which is so much favoured by ignorant men who
      plume themselves on cleverness.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let the tears of the poor man find with thee more compassion, but not
      more justice, than the pleadings of the rich.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Strive to lay bare the truth, as well amid the promises and presents of
      the rich man, as amid the sobs and entreaties of the poor.
    </p>
    <p>
      "When equity may and should be brought into play, press not the utmost
      rigour of the law against the guilty; for the reputation of the stern
      judge stands not higher than that of the compassionate.
    </p>
    <p>
      "If perchance thou permittest the staff of justice to swerve, let it be
      not by the weight of a gift, but by that of mercy.
    </p>
    <p>
      "If it should happen to thee to give judgment in the cause of one who is
      thine enemy, turn thy thoughts away from thy injury and fix them on the
      justice of the case.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let not thine own passion blind thee in another man's cause; for the
      errors thou wilt thus commit will be most frequently irremediable; or if
      not, only to be remedied at the expense of thy good name and even of thy
      fortune.
    </p>
    <p>
      "If any handsome woman come to seek justice of thee, turn away thine eyes
      from her tears and thine ears from her lamentations, and consider
      deliberately the merits of her demand, if thou wouldst not have thy reason
      swept away by her weeping, and thy rectitude by her sighs.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Abuse not by word him whom thou hast to punish in deed, for the pain of
      punishment is enough for the unfortunate without the addition of thine
      objurgations.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Bear in mind that the culprit who comes under thy jurisdiction is but a
      miserable man subject to all the propensities of our depraved nature, and
      so far as may be in thy power show thyself lenient and forbearing; for
      though the attributes of God are all equal, to our eyes that of mercy is
      brighter and loftier than that of justice.
    </p>
    <p>
      "If thou followest these precepts and rules, Sancho, thy days will be
      long, thy fame eternal, thy reward abundant, thy felicity unutterable;
      thou wilt marry thy children as thou wouldst; they and thy grandchildren
      will bear titles; thou wilt live in peace and concord with all men; and,
      when life draws to a close, death will come to thee in calm and ripe old
      age, and the light and loving hands of thy great-grandchildren will close
      thine eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What I have thus far addressed to thee are instructions for the adornment
      of thy mind; listen now to those which tend to that of the body."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p42e" id="p42e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p42e.jpg (17K)" src="images/p42e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch43b" id="ch43b"></a>CHAPTER XLIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE SECOND SET OF COUNSELS DON QUIXOTE GAVE SANCHO PANZA
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p43a" id="p43a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p43a.jpg (129K)" src="images/p43a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p43a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Who, hearing the foregoing discourse of Don Quixote, would not have set
      him down for a person of great good sense and greater rectitude of
      purpose? But, as has been frequently observed in the course of this great
      history, he only talked nonsense when he touched on chivalry, and in
      discussing all other subjects showed that he had a clear and unbiassed
      understanding; so that at every turn his acts gave the lie to his
      intellect, and his intellect to his acts; but in the case of these second
      counsels that he gave Sancho, he showed himself to have a lively turn of
      humour, and displayed conspicuously his wisdom, and also his folly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho listened to him with the deepest attention, and endeavoured to fix
      his counsels in his memory, like one who meant to follow them and by their
      means bring the full promise of his government to a happy issue. Don
      Quixote, then, went on to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      "With regard to the mode in which thou shouldst govern thy person and thy
      house, Sancho, the first charge I have to give thee is to be clean, and to
      cut thy nails, not letting them grow as some do, whose ignorance makes
      them fancy that long nails are an ornament to their hands, as if those
      excrescences they neglect to cut were nails, and not the talons of a
      lizard-catching kestrel&mdash;a filthy and unnatural abuse.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Go not ungirt and loose, Sancho; for disordered attire is a sign of an
      unstable mind, unless indeed the slovenliness and slackness is to be set
      down to craft, as was the common opinion in the case of Julius Caesar.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ascertain cautiously what thy office may be worth; and if it will allow
      thee to give liveries to thy servants, give them respectable and
      serviceable, rather than showy and gay ones, and divide them between thy
      servants and the poor; that is to say, if thou canst clothe six pages,
      clothe three and three poor men, and thus thou wilt have pages for heaven
      and pages for earth; the vainglorious never think of this new mode of
      giving liveries.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Eat not garlic nor onions, lest they find out thy boorish origin by the
      smell; walk slowly and speak deliberately, but not in such a way as to
      make it seem thou art listening to thyself, for all affectation is bad.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Dine sparingly and sup more sparingly still; for the health of the whole
      body is forged in the workshop of the stomach.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be temperate in drinking, bearing in mind that wine in excess keeps
      neither secrets nor promises.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Take care, Sancho, not to chew on both sides, and not to eruct in
      anybody's presence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Eruct!" said Sancho; "I don't know what that means."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To eruct, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "means to belch, and that is one of
      the filthiest words in the Spanish language, though a very expressive one;
      and therefore nice folk have had recourse to the Latin, and instead of
      belch say eruct, and instead of belches say eructations; and if some do
      not understand these terms it matters little, for custom will bring them
      into use in the course of time, so that they will be readily understood;
      this is the way a language is enriched; custom and the public are
      all-powerful there."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In truth, senor," said Sancho, "one of the counsels and cautions I mean
      to bear in mind shall be this, not to belch, for I'm constantly doing it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Eruct, Sancho, not belch," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Eruct, I shall say henceforth, and I swear not to forget it," said
      Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Likewise, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "thou must not mingle such a
      quantity of proverbs in thy discourse as thou dost; for though proverbs
      are short maxims, thou dost drag them in so often by the head and
      shoulders that they savour more of nonsense than of maxims."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God alone can cure that," said Sancho; "for I have more proverbs in me
      than a book, and when I speak they come so thick together into my mouth
      that they fall to fighting among themselves to get out; that's why my
      tongue lets fly the first that come, though they may not be pat to the
      purpose. But I'll take care henceforward to use such as befit the dignity
      of my office; for 'in a house where there's plenty, supper is soon
      cooked,' and 'he who binds does not wrangle,' and 'the bell-ringer's in a
      safe berth,' and 'giving and keeping require brains.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's it, Sancho!" said Don Quixote; "pack, tack, string proverbs
      together; nobody is hindering thee! 'My mother beats me, and I go on with
      my tricks.' I am bidding thee avoid proverbs, and here in a second thou
      hast shot out a whole litany of them, which have as much to do with what
      we are talking about as 'over the hills of Ubeda.' Mind, Sancho, I do not
      say that a proverb aptly brought in is objectionable; but to pile up and
      string together proverbs at random makes conversation dull and vulgar.
    </p>
    <p>
      "When thou ridest on horseback, do not go lolling with thy body on the
      back of the saddle, nor carry thy legs stiff or sticking out from the
      horse's belly, nor yet sit so loosely that one would suppose thou wert on
      Dapple; for the seat on a horse makes gentlemen of some and grooms of
      others.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be moderate in thy sleep; for he who does not rise early does not get the
      benefit of the day; and remember, Sancho, diligence is the mother of good
      fortune, and indolence, its opposite, never yet attained the object of an
      honest ambition.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The last counsel I will give thee now, though it does not tend to bodily
      improvement, I would have thee carry carefully in thy memory, for I
      believe it will be no less useful to thee than those I have given thee
      already, and it is this&mdash;never engage in a dispute about families, at
      least in the way of comparing them one with another; for necessarily one
      of those compared will be better than the other, and thou wilt be hated by
      the one thou hast disparaged, and get nothing in any shape from the one
      thou hast exalted.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thy attire shall be hose of full length, a long jerkin, and a cloak a
      trifle longer; loose breeches by no means, for they are becoming neither
      for gentlemen nor for governors.
    </p>
    <p>
      "For the present, Sancho, this is all that has occurred to me to advise
      thee; as time goes by and occasions arise my instructions shall follow, if
      thou take care to let me know how thou art circumstanced."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor," said Sancho, "I see well enough that all these things your
      worship has said to me are good, holy, and profitable; but what use will
      they be to me if I don't remember one of them? To be sure that about not
      letting my nails grow, and marrying again if I have the chance, will not
      slip out of my head; but all that other hash, muddle, and jumble&mdash;I
      don't and can't recollect any more of it than of last year's clouds; so it
      must be given me in writing; for though I can't either read or write, I'll
      give it to my confessor, to drive it into me and remind me of it whenever
      it is necessary."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, sinner that I am!" said Don Quixote, "how bad it looks in governors
      not to know how to read or write; for let me tell thee, Sancho, when a man
      knows not how to read, or is left-handed, it argues one of two things;
      either that he was the son of exceedingly mean and lowly parents, or that
      he himself was so incorrigible and ill-conditioned that neither good
      company nor good teaching could make any impression on him. It is a great
      defect that thou labourest under, and therefore I would have thee learn at
      any rate to sign thy name." "I can sign my name well enough," said Sancho,
      "for when I was steward of the brotherhood in my village I learned to make
      certain letters, like the marks on bales of goods, which they told me made
      out my name. Besides I can pretend my right hand is disabled and make some
      one else sign for me, for 'there's a remedy for everything except death;'
      and as I shall be in command and hold the staff, I can do as I like;
      moreover, 'he who has the alcalde for his father-,' and I'll be governor,
      and that's higher than alcalde. Only come and see! Let them make light of
      me and abuse me; 'they'll come for wool and go back shorn;' 'whom God
      loves, his house is known to Him;' 'the silly sayings of the rich pass for
      saws in the world;' and as I'll be rich, being a governor, and at the same
      time generous, as I mean to be, no fault will be seen in me. 'Only make
      yourself honey and the flies will suck you;' 'as much as thou hast so much
      art thou worth,' as my grandmother used to say; and 'thou canst have no
      revenge of a man of substance.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, God's curse upon thee, Sancho!" here exclaimed Don Quixote; "sixty
      thousand devils fly away with thee and thy proverbs! For the last hour
      thou hast been stringing them together and inflicting the pangs of torture
      on me with every one of them. Those proverbs will bring thee to the
      gallows one day, I promise thee; thy subjects will take the government
      from thee, or there will be revolts among them. Tell me, where dost thou
      pick them up, thou booby? How dost thou apply them, thou blockhead? For
      with me, to utter one and make it apply properly, I have to sweat and
      labour as if I were digging."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By God, master mine," said Sancho, "your worship is making a fuss about
      very little. Why the devil should you be vexed if I make use of what is my
      own? And I have got nothing else, nor any other stock in trade except
      proverbs and more proverbs; and here are three just this instant come into
      my head, pat to the purpose and like pears in a basket; but I won't repeat
      them, for 'sage silence is called Sancho.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That, Sancho, thou art not," said Don Quixote; "for not only art thou not
      sage silence, but thou art pestilent prate and perversity; still I would
      like to know what three proverbs have just now come into thy memory, for I
      have been turning over mine own&mdash;and it is a good one&mdash;and none
      occurs to me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What can be better," said Sancho, "than 'never put thy thumbs between two
      back teeth;' and 'to "get out of my house" and "what do you want with my
      wife?" there is no answer;' and 'whether the pitcher hits the stove, or
      the stove the pitcher, it's a bad business for the pitcher;' all which fit
      to a hair? For no one should quarrel with his governor, or him in
      authority over him, because he will come off the worst, as he does who
      puts his finger between two back and if they are not back teeth it makes
      no difference, so long as they are teeth; and to whatever the governor may
      say there's no answer, any more than to 'get out of my house' and 'what do
      you want with my wife?' and then, as for that about the stone and the
      pitcher, a blind man could see that. So that he 'who sees the mote in
      another's eye had need to see the beam in his own,' that it be not said of
      himself, 'the dead woman was frightened at the one with her throat cut;'
      and your worship knows well that 'the fool knows more in his own house
      than the wise man in another's.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "the fool knows nothing, either in his
      own house or in anybody else's, for no wise structure of any sort can
      stand on a foundation of folly; but let us say no more about it, Sancho,
      for if thou governest badly, thine will be the fault and mine the shame;
      but I comfort myself with having done my duty in advising thee as
      earnestly and as wisely as I could; and thus I am released from my
      obligations and my promise. God guide thee, Sancho, and govern thee in thy
      government, and deliver me from the misgiving I have that thou wilt turn
      the whole island upside down, a thing I might easily prevent by explaining
      to the duke what thou art and telling him that all that fat little person
      of thine is nothing else but a sack full of proverbs and sauciness."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor," said Sancho, "if your worship thinks I'm not fit for this
      government, I give it up on the spot; for the mere black of the nail of my
      soul is dearer to me than my whole body; and I can live just as well,
      simple Sancho, on bread and onions, as governor, on partridges and capons;
      and what's more, while we're asleep we're all equal, great and small, rich
      and poor. But if your worship looks into it, you will see it was your
      worship alone that put me on to this business of governing; for I know no
      more about the government of islands than a buzzard; and if there's any
      reason to think that because of my being a governor the devil will get
      hold of me, I'd rather go Sancho to heaven than governor to hell."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By God, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for those last words thou hast
      uttered alone, I consider thou deservest to be governor of a thousand
      islands. Thou hast good natural instincts, without which no knowledge is
      worth anything; commend thyself to God, and try not to swerve in the
      pursuit of thy main object; I mean, always make it thy aim and fixed
      purpose to do right in all matters that come before thee, for heaven
      always helps good intentions; and now let us go to dinner, for I think my
      lord and lady are waiting for us."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p43e" id="p43e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p43e.jpg (41K)" src="images/p43e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch44b" id="ch44b"></a>CHAPTER XLIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      HOW SANCHO PANZA WAS CONDUCTED TO HIS GOVERNMENT, AND OF THE STRANGE
      ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE IN THE CASTLE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p44a" id="p44a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p44a.jpg (140K)" src="images/p44a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p44a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      It is stated, they say, in the true original of this history, that when
      Cide Hamete came to write this chapter, his interpreter did not translate
      it as he wrote it&mdash;that is, as a kind of complaint the Moor made
      against himself for having taken in hand a story so dry and of so little
      variety as this of Don Quixote, for he found himself forced to speak
      perpetually of him and Sancho, without venturing to indulge in digressions
      and episodes more serious and more interesting. He said, too, that to go
      on, mind, hand, pen always restricted to writing upon one single subject,
      and speaking through the mouths of a few characters, was intolerable
      drudgery, the result of which was never equal to the author's labour, and
      that to avoid this he had in the First Part availed himself of the device
      of novels, like "The Ill-advised Curiosity," and "The Captive Captain,"
      which stand, as it were, apart from the story; the others are given there
      being incidents which occurred to Don Quixote himself and could not be
      omitted. He also thought, he says, that many, engrossed by the interest
      attaching to the exploits of Don Quixote, would take none in the novels,
      and pass them over hastily or impatiently without noticing the elegance
      and art of their composition, which would be very manifest were they
      published by themselves and not as mere adjuncts to the crazes of Don
      Quixote or the simplicities of Sancho. Therefore in this Second Part he
      thought it best not to insert novels, either separate or interwoven, but
      only episodes, something like them, arising out of the circumstances the
      facts present; and even these sparingly, and with no more words than
      suffice to make them plain; and as he confines and restricts himself to
      the narrow limits of the narrative, though he has ability; capacity, and
      brains enough to deal with the whole universe, he requests that his
      labours may not be despised, and that credit be given him, not alone for
      what he writes, but for what he has refrained from writing.
    </p>
    <p>
      And so he goes on with his story, saying that the day Don Quixote gave the
      counsels to Sancho, the same afternoon after dinner he handed them to him
      in writing so that he might get some one to read them to him. They had
      scarcely, however, been given to him when he let them drop, and they fell
      into the hands of the duke, who showed them to the duchess and they were
      both amazed afresh at the madness and wit of Don Quixote. To carry on the
      joke, then, the same evening they despatched Sancho with a large following
      to the village that was to serve him for an island. It happened that the
      person who had him in charge was a majordomo of the duke's, a man of great
      discretion and humour&mdash;and there can be no humour without discretion&mdash;and
      the same who played the part of the Countess Trifaldi in the comical way
      that has been already described; and thus qualified, and instructed by his
      master and mistress as to how to deal with Sancho, he carried out their
      scheme admirably. Now it came to pass that as soon as Sancho saw this
      majordomo he seemed in his features to recognise those of the Trifaldi,
      and turning to his master, he said to him, "Senor, either the devil will
      carry me off, here on this spot, righteous and believing, or your worship
      will own to me that the face of this majordomo of the duke's here is the
      very face of the Distressed One."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote regarded the majordomo attentively, and having done so, said
      to Sancho, "There is no reason why the devil should carry thee off,
      Sancho, either righteous or believing&mdash;and what thou meanest by that
      I know not; the face of the Distressed One is that of the majordomo, but
      for all that the majordomo is not the Distressed One; for his being so
      would involve a mighty contradiction; but this is not the time for going
      into questions of the sort, which would be involving ourselves in an
      inextricable labyrinth. Believe me, my friend, we must pray earnestly to
      our Lord that he deliver us both from wicked wizards and enchanters."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is no joke, senor," said Sancho, "for before this I heard him speak,
      and it seemed exactly as if the voice of the Trifaldi was sounding in my
      ears. Well, I'll hold my peace; but I'll take care to be on the look-out
      henceforth for any sign that may be seen to confirm or do away with this
      suspicion."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou wilt do well, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and thou wilt let me know
      all thou discoverest, and all that befalls thee in thy government."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho at last set out attended by a great number of people. He was
      dressed in the garb of a lawyer, with a gaban of tawny watered camlet over
      all and a montera cap of the same material, and mounted a la gineta upon a
      mule. Behind him, in accordance with the duke's orders, followed Dapple
      with brand new ass-trappings and ornaments of silk, and from time to time
      Sancho turned round to look at his ass, so well pleased to have him with
      him that he would not have changed places with the emperor of Germany. On
      taking leave he kissed the hands of the duke and duchess and got his
      master's blessing, which Don Quixote gave him with tears, and he received
      blubbering.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p44b" id="p44b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p44b.jpg (341K)" src="images/p44b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p44b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Let worthy Sancho go in peace, and good luck to him, Gentle Reader; and
      look out for two bushels of laughter, which the account of how he behaved
      himself in office will give thee. In the meantime turn thy attention to
      what happened his master the same night, and if thou dost not laugh
      thereat, at any rate thou wilt stretch thy mouth with a grin; for Don
      Quixote's adventures must be honoured either with wonder or with laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is recorded, then, that as soon as Sancho had gone, Don Quixote felt
      his loneliness, and had it been possible for him to revoke the mandate and
      take away the government from him he would have done so. The duchess
      observed his dejection and asked him why he was melancholy; because, she
      said, if it was for the loss of Sancho, there were squires, duennas, and
      damsels in her house who would wait upon him to his full satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The truth is, senora," replied Don Quixote, "that I do feel the loss of
      Sancho; but that is not the main cause of my looking sad; and of all the
      offers your excellence makes me, I accept only the good-will with which
      they are made, and as to the remainder I entreat of your excellence to
      permit and allow me alone to wait upon myself in my chamber."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Indeed, Senor Don Quixote," said the duchess, "that must not be; four of
      my damsels, as beautiful as flowers, shall wait upon you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To me," said Don Quixote, "they will not be flowers, but thorns to pierce
      my heart. They, or anything like them, shall as soon enter my chamber as
      fly. If your highness wishes to gratify me still further, though I deserve
      it not, permit me to please myself, and wait upon myself in my own room;
      for I place a barrier between my inclinations and my virtue, and I do not
      wish to break this rule through the generosity your highness is disposed
      to display towards me; and, in short, I will sleep in my clothes, sooner
      than allow anyone to undress me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Say no more, Senor Don Quixote, say no more," said the duchess; "I assure
      you I will give orders that not even a fly, not to say a damsel, shall
      enter your room. I am not the one to undermine the propriety of Senor Don
      Quixote, for it strikes me that among his many virtues the one that is
      pre-eminent is that of modesty. Your worship may undress and dress in
      private and in your own way, as you please and when you please, for there
      will be no one to hinder you; and in your chamber you will find all the
      utensils requisite to supply the wants of one who sleeps with his door
      locked, to the end that no natural needs compel you to open it. May the
      great Dulcinea del Toboso live a thousand years, and may her fame extend
      all over the surface of the globe, for she deserves to be loved by a
      knight so valiant and so virtuous; and may kind heaven infuse zeal into
      the heart of our governor Sancho Panza to finish off his discipline
      speedily, so that the world may once more enjoy the beauty of so grand a
      lady."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Don Quixote replied, "Your highness has spoken like what you are;
      from the mouth of a noble lady nothing bad can come; and Dulcinea will be
      more fortunate, and better known to the world by the praise of your
      highness than by all the eulogies the greatest orators on earth could
      bestow upon her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, well, Senor Don Quixote," said the duchess, it is nearly supper-time,
      and the duke is probably waiting; come let us go to supper, and retire
      to rest early, for the journey you made yesterday from Kandy was not such
      a short one but that it must have caused you some fatigue."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I feel none, senora," said Don Quixote, "for I would go so far as to
      swear to your excellence that in all my life I never mounted a quieter
      beast, or a pleasanter paced one, than Clavileno; and I don't know what
      could have induced Malambruno to discard a steed so swift and so gentle,
      and burn it so recklessly as he did."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Probably," said the duchess, "repenting of the evil he had done to the
      Trifaldi and company, and others, and the crimes he must have committed as
      a wizard and enchanter, he resolved to make away with all the instruments
      of his craft; and so burned Clavileno as the chief one, and that which
      mainly kept him restless, wandering from land to land; and by its ashes
      and the trophy of the placard the valour of the great Don Quixote of La
      Mancha is established for ever."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote renewed his thanks to the duchess; and having supped, retired
      to his chamber alone, refusing to allow anyone to enter with him to wait
      on him, such was his fear of encountering temptations that might lead or
      drive him to forget his chaste fidelity to his lady Dulcinea; for he had
      always present to his mind the virtue of Amadis, that flower and mirror of
      knights-errant. He locked the door behind him, and by the light of two wax
      candles undressed himself, but as he was taking off his stockings&mdash;O
      disaster unworthy of such a personage!&mdash;there came a burst, not of
      sighs, or anything belying his delicacy or good breeding, but of some two
      dozen stitches in one of his stockings, that made it look like a
      window-lattice. The worthy gentleman was beyond measure distressed, and at
      that moment he would have given an ounce of silver to have had half a
      drachm of green silk there; I say green silk, because the stockings were
      green.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Cide Hamete exclaimed as he was writing, "O poverty, poverty! I know
      not what could have possessed the great Cordovan poet to call thee 'holy
      gift ungratefully received.' Although a Moor, I know well enough from the
      intercourse I have had with Christians that holiness consists in charity,
      humility, faith, obedience, and poverty; but for all that, I say he must
      have a great deal of godliness who can find any satisfaction in being
      poor; unless, indeed, it be the kind of poverty one of their greatest
      saints refers to, saying, 'possess all things as though ye possessed them
      not;' which is what they call poverty in spirit. But thou, that other
      poverty&mdash;for it is of thee I am speaking now&mdash;why dost thou love
      to fall out with gentlemen and men of good birth more than with other
      people? Why dost thou compel them to smear the cracks in their shoes, and
      to have the buttons of their coats, one silk, another hair, and another
      glass? Why must their ruffs be always crinkled like endive leaves, and not
      crimped with a crimping iron?" (From this we may perceive the antiquity of
      starch and crimped ruffs.) Then he goes on: "Poor gentleman of good
      family! always cockering up his honour, dining miserably and in secret,
      and making a hypocrite of the toothpick with which he sallies out into the
      street after eating nothing to oblige him to use it! Poor fellow, I say,
      with his nervous honour, fancying they perceive a league off the patch on
      his shoe, the sweat-stains on his hat, the shabbiness of his cloak, and
      the hunger of his stomach!"
    </p>
    <p>
      All this was brought home to Don Quixote by the bursting of his stitches;
      however, he comforted himself on perceiving that Sancho had left behind a
      pair of travelling boots, which he resolved to wear the next day. At last
      he went to bed, out of spirits and heavy at heart, as much because he
      missed Sancho as because of the irreparable disaster to his stockings, the
      stitches of which he would have even taken up with silk of another colour,
      which is one of the greatest signs of poverty a gentleman can show in the
      course of his never-failing embarrassments. He put out the candles; but
      the night was warm and he could not sleep; he rose from his bed and opened
      slightly a grated window that looked out on a beautiful garden, and as he
      did so he perceived and heard people walking and talking in the garden. He
      set himself to listen attentively, and those below raised their voices so
      that he could hear these words:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Urge me not to sing, Emerencia, for thou knowest that ever since this
      stranger entered the castle and my eyes beheld him, I cannot sing but only
      weep; besides my lady is a light rather than a heavy sleeper, and I would
      not for all the wealth of the world that she found us here; and even if
      she were asleep and did not waken, my singing would be in vain, if this
      strange AEneas, who has come into my neighbourhood to flout me, sleeps on
      and wakens not to hear it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Heed not that, dear Altisidora," replied a voice; "the duchess is no
      doubt asleep, and everybody in the house save the lord of thy heart and
      disturber of thy soul; for just now I perceived him open the grated window
      of his chamber, so he must be awake; sing, my poor sufferer, in a low
      sweet tone to the accompaniment of thy harp; and even if the duchess hears
      us we can lay the blame on the heat of the night."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is not the point, Emerencia," replied Altisidora, "it is that I
      would not that my singing should lay bare my heart, and that I should be
      thought a light and wanton maiden by those who know not the mighty power
      of love; but come what may; better a blush on the cheeks than a sore in
      the heart;" and here a harp softly touched made itself heard. As he
      listened to all this Don Quixote was in a state of breathless amazement,
      for immediately the countless adventures like this, with windows,
      gratings, gardens, serenades, lovemakings, and languishings, that he had
      read of in his trashy books of chivalry, came to his mind. He at once
      concluded that some damsel of the duchess's was in love with him, and that
      her modesty forced her to keep her passion secret. He trembled lest he
      should fall, and made an inward resolution not to yield; and commending
      himself with all his might and soul to his lady Dulcinea he made up his
      mind to listen to the music; and to let them know he was there he gave a
      pretended sneeze, at which the damsels were not a little delighted, for
      all they wanted was that Don Quixote should hear them. So having tuned the
      harp, Altisidora, running her hand across the strings, began this ballad:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
O thou that art above in bed,
  Between the holland sheets,
A-lying there from night till morn,
  With outstretched legs asleep;

O thou, most valiant knight of all
  The famed Manchegan breed,
Of purity and virtue more
  Than gold of Araby;

Give ear unto a suffering maid,
  Well-grown but evil-starr'd,
For those two suns of thine have lit
  A fire within her heart.

Adventures seeking thou dost rove,
  To others bringing woe;
Thou scatterest wounds, but, ah, the balm
  To heal them dost withhold!

Say, valiant youth, and so may God
  Thy enterprises speed,
Didst thou the light mid Libya's sands
  Or Jaca's rocks first see?

Did scaly serpents give thee suck?
  Who nursed thee when a babe?
Wert cradled in the forest rude,
  Or gloomy mountain cave?

O Dulcinea may be proud,
  That plump and lusty maid;
For she alone hath had the power
  A tiger fierce to tame.

And she for this shall famous be
  From Tagus to Jarama,
From Manzanares to Genil,
  From Duero to Arlanza.

Fain would I change with her, and give
  A petticoat to boot,
The best and bravest that I have,
  All trimmed with gold galloon.

O for to be the happy fair
  Thy mighty arms enfold,
Or even sit beside thy bed
  And scratch thy dusty poll!

I rave,&mdash;to favours such as these
  Unworthy to aspire;
Thy feet to tickle were enough
  For one so mean as I.

What caps, what slippers silver-laced,
  Would I on thee bestow!
What damask breeches make for thee;
  What fine long holland cloaks!

And I would give thee pearls that should
  As big as oak-galls show;
So matchless big that each might well
  Be called the great "Alone."

Manchegan Nero, look not down
  From thy Tarpeian Rock
Upon this burning heart, nor add
  The fuel of thy wrath.

A virgin soft and young am I,
  Not yet fifteen years old;
(I'm only three months past fourteen,
  I swear upon my soul).
I hobble not nor do I limp,
  All blemish I'm without,
And as I walk my lily locks
  Are trailing on the ground.

And though my nose be rather flat,
  And though my mouth be wide,
My teeth like topazes exalt
  My beauty to the sky.

Thou knowest that my voice is sweet,
  That is if thou dost hear;
And I am moulded in a form
  Somewhat below the mean.

These charms, and many more, are thine,
  Spoils to thy spear and bow all;
A damsel of this house am I,
  By name Altisidora.

</pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p44c" id="p44c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p44c.jpg (266K)" src="images/p44c.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <a href="images/p44c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the lay of the heart-stricken Altisidora came to an end, while the
      warmly wooed Don Quixote began to feel alarm; and with a deep sigh he said
      to himself, "O that I should be such an unlucky knight that no damsel can
      set eyes on me but falls in love with me! O that the peerless Dulcinea
      should be so unfortunate that they cannot let her enjoy my incomparable
      constancy in peace! What would ye with her, ye queens? Why do ye persecute
      her, ye empresses? Why ye pursue her, ye virgins of from fourteen to
      fifteen? Leave the unhappy being to triumph, rejoice and glory in the lot
      love has been pleased to bestow upon her in surrendering my heart and
      yielding up my soul to her. Ye love-smitten host, know that to Dulcinea
      only I am dough and sugar-paste, flint to all others; for her I am honey,
      for you aloes. For me Dulcinea alone is beautiful, wise, virtuous,
      graceful, and high-bred, and all others are ill-favoured, foolish, light,
      and low-born. Nature sent me into the world to be hers and no other's;
      Altisidora may weep or sing, the lady for whose sake they belaboured me in
      the castle of the enchanted Moor may give way to despair, but I must be
      Dulcinea's, boiled or roast, pure, courteous, and chaste, in spite of all
      the magic-working powers on earth." And with that he shut the window with
      a bang, and, as much out of temper and out of sorts as if some great
      misfortune had befallen him, stretched himself on his bed, where we will
      leave him for the present, as the great Sancho Panza, who is about to set
      up his famous government, now demands our attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p44e" id="p44e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p44e.jpg (145K)" src="images/p44e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p44a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch45b" id="ch45b"></a>CHAPTER XLV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF HOW THE GREAT SANCHO PANZA TOOK POSSESSION OF HIS ISLAND, AND OF HOW HE
      MADE A BEGINNING IN GOVERNING
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p45a" id="p45a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p45a.jpg (141K)" src="images/p45a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p45a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      O perpetual discoverer of the antipodes, torch of the world, eye of
      heaven, sweet stimulator of the water-coolers! Thimbraeus here, Phoebus
      there, now archer, now physician, father of poetry, inventor of music;
      thou that always risest and, notwithstanding appearances, never settest!
      To thee, O Sun, by whose aid man begetteth man, to thee I appeal to help
      me and lighten the darkness of my wit that I may be able to proceed with
      scrupulous exactitude in giving an account of the great Sancho Panza's
      government; for without thee I feel myself weak, feeble, and uncertain.
    </p>
    <p>
      To come to the point, then&mdash;Sancho with all his attendants arrived at
      a village of some thousand inhabitants, and one of the largest the duke
      possessed. They informed him that it was called the island of Barataria,
      either because the name of the village was Baratario, or because of the
      joke by way of which the government had been conferred upon him. On
      reaching the gates of the town, which was a walled one, the municipality
      came forth to meet him, the bells rang out a peal, and the inhabitants
      showed every sign of general satisfaction; and with great pomp they
      conducted him to the principal church to give thanks to God, and then with
      burlesque ceremonies they presented him with the keys of the town, and
      acknowledged him as perpetual governor of the island of Barataria. The
      costume, the beard, and the fat squat figure of the new governor
      astonished all those who were not in on the secret, and even all who were,
      and they were not a few. Finally, leading him out of the church they
      carried him to the judgment seat and seated him on it, and the duke's
      majordomo said to him, "It is an ancient custom in this island, senor
      governor, that he who comes to take possession of this famous island is
      bound to answer a question which shall be put to him, and which must be a
      somewhat knotty and difficult one; and by his answer the people take the
      measure of their new governor's wit, and hail with joy or deplore his
      arrival accordingly."
    </p>
    <p>
      While the majordomo was making this speech Sancho was gazing at several
      large letters inscribed on the wall opposite his seat, and as he could not
      read he asked what that was that was painted on the wall. The answer was,
      "Senor, there is written and recorded the day on which your lordship took
      possession of this island, and the inscription says, 'This day, the
      so-and-so of such-and-such a month and year, Senor Don Sancho Panza took
      possession of this island; many years may he enjoy it.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And whom do they call Don Sancho Panza?" asked Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your lordship," replied the majordomo; "for no other Panza but the one
      who is now seated in that chair has ever entered this island."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then, let me tell you, brother," said Sancho, "I haven't got the
      'Don,' nor has any one of my family ever had it; my name is plain Sancho
      Panza, and Sancho was my father's name, and Sancho was my grandfather's
      and they were all Panzas, without any Dons or Donas tacked on; I suspect
      that in this island there are more Dons than stones; but never mind; God
      knows what I mean, and maybe if my government lasts four days I'll weed
      out these Dons that no doubt are as great a nuisance as the midges,
      they're so plenty. Let the majordomo go on with his question, and I'll
      give the best answer I can, whether the people deplore or not."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this instant there came into court two old men, one carrying a cane by
      way of a walking-stick, and the one who had no stick said, "Senor, some
      time ago I lent this good man ten gold-crowns in gold to gratify him and
      do him a service, on the condition that he was to return them to me
      whenever I should ask for them. A long time passed before I asked for
      them, for I would not put him to any greater straits to return them than
      he was in when I lent them to him; but thinking he was growing careless
      about payment I asked for them once and several times; and not only will
      he not give them back, but he denies that he owes them, and says I never
      lent him any such crowns; or if I did, that he repaid them; and I have no
      witnesses either of the loan, or the payment, for he never paid me; I want
      your worship to put him to his oath, and if he swears he returned them to
      me I forgive him the debt here and before God."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p45b" id="p45b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p45b.jpg (400K)" src="images/p45b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p45b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "What say you to this, good old man, you with the stick?" said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      To which the old man replied, "I admit, senor, that he lent them to me;
      but let your worship lower your staff, and as he leaves it to my oath,
      I'll swear that I gave them back, and paid him really and truly."
    </p>
    <p>
      The governor lowered the staff, and as he did so the old man who had the
      stick handed it to the other old man to hold for him while he swore, as if
      he found it in his way; and then laid his hand on the cross of the staff,
      saying that it was true the ten crowns that were demanded of him had been
      lent him; but that he had with his own hand given them back into the hand
      of the other, and that he, not recollecting it, was always asking for
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeing this the great governor asked the creditor what answer he had to
      make to what his opponent said. He said that no doubt his debtor had told
      the truth, for he believed him to be an honest man and a good Christian,
      and he himself must have forgotten when and how he had given him back the
      crowns; and that from that time forth he would make no further demand upon
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The debtor took his stick again, and bowing his head left the court.
      Observing this, and how, without another word, he made off, and observing
      too the resignation of the plaintiff, Sancho buried his head in his bosom
      and remained for a short space in deep thought, with the forefinger of his
      right hand on his brow and nose; then he raised his head and bade them
      call back the old man with the stick, for he had already taken his
      departure. They brought him back, and as soon as Sancho saw him he said,
      "Honest man, give me that stick, for I want it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Willingly," said the old man; "here it is senor," and he put it into his
      hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho took it and, handing it to the other old man, said to him, "Go, and
      God be with you; for now you are paid."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I, senor!" returned the old man; "why, is this cane worth ten
      gold-crowns?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," said the governor, "or if not I am the greatest dolt in the world;
      now you will see whether I have got the headpiece to govern a whole
      kingdom;" and he ordered the cane to be broken in two, there, in the
      presence of all. It was done, and in the middle of it they found ten
      gold-crowns. All were filled with amazement, and looked upon their
      governor as another Solomon. They asked him how he had come to the
      conclusion that the ten crowns were in the cane; he replied, that
      observing how the old man who swore gave the stick to his opponent while
      he was taking the oath, and swore that he had really and truly given him
      the crowns, and how as soon as he had done swearing he asked for the stick
      again, it came into his head that the sum demanded must be inside it; and
      from this he said it might be seen that God sometimes guides those who
      govern in their judgments, even though they may be fools; besides he had
      himself heard the curate of his village mention just such another case,
      and he had so good a memory, that if it was not that he forgot everything
      he wished to remember, there would not be such a memory in all the island.
      To conclude, the old men went off, one crestfallen, and the other in high
      contentment, all who were present were astonished, and he who was
      recording the words, deeds, and movements of Sancho could not make up his
      mind whether he was to look upon him and set him down as a fool or as a
      man of sense.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as this case was disposed of, there came into court a woman
      holding on with a tight grip to a man dressed like a well-to-do cattle
      dealer, and she came forward making a great outcry and exclaiming,
      "Justice, senor governor, justice! and if I don't get it on earth I'll go
      look for it in heaven. Senor governor of my soul, this wicked man caught
      me in the middle of the fields here and used my body as if it was an
      ill-washed rag, and, woe is me! got from me what I had kept these
      three-and-twenty years and more, defending it against Moors and
      Christians, natives and strangers; and I always as hard as an oak, and
      keeping myself as pure as a salamander in the fire, or wool among the
      brambles, for this good fellow to come now with clean hands to handle me!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It remains to be proved whether this gallant has clean hands or not,"
      said Sancho; and turning to the man he asked him what he had to say in
      answer to the woman's charge.
    </p>
    <p>
      He all in confusion made answer, "Sirs, I am a poor pig dealer, and this
      morning I left the village to sell (saving your presence) four pigs, and
      between dues and cribbings they got out of me little less than the worth
      of them. As I was returning to my village I fell in on the road with this
      good dame, and the devil who makes a coil and a mess out of everything,
      yoked us together. I paid her fairly, but she not contented laid hold of
      me and never let go until she brought me here; she says I forced her, but
      she lies by the oath I swear or am ready to swear; and this is the whole
      truth and every particle of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      The governor on this asked him if he had any money in silver about him; he
      said he had about twenty ducats in a leather purse in his bosom. The
      governor bade him take it out and hand it to the complainant; he obeyed
      trembling; the woman took it, and making a thousand salaams to all and
      praying to God for the long life and health of the senor governor who had
      such regard for distressed orphans and virgins, she hurried out of court
      with the purse grasped in both her hands, first looking, however, to see
      if the money it contained was silver.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as she was gone Sancho said to the cattle dealer, whose tears were
      already starting and whose eyes and heart were following his purse, "Good
      fellow, go after that woman and take the purse from her, by force even,
      and come back with it here;" and he did not say it to one who was a fool
      or deaf, for the man was off like a flash of lightning, and ran to do as
      he was bid.
    </p>
    <p>
      All the bystanders waited anxiously to see the end of the case, and
      presently both man and woman came back at even closer grips than before,
      she with her petticoat up and the purse in the lap of it, and he
      struggling hard to take it from her, but all to no purpose, so stout was
      the woman's defence, she all the while crying out, "Justice from God and
      the world! see here, senor governor, the shamelessness and boldness of
      this villain, who in the middle of the town, in the middle of the street,
      wanted to take from me the purse your worship bade him give me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And did he take it?" asked the governor.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Take it!" said the woman; "I'd let my life be taken from me sooner than
      the purse. A pretty child I'd be! It's another sort of cat they must throw
      in my face, and not that poor scurvy knave. Pincers and hammers, mallets
      and chisels would not get it out of my grip; no, nor lions' claws; the
      soul from out of my body first!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "She is right," said the man; "I own myself beaten and powerless; I
      confess I haven't the strength to take it from her;" and he let go his
      hold of her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon this the governor said to the woman, "Let me see that purse, my
      worthy and sturdy friend." She handed it to him at once, and the governor
      returned it to the man, and said to the unforced mistress of force,
      "Sister, if you had shown as much, or only half as much, spirit and vigour
      in defending your body as you have shown in defending that purse, the
      strength of Hercules could not have forced you. Be off, and God speed you,
      and bad luck to you, and don't show your face in all this island, or
      within six leagues of it on any side, under pain of two hundred lashes; be
      off at once, I say, you shameless, cheating shrew."
    </p>
    <p>
      The woman was cowed and went off disconsolately, hanging her head; and the
      governor said to the man, "Honest man, go home with your money, and God
      speed you; and for the future, if you don't want to lose it, see that you
      don't take it into your head to yoke with anybody." The man thanked him as
      clumsily as he could and went his way, and the bystanders were again
      filled with admiration at their new governor's judgments and sentences.
    </p>
    <p>
      Next, two men, one apparently a farm labourer, and the other a tailor, for
      he had a pair of shears in his hand, presented themselves before him, and
      the tailor said, "Senor governor, this labourer and I come before your
      worship by reason of this honest man coming to my shop yesterday (for
      saving everybody's presence I'm a passed tailor, God be thanked), and
      putting a piece of cloth into my hands and asking me, 'Senor, will there
      be enough in this cloth to make me a cap?' Measuring the cloth I said
      there would. He probably suspected&mdash;as I supposed, and I supposed
      right&mdash;that I wanted to steal some of the cloth, led to think so by
      his own roguery and the bad opinion people have of tailors; and he told me
      to see if there would be enough for two. I guessed what he would be at,
      and I said 'yes.' He, still following up his original unworthy notion,
      went on adding cap after cap, and I 'yes' after 'yes,' until we got as far
      as five. He has just this moment come for them; I gave them to him, but he
      won't pay me for the making; on the contrary, he calls upon me to pay him,
      or else return his cloth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is all this true, brother?" said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes," replied the man; "but will your worship make him show the five caps
      he has made me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "With all my heart," said the tailor; and drawing his hand from under his
      cloak he showed five caps stuck upon the five fingers of it, and said,
      "there are the caps this good man asks for; and by God and upon my
      conscience I haven't a scrap of cloth left, and I'll let the work be
      examined by the inspectors of the trade."
    </p>
    <p>
      All present laughed at the number of caps and the novelty of the suit;
      Sancho set himself to think for a moment, and then said, "It seems to me
      that in this case it is not necessary to deliver long-winded arguments,
      but only to give off-hand the judgment of an honest man; and so my
      decision is that the tailor lose the making and the labourer the cloth,
      and that the caps go to the prisoners in the gaol, and let there be no
      more about it."
    </p>
    <p>
      If the previous decision about the cattle dealer's purse excited the
      admiration of the bystanders, this provoked their laughter; however, the
      governor's orders were after all executed. All this, having been taken
      down by his chronicler, was at once despatched to the duke, who was
      looking out for it with great eagerness; and here let us leave the good
      Sancho; for his master, sorely troubled in mind by Altisidora's music, has
      pressing claims upon us now.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p45e" id="p45e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p45e.jpg (11K)" src="images/p45e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch46b" id="ch46b"></a>CHAPTER XLVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE TERRIBLE BELL AND CAT FRIGHT THAT DON QUIXOTE GOT IN THE COURSE OF
      THE ENAMOURED ALTISIDORA'S WOOING
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p46a" id="p46a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p46a.jpg (58K)" src="images/p46a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p46a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      We left Don Quixote wrapped up in the reflections which the music of the
      enamourned maid Altisidora had given rise to. He went to bed with them,
      and just like fleas they would not let him sleep or get a moment's rest,
      and the broken stitches of his stockings helped them. But as Time is fleet
      and no obstacle can stay his course, he came riding on the hours, and
      morning very soon arrived. Seeing which Don Quixote quitted the soft down,
      and, nowise slothful, dressed himself in his chamois suit and put on his
      travelling boots to hide the disaster to his stockings. He threw over him
      his scarlet mantle, put on his head a montera of green velvet trimmed with
      silver edging, flung across his shoulder the baldric with his good
      trenchant sword, took up a large rosary that he always carried with him,
      and with great solemnity and precision of gait proceeded to the
      antechamber where the duke and duchess were already dressed and waiting
      for him. But as he passed through a gallery, Altisidora and the other
      damsel, her friend, were lying in wait for him, and the instant Altisidora
      saw him she pretended to faint, while her friend caught her in her lap,
      and began hastily unlacing the bosom of her dress.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote observed it, and approaching them said, "I know very well what
      this seizure arises from."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know not from what," replied the friend, "for Altisidora is the
      healthiest damsel in all this house, and I have never heard her complain
      all the time I have known her. A plague on all the knights-errant in the
      world, if they be all ungrateful! Go away, Senor Don Quixote; for this
      poor child will not come to herself again so long as you are here."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p46b" id="p46b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p46b.jpg (320K)" src="images/p46b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p46b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Don Quixote returned, "Do me the favour, senora, to let a lute be
      placed in my chamber to-night; and I will comfort this poor maiden to the
      best of my power; for in the early stages of love a prompt disillusion is
      an approved remedy;" and with this he retired, so as not to be remarked by
      any who might see him there.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had scarcely withdrawn when Altisidora, recovering from her swoon, said
      to her companion, "The lute must be left, for no doubt Don Quixote intends
      to give us some music; and being his it will not be bad."
    </p>
    <p>
      They went at once to inform the duchess of what was going on, and of the
      lute Don Quixote asked for, and she, delighted beyond measure, plotted
      with the duke and her two damsels to play him a trick that should be
      amusing but harmless; and in high glee they waited for night, which came
      quickly as the day had come; and as for the day, the duke and duchess
      spent it in charming conversation with Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      When eleven o'clock came, Don Quixote found a guitar in his chamber; he
      tried it, opened the window, and perceived that some persons were walking
      in the garden; and having passed his fingers over the frets of the guitar
      and tuned it as well as he could, he spat and cleared his chest, and then
      with a voice a little hoarse but full-toned, he sang the following ballad,
      which he had himself that day composed:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Mighty Love the hearts of maidens
  Doth unsettle and perplex,
And the instrument he uses
  Most of all is idleness.

Sewing, stitching, any labour,
  Having always work to do,
To the poison Love instilleth
  Is the antidote most sure.

And to proper-minded maidens
  Who desire the matron's name
Modesty's a marriage portion,
  Modesty their highest praise.

Men of prudence and discretion,
  Courtiers gay and gallant knights,
With the wanton damsels dally,
  But the modest take to wife.
There are passions, transient, fleeting,
  Loves in hostelries declar'd,
Sunrise loves, with sunset ended,
  When the guest hath gone his way.

Love that springs up swift and sudden,
  Here to-day, to-morrow flown,
Passes, leaves no trace behind it,
  Leaves no image on the soul.

Painting that is laid on painting
  Maketh no display or show;
Where one beauty's in possession
  There no other can take hold.

Dulcinea del Toboso
  Painted on my heart I wear;
Never from its tablets, never,
  Can her image be eras'd.

The quality of all in lovers
  Most esteemed is constancy;
'T is by this that love works wonders,
  This exalts them to the skies.

</pre>
    <p>
      Don Quixote had got so far with his song, to which the duke, the duchess,
      Altisidora, and nearly the whole household of the castle were listening,
      when all of a sudden from a gallery above that was exactly over his window
      they let down a cord with more than a hundred bells attached to it, and
      immediately after that discharged a great sack full of cats, which also
      had bells of smaller size tied to their tails. Such was the din of the
      bells and the squalling of the cats, that though the duke and duchess were
      the contrivers of the joke they were startled by it, while Don Quixote
      stood paralysed with fear; and as luck would have it, two or three of the
      cats made their way in through the grating of his chamber, and flying from
      one side to the other, made it seem as if there was a legion of devils at
      large in it. They extinguished the candles that were burning in the room,
      and rushed about seeking some way of escape; the cord with the large bells
      never ceased rising and falling; and most of the people of the castle, not
      knowing what was really the matter, were at their wits' end with
      astonishment. Don Quixote sprang to his feet, and drawing his sword, began
      making passes at the grating, shouting out, "Avaunt, malignant enchanters!
      avaunt, ye witchcraft-working rabble! I am Don Quixote of La Mancha,
      against whom your evil machinations avail not nor have any power." And
      turning upon the cats that were running about the room, he made several
      cuts at them. They dashed at the grating and escaped by it, save one that,
      finding itself hard pressed by the slashes of Don Quixote's sword, flew at
      his face and held on to his nose tooth and nail, with the pain of which he
      began to shout his loudest. The duke and duchess hearing this, and
      guessing what it was, ran with all haste to his room, and as the poor
      gentleman was striving with all his might to detach the cat from his face,
      they opened the door with a master-key and went in with lights and
      witnessed the unequal combat. The duke ran forward to part the combatants,
      but Don Quixote cried out aloud, "Let no one take him from me; leave me
      hand to hand with this demon, this wizard, this enchanter; I will teach
      him, I myself, who Don Quixote of La Mancha is." The cat, however, never
      minding these threats, snarled and held on; but at last the duke pulled it
      off and flung it out of the window. Don Quixote was left with a face as
      full of holes as a sieve and a nose not in very good condition, and
      greatly vexed that they did not let him finish the battle he had been so
      stoutly fighting with that villain of an enchanter. They sent for some oil
      of John's wort, and Altisidora herself with her own fair hands bandaged
      all the wounded parts; and as she did so she said to him in a low voice.
      "All these mishaps have befallen thee, hardhearted knight, for the sin of
      thy insensibility and obstinacy; and God grant thy squire Sancho may
      forget to whip himself, so that that dearly beloved Dulcinea of thine may
      never be released from her enchantment, that thou mayest never come to her
      bed, at least while I who adore thee am alive."
    </p>
    <p>
      To all this Don Quixote made no answer except to heave deep sighs, and
      then stretched himself on his bed, thanking the duke and duchess for their
      kindness, not because he stood in any fear of that bell-ringing rabble of
      enchanters in cat shape, but because he recognised their good intentions
      in coming to his rescue. The duke and duchess left him to repose and
      withdrew greatly grieved at the unfortunate result of the joke; as they
      never thought the adventure would have fallen so heavy on Don Quixote or
      cost him so dear, for it cost him five days of confinement to his bed,
      during which he had another adventure, pleasanter than the late one, which
      his chronicler will not relate just now in order that he may turn his
      attention to Sancho Panza, who was proceeding with great diligence and
      drollery in his government.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p46e" id="p46e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p46e.jpg (65K)" src="images/p46e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch47b" id="ch47b"></a>CHAPTER XLVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS CONTINUED THE ACCOUNT OF HOW SANCHO PANZA CONDUCTED HIMSELF IN
      HIS GOVERNMENT
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p47a" id="p47a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p47a.jpg (139K)" src="images/p47a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p47a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The history says that from the justice court they carried Sancho to a
      sumptuous palace, where in a spacious chamber there was a table laid out
      with royal magnificence. The clarions sounded as Sancho entered the room,
      and four pages came forward to present him with water for his hands, which
      Sancho received with great dignity. The music ceased, and Sancho seated
      himself at the head of the table, for there was only that seat placed, and
      no more than one cover laid. A personage, who it appeared afterwards was a
      physician, placed himself standing by his side with a whalebone wand in
      his hand. They then lifted up a fine white cloth covering fruit and a
      great variety of dishes of different sorts; one who looked like a student
      said grace, and a page put a laced bib on Sancho, while another who played
      the part of head carver placed a dish of fruit before him. But hardly had
      he tasted a morsel when the man with the wand touched the plate with it,
      and they took it away from before him with the utmost celerity. The
      carver, however, brought him another dish, and Sancho proceeded to try it;
      but before he could get at it, not to say taste it, already the wand had
      touched it and a page had carried it off with the same promptitude as the
      fruit. Sancho seeing this was puzzled, and looking from one to another
      asked if this dinner was to be eaten after the fashion of a jugglery
      trick.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this he with the wand replied, "It is not to be eaten, senor governor,
      except as is usual and customary in other islands where there are
      governors. I, senor, am a physician, and I am paid a salary in this island
      to serve its governors as such, and I have a much greater regard for their
      health than for my own, studying day and night and making myself
      acquainted with the governor's constitution, in order to be able to cure
      him when he falls sick. The chief thing I have to do is to attend at his
      dinners and suppers and allow him to eat what appears to me to be fit for
      him, and keep from him what I think will do him harm and be injurious to
      his stomach; and therefore I ordered that plate of fruit to be removed as
      being too moist, and that other dish I ordered to be removed as being too
      hot and containing many spices that stimulate thirst; for he who drinks
      much kills and consumes the radical moisture wherein life consists."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then," said Sancho, "that dish of roast partridges there that seems
      so savoury will not do me any harm."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this the physician replied, "Of those my lord the governor shall not
      eat so long as I live."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why so?" said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Because," replied the doctor, "our master Hippocrates, the polestar and
      beacon of medicine, says in one of his aphorisms omnis saturatio mala,
      perdicis autem pessima, which means 'all repletion is bad, but that of
      partridge is the worst of all."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In that case," said Sancho, "let senor doctor see among the dishes that
      are on the table what will do me most good and least harm, and let me eat
      it, without tapping it with his stick; for by the life of the governor,
      and so may God suffer me to enjoy it, but I'm dying of hunger; and in
      spite of the doctor and all he may say, to deny me food is the way to take
      my life instead of prolonging it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your worship is right, senor governor," said the physician; "and
      therefore your worship, I consider, should not eat of those stewed rabbits
      there, because it is a furry kind of food; if that veal were not roasted
      and served with pickles, you might try it; but it is out of the question."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That big dish that is smoking farther off," said Sancho, "seems to me to
      be an olla podrida, and out of the diversity of things in such ollas, I
      can't fail to light upon something tasty and good for me."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p47b" id="p47b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p47b.jpg (372K)" src="images/p47b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p47b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Absit," said the doctor; "far from us be any such base thought! There is
      nothing in the world less nourishing than an olla podrida; to canons, or
      rectors of colleges, or peasants' weddings with your ollas podridas, but
      let us have none of them on the tables of governors, where everything that
      is present should be delicate and refined; and the reason is, that always,
      everywhere and by everybody, simple medicines are more esteemed than
      compound ones, for we cannot go wrong in those that are simple, while in
      the compound we may, by merely altering the quantity of the things
      composing them. But what I am of opinion the governor should eat now in
      order to preserve and fortify his health is a hundred or so of wafer cakes
      and a few thin slices of conserve of quinces, which will settle his
      stomach and help his digestion."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho on hearing this threw himself back in his chair and surveyed the
      doctor steadily, and in a solemn tone asked him what his name was and
      where he had studied.
    </p>
    <p>
      He replied, "My name, senor governor, is Doctor Pedro Recio de Aguero I am
      a native of a place called Tirteafuera which lies between Caracuel and
      Almodovar del Campo, on the right-hand side, and I have the degree of
      doctor from the university of Osuna."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Sancho, glowing all over with rage, returned, "Then let Doctor
      Pedro Recio de Malaguero, native of Tirteafuera, a place that's on the
      right-hand side as we go from Caracuel to Almodovar del Campo, graduate of
      Osuna, get out of my presence at once; or I swear by the sun I'll take a
      cudgel, and by dint of blows, beginning with him, I'll not leave a doctor
      in the whole island; at least of those I know to be ignorant; for as to
      learned, wise, sensible physicians, them I will reverence and honour as
      divine persons. Once more I say let Pedro Recio get out of this or I'll
      take this chair I am sitting on and break it over his head. And if they
      call me to account for it, I'll clear myself by saying I served God in
      killing a bad doctor&mdash;a general executioner. And now give me
      something to eat, or else take your government; for a trade that does not
      feed its master is not worth two beans."
    </p>
    <p>
      The doctor was dismayed when he saw the governor in such a passion, and he
      would have made a Tirteafuera out of the room but that the same instant a
      post-horn sounded in the street; and the carver putting his head out of
      the window turned round and said, "It's a courier from my lord the duke,
      no doubt with some despatch of importance."
    </p>
    <p>
      The courier came in all sweating and flurried, and taking a paper from his
      bosom, placed it in the governor's hands. Sancho handed it to the
      majordomo and bade him read the superscription, which ran thus: To Don
      Sancho Panza, Governor of the Island of Barataria, into his own hands or
      those of his secretary. Sancho when he heard this said, "Which of you is
      my secretary?" "I am, senor," said one of those present, "for I can read
      and write, and am a Biscayan." "With that addition," said Sancho, "you
      might be secretary to the emperor himself; open this paper and see what it
      says." The new-born secretary obeyed, and having read the contents said
      the matter was one to be discussed in private. Sancho ordered the chamber
      to be cleared, the majordomo and the carver only remaining; so the doctor
      and the others withdrew, and then the secretary read the letter, which was
      as follows:
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p>
        It has come to my knowledge, Senor Don Sancho Panza, that certain
        enemies of mine and of the island are about to make a furious attack
        upon it some night, I know not when. It behoves you to be on the alert
        and keep watch, that they surprise you not. I also know by trustworthy
        spies that four persons have entered the town in disguise in order to
        take your life, because they stand in dread of your great capacity; keep
        your eyes open and take heed who approaches you to address you, and eat
        nothing that is presented to you. I will take care to send you aid if
        you find yourself in difficulty, but in all things you will act as may
        be expected of your judgment. From this place, the Sixteenth of August,
        at four in the morning.
      </p>
      <p>
        Your friend,
      </p>
      <p>
        THE DUKE
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      Sancho was astonished, and those who stood by made believe to be so too,
      and turning to the majordomo he said to him, "What we have got to do
      first, and it must be done at once, is to put Doctor Recio in the lock-up;
      for if anyone wants to kill me it is he, and by a slow death and the worst
      of all, which is hunger."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Likewise," said the carver, "it is my opinion your worship should not eat
      anything that is on this table, for the whole was a present from some
      nuns; and as they say, 'behind the cross there's the devil.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't deny it," said Sancho; "so for the present give me a piece of
      bread and four pounds or so of grapes; no poison can come in them; for the
      fact is I can't go on without eating; and if we are to be prepared for
      these battles that are threatening us we must be well provisioned; for it
      is the tripes that carry the heart and not the heart the tripes. And you,
      secretary, answer my lord the duke and tell him that all his commands
      shall be obeyed to the letter, as he directs; and say from me to my lady
      the duchess that I kiss her hands, and that I beg of her not to forget to
      send my letter and bundle to my wife Teresa Panza by a messenger; and I
      will take it as a great favour and will not fail to serve her in all that
      may lie within my power; and as you are about it you may enclose a kiss of
      the hand to my master Don Quixote that he may see I am grateful bread; and
      as a good secretary and a good Biscayan you may add whatever you like and
      whatever will come in best; and now take away this cloth and give me
      something to eat, and I'll be ready to meet all the spies and assassins
      and enchanters that may come against me or my island."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this instant a page entered saying, "Here is a farmer on business, who
      wants to speak to your lordship on a matter of great importance, he says."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's very odd," said Sancho, "the ways of these men on business; is it
      possible they can be such fools as not to see that an hour like this is no
      hour for coming on business? We who govern and we who are judges&mdash;are
      we not men of flesh and blood, and are we not to be allowed the time
      required for taking rest, unless they'd have us made of marble? By God and
      on my conscience, if the government remains in my hands (which I have a
      notion it won't), I'll bring more than one man on business to order.
      However, tell this good man to come in; but take care first of all that he
      is not some spy or one of my assassins."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, my lord," said the page, "for he looks like a simple fellow, and
      either I know very little or he is as good as good bread."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is nothing to be afraid of," said the majordomo, "for we are all
      here."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Would it be possible, carver," said Sancho, "now that Doctor Pedro Recio
      is not here, to let me eat something solid and substantial, if it were
      even a piece of bread and an onion?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "To-night at supper," said the carver, "the shortcomings of the dinner
      shall be made good, and your lordship shall be fully contented."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God grant it," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      The farmer now came in, a well-favoured man that one might see a thousand
      leagues off was an honest fellow and a good soul. The first thing he said
      was, "Which is the lord governor here?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Which should it be," said the secretary, "but he who is seated in the
      chair?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then I humble myself before him," said the farmer; and going on his knees
      he asked for his hand, to kiss it. Sancho refused it, and bade him stand
      up and say what he wanted. The farmer obeyed, and then said, "I am a
      farmer, senor, a native of Miguelturra, a village two leagues from Ciudad
      Real."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Another Tirteafuera!" said Sancho; "say on, brother; I know Miguelturra
      very well I can tell you, for it's not very far from my own town."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The case is this, senor," continued the farmer, "that by God's mercy I am
      married with the leave and licence of the holy Roman Catholic Church; I
      have two sons, students, and the younger is studying to become bachelor,
      and the elder to be licentiate; I am a widower, for my wife died, or more
      properly speaking, a bad doctor killed her on my hands, giving her a purge
      when she was with child; and if it had pleased God that the child had been
      born, and was a boy, I would have put him to study for doctor, that he
      might not envy his brothers the bachelor and the licentiate."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So that if your wife had not died, or had not been killed, you would not
      now be a widower," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, senor, certainly not," said the farmer.
    </p>
    <p>
      "We've got that much settled," said Sancho; "get on, brother, for it's
      more bed-time than business-time."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then," said the farmer, "this son of mine who is going to be a
      bachelor, fell in love in the said town with a damsel called Clara
      Perlerina, daughter of Andres Perlerino, a very rich farmer; and this name
      of Perlerines does not come to them by ancestry or descent, but because
      all the family are paralytics, and for a better name they call them
      Perlerines; though to tell the truth the damsel is as fair as an Oriental
      pearl, and like a flower of the field, if you look at her on the right
      side; on the left not so much, for on that side she wants an eye that she
      lost by small-pox; and though her face is thickly and deeply pitted, those
      who love her say they are not pits that are there, but the graves where
      the hearts of her lovers are buried. She is so cleanly that not to soil
      her face she carries her nose turned up, as they say, so that one would
      fancy it was running away from her mouth; and with all this she looks
      extremely well, for she has a wide mouth; and but for wanting ten or a
      dozen teeth and grinders she might compare and compete with the comeliest.
      Of her lips I say nothing, for they are so fine and thin that, if lips
      might be reeled, one might make a skein of them; but being of a different
      colour from ordinary lips they are wonderful, for they are mottled, blue,
      green, and purple&mdash;let my lord the governor pardon me for painting so
      minutely the charms of her who some time or other will be my daughter; for
      I love her, and I don't find her amiss."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Paint what you will," said Sancho; "I enjoy your painting, and if I had
      dined there could be no dessert more to my taste than your portrait."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I have still to furnish," said the farmer; "but a time will come
      when we may be able if we are not now; and I can tell you, senor, if I
      could paint her gracefulness and her tall figure, it would astonish you;
      but that is impossible because she is bent double with her knees up to her
      mouth; but for all that it is easy to see that if she could stand up she'd
      knock her head against the ceiling; and she would have given her hand to
      my bachelor ere this, only that she can't stretch it out, for it's
      contracted; but still one can see its elegance and fine make by its long
      furrowed nails."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That will do, brother," said Sancho; "consider you have painted her from
      head to foot; what is it you want now? Come to the point without all this
      beating about the bush, and all these scraps and additions."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I want your worship, senor," said the farmer, "to do me the favour of
      giving me a letter of recommendation to the girl's father, begging him to
      be so good as to let this marriage take place, as we are not ill-matched
      either in the gifts of fortune or of nature; for to tell the truth, senor
      governor, my son is possessed of a devil, and there is not a day but the
      evil spirits torment him three or four times; and from having once fallen
      into the fire, he has his face puckered up like a piece of parchment, and
      his eyes watery and always running; but he has the disposition of an
      angel, and if it was not for belabouring and pummelling himself he'd be a
      saint."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is there anything else you want, good man?" said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There's another thing I'd like," said the farmer, "but I'm afraid to
      mention it; however, out it must; for after all I can't let it be rotting
      in my breast, come what may. I mean, senor, that I'd like your worship to
      give me three hundred or six hundred ducats as a help to my bachelor's
      portion, to help him in setting up house; for they must, in short, live by
      themselves, without being subject to the interferences of their
      fathers-in-law."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Just see if there's anything else you'd like," said Sancho, "and don't
      hold back from mentioning it out of bashfulness or modesty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, indeed there is not," said the farmer.
    </p>
    <p>
      The moment he said this the governor started to his feet, and seizing the
      chair he had been sitting on exclaimed, "By all that's good, you ill-bred,
      boorish Don Bumpkin, if you don't get out of this at once and hide
      yourself from my sight, I'll lay your head open with this chair. You
      whoreson rascal, you devil's own painter, and is it at this hour you come
      to ask me for six hundred ducats! How should I have them, you stinking
      brute? And why should I give them to you if I had them, you knave and
      blockhead? What have I to do with Miguelturra or the whole family of the
      Perlerines? Get out I say, or by the life of my lord the duke I'll do as I
      said. You're not from Miguelturra, but some knave sent here from hell to
      tempt me. Why, you villain, I have not yet had the government half a day,
      and you want me to have six hundred ducats already!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The carver made signs to the farmer to leave the room, which he did with
      his head down, and to all appearance in terror lest the governor should
      carry his threats into effect, for the rogue knew very well how to play
      his part.
    </p>
    <p>
      But let us leave Sancho in his wrath, and peace be with them all; and let
      us return to Don Quixote, whom we left with his face bandaged and doctored
      after the cat wounds, of which he was not cured for eight days; and on one
      of these there befell him what Cide Hamete promises to relate with that
      exactitude and truth with which he is wont to set forth everything
      connected with this great history, however minute it may be.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p47e" id="p47e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p47e.jpg (12K)" src="images/p47e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch48b" id="ch48b"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF WHAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE WITH DONA RODRIGUEZ, THE DUCHESS'S DUENNA,
      TOGETHER WITH OTHER OCCURRENCES WORTHY OF RECORD AND ETERNAL REMEMBRANCE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p48a" id="p48a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p48a.jpg (131K)" src="images/p48a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p48a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Exceedingly moody and dejected was the sorely wounded Don Quixote, with
      his face bandaged and marked, not by the hand of God, but by the claws of
      a cat, mishaps incidental to knight-errantry.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p48b" id="p48b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p48b.jpg (316K)" src="images/p48b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p48b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Six days he remained without appearing in public, and one night as he lay
      awake thinking of his misfortunes and of Altisidora's pursuit of him, he
      perceived that some one was opening the door of his room with a key, and
      he at once made up his mind that the enamoured damsel was coming to make
      an assault upon his chastity and put him in danger of failing in the
      fidelity he owed to his lady Dulcinea del Toboso. "No," said he, firmly
      persuaded of the truth of his idea (and he said it loud enough to be
      heard), "the greatest beauty upon earth shall not avail to make me
      renounce my adoration of her whom I bear stamped and graved in the core of
      my heart and the secret depths of my bowels; be thou, lady mine,
      transformed into a clumsy country wench, or into a nymph of golden Tagus
      weaving a web of silk and gold, let Merlin or Montesinos hold thee captive
      where they will; whereer thou art, thou art mine, and where'er I am, must
      be thine." The very instant he had uttered these words, the door opened.
      He stood up on the bed wrapped from head to foot in a yellow satin
      coverlet, with a cap on his head, and his face and his moustaches tied up,
      his face because of the scratches, and his moustaches to keep them from
      drooping and falling down, in which trim he looked the most extraordinary
      scarecrow that could be conceived. He kept his eyes fixed on the door, and
      just as he was expecting to see the love-smitten and unhappy Altisidora
      make her appearance, he saw coming in a most venerable duenna, in a long
      white-bordered veil that covered and enveloped her from head to foot.
      Between the fingers of her left hand she held a short lighted candle,
      while with her right she shaded it to keep the light from her eyes, which
      were covered by spectacles of great size, and she advanced with noiseless
      steps, treading very softly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote kept an eye upon her from his watchtower, and observing her
      costume and noting her silence, he concluded that it must be some witch or
      sorceress that was coming in such a guise to work him some mischief, and
      he began crossing himself at a great rate. The spectre still advanced, and
      on reaching the middle of the room, looked up and saw the energy with
      which Don Quixote was crossing himself; and if he was scared by seeing
      such a figure as hers, she was terrified at the sight of his; for the
      moment she saw his tall yellow form with the coverlet and the bandages
      that disfigured him, she gave a loud scream, and exclaiming, "Jesus!
      what's this I see?" let fall the candle in her fright, and then finding
      herself in the dark, turned about to make off, but stumbling on her skirts
      in her consternation, she measured her length with a mighty fall.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p48c" id="p48c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p48c.jpg (249K)" src="images/p48c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p48c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote in his trepidation began saying, "I conjure thee, phantom, or
      whatever thou art, tell me what thou art and what thou wouldst with me. If
      thou art a soul in torment, say so, and all that my powers can do I will
      do for thee; for I am a Catholic Christian and love to do good to all the
      world, and to this end I have embraced the order of knight-errantry to
      which I belong, the province of which extends to doing good even to souls
      in purgatory."
    </p>
    <p>
      The unfortunate duenna hearing herself thus conjured, by her own fear
      guessed Don Quixote's and in a low plaintive voice answered, "Senor Don
      Quixote&mdash;if so be you are indeed Don Quixote&mdash;I am no phantom or
      spectre or soul in purgatory, as you seem to think, but Dona Rodriguez,
      duenna of honour to my lady the duchess, and I come to you with one of
      those grievances your worship is wont to redress."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell me, Senora Dona Rodriguez," said Don Quixote, "do you perchance come
      to transact any go-between business? Because I must tell you I am not
      available for anybody's purpose, thanks to the peerless beauty of my lady
      Dulcinea del Toboso. In short, Senora Dona Rodriguez, if you will leave
      out and put aside all love messages, you may go and light your candle and
      come back, and we will discuss all the commands you have for me and
      whatever you wish, saving only, as I said, all seductive communications."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I carry nobody's messages, senor," said the duenna; "little you know me.
      Nay, I'm not far enough advanced in years to take to any such childish
      tricks. God be praised I have a soul in my body still, and all my teeth
      and grinders in my mouth, except one or two that the colds, so common in
      this Aragon country, have robbed me of. But wait a little, while I go and
      light my candle, and I will return immediately and lay my sorrows before
      you as before one who relieves those of all the world;" and without
      staying for an answer she quitted the room and left Don Quixote tranquilly
      meditating while he waited for her. A thousand thoughts at once suggested
      themselves to him on the subject of this new adventure, and it struck him
      as being ill done and worse advised in him to expose himself to the danger
      of breaking his plighted faith to his lady; and said he to himself, "Who
      knows but that the devil, being wily and cunning, may be trying now to
      entrap me with a duenna, having failed with empresses, queens, duchesses,
      marchionesses, and countesses? Many a time have I heard it said by many a
      man of sense that he will sooner offer you a flat-nosed wench than a
      roman-nosed one; and who knows but this privacy, this opportunity, this
      silence, may awaken my sleeping desires, and lead me in these my latter
      years to fall where I have never tripped? In cases of this sort it is
      better to flee than to await the battle. But I must be out of my senses to
      think and utter such nonsense; for it is impossible that a long,
      white-hooded spectacled duenna could stir up or excite a wanton thought in
      the most graceless bosom in the world. Is there a duenna on earth that has
      fair flesh? Is there a duenna in the world that escapes being
      ill-tempered, wrinkled, and prudish? Avaunt, then, ye duenna crew,
      undelightful to all mankind. Oh, but that lady did well who, they say, had
      at the end of her reception room a couple of figures of duennas with
      spectacles and lace-cushions, as if at work, and those statues served
      quite as well to give an air of propriety to the room as if they had been
      real duennas."
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying he leaped off the bed, intending to close the door and not allow
      Senora Rodriguez to enter; but as he went to shut it Senora Rodriguez
      returned with a wax candle lighted, and having a closer view of Don
      Quixote, with the coverlet round him, and his bandages and night-cap, she
      was alarmed afresh, and retreating a couple of paces, exclaimed, "Am I
      safe, sir knight? for I don't look upon it as a sign of very great virtue
      that your worship should have got up out of bed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I may well ask the same, senora," said Don Quixote; "and I do ask whether
      I shall be safe from being assailed and forced?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of whom and against whom do you demand that security, sir knight?" said
      the duenna.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of you and against you I ask it," said Don Quixote; "for I am not marble,
      nor are you brass, nor is it now ten o'clock in the morning, but midnight,
      or a trifle past it I fancy, and we are in a room more secluded and
      retired than the cave could have been where the treacherous and daring
      AEneas enjoyed the fair soft-hearted Dido. But give me your hand, senora;
      I require no better protection than my own continence, and my own sense of
      propriety; as well as that which is inspired by that venerable
      head-dress;" and so saying he kissed her right hand and took it in his
      own, she yielding it to him with equal ceremoniousness. And here Cide
      Hamete inserts a parenthesis in which he says that to have seen the pair
      marching from the door to the bed, linked hand in hand in this way, he
      would have given the best of the two tunics he had.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote finally got into bed, and Dona Rodriguez took her seat on a
      chair at some little distance from his couch, without taking off her
      spectacles or putting aside the candle. Don Quixote wrapped the bedclothes
      round him and covered himself up completely, leaving nothing but his face
      visible, and as soon as they had both regained their composure he broke
      silence, saying, "Now, Senora Dona Rodriguez, you may unbosom yourself and
      out with everything you have in your sorrowful heart and afflicted bowels;
      and by me you shall be listened to with chaste ears, and aided by
      compassionate exertions."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I believe it," replied the duenna; "from your worship's gentle and
      winning presence only such a Christian answer could be expected. The fact
      is, then, Senor Don Quixote, that though you see me seated in this chair,
      here in the middle of the kingdom of Aragon, and in the attire of a
      despised outcast duenna, I am from the Asturias of Oviedo, and of a family
      with which many of the best of the province are connected by blood; but my
      untoward fate and the improvidence of my parents, who, I know not how,
      were unseasonably reduced to poverty, brought me to the court of Madrid,
      where as a provision and to avoid greater misfortunes, my parents placed
      me as seamstress in the service of a lady of quality, and I would have you
      know that for hemming and sewing I have never been surpassed by any all my
      life. My parents left me in service and returned to their own country, and
      a few years later went, no doubt, to heaven, for they were excellent good
      Catholic Christians. I was left an orphan with nothing but the miserable
      wages and trifling presents that are given to servants of my sort in
      palaces; but about this time, without any encouragement on my part, one of
      the esquires of the household fell in love with me, a man somewhat
      advanced in years, full-bearded and personable, and above all as good a
      gentleman as the king himself, for he came of a mountain stock. We did not
      carry on our loves with such secrecy but that they came to the knowledge
      of my lady, and she, not to have any fuss about it, had us married with
      the full sanction of the holy mother Roman Catholic Church, of which
      marriage a daughter was born to put an end to my good fortune, if I had
      any; not that I died in childbirth, for I passed through it safely and in
      due season, but because shortly afterwards my husband died of a certain
      shock he received, and had I time to tell you of it I know your worship
      would be surprised;" and here she began to weep bitterly and said, "Pardon
      me, Senor Don Quixote, if I am unable to control myself, for every time I
      think of my unfortunate husband my eyes fill up with tears. God bless me,
      with what an air of dignity he used to carry my lady behind him on a stout
      mule as black as jet! for in those days they did not use coaches or
      chairs, as they say they do now, and ladies rode behind their squires.
      This much at least I cannot help telling you, that you may observe the
      good breeding and punctiliousness of my worthy husband. As he was turning
      into the Calle de Santiago in Madrid, which is rather narrow, one of the
      alcaldes of the Court, with two alguacils before him, was coming out of
      it, and as soon as my good squire saw him he wheeled his mule about and
      made as if he would turn and accompany him. My lady, who was riding behind
      him, said to him in a low voice, 'What are you about, you sneak, don't you
      see that I am here?' The alcalde like a polite man pulled up his horse and
      said to him, 'Proceed, senor, for it is I, rather, who ought to accompany
      my lady Dona Casilda'&mdash;for that was my mistress's name. Still my
      husband, cap in hand, persisted in trying to accompany the alcalde, and
      seeing this my lady, filled with rage and vexation, pulled out a big pin,
      or, I rather think, a bodkin, out of her needle-case and drove it into his
      back with such force that my husband gave a loud yell, and writhing fell
      to the ground with his lady. Her two lacqueys ran to rise her up, and the
      alcalde and the alguacils did the same; the Guadalajara gate was all in
      commotion&mdash;I mean the idlers congregated there; my mistress came back
      on foot, and my husband hurried away to a barber's shop protesting that he
      was run right through the guts. The courtesy of my husband was noised
      abroad to such an extent, that the boys gave him no peace in the street;
      and on this account, and because he was somewhat shortsighted, my lady
      dismissed him; and it was chagrin at this I am convinced beyond a doubt
      that brought on his death. I was left a helpless widow, with a daughter on
      my hands growing up in beauty like the sea-foam; at length, however, as I
      had the character of being an excellent needlewoman, my lady the duchess,
      then lately married to my lord the duke, offered to take me with her to
      this kingdom of Aragon, and my daughter also, and here as time went by my
      daughter grew up and with her all the graces in the world; she sings like
      a lark, dances quick as thought, foots it like a gipsy, reads and writes
      like a schoolmaster, and does sums like a miser; of her neatness I say
      nothing, for the running water is not purer, and her age is now, if my
      memory serves me, sixteen years five months and three days, one more or
      less. To come to the point, the son of a very rich farmer, living in a
      village of my lord the duke's not very far from here, fell in love with
      this girl of mine; and in short, how I know not, they came together, and
      under the promise of marrying her he made a fool of my daughter, and will
      not keep his word. And though my lord the duke is aware of it (for I have
      complained to him, not once but many and many a time, and entreated him to
      order the farmer to marry my daughter), he turns a deaf ear and will
      scarcely listen to me; the reason being that as the deceiver's father is
      so rich, and lends him money, and is constantly going security for his
      debts, he does not like to offend or annoy him in any way. Now, senor, I
      want your worship to take it upon yourself to redress this wrong either by
      entreaty or by arms; for by what all the world says you came into it to
      redress grievances and right wrongs and help the unfortunate. Let your
      worship put before you the unprotected condition of my daughter, her
      youth, and all the perfections I have said she possesses; and before God
      and on my conscience, out of all the damsels my lady has, there is not one
      that comes up to the sole of her shoe, and the one they call Altisidora,
      and look upon as the boldest and gayest of them, put in comparison with my
      daughter, does not come within two leagues of her. For I would have you
      know, senor, all is not gold that glitters, and that same little
      Altisidora has more forwardness than good looks, and more impudence than
      modesty; besides being not very sound, for she has such a disagreeable
      breath that one cannot bear to be near her for a moment; and even my lady
      the duchess&mdash;but I'll hold my tongue, for they say that walls have
      ears."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For heaven's sake, Dona Rodriguez, what ails my lady the duchess?" asked
      Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Adjured in that way," replied the duenna, "I cannot help answering the
      question and telling the whole truth. Senor Don Quixote, have you observed
      the comeliness of my lady the duchess, that smooth complexion of hers like
      a burnished polished sword, those two cheeks of milk and carmine, that gay
      lively step with which she treads or rather seems to spurn the earth, so
      that one would fancy she went radiating health wherever she passed? Well
      then, let me tell you she may thank, first of all God, for this, and next,
      two issues that she has, one in each leg, by which all the evil humours,
      of which the doctors say she is full, are discharged."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Blessed Virgin!" exclaimed Don Quixote; "and is it possible that my lady
      the duchess has drains of that sort? I would not have believed it if the
      barefoot friars had told it me; but as the lady Dona Rodriguez says so, it
      must be so. But surely such issues, and in such places, do not discharge
      humours, but liquid amber. Verily, I do believe now that this practice of
      opening issues is a very important matter for the health."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote had hardly said this, when the chamber door flew open with a
      loud bang, and with the start the noise gave her Dona Rodriguez let the
      candle fall from her hand, and the room was left as dark as a wolf's
      mouth, as the saying is. Suddenly the poor duenna felt two hands seize her
      by the throat, so tightly that she could not croak, while some one else,
      without uttering a word, very briskly hoisted up her petticoats, and with
      what seemed to be a slipper began to lay on so heartily that anyone would
      have felt pity for her; but although Don Quixote felt it he never stirred
      from his bed, but lay quiet and silent, nay apprehensive that his turn for
      a drubbing might be coming. Nor was the apprehension an idle one; for
      leaving the duenna (who did not dare to cry out) well basted, the silent
      executioners fell upon Don Quixote, and stripping him of the sheet and the
      coverlet, they pinched him so fast and so hard that he was driven to
      defend himself with his fists, and all this in marvellous silence. The
      battle lasted nearly half an hour, and then the phantoms fled; Dona
      Rodriguez gathered up her skirts, and bemoaning her fate went out without
      saying a word to Don Quixote, and he, sorely pinched, puzzled, and
      dejected, remained alone, and there we will leave him, wondering who could
      have been the perverse enchanter who had reduced him to such a state; but
      that shall be told in due season, for Sancho claims our attention, and the
      methodical arrangement of the story demands it.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p48e" id="p48e"></a>
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    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch49b" id="ch49b"></a>CHAPTER XLIX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF WHAT HAPPENED SANCHO IN MAKING THE ROUND OF HIS ISLAND
    </h3>
    <p>
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      <a href="images/p49a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      We left the great governor angered and irritated by that portrait-painting
      rogue of a farmer who, instructed the majordomo, as the majordomo was by
      the duke, tried to practise upon him; he however, fool, boor, and clown as
      he was, held his own against them all, saying to those round him and to
      Doctor Pedro Recio, who as soon as the private business of the duke's
      letter was disposed of had returned to the room, "Now I see plainly enough
      that judges and governors ought to be and must be made of brass not to
      feel the importunities of the applicants that at all times and all seasons
      insist on being heard, and having their business despatched, and their own
      affairs and no others attended to, come what may; and if the poor judge
      does not hear them and settle the matter&mdash;either because he cannot or
      because that is not the time set apart for hearing them&mdash;forthwith
      they abuse him, and run him down, and gnaw at his bones, and even pick
      holes in his pedigree. You silly, stupid applicant, don't be in a hurry;
      wait for the proper time and season for doing business; don't come at
      dinner-hour, or at bed-time; for judges are only flesh and blood, and must
      give to Nature what she naturally demands of them; all except myself, for
      in my case I give her nothing to eat, thanks to Senor Doctor Pedro Recio
      Tirteafuera here, who would have me die of hunger, and declares that death
      to be life; and the same sort of life may God give him and all his kind&mdash;I
      mean the bad doctors; for the good ones deserve palms and laurels."
    </p>
    <p>
      All who knew Sancho Panza were astonished to hear him speak so elegantly,
      and did not know what to attribute it to unless it were that office and
      grave responsibility either smarten or stupefy men's wits. At last Doctor
      Pedro Recio Agilers of Tirteafuera promised to let him have supper that
      night though it might be in contravention of all the aphorisms of
      Hippocrates. With this the governor was satisfied and looked forward to
      the approach of night and supper-time with great anxiety; and though time,
      to his mind, stood still and made no progress, nevertheless the hour he so
      longed for came, and they gave him a beef salad with onions and some
      boiled calves' feet rather far gone. At this he fell to with greater
      relish than if they had given him francolins from Milan, pheasants from
      Rome, veal from Sorrento, partridges from Moron, or geese from Lavajos,
      and turning to the doctor at supper he said to him, "Look here, senor
      doctor, for the future don't trouble yourself about giving me dainty
      things or choice dishes to eat, for it will be only taking my stomach off
      its hinges; it is accustomed to goat, cow, bacon, hung beef, turnips and
      onions; and if by any chance it is given these palace dishes, it receives
      them squeamishly, and sometimes with loathing. What the head-carver had
      best do is to serve me with what they call ollas podridas (and the
      rottener they are the better they smell); and he can put whatever he likes
      into them, so long as it is good to eat, and I'll be obliged to him, and
      will requite him some day. But let nobody play pranks on me, for either we
      are or we are not; let us live and eat in peace and good-fellowship, for
      when God sends the dawn, he sends it for all. I mean to govern this island
      without giving up a right or taking a bribe; let everyone keep his eye
      open, and look out for the arrow; for I can tell them 'the devil's in
      Cantillana,' and if they drive me to it they'll see something that will
      astonish them. Nay! make yourself honey and the flies eat you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of a truth, senor governor," said the carver, "your worship is in the
      right of it in everything you have said; and I promise you in the name of
      all the inhabitants of this island that they will serve your worship with
      all zeal, affection, and good-will, for the mild kind of government you
      have given a sample of to begin with, leaves them no ground for doing or
      thinking anything to your worship's disadvantage."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I believe," said Sancho; "and they would be great fools if they did
      or thought otherwise; once more I say, see to my feeding and my Dapple's
      for that is the great point and what is most to the purpose; and when the
      hour comes let us go the rounds, for it is my intention to purge this
      island of all manner of uncleanness and of all idle good-for-nothing
      vagabonds; for I would have you know that lazy idlers are the same thing
      in a State as the drones in a hive, that eat up the honey the industrious
      bees make. I mean to protect the husbandman, to preserve to the gentleman
      his privileges, to reward the virtuous, and above all to respect religion
      and honour its ministers. What say you to that, my friends? Is there
      anything in what I say, or am I talking to no purpose?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is so much in what your worship says, senor governor," said the
      majordomo, "that I am filled with wonder when I see a man like your
      worship, entirely without learning (for I believe you have none at all),
      say such things, and so full of sound maxims and sage remarks, very
      different from what was expected of your worship's intelligence by those
      who sent us or by us who came here. Every day we see something new in this
      world; jokes become realities, and the jokers find the tables turned upon
      them."
    </p>
    <p>
      Night came, and with the permission of Doctor Pedro Recio, the governor
      had supper. They then got ready to go the rounds, and he started with the
      majordomo, the secretary, the head-carver, the chronicler charged with
      recording his deeds, and alguacils and notaries enough to form a
      fair-sized squadron. In the midst marched Sancho with his staff, as fine a
      sight as one could wish to see, and but a few streets of the town had been
      traversed when they heard a noise as of a clashing of swords. They
      hastened to the spot, and found that the combatants were but two, who
      seeing the authorities approaching stood still, and one of them exclaimed,
      "Help, in the name of God and the king! Are men to be allowed to rob in
      the middle of this town, and rush out and attack people in the very
      streets?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be calm, my good man," said Sancho, "and tell me what the cause of this
      quarrel is; for I am the governor."
    </p>
    <p>
      Said the other combatant, "Senor governor, I will tell you in a very few
      words. Your worship must know that this gentleman has just now won more
      than a thousand reals in that gambling house opposite, and God knows how.
      I was there, and gave more than one doubtful point in his favour, very
      much against what my conscience told me. He made off with his winnings,
      and when I made sure he was going to give me a crown or so at least by way
      of a present, as it is usual and customary to give men of quality of my
      sort who stand by to see fair or foul play, and back up swindles, and
      prevent quarrels, he pocketed his money and left the house. Indignant at
      this I followed him, and speaking to him fairly and civilly asked him to give
      me if it were only eight reals, for he knows I am an honest man and that I
      have neither profession nor property, for my parents never brought me up
      to any or left me any; but the rogue, who is a greater thief than Cacus
      and a greater sharper than Andradilla, would not give me more than four
      reals; so your worship may see how little shame and conscience he has. But
      by my faith if you had not come up I'd have made him disgorge his
      winnings, and he'd have learned what the range of the steel-yard was."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What say you to this?" asked Sancho. The other replied that all his
      antagonist said was true, and that he did not choose to give him more than
      four reals because he very often gave him money; and that those who
      expected presents ought to be civil and take what is given them with a
      cheerful countenance, and not make any claim against winners unless they
      know them for certain to be sharpers and their winnings to be unfairly
      won; and that there could be no better proof that he himself was an honest
      man than his having refused to give anything; for sharpers always pay
      tribute to lookers-on who know them.
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said the majordomo; "let your worship consider what is to
      be done with these men."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What is to be done," said Sancho, "is this; you, the winner, be you good,
      bad, or indifferent, give this assailant of yours a hundred reals at once,
      and you must disburse thirty more for the poor prisoners; and you who have
      neither profession nor property, and hang about the island in idleness,
      take these hundred reals now, and some time of the day to-morrow quit the
      island under sentence of banishment for ten years, and under pain of
      completing it in another life if you violate the sentence, for I'll hang
      you on a gibbet, or at least the hangman will by my orders; not a word
      from either of you, or I'll make him feel my hand."
    </p>
    <p>
      The one paid down the money and the other took it, and the latter quitted
      the island, while the other went home; and then the governor said, "Either
      I am not good for much, or I'll get rid of these gambling houses, for it
      strikes me they are very mischievous."
    </p>
    <p>
      "This one at least," said one of the notaries, "your worship will not be
      able to get rid of, for a great man owns it, and what he loses every year
      is beyond all comparison more than what he makes by the cards. On the
      minor gambling houses your worship may exercise your power, and it is they
      that do most harm and shelter the most barefaced practices; for in the
      houses of lords and gentlemen of quality the notorious sharpers dare not
      attempt to play their tricks; and as the vice of gambling has become
      common, it is better that men should play in houses of repute than in some
      tradesman's, where they catch an unlucky fellow in the small hours of the
      morning and skin him alive."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know already, notary, that there is a good deal to be said on that
      point," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now a tipstaff came up with a young man in his grasp, and said, "Senor
      governor, this youth was coming towards us, and as soon as he saw the
      officers of justice he turned about and ran like a deer, a sure proof that
      he must be some evil-doer; I ran after him, and had it not been that he
      stumbled and fell, I should never have caught him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What did you run for, fellow?" said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      To which the young man replied, "Senor, it was to avoid answering all the
      questions officers of justice put."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What are you by trade?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "A weaver."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what do you weave?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lance heads, with your worship's good leave."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You're facetious with me! You plume yourself on being a wag? Very good;
      and where were you going just now?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "To take the air, senor."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And where does one take the air in this island?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Where it blows."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Good! your answers are very much to the point; you are a smart youth; but
      take notice that I am the air, and that I blow upon you a-stern, and send
      you to gaol. Ho there! lay hold of him and take him off; I'll make him
      sleep there to-night without air."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By God," said the young man, "your worship will make me sleep in gaol
      just as soon as make me king."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why shan't I make thee sleep in gaol?" said Sancho. "Have I not the power
      to arrest thee and release thee whenever I like?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "All the power your worship has," said the young man, "won't be able to
      make me sleep in gaol."
    </p>
    <p>
      "How? not able!" said Sancho; "take him away at once where he'll see his
      mistake with his own eyes, even if the gaoler is willing to exert his
      interested generosity on his behalf; for I'll lay a penalty of two
      thousand ducats on him if he allows him to stir a step from the prison."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's ridiculous," said the young man; "the fact is, all the men on
      earth will not make me sleep in prison."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell me, you devil," said Sancho, "have you got any angel that will
      deliver you, and take off the irons I am going to order them to put upon
      you?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Now, senor governor," said the young man in a sprightly manner, "let us
      be reasonable and come to the point. Granted your worship may order me to
      be taken to prison, and to have irons and chains put on me, and to be shut
      up in a cell, and may lay heavy penalties on the gaoler if he lets me out,
      and that he obeys your orders; still, if I don't choose to sleep, and
      choose to remain awake all night without closing an eye, will your worship
      with all your power be able to make me sleep if I don't choose?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, truly," said the secretary, "and the fellow has made his point."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So then," said Sancho, "it would be entirely of your own choice you would
      keep from sleeping; not in opposition to my will?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, senor," said the youth, "certainly not."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then, go, and God be with you," said Sancho; "be off home to sleep,
      and God give you sound sleep, for I don't want to rob you of it; but for
      the future, let me advise you don't joke with the authorities, because you
      may come across some one who will bring down the joke on your own skull."
    </p>
    <p>
      The young man went his way, and the governor continued his round, and
      shortly afterwards two tipstaffs came up with a man in custody, and said,
      "Senor governor, this person, who seems to be a man, is not so, but a
      woman, and not an ill-favoured one, in man's clothes." They raised two or
      three lanterns to her face, and by their light they distinguished the
      features of a woman to all appearance of the age of sixteen or a little
      more, with her hair gathered into a gold and green silk net, and fair as a
      thousand pearls. They scanned her from head to foot, and observed that she
      had on red silk stockings with garters of white taffety bordered with gold
      and pearl; her breeches were of green and gold stuff, and under an open
      jacket or jerkin of the same she wore a doublet of the finest white and
      gold cloth; her shoes were white and such as men wear; she carried no
      sword at her belt, but only a richly ornamented dagger, and on her fingers
      she had several handsome rings. In short, the girl seemed fair to look at
      in the eyes of all, and none of those who beheld her knew her, the people
      of the town said they could not imagine who she was, and those who were in on
      the secret of the jokes that were to be practised upon Sancho were the
      ones who were most surprised, for this incident or discovery had not been
      arranged by them; and they watched anxiously to see how the affair would
      end.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho was fascinated by the girl's beauty, and he asked her who she was,
      where she was going, and what had induced her to dress herself in that
      garb. She with her eyes fixed on the ground answered in modest confusion,
      "I cannot tell you, senor, before so many people what it is of such
      consequence to me to have kept secret; one thing I wish to be known, that
      I am no thief or evildoer, but only an unhappy maiden whom the power of
      jealousy has led to break through the respect that is due to modesty."
    </p>
    <p>
      Hearing this the majordomo said to Sancho, "Make the people stand back,
      senor governor, that this lady may say what she wishes with less
      embarrassment."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho gave the order, and all except the majordomo, the head-carver, and
      the secretary fell back. Finding herself then in the presence of no more,
      the damsel went on to say, "I am the daughter, sirs, of Pedro Perez
      Mazorca, the wool-farmer of this town, who is in the habit of coming very
      often to my father's house."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That won't do, senora," said the majordomo; "for I know Pedro Perez very
      well, and I know he has no child at all, either son or daughter; and
      besides, though you say he is your father, you add then that he comes very
      often to your father's house."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I had already noticed that," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am confused just now, sirs," said the damsel, "and I don't know what I
      am saying; but the truth is that I am the daughter of Diego de la Llana,
      whom you must all know."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, that will do," said the majordomo; "for I know Diego de la Llana, and
      know that he is a gentleman of position and a rich man, and that he has a
      son and a daughter, and that since he was left a widower nobody in all
      this town can speak of having seen his daughter's face; for he keeps her
      so closely shut up that he does not give even the sun a chance of seeing
      her; and for all that report says she is extremely beautiful."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is true," said the damsel, "and I am that daughter; whether report
      lies or not as to my beauty, you, sirs, will have decided by this time, as
      you have seen me;" and with this she began to weep bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      On seeing this the secretary leant over to the head-carver's ear, and said
      to him in a low voice, "Something serious has no doubt happened this poor
      maiden, that she goes wandering from home in such a dress and at such an
      hour, and one of her rank too." "There can be no doubt about it," returned
      the carver, "and moreover her tears confirm your suspicion." Sancho gave
      her the best comfort he could, and entreated her to tell them without any
      fear what had happened her, as they would all earnestly and by every means
      in their power endeavour to relieve her.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The fact is, sirs," said she, "that my father has kept me shut up these
      ten years, for so long is it since the earth received my mother. Mass is
      said at home in a sumptuous chapel, and all this time I have seen but the
      sun in the heaven by day, and the moon and the stars by night; nor do I
      know what streets are like, or plazas, or churches, or even men, except my
      father and a brother I have, and Pedro Perez the wool-farmer; whom,
      because he came frequently to our house, I took it into my head to call my
      father, to avoid naming my own. This seclusion and the restrictions laid
      upon my going out, were it only to church, have been keeping me unhappy
      for many a day and month past; I longed to see the world, or at least the
      town where I was born, and it did not seem to me that this wish was
      inconsistent with the respect maidens of good quality should have for
      themselves. When I heard them talking of bull-fights taking place, and of
      javelin games, and of acting plays, I asked my brother, who is a year
      younger than myself, to tell me what sort of things these were, and many
      more that I had never seen; he explained them to me as well as he could,
      but the only effect was to kindle in me a still stronger desire to see
      them. At last, to cut short the story of my ruin, I begged and entreated
      my brother&mdash;O that I had never made such an entreaty-" And once more
      she gave way to a burst of weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Proceed, senora," said the majordomo, "and finish your story of what has
      happened to you, for your words and tears are keeping us all in suspense."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have but little more to say, though many a tear to shed," said the
      damsel; "for ill-placed desires can only be paid for in some such way."
    </p>
    <p>
      The maiden's beauty had made a deep impression on the head-carver's heart,
      and he again raised his lantern for another look at her, and thought they
      were not tears she was shedding, but seed-pearl or dew of the meadow, nay,
      he exalted them still higher, and made Oriental pearls of them, and
      fervently hoped her misfortune might not be so great a one as her tears
      and sobs seemed to indicate. The governor was losing patience at the
      length of time the girl was taking to tell her story, and told her not to
      keep them waiting any longer; for it was late, and there still remained a
      good deal of the town to be gone over.
    </p>
    <p>
      She, with broken sobs and half-suppressed sighs, went on to say, "My
      misfortune, my misadventure, is simply this, that I entreated my brother
      to dress me up as a man in a suit of his clothes, and take me some night,
      when our father was asleep, to see the whole town; he, overcome by my
      entreaties, consented, and dressing me in this suit and himself in clothes
      of mine that fitted him as if made for him (for he has not a hair on his
      chin, and might pass for a very beautiful young girl), to-night, about an
      hour ago, more or less, we left the house, and guided by our youthful and
      foolish impulse we made the circuit of the whole town, and then, as we
      were about to return home, we saw a great troop of people coming, and my
      brother said to me, 'Sister, this must be the round, stir your feet and
      put wings to them, and follow me as fast as you can, lest they recognise
      us, for that would be a bad business for us;' and so saying he turned
      about and began, I cannot say to run but to fly; in less than six paces I
      fell from fright, and then the officer of justice came up and carried me
      before your worships, where I find myself put to shame before all these
      people as whimsical and vicious."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So then, senora," said Sancho, "no other mishap has befallen you, nor was
      it jealousy that made you leave home, as you said at the beginning of your
      story?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nothing has happened me," said she, "nor was it jealousy that brought me
      out, but merely a longing to see the world, which did not go beyond seeing
      the streets of this town."
    </p>
    <p>
      The appearance of the tipstaffs with her brother in custody, whom one of
      them had overtaken as he ran away from his sister, now fully confirmed the
      truth of what the damsel said. He had nothing on but a rich petticoat and
      a short blue damask cloak with fine gold lace, and his head was uncovered
      and adorned only with its own hair, which looked like rings of gold, so
      bright and curly was it. The governor, the majordomo, and the carver went
      aside with him, and, unheard by his sister, asked him how he came to be in
      that dress, and he with no less shame and embarrassment told exactly the
      same story as his sister, to the great delight of the enamoured carver;
      the governor, however, said to them, "In truth, young lady and gentleman,
      this has been a very childish affair, and to explain your folly and
      rashness there was no necessity for all this delay and all these tears and
      sighs; for if you had said we are so-and-so, and we escaped from our
      father's house in this way in order to ramble about, out of mere curiosity
      and with no other object, there would have been an end of the matter, and
      none of these little sobs and tears and all the rest of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said the damsel, "but you see the confusion I was in was
      so great it did not let me behave as I ought."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No harm has been done," said Sancho; "come, we will leave you at your
      father's house; perhaps they will not have missed you; and another time
      don't be so childish or eager to see the world; for a respectable damsel
      should have a broken leg and keep at home; and the woman and the hen by
      gadding about are soon lost; and she who is eager to see is also eager to
      be seen; I say no more."
    </p>
    <p>
      The youth thanked the governor for his kind offer to take them home, and
      they directed their steps towards the house, which was not far off. On
      reaching it the youth threw a pebble up at a grating, and immediately a
      woman-servant who was waiting for them came down and opened the door to
      them, and they went in, leaving the party marvelling as much at their
      grace and beauty as at the fancy they had for seeing the world by night
      and without quitting the village; which, however, they set down to their
      youth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The head-carver was left with a heart pierced through and through, and he
      made up his mind on the spot to demand the damsel in marriage of her
      father on the morrow, making sure she would not be refused him as he was a
      servant of the duke's; and even to Sancho ideas and schemes of marrying
      the youth to his daughter Sanchica suggested themselves, and he resolved
      to open the negotiation at the proper season, persuading himself that no
      husband could be refused to a governor's daughter. And so the night's
      round came to an end, and a couple of days later the government, whereby
      all his plans were overthrown and swept away, as will be seen farther on.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p49e" id="p49e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p49e.jpg (55K)" src="images/p49e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch50b" id="ch50b"></a>CHAPTER L.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS SET FORTH WHO THE ENCHANTERS AND EXECUTIONERS WERE WHO FLOGGED
      THE DUENNA AND PINCHED DON QUIXOTE, AND ALSO WHAT BEFELL THE PAGE WHO
      CARRIED THE LETTER TO TERESA PANZA, SANCHO PANZA'S WIFE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p50a" id="p50a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p50a.jpg (104K)" src="images/p50a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p50a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Cide Hamete, the painstaking investigator of the minute points of this
      veracious history, says that when Dona Rodriguez left her own room to go
      to Don Quixote's, another duenna who slept with her observed her, and as
      all duennas are fond of prying, listening, and sniffing, she followed her
      so silently that the good Rodriguez never perceived it; and as soon as the
      duenna saw her enter Don Quixote's room, not to fail in a duenna's
      invariable practice of tattling, she hurried off that instant to report to
      the duchess how Dona Rodriguez was closeted with Don Quixote. The duchess
      told the duke, and asked him to let her and Altisidora go and see what the
      said duenna wanted with Don Quixote. The duke gave them leave, and the
      pair cautiously and quietly crept to the door of the room and posted
      themselves so close to it that they could hear all that was said inside.
      But when the duchess heard how the Rodriguez had made public the Aranjuez
      of her issues she could not restrain herself, nor Altisidora either; and
      so, filled with rage and thirsting for vengeance, they burst into the room
      and tormented Don Quixote and flogged the duenna in the manner already
      described; for indignities offered to their charms and self-esteem
      mightily provoke the anger of women and make them eager for revenge. The
      duchess told the duke what had happened, and he was much amused by it; and
      she, in pursuance of her design of making merry and diverting herself with
      Don Quixote, despatched the page who had played the part of Dulcinea in
      the negotiations for her disenchantment (which Sancho Panza in the cares
      of government had forgotten all about) to Teresa Panza his wife with her
      husband's letter and another from herself, and also a great string of fine
      coral beads as a present.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now the history says this page was very sharp and quick-witted; and eager
      to serve his lord and lady he set off very willingly for Sancho's village.
      Before he entered it he observed a number of women washing in a brook, and
      asked them if they could tell him whether there lived there a woman of the
      name of Teresa Panza, wife of one Sancho Panza, squire to a knight called
      Don Quixote of La Mancha. At the question a young girl who was washing
      stood up and said, "Teresa Panza is my mother, and that Sancho is my
      father, and that knight is our master."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then, miss," said the page, "come and show me where your mother is,
      for I bring her a letter and a present from your father."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I will with all my heart, senor," said the girl, who seemed to be
      about fourteen, more or less; and leaving the clothes she was washing to
      one of her companions, and without putting anything on her head or feet,
      for she was bare-legged and had her hair hanging about her, away she
      skipped in front of the page's horse, saying, "Come, your worship, our
      house is at the entrance of the town, and my mother is there, sorrowful
      enough at not having had any news of my father this ever so long."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well," said the page, "I am bringing her such good news that she will
      have reason to thank God."
    </p>
    <p>
      And then, skipping, running, and capering, the girl reached the town, but
      before going into the house she called out at the door, "Come out, mother
      Teresa, come out, come out; here's a gentleman with letters and other
      things from my good father." At these words her mother Teresa Panza came
      out spinning a bundle of flax, in a grey petticoat (so short was it one
      would have fancied "they to her shame had cut it short"), a grey bodice of
      the same stuff, and a smock. She was not very old, though plainly past
      forty, strong, healthy, vigorous, and sun-dried; and seeing her daughter
      and the page on horseback, she exclaimed, "What's this, child? What
      gentleman is this?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "A servant of my lady, Dona Teresa Panza," replied the page; and suiting
      the action to the word he flung himself off his horse, and with great
      humility advanced to kneel before the lady Teresa, saying, "Let me kiss
      your hand, Senora Dona Teresa, as the lawful and only wife of Senor Don
      Sancho Panza, rightful governor of the island of Barataria."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, senor, get up, do that," said Teresa; "for I'm not a bit of a court
      lady, but only a poor country woman, the daughter of a clodcrusher, and
      the wife of a squire-errant and not of any governor at all."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are," said the page, "the most worthy wife of a most arch-worthy
      governor; and as a proof of what I say accept this letter and this
      present;" and at the same time he took out of his pocket a string of coral
      beads with gold clasps, and placed it on her neck, and said, "This letter
      is from his lordship the governor, and the other as well as these coral
      beads from my lady the duchess, who sends me to your worship."
    </p>
    <p>
      Teresa stood lost in astonishment, and her daughter just as much, and the
      girl said, "May I die but our master Don Quixote's at the bottom of this;
      he must have given father the government or county he so often promised
      him."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is the truth," said the page; "for it is through Senor Don Quixote
      that Senor Sancho is now governor of the island of Barataria, as will be
      seen by this letter."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Will your worship read it to me, noble sir?" said Teresa; "for though I
      can spin I can't read, not a scrap."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nor I either," said Sanchica; "but wait a bit, and I'll go and fetch some
      one who can read it, either the curate himself or the bachelor Samson
      Carrasco, and they'll come gladly to hear any news of my father."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no need to fetch anybody," said the page; "for though I can't
      spin I can read, and I'll read it;" and so he read it through, but as it
      has been already given it is not inserted here; and then he took out the
      other one from the duchess, which ran as follows:
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p>
        Friend Teresa,&mdash;Your husband Sancho's good qualities, of heart as
        well as of head, induced and compelled me to request my husband the duke
        to give him the government of one of his many islands. I am told he
        governs like a gerfalcon, of which I am very glad, and my lord the duke,
        of course, also; and I am very thankful to heaven that I have not made a
        mistake in choosing him for that same government; for I would have
        Senora Teresa know that a good governor is hard to find in this world
        and may God make me as good as Sancho's way of governing. Herewith I
        send you, my dear, a string of coral beads with gold clasps; I wish they
        were Oriental pearls; but "he who gives thee a bone does not wish to see
        thee dead;" a time will come when we shall become acquainted and meet
        one another, but God knows the future. Commend me to your daughter
        Sanchica, and tell her from me to hold herself in readiness, for I mean
        to make a high match for her when she least expects it. They tell me
        there are big acorns in your village; send me a couple of dozen or so,
        and I shall value them greatly as coming from your hand; and write to me
        at length to assure me of your health and well-being; and if there be
        anything you stand in need of, it is but to open your mouth, and that
        shall be the measure; and so God keep you.
      </p>
      <p>
        From this place. Your loving friend, THE DUCHESS.
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      "Ah, what a good, plain, lowly lady!" said Teresa when she heard the
      letter; "that I may be buried with ladies of that sort, and not the
      gentlewomen we have in this town, that fancy because they are gentlewomen
      the wind must not touch them, and go to church with as much airs as if
      they were queens, no less, and seem to think they are disgraced if they
      look at a farmer's wife! And see here how this good lady, for all she's a
      duchess, calls me 'friend,' and treats me as if I was her equal&mdash;and
      equal may I see her with the tallest church-tower in La Mancha! And as for
      the acorns, senor, I'll send her ladyship a peck and such big ones that
      one might come to see them as a show and a wonder. And now, Sanchica, see
      that the gentleman is comfortable; put up his horse, and get some eggs out
      of the stable, and cut plenty of bacon, and let's give him his dinner like
      a prince; for the good news he has brought, and his own bonny face deserve
      it all; and meanwhile I'll run out and give the neighbours the news of our
      good luck, and father curate, and Master Nicholas the barber, who are and
      always have been such friends of thy father's."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I will, mother," said Sanchica; "but mind, you must give me half of
      that string; for I don't think my lady the duchess could have been so
      stupid as to send it all to you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is all for thee, my child," said Teresa; "but let me wear it round my
      neck for a few days; for verily it seems to make my heart glad."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You will be glad too," said the page, "when you see the bundle there is
      in this portmanteau, for it is a suit of the finest cloth, that the
      governor only wore one day out hunting and now sends, all for Senora
      Sanchica."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May he live a thousand years," said Sanchica, "and the bearer as many,
      nay two thousand, if needful."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this Teresa hurried out of the house with the letters, and with the
      string of beads round her neck, and went along thrumming the letters as if
      they were a tambourine, and by chance coming across the curate and Samson
      Carrasco she began capering and saying, "None of us poor now, faith! We've
      got a little government! Ay, let the finest fine lady tackle me, and I'll
      give her a setting down!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "What's all this, Teresa Panza," said they; "what madness is this, and
      what papers are those?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The madness is only this," said she, "that these are the letters of
      duchesses and governors, and these I have on my neck are fine coral beads,
      with ave-marias and paternosters of beaten gold, and I am a governess."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God help us," said the curate, "we don't understand you, Teresa, or know
      what you are talking about."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There, you may see it yourselves," said Teresa, and she handed them the
      letters.
    </p>
    <p>
      The curate read them out for Samson Carrasco to hear, and Samson and he
      regarded one another with looks of astonishment at what they had read, and
      the bachelor asked who had brought the letters. Teresa in reply bade them
      come with her to her house and they would see the messenger, a most
      elegant youth, who had brought another present which was worth as much
      more. The curate took the coral beads from her neck and examined them
      again and again, and having satisfied himself as to their fineness he fell
      to wondering afresh, and said, "By the gown I wear I don't know what to
      say or think of these letters and presents; on the one hand I can see and
      feel the fineness of these coral beads, and on the other I read how a
      duchess sends to beg for a couple of dozen of acorns."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Square that if you can," said Carrasco; "well, let's go and see the
      messenger, and from him we'll learn something about this mystery that has
      turned up."
    </p>
    <p>
      They did so, and Teresa returned with them. They found the page sifting a
      little barley for his horse, and Sanchica cutting a rasher of bacon to be
      paved with eggs for his dinner. His looks and his handsome apparel pleased
      them both greatly; and after they had saluted him courteously, and he
      them, Samson begged him to give them his news, as well of Don Quixote as
      of Sancho Panza, for, he said, though they had read the letters from
      Sancho and her ladyship the duchess, they were still puzzled and could not
      make out what was meant by Sancho's government, and above all of an
      island, when all or most of those in the Mediterranean belonged to his
      Majesty.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this the page replied, "As to Senor Sancho Panza's being a governor
      there is no doubt whatever; but whether it is an island or not that he
      governs, with that I have nothing to do; suffice it that it is a town of
      more than a thousand inhabitants; with regard to the acorns I may tell you
      my lady the duchess is so unpretending and unassuming that, not to speak
      of sending to beg for acorns from a peasant woman, she has been known to
      send to ask for the loan of a comb from one of her neighbours; for I would
      have your worships know that the ladies of Aragon, though they are just as
      illustrious, are not so punctilious and haughty as the Castilian ladies;
      they treat people with greater familiarity."
    </p>
    <p>
      In the middle of this conversation Sanchica came in with her skirt full of
      eggs, and said she to the page, "Tell me, senor, does my father wear
      trunk-hose since he has been governor?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have not noticed," said the page; "but no doubt he wears them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah! my God!" said Sanchica, "what a sight it must be to see my father in
      tights! Isn't it odd that ever since I was born I have had a longing to
      see my father in trunk-hose?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "As things go you will see that if you live," said the page; "by God he is
      in the way to take the road with a sunshade if the government only lasts
      him two months more."
    </p>
    <p>
      The curate and the bachelor could see plainly enough that the page spoke
      in a waggish vein; but the fineness of the coral beads, and the hunting
      suit that Sancho sent (for Teresa had already shown it to them) did away
      with the impression; and they could not help laughing at Sanchica's wish,
      and still more when Teresa said, "Senor curate, look about if there's
      anybody here going to Madrid or Toledo, to buy me a hooped petticoat, a
      proper fashionable one of the best quality; for indeed and indeed I must
      do honour to my husband's government as well as I can; nay, if I am put to
      it and have to, I'll go to Court and set a coach like all the world; for
      she who has a governor for her husband may very well have one and keep
      one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And why not, mother!" said Sanchica; "would to God it were to-day instead
      of to-morrow, even though they were to say when they saw me seated in the
      coach with my mother, 'See that rubbish, that garlic-stuffed fellow's
      daughter, how she goes stretched at her ease in a coach as if she was a
      she-pope!' But let them tramp through the mud, and let me go in my coach
      with my feet off the ground. Bad luck to backbiters all over the world;
      'let me go warm and the people may laugh.' Do I say right, mother?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "To be sure you do, my child," said Teresa; "and all this good luck, and
      even more, my good Sancho foretold me; and thou wilt see, my daughter, he
      won't stop till he has made me a countess; for to make a beginning is
      everything in luck; and as I have heard thy good father say many a time
      (for besides being thy father he's the father of proverbs too), 'When they
      offer thee a heifer, run with a halter; when they offer thee a government,
      take it; when they would give thee a county, seize it; when they say,
      "Here, here!" to thee with something good, swallow it.' Oh no! go to
      sleep, and don't answer the strokes of good fortune and the lucky chances
      that are knocking at the door of your house!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what do I care," added Sanchica, "whether anybody says when he sees
      me holding my head up, 'The dog saw himself in hempen breeches,' and the
      rest of it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Hearing this the curate said, "I do believe that all this family of the
      Panzas are born with a sackful of proverbs in their insides, every one of
      them; I never saw one of them that does not pour them out at all times and
      on all occasions."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said the page, "for Senor Governor Sancho utters them at
      every turn; and though a great many of them are not to the purpose, still
      they amuse one, and my lady the duchess and the duke praise them highly."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then you still maintain that all this about Sancho's government is true,
      senor," said the bachelor, "and that there actually is a duchess who sends
      him presents and writes to him? Because we, although we have handled the
      present and read the letters, don't believe it and suspect it to be
      something in the line of our fellow-townsman Don Quixote, who fancies that
      everything is done by enchantment; and for this reason I am almost ready
      to say that I'd like to touch and feel your worship to see whether you are
      a mere ambassador of the imagination or a man of flesh and blood."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All I know, sirs," replied the page, "is that I am a real ambassador, and
      that Senor Sancho Panza is governor as a matter of fact, and that my lord
      and lady the duke and duchess can give, and have given him this same
      government, and that I have heard it said Sancho Panza bears himself very
      stoutly therein; whether there be any enchantment in all this or not, it
      is for your worships to settle between you; for that's all I know by the
      oath I swear, and that is by the life of my parents whom I have still
      alive, and love dearly."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It may be so," said the bachelor; "but dubitat Augustinus."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Doubt who will," said the page; "what I have told you is the truth, and
      that will always rise above falsehood as oil above water; if not operibus
      credite, et non verbis. Let one of you come with me, and he will see with
      his eyes what he does not believe with his ears."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's for me to make that trip," said Sanchica; "take me with you, senor,
      behind you on your horse; for I'll go with all my heart to see my father."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Governors' daughters," said the page, "must not travel along the roads
      alone, but accompanied by coaches and litters and a great number of
      attendants."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By God," said Sanchica, "I can go just as well mounted on a she-ass as in
      a coach; what a dainty lass you must take me for!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hush, girl," said Teresa; "you don't know what you're talking about; the
      gentleman is quite right, for 'as the time so the behaviour;' when it was
      Sancho it was 'Sancha;' when it is governor it's 'senora;' I don't know if
      I'm right."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senora Teresa says more than she is aware of," said the page; "and now
      give me something to eat and let me go at once, for I mean to return this
      evening."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come and do penance with me," said the curate at this; "for Senora Teresa
      has more will than means to serve so worthy a guest."
    </p>
    <p>
      The page refused, but had to consent at last for his own sake; and the
      curate took him home with him very gladly, in order to have an opportunity
      of questioning him at leisure about Don Quixote and his doings. The
      bachelor offered to write the letters in reply for Teresa; but she did not
      care to let him mix himself up in her affairs, for she thought him
      somewhat given to joking; and so she gave a cake and a couple of eggs to a
      young acolyte who was a penman, and he wrote for her two letters, one for
      her husband and the other for the duchess, dictated out of her own head,
      which are not the worst inserted in this great history, as will be seen
      farther on.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p50e" id="p50e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p50e.jpg (19K)" src="images/p50e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch51b" id="ch51b"></a>CHAPTER LI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE PROGRESS OF SANCHO'S GOVERNMENT, AND OTHER SUCH ENTERTAINING
      MATTERS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p51a" id="p51a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p51a.jpg (188K)" src="images/p51a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p51a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Day came after the night of the governor's round; a night which the
      head-carver passed without sleeping, so were his thoughts of the face and
      air and beauty of the disguised damsel, while the majordomo spent what was
      left of it in writing an account to his lord and lady of all Sancho said
      and did, being as much amazed at his sayings as at his doings, for there
      was a mixture of shrewdness and simplicity in all his words and deeds. The
      senor governor got up, and by Doctor Pedro Recio's directions they made
      him break his fast on a little conserve and four sups of cold water, which
      Sancho would have readily exchanged for a piece of bread and a bunch of
      grapes; but seeing there was no help for it, he submitted with no little
      sorrow of heart and discomfort of stomach; Pedro Recio having persuaded
      him that light and delicate diet enlivened the wits, and that was what was
      most essential for persons placed in command and in responsible
      situations, where they have to employ not only the bodily powers but those
      of the mind also.
    </p>
    <p>
      By means of this sophistry Sancho was made to endure hunger, and hunger so
      keen that in his heart he cursed the government, and even him who had
      given it to him; however, with his hunger and his conserve he undertook to
      deliver judgments that day, and the first thing that came before him was a
      question that was submitted to him by a stranger, in the presence of the
      majordomo and the other attendants, and it was in these words: "Senor, a
      large river separated two districts of one and the same lordship&mdash;will
      your worship please to pay attention, for the case is an important and a
      rather knotty one? Well then, on this river there was a bridge, and at one
      end of it a gallows, and a sort of tribunal, where four judges commonly
      sat to administer the law which the lord of river, bridge and the lordship
      had enacted, and which was to this effect, 'If anyone crosses by this
      bridge from one side to the other he shall declare on oath where he is
      going to and with what object; and if he swears truly, he shall be allowed
      to pass, but if falsely, he shall be put to death for it by hanging on the
      gallows erected there, without any remission.' Though the law and its
      severe penalty were known, many persons crossed, but in their declarations
      it was easy to see at once they were telling the truth, and the judges let
      them pass free. It happened, however, that one man, when they came to take
      his declaration, swore and said that by the oath he took he was going to
      die upon that gallows that stood there, and nothing else. The judges held
      a consultation over the oath, and they said, 'If we let this man pass free
      he has sworn falsely, and by the law he ought to die; but if we hang him,
      as he swore he was going to die on that gallows, and therefore swore the
      truth, by the same law he ought to go free.' It is asked of your worship,
      senor governor, what are the judges to do with this man? For they are
      still in doubt and perplexity; and having heard of your worship's acute
      and exalted intellect, they have sent me to entreat your worship on their
      behalf to give your opinion on this very intricate and puzzling case."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this Sancho made answer, "Indeed those gentlemen the judges that send
      you to me might have spared themselves the trouble, for I have more of the
      obtuse than the acute in me; but repeat the case over again, so that I may
      understand it, and then perhaps I may be able to hit the point."
    </p>
    <p>
      The querist repeated again and again what he had said before, and then
      Sancho said, "It seems to me I can set the matter right in a moment, and
      in this way; the man swears that he is going to die upon the gallows; but
      if he dies upon it, he has sworn the truth, and by the law enacted
      deserves to go free and pass over the bridge; but if they don't hang him,
      then he has sworn falsely, and by the same law deserves to be hanged."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is as the senor governor says," said the messenger; "and as regards a
      complete comprehension of the case, there is nothing left to desire or
      hesitate about."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then I say," said Sancho, "that of this man they should let pass the
      part that has sworn truly, and hang the part that has lied; and in this
      way the conditions of the passage will be fully complied with."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But then, senor governor," replied the querist, "the man will have to be
      divided into two parts; and if he is divided of course he will die; and so
      none of the requirements of the law will be carried out, and it is
      absolutely necessary to comply with it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Look here, my good sir," said Sancho; "either I'm a numskull or else
      there is the same reason for this passenger dying as for his living and
      passing over the bridge; for if the truth saves him the falsehood equally
      condemns him; and that being the case it is my opinion you should say to
      the gentlemen who sent you to me that as the arguments for condemning him
      and for absolving him are exactly balanced, they should let him pass
      freely, as it is always more praiseworthy to do good than to do evil; this
      I would give signed with my name if I knew how to sign; and what I have
      said in this case is not out of my own head, but one of the many precepts
      my master Don Quixote gave me the night before I left to become governor
      of this island, that came into my mind, and it was this, that when there
      was any doubt about the justice of a case I should lean to mercy; and it
      is God's will that I should recollect it now, for it fits this case as if
      it was made for it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said the majordomo; "and I maintain that Lycurgus himself,
      who gave laws to the Lacedemonians, could not have pronounced a better
      decision than the great Panza has given; let the morning's audience close
      with this, and I will see that the senor governor has dinner entirely to
      his liking."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's all I ask for&mdash;fair play," said Sancho; "give me my dinner,
      and then let it rain cases and questions on me, and I'll despatch them in
      a twinkling."
    </p>
    <p>
      The majordomo kept his word, for he felt it against his conscience to kill
      so wise a governor by hunger; particularly as he intended to have done
      with him that same night, playing off the last joke he was commissioned to
      practise upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      It came to pass, then, that after he had dined that day, in opposition to
      the rules and aphorisms of Doctor Tirteafuera, as they were taking away
      the cloth there came a courier with a letter from Don Quixote for the
      governor. Sancho ordered the secretary to read it to himself, and if there
      was nothing in it that demanded secrecy to read it aloud. The secretary
      did so, and after he had skimmed the contents he said, "It may well be
      read aloud, for what Senor Don Quixote writes to your worship deserves to
      be printed or written in letters of gold, and it is as follows."
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p>
        DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA'S LETTER TO SANCHO PANZA, GOVERNOR OF THE
        ISLAND OF BARATARIA.
      </p>
      <p>
        When I was expecting to hear of thy stupidities and blunders, friend
        Sancho, I have received intelligence of thy displays of good sense, for
        which I give special thanks to heaven that can raise the poor from the
        dunghill and of fools to make wise men. They tell me thou dost govern as
        if thou wert a man, and art a man as if thou wert a beast, so great is
        the humility wherewith thou dost comport thyself. But I would have thee
        bear in mind, Sancho, that very often it is fitting and necessary for
        the authority of office to resist the humility of the heart; for the
        seemly array of one who is invested with grave duties should be such as
        they require and not measured by what his own humble tastes may lead him
        to prefer. Dress well; a stick dressed up does not look like a stick; I
        do not say thou shouldst wear trinkets or fine raiment, or that being a
        judge thou shouldst dress like a soldier, but that thou shouldst array
        thyself in the apparel thy office requires, and that at the same time it
        be neat and handsome. To win the good-will of the people thou governest
        there are two things, among others, that thou must do; one is to be
        civil to all (this, however, I told thee before), and the other to take
        care that food be abundant, for there is nothing that vexes the heart of
        the poor more than hunger and high prices. Make not many proclamations;
        but those thou makest take care that they be good ones, and above all
        that they be observed and carried out; for proclamations that are not
        observed are the same as if they did not exist; nay, they encourage the
        idea that the prince who had the wisdom and authority to make them had
        not the power to enforce them; and laws that threaten and are not
        enforced come to be like the log, the king of the frogs, that frightened
        them at first, but that in time they despised and mounted upon. Be a
        father to virtue and a stepfather to vice. Be not always strict, nor yet
        always lenient, but observe a mean between these two extremes, for in
        that is the aim of wisdom. Visit the gaols, the slaughter-houses, and
        the market-places; for the presence of the governor is of great
        importance in such places; it comforts the prisoners who are in hopes of
        a speedy release, it is the bugbear of the butchers who have then to
        give just weight, and it is the terror of the market-women for the same
        reason. Let it not be seen that thou art (even if perchance thou art,
        which I do not believe) covetous, a follower of women, or a glutton; for
        when the people and those that have dealings with thee become aware of
        thy special weakness they will bring their batteries to bear upon thee
        in that quarter, till they have brought thee down to the depths of
        perdition. Consider and reconsider, con and con over again the advices
        and the instructions I gave thee before thy departure hence to thy
        government, and thou wilt see that in them, if thou dost follow them,
        thou hast a help at hand that will lighten for thee the troubles and
        difficulties that beset governors at every step. Write to thy lord and
        lady and show thyself grateful to them, for ingratitude is the daughter
        of pride, and one of the greatest sins we know of; and he who is
        grateful to those who have been good to him shows that he will be so to
        God also who has bestowed and still bestows so many blessings upon him.
      </p>
      <p>
        My lady the duchess sent off a messenger with thy suit and another
        present to thy wife Teresa Panza; we expect the answer every moment. I
        have been a little indisposed through a certain scratching I came in
        for, not very much to the benefit of my nose; but it was nothing; for if
        there are enchanters who maltreat me, there are also some who defend me.
        Let me know if the majordomo who is with thee had any share in the
        Trifaldi performance, as thou didst suspect; and keep me informed of
        everything that happens thee, as the distance is so short; all the more
        as I am thinking of giving over very shortly this idle life I am now
        leading, for I was not born for it. A thing has occurred to me which I
        am inclined to think will put me out of favour with the duke and
        duchess; but though I am sorry for it I do not care, for after all I
        must obey my calling rather than their pleasure, in accordance with the
        common saying, amicus Plato, sed magis amica veritas. I quote this Latin
        to thee because I conclude that since thou hast been a governor thou
        wilt have learned it. Adieu; God keep thee from being an object of pity
        to anyone.
      </p>
      <p>
        Thy friend, DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA.
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      Sancho listened to the letter with great attention, and it was praised and
      considered wise by all who heard it; he then rose up from table, and
      calling his secretary shut himself in with him in his own room, and
      without putting it off any longer set about answering his master Don
      Quixote at once; and he bade the secretary write down what he told him
      without adding or suppressing anything, which he did, and the answer was
      to the following effect.
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p>
        SANCHO PANZA'S LETTER TO DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA.
      </p>
      <p>
        The pressure of business is so great upon me that I have no time to
        scratch my head or even to cut my nails; and I have them so long&mdash;God
        send a remedy for it. I say this, master of my soul, that you may not be
        surprised if I have not until now sent you word of how I fare, well or
        ill, in this government, in which I am suffering more hunger than when
        we two were wandering through the woods and wastes.
      </p>
      <p>
        My lord the duke wrote to me the other day to warn me that certain spies
        had got into this island to kill me; but up to the present I have not
        found out any except a certain doctor who receives a salary in this town
        for killing all the governors that come here; he is called Doctor Pedro
        Recio, and is from Tirteafuera; so you see what a name he has to make me
        dread dying under his hands. This doctor says of himself that he does
        not cure diseases when there are any, but prevents them coming, and the
        medicines he uses are diet and more diet until he brings one down to
        bare bones; as if leanness was not worse than fever.
      </p>
      <p>
        In short he is killing me with hunger, and I am dying myself of
        vexation; for when I thought I was coming to this government to get my
        meat hot and my drink cool, and take my ease between holland sheets on
        feather beds, I find I have come to do penance as if I was a hermit; and
        as I don't do it willingly I suspect that in the end the devil will
        carry me off.
      </p>
      <p>
        So far I have not handled any dues or taken any bribes, and I don't know
        what to think of it; for here they tell me that the governors that come
        to this island, before entering it have plenty of money either given to
        them or lent to them by the people of the town, and that this is the
        usual custom not only here but with all who enter upon governments.
      </p>
      <p>
        Last night going the rounds I came upon a fair damsel in man's clothes,
        and a brother of hers dressed as a woman; my head-carver has fallen in
        love with the girl, and has in his own mind chosen her for a wife, so he
        says, and I have chosen the youth for a son-in-law; to-day we are going to
        explain our intentions to the father of the pair, who is one Diego de la
        Llana, a gentleman and an old Christian as much as you please.
      </p>
      <p>
        I have visited the market-places, as your worship advises me, and
        yesterday I found a stall-keeper selling new hazel nuts and proved her
        to have mixed a bushel of old empty rotten nuts with a bushel of new; I
        confiscated the whole for the children of the charity-school, who will
        know how to distinguish them well enough, and I sentenced her not to
        come into the market-place for a fortnight; they told me I did bravely.
        I can tell your worship it is commonly said in this town that there are
        no people worse than the market-women, for they are all barefaced,
        unconscionable, and impudent, and I can well believe it from what I have
        seen of them in other towns.
      </p>
      <p>
        I am very glad my lady the duchess has written to my wife Teresa Panza
        and sent her the present your worship speaks of; and I will strive to
        show myself grateful when the time comes; kiss her hands for me, and
        tell her I say she has not thrown it into a sack with a hole in it, as
        she will see in the end. I should not like your worship to have any
        difference with my lord and lady; for if you fall out with them it is
        plain it must do me harm; and as you give me advice to be grateful it
        will not do for your worship not to be so yourself to those who have
        shown you such kindness, and by whom you have been treated so hospitably
        in their castle.
      </p>
      <p>
        That about the scratching I don't understand; but I suppose it must be
        one of the ill-turns the wicked enchanters are always doing your
        worship; when we meet I shall know all about it. I wish I could send
        your worship something; but I don't know what to send, unless it be some
        very curious clyster pipes, to work with bladders, that they make in
        this island; but if the office remains with me I'll find out something
        to send, one way or another. If my wife Teresa Panza writes to me, pay
        the postage and send me the letter, for I have a very great desire to
        hear how my house and wife and children are going on. And so, may God
        deliver your worship from evil-minded enchanters, and bring me well and
        peacefully out of this government, which I doubt, for I expect to take
        leave of it and my life together, from the way Doctor Pedro Recio treats
        me.
      </p>
      <p>
        Your worship's servant SANCHO PANZA THE GOVERNOR.
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      The secretary sealed the letter, and immediately dismissed the courier;
      and those who were carrying on the joke against Sancho putting their heads
      together arranged how he was to be dismissed from the government. Sancho
      spent the afternoon in drawing up certain ordinances relating to the good
      government of what he fancied the island; and he ordained that there were
      to be no provision hucksters in the State, and that men might import wine
      into it from any place they pleased, provided they declared the quarter it
      came from, so that a price might be put upon it according to its quality,
      reputation, and the estimation it was held in; and he that watered his
      wine, or changed the name, was to forfeit his life for it. He reduced the
      prices of all manner of shoes, boots, and stockings, but of shoes in
      particular, as they seemed to him to run extravagantly high. He
      established a fixed rate for servants' wages, which were becoming
      recklessly exorbitant. He laid extremely heavy penalties upon those who
      sang lewd or loose songs either by day or night. He decreed that no blind
      man should sing of any miracle in verse, unless he could produce authentic
      evidence that it was true, for it was his opinion that most of those the
      blind men sing are trumped up, to the detriment of the true ones. He
      established and created an alguacil of the poor, not to harass them, but
      to examine them and see whether they really were so; for many a sturdy
      thief or drunkard goes about under cover of a make-believe crippled limb
      or a sham sore. In a word, he made so many good rules that to this day
      they are preserved there, and are called The constitutions of the great
      governor Sancho Panza.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p51e" id="p51e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p51e.jpg (32K)" src="images/p51e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch52b" id="ch52b"></a>CHAPTER LII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS RELATED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SECOND DISTRESSED OR AFFLICTED
      DUENNA, OTHERWISE CALLED DONA RODRIGUEZ
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p52a" id="p52a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p52a.jpg (131K)" src="images/p52a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p52a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Cide Hamete relates that Don Quixote being now cured of his scratches felt
      that the life he was leading in the castle was entirely inconsistent with
      the order of chivalry he professed, so he determined to ask the duke and
      duchess to permit him to take his departure for Saragossa, as the time of
      the festival was now drawing near, and he hoped to win there the suit of
      armour which is the prize at festivals of the sort. But one day at table
      with the duke and duchess, just as he was about to carry his resolution
      into effect and ask for their permission, lo and behold suddenly there
      came in through the door of the great hall two women, as they afterwards
      proved to be, draped in mourning from head to foot, one of whom
      approaching Don Quixote flung herself at full length at his feet, pressing
      her lips to them, and uttering moans so sad, so deep, and so doleful that
      she put all who heard and saw her into a state of perplexity; and though
      the duke and duchess supposed it must be some joke their servants were
      playing off upon Don Quixote, still the earnest way the woman sighed and
      moaned and wept puzzled them and made them feel uncertain, until Don
      Quixote, touched with compassion, raised her up and made her unveil
      herself and remove the mantle from her tearful face. She complied and
      disclosed what no one could have ever anticipated, for she disclosed the
      countenance of Dona Rodriguez, the duenna of the house; the other female
      in mourning being her daughter, who had been made a fool of by the rich
      farmer's son. All who knew her were filled with astonishment, and the duke
      and duchess more than any; for though they thought her a simpleton and a
      weak creature, they did not think her capable of crazy pranks. Dona
      Rodriguez, at length, turning to her master and mistress said to them,
      "Will your excellences be pleased to permit me to speak to this gentleman
      for a moment, for it is requisite I should do so in order to get
      successfully out of the business in which the boldness of an evil-minded
      clown has involved me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The duke said that for his part he gave her leave, and that she might
      speak with Senor Don Quixote as much as she liked.
    </p>
    <p>
      She then, turning to Don Quixote and addressing herself to him said, "Some
      days since, valiant knight, I gave you an account of the injustice and
      treachery of a wicked farmer to my dearly beloved daughter, the unhappy
      damsel here before you, and you promised me to take her part and right the
      wrong that has been done her; but now it has come to my hearing that you
      are about to depart from this castle in quest of such fair adventures as
      God may vouchsafe to you; therefore, before you take the road, I would
      that you challenge this froward rustic, and compel him to marry my
      daughter in fulfillment of the promise he gave her to become her husband
      before he seduced her; for to expect that my lord the duke will do me
      justice is to ask pears from the elm tree, for the reason I stated
      privately to your worship; and so may our Lord grant you good health and
      forsake us not."
    </p>
    <p>
      To these words Don Quixote replied very gravely and solemnly, "Worthy
      duenna, check your tears, or rather dry them, and spare your sighs, for I
      take it upon myself to obtain redress for your daughter, for whom it would
      have been better not to have been so ready to believe lovers' promises,
      which are for the most part quickly made and very slowly performed; and
      so, with my lord the duke's leave, I will at once go in quest of this
      inhuman youth, and will find him out and challenge him and slay him, if so
      be he refuses to keep his promised word; for the chief object of my
      profession is to spare the humble and chastise the proud; I mean, to help
      the distressed and destroy the oppressors."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is no necessity," said the duke, "for your worship to take the
      trouble of seeking out the rustic of whom this worthy duenna complains,
      nor is there any necessity, either, for asking my leave to challenge him;
      for I admit him duly challenged, and will take care that he is informed of
      the challenge, and accepts it, and comes to answer it in person to this
      castle of mine, where I shall afford to both a fair field, observing all
      the conditions which are usually and properly observed in such trials, and
      observing too justice to both sides, as all princes who offer a free field
      to combatants within the limits of their lordships are bound to do."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then with that assurance and your highness's good leave," said Don
      Quixote, "I hereby for this once waive my privilege of gentle blood, and
      come down and put myself on a level with the lowly birth of the
      wrong-doer, making myself equal with him and enabling him to enter into
      combat with me; and so, I challenge and defy him, though absent, on the
      plea of his malfeasance in breaking faith with this poor damsel, who was a
      maiden and now by his misdeed is none; and say that he shall fulfill the
      promise he gave her to become her lawful husband, or else stake his life
      upon the question."
    </p>
    <p>
      And then plucking off a glove he threw it down in the middle of the hall,
      and the duke picked it up, saying, as he had said before, that he accepted
      the challenge in the name of his vassal, and fixed six days thence as the
      time, the courtyard of the castle as the place, and for arms the customary
      ones of knights, lance and shield and full armour, with all the other
      accessories, without trickery, guile, or charms of any sort, and examined
      and passed by the judges of the field. "But first of all," he said, "it is
      requisite that this worthy duenna and unworthy damsel should place their
      claim for justice in the hands of Don Quixote; for otherwise nothing can
      be done, nor can the said challenge be brought to a lawful issue."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do so place it," replied the duenna.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And I too," added her daughter, all in tears and covered with shame and
      confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      This declaration having been made, and the duke having settled in his own
      mind what he would do in the matter, the ladies in black withdrew, and the
      duchess gave orders that for the future they were not to be treated as
      servants of hers, but as lady adventurers who came to her house to demand
      justice; so they gave them a room to themselves and waited on them as they
      would on strangers, to the consternation of the other women-servants, who
      did not know where the folly and imprudence of Dona Rodriguez and her
      unlucky daughter would stop.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now, to complete the enjoyment of the feast and bring the dinner to a
      satisfactory end, lo and behold the page who had carried the letters and
      presents to Teresa Panza, the wife of the governor Sancho, entered the
      hall; and the duke and duchess were very well pleased to see him, being
      anxious to know the result of his journey; but when they asked him the
      page said in reply that he could not give it before so many people or in a
      few words, and begged their excellences to be pleased to let it wait for a
      private opportunity, and in the meantime amuse themselves with these
      letters; and taking out the letters he placed them in the duchess's hand.
      One bore by way of address, Letter for my lady the Duchess So-and-so, of I
      don't know where; and the other To my husband Sancho Panza, governor of
      the island of Barataria, whom God prosper longer than me. The duchess's
      bread would not bake, as the saying is, until she had read her letter; and
      having looked over it herself and seen that it might be read aloud for the
      duke and all present to hear, she read out as follows.
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p>
        TERESA PANZA'S LETTER TO THE DUCHESS.
      </p>
      <p>
        The letter your highness wrote me, my lady, gave me great pleasure, for
        indeed I found it very welcome. The string of coral beads is very fine,
        and my husband's hunting suit does not fall short of it. All this
        village is very much pleased that your ladyship has made a governor of
        my good man Sancho; though nobody will believe it, particularly the
        curate, and Master Nicholas the barber, and the bachelor Samson
        Carrasco; but I don't care for that, for so long as it is true, as it
        is, they may all say what they like; though, to tell the truth, if the
        coral beads and the suit had not come I would not have believed it
        either; for in this village everybody thinks my husband a numskull, and
        except for governing a flock of goats, they cannot fancy what sort of
        government he can be fit for. God grant it, and direct him according as
        he sees his children stand in need of it. I am resolved with your
        worship's leave, lady of my soul, to make the most of this fair day, and
        go to Court to stretch myself at ease in a coach, and make all those I
        have envying me already burst their eyes out; so I beg your excellence
        to order my husband to send me a small trifle of money, and to let it be
        something to speak of, because one's expenses are heavy at the Court;
        for a loaf costs a real, and meat thirty maravedis a pound, which is
        beyond everything; and if he does not want me to go let him tell me in
        time, for my feet are on the fidgets to be off; and my friends and
        neighbours tell me that if my daughter and I make a figure and a brave
        show at Court, my husband will come to be known far more by me than I by
        him, for of course plenty of people will ask, "Who are those ladies in
        that coach?" and some servant of mine will answer, "The wife and
        daughter of Sancho Panza, governor of the island of Barataria;" and in
        this way Sancho will become known, and I'll be thought well of, and "to
        Rome for everything." I am as vexed as vexed can be that they have
        gathered no acorns this year in our village; for all that I send your
        highness about half a peck that I went to the wood to gather and pick
        out one by one myself, and I could find no bigger ones; I wish they were
        as big as ostrich eggs.
      </p>
      <p>
        Let not your high mightiness forget to write to me; and I will take care
        to answer, and let you know how I am, and whatever news there may be in
        this place, where I remain, praying our Lord to have your highness in
        his keeping and not to forget me.
      </p>
      <p>
        Sancha my daughter, and my son, kiss your worship's hands.
      </p>
      <p>
        She who would rather see your ladyship than write to you,
      </p>
      <p>
        Your servant,<br /> TERESA PANZA.
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      All were greatly amused by Teresa Panza's letter, but particularly the
      duke and duchess; and the duchess asked Don Quixote's opinion whether they
      might open the letter that had come for the governor, which she suspected
      must be very good. Don Quixote said that to gratify them he would open it,
      and did so, and found that it ran as follows.
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p>
        TERESA PANZA'S LETTER TO HER HUSBAND SANCHO PANZA.
      </p>
      <p>
        I got thy letter, Sancho of my soul, and I promise thee and swear as a
        Catholic Christian that I was within two fingers' breadth of going mad I
        was so happy. I can tell thee, brother, when I came to hear that thou
        wert a governor I thought I should have dropped dead with pure joy; and
        thou knowest they say sudden joy kills as well as great sorrow; and as
        for Sanchica thy daughter, she leaked from sheer happiness. I had before
        me the suit thou didst send me, and the coral beads my lady the duchess
        sent me round my neck, and the letters in my hands, and there was the
        bearer of them standing by, and in spite of all this I verily believed
        and thought that what I saw and handled was all a dream; for who could
        have thought that a goatherd would come to be a governor of islands?
        Thou knowest, my friend, what my mother used to say, that one must live
        long to see much; I say it because I expect to see more if I live
        longer; for I don't expect to stop until I see thee a farmer of taxes or
        a collector of revenue, which are offices where, though the devil
        carries off those who make a bad use of them, still they make and handle
        money. My lady the duchess will tell thee the desire I have to go to the
        Court; consider the matter and let me know thy pleasure; I will try to
        do honour to thee by going in a coach.
      </p>
      <p>
        Neither the curate, nor the barber, nor the bachelor, nor even the
        sacristan, can believe that thou art a governor, and they say the whole
        thing is a delusion or an enchantment affair, like everything belonging
        to thy master Don Quixote; and Samson says he must go in search of thee
        and drive the government out of thy head and the madness out of Don
        Quixote's skull; I only laugh, and look at my string of beads, and plan
        out the dress I am going to make for our daughter out of thy suit. I
        sent some acorns to my lady the duchess; I wish they had been gold. Send
        me some strings of pearls if they are in fashion in that island. Here is
        the news of the village; La Berrueca has married her daughter to a
        good-for-nothing painter, who came here to paint anything that might
        turn up. The council gave him an order to paint his Majesty's arms over
        the door of the town-hall; he asked two ducats, which they paid him in
        advance; he worked for eight days, and at the end of them had nothing
        painted, and then said he had no turn for painting such trifling things;
        he returned the money, and for all that has married on the pretence of
        being a good workman; to be sure he has now laid aside his paint-brush
        and taken a spade in hand, and goes to the field like a gentleman. Pedro
        Lobo's son has received the first orders and tonsure, with the intention
        of becoming a priest. Minguilla, Mingo Silvato's granddaughter, found it
        out, and has gone to law with him on the score of having given her
        promise of marriage. Evil tongues say she is with child by him, but he
        denies it stoutly. There are no olives this year, and there is not a
        drop of vinegar to be had in the whole village. A company of soldiers
        passed through here; when they left they took away with them three of
        the girls of the village; I will not tell thee who they are; perhaps
        they will come back, and they will be sure to find those who will take
        them for wives with all their blemishes, good or bad. Sanchica is making
        bonelace; she earns eight maravedis a day clear, which she puts into a
        moneybox as a help towards house furnishing; but now that she is a
        governor's daughter thou wilt give her a portion without her working for
        it. The fountain in the plaza has run dry. A flash of lightning struck
        the gibbet, and I wish they all lit there. I look for an answer to this,
        and to know thy mind about my going to the Court; and so, God keep thee
        longer than me, or as long, for I would not leave thee in this world
        without me.
      </p>
      <p>
        Thy wife,<br /> TERESA PANZA.
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      The letters were applauded, laughed over, relished, and admired; and then,
      as if to put the seal to the business, the courier arrived, bringing the
      one Sancho sent to Don Quixote, and this, too, was read out, and it raised
      some doubts as to the governor's simplicity. The duchess withdrew to hear
      from the page about his adventures in Sancho's village, which he narrated
      at full length without leaving a single circumstance unmentioned. He gave
      her the acorns, and also a cheese which Teresa had given him as being
      particularly good and superior to those of Tronchon. The duchess received
      it with greatest delight, in which we will leave her, to describe the end
      of the government of the great Sancho Panza, flower and mirror of all
      governors of islands.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p52e" id="p52e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p52e.jpg (13K)" src="images/p52e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch53b" id="ch53b"></a>CHAPTER LIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE TROUBLOUS END AND TERMINATION SANCHO PANZA'S GOVERNMENT CAME TO
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p53a" id="p53a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p53a.jpg (109K)" src="images/p53a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p53a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      To fancy that in this life anything belonging to it will remain for ever
      in the same state is an idle fancy; on the contrary, in it everything
      seems to go in a circle, I mean round and round. The spring succeeds the
      summer, the summer the fall, the fall the autumn, the autumn the winter,
      and the winter the spring, and so time rolls with never-ceasing wheel.
      Man's life alone, swifter than time, speeds onward to its end without any
      hope of renewal, save it be in that other life which is endless and
      boundless. Thus saith Cide Hamete the Mahometan philosopher; for there are
      many that by the light of nature alone, without the light of faith, have a
      comprehension of the fleeting nature and instability of this present life
      and the endless duration of that eternal life we hope for; but our author
      is here speaking of the rapidity with which Sancho's government came to an
      end, melted away, disappeared, vanished as it were in smoke and shadow.
      For as he lay in bed on the night of the seventh day of his government,
      sated, not with bread and wine, but with delivering judgments and giving
      opinions and making laws and proclamations, just as sleep, in spite of
      hunger, was beginning to close his eyelids, he heard such a noise of
      bell-ringing and shouting that one would have fancied the whole island was
      going to the bottom. He sat up in bed and remained listening intently to
      try if he could make out what could be the cause of so great an uproar;
      not only, however, was he unable to discover what it was, but as countless
      drums and trumpets now helped to swell the din of the bells and shouts, he
      was more puzzled than ever, and filled with fear and terror; and getting
      up he put on a pair of slippers because of the dampness of the floor, and
      without throwing a dressing gown or anything of the kind over him he
      rushed out of the door of his room, just in time to see approaching along
      a corridor a band of more than twenty persons with lighted torches and
      naked swords in their hands, all shouting out, "To arms, to arms, senor
      governor, to arms! The enemy is in the island in countless numbers, and we
      are lost unless your skill and valour come to our support."
    </p>
    <p>
      Keeping up this noise, tumult, and uproar, they came to where Sancho stood
      dazed and bewildered by what he saw and heard, and as they approached one
      of them called out to him, "Arm at once, your lordship, if you would not
      have yourself destroyed and the whole island lost."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What have I to do with arming?" said Sancho. "What do I know about arms
      or supports? Better leave all that to my master Don Quixote, who will
      settle it and make all safe in a trice; for I, sinner that I am, God help
      me, don't understand these scuffles."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, senor governor," said another, "what slackness of mettle this is! Arm
      yourself; here are arms for you, offensive and defensive; come out to the
      plaza and be our leader and captain; it falls upon you by right, for you
      are our governor."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Arm me then, in God's name," said Sancho, and they at once produced two
      large shields they had come provided with, and placed them upon him over
      his shirt, without letting him put on anything else, one shield in front
      and the other behind, and passing his arms through openings they had made,
      they bound him tight with ropes, so that there he was walled and boarded
      up as straight as a spindle and unable to bend his knees or stir a single
      step. In his hand they placed a lance, on which he leant to keep himself
      from falling, and as soon as they had him thus fixed they bade him march
      forward and lead them on and give them all courage; for with him for their
      guide and lamp and morning star, they were sure to bring their business to
      a successful issue.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p53b" id="p53b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p53b.jpg (332K)" src="images/p53b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p53b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "How am I to march, unlucky being that I am?" said Sancho, "when I can't
      stir my knee-caps, for these boards I have bound so tight to my body won't
      let me. What you must do is carry me in your arms, and lay me across or
      set me upright in some postern, and I'll hold it either with this lance or
      with my body."
    </p>
    <p>
      "On, senor governor!" cried another, "it is fear more than the boards that
      keeps you from moving; make haste, stir yourself, for there is no time to
      lose; the enemy is increasing in numbers, the shouts grow louder, and the
      danger is pressing."
    </p>
    <p>
      Urged by these exhortations and reproaches the poor governor made an
      attempt to advance, but fell to the ground with such a crash that he
      fancied he had broken himself all to pieces. There he lay like a tortoise
      enclosed in its shell, or a side of bacon between two kneading-troughs, or
      a boat bottom up on the beach; nor did the gang of jokers feel any
      compassion for him when they saw him down; so far from that, extinguishing
      their torches they began to shout afresh and to renew the calls to arms
      with such energy, trampling on poor Sancho, and slashing at him over the
      shield with their swords in such a way that, if he had not gathered
      himself together and made himself small and drawn in his head between the
      shields, it would have fared badly with the poor governor, as, squeezed
      into that narrow compass, he lay, sweating and sweating again, and
      commending himself with all his heart to God to deliver him from his
      present peril. Some stumbled over him, others fell upon him, and one there
      was who took up a position on top of him for some time, and from thence as
      if from a watchtower issued orders to the troops, shouting out, "Here, our
      side! Here the enemy is thickest! Hold the breach there! Shut that gate!
      Barricade those ladders! Here with your stink-pots of pitch and resin, and
      kettles of boiling oil! Block the streets with feather beds!" In short, in
      his ardour he mentioned every little thing, and every implement and engine
      of war by means of which an assault upon a city is warded off, while the
      bruised and battered Sancho, who heard and suffered all, was saying to
      himself, "O if it would only please the Lord to let the island be lost at
      once, and I could see myself either dead or out of this torture!" Heaven
      heard his prayer, and when he least expected it he heard voices
      exclaiming, "Victory, victory! The enemy retreats beaten! Come, senor
      governor, get up, and come and enjoy the victory, and divide the spoils
      that have been won from the foe by the might of that invincible arm."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Lift me up," said the wretched Sancho in a woebegone voice. They helped
      him to rise, and as soon as he was on his feet said, "The enemy I have
      beaten you may nail to my forehead; I don't want to divide the spoils of
      the foe, I only beg and entreat some friend, if I have one, to give me a
      sup of wine, for I'm parched with thirst, and wipe me dry, for I'm turning
      to water."
    </p>
    <p>
      They rubbed him down, fetched him wine and unbound the shields, and he
      seated himself upon his bed, and with fear, agitation, and fatigue he
      fainted away. Those who had been concerned in the joke were now sorry they
      had pushed it so far; however, the anxiety his fainting away had caused
      them was relieved by his returning to himself. He asked what o'clock it
      was; they told him it was just daybreak. He said no more, and in silence
      began to dress himself, while all watched him, waiting to see what the
      haste with which he was putting on his clothes meant.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p53c" id="p53c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p53c.jpg (389K)" src="images/p53c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p53c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      He got himself dressed at last, and then, slowly, for he was sorely
      bruised and could not go fast, he proceeded to the stable, followed by all
      who were present, and going up to Dapple embraced him and gave him a
      loving kiss on the forehead, and said to him, not without tears in his
      eyes, "Come along, comrade and friend and partner of my toils and sorrows;
      when I was with you and had no cares to trouble me except mending your
      harness and feeding your little carcass, happy were my hours, my days, and
      my years; but since I left you, and mounted the towers of ambition and
      pride, a thousand miseries, a thousand troubles, and four thousand
      anxieties have entered into my soul;" and all the while he was speaking in
      this strain he was fixing the pack-saddle on the ass, without a word from
      anyone. Then having Dapple saddled, he, with great pain and difficulty,
      got up on him, and addressing himself to the majordomo, the secretary, the
      head-carver, and Pedro Recio the doctor and several others who stood by,
      he said, "Make way, gentlemen, and let me go back to my old freedom; let
      me go look for my past life, and raise myself up from this present death.
      I was not born to be a governor or protect islands or cities from the
      enemies that choose to attack them. Ploughing and digging, vinedressing
      and pruning, are more in my way than defending provinces or kingdoms.
      'Saint Peter is very well at Rome; I mean each of us is best following the
      trade he was born to. A reaping-hook fits my hand better than a governor's
      sceptre; I'd rather have my fill of gazpacho' than be subject to the
      misery of a meddling doctor who tortures me with hunger, and I'd rather lie in
      summer under the shade of an oak, and in winter wrap myself in a double
      sheepskin jacket in freedom, than go to bed between holland sheets and
      dress in sables under the restraint of a government. God be with your
      worships, and tell my lord the duke that 'naked I was born, naked I find
      myself, I neither lose nor gain;' I mean that without a farthing I came
      into this government, and without a farthing I go out of it, very
      different from the way governors commonly leave other islands. Stand aside
      and let me go; I have to plaster myself, for I believe every one of my
      ribs is crushed, thanks to the enemies that have been trampling over me
      to-night."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is unnecessary, senor governor," said Doctor Recio, "for I will give
      your worship a draught against falls and bruises that will soon make you
      as sound and strong as ever; and as for your diet I promise your worship
      to behave better, and let you eat plentifully of whatever you like."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You spoke late," said Sancho. "I'd as soon turn Turk as stay any longer.
      Those jokes won't pass a second time. By God I'd as soon remain in this
      government, or take another, even if it was offered me between two plates,
      as fly to heaven without wings. I am of the breed of the Panzas, and they
      are every one of them obstinate, and if they once say 'odds,' odds it must
      be, no matter if it is evens, in spite of all the world. Here in this
      stable I leave the ant's wings that lifted me up into the air for the
      swifts and other birds to eat me, and let's take to level ground and our
      feet once more; and if they're not shod in pinked shoes of cordovan, they
      won't want for rough sandals of hemp; 'every ewe to her like,' 'and let no
      one stretch his leg beyond the length of the sheet;' and now let me pass,
      for it's growing late with me."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this the majordomo said, "Senor governor, we would let your worship go
      with all our hearts, though it sorely grieves us to lose you, for your wit
      and Christian conduct naturally make us regret you; but it is well known
      that every governor, before he leaves the place where he has been
      governing, is bound first of all to render an account. Let your worship do
      so for the ten days you have held the government, and then you may go and
      the peace of God go with you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No one can demand it of me," said Sancho, "but he whom my lord the duke
      shall appoint; I am going to meet him, and to him I will render an exact
      one; besides, when I go forth naked as I do, there is no other proof
      needed to show that I have governed like an angel."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By God the great Sancho is right," said Doctor Recio, "and we should let
      him go, for the duke will be beyond measure glad to see him."
    </p>
    <p>
      They all agreed to this, and allowed him to go, first offering to bear him
      company and furnish him with all he wanted for his own comfort or for the
      journey. Sancho said he did not want anything more than a little barley
      for Dapple, and half a cheese and half a loaf for himself; for the
      distance being so short there was no occasion for any better or bulkier
      provant. They all embraced him, and he with tears embraced all of them,
      and left them filled with admiration not only at his remarks but at his
      firm and sensible resolution.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p53e" id="p53e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p53e.jpg (56K)" src="images/p53e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch54b" id="ch54b"></a>CHAPTER LIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH DEALS WITH MATTERS RELATING TO THIS HISTORY AND NO OTHER
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p54a" id="p54a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p54a.jpg (109K)" src="images/p54a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p54a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The duke and duchess resolved that the challenge Don Quixote had, for the
      reason already mentioned, given their vassal, should be proceeded with;
      and as the young man was in Flanders, whither he had fled to escape having
      Dona Rodriguez for a mother-in-law, they arranged to substitute for him a
      Gascon lacquey, named Tosilos, first of all carefully instructing him in
      all he had to do. Two days later the duke told Don Quixote that in four
      days from that time his opponent would present himself on the field of
      battle armed as a knight, and would maintain that the damsel lied by half
      a beard, nay a whole beard, if she affirmed that he had given her a
      promise of marriage. Don Quixote was greatly pleased at the news, and
      promised himself to do wonders in the lists, and reckoned it rare good
      fortune that an opportunity should have offered for letting his noble
      hosts see what the might of his strong arm was capable of; and so in high
      spirits and satisfaction he awaited the expiration of the four days, which
      measured by his impatience seemed spinning themselves out into four
      hundred ages. Let us leave them to pass as we do other things, and go and
      bear Sancho company, as mounted on Dapple, half glad, half sad, he paced
      along on his road to join his master, in whose society he was happier than
      in being governor of all the islands in the world. Well then, it so
      happened that before he had gone a great way from the island of his
      government (and whether it was island, city, town, or village that he
      governed he never troubled himself to inquire) he saw coming along the
      road he was travelling six pilgrims with staves, foreigners of that sort
      that beg for alms singing; who as they drew near arranged themselves in a
      line and lifting up their voices all together began to sing in their own
      language something that Sancho could not with the exception of one word
      which sounded plainly "alms," from which he gathered that it was alms they
      asked for in their song; and being, as Cide Hamete says, remarkably
      charitable, he took out of his alforias the half loaf and half cheese he
      had been provided with, and gave them to them, explaining to them by signs
      that he had nothing else to give them. They received them very gladly, but
      exclaimed, "Geld! Geld!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't understand what you want of me, good people," said Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      On this one of them took a purse out of his bosom and showed it to Sancho,
      by which he comprehended they were asking for money, and putting his thumb
      to his throat and spreading his hand upwards he gave them to understand
      that he had not the sign of a coin about him, and urging Dapple forward he
      broke through them. But as he was passing, one of them who had been
      examining him very closely rushed towards him, and flinging his arms round
      him exclaimed in a loud voice and good Spanish, "God bless me! What's this
      I see? Is it possible that I hold in my arms my dear friend, my good
      neighbour Sancho Panza? But there's no doubt about it, for I'm not asleep,
      nor am I drunk just now."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho was surprised to hear himself called by his name and find himself
      embraced by a foreign pilgrim, and after regarding him steadily without
      speaking he was still unable to recognise him; but the pilgrim perceiving
      his perplexity cried, "What! and is it possible, Sancho Panza, that thou
      dost not know thy neighbour Ricote, the Morisco shopkeeper of thy
      village?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho upon this looking at him more carefully began to recall his
      features, and at last recognised him perfectly, and without getting off
      the ass threw his arms round his neck saying, "Who the devil could have
      known thee, Ricote, in this mummer's dress thou art in? Tell me, who has
      frenchified thee, and how dost thou dare to return to Spain, where if they
      catch thee and recognise thee it will go hard enough with thee?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "If thou dost not betray me, Sancho," said the pilgrim, "I am safe; for in
      this dress no one will recognise me; but let us turn aside out of the road
      into that grove there where my comrades are going to eat and rest, and
      thou shalt eat with them there, for they are very good fellows; I'll have
      time enough to tell thee then all that has happened me since I left our
      village in obedience to his Majesty's edict that threatened such
      severities against the unfortunate people of my nation, as thou hast
      heard."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho complied, and Ricote having spoken to the other pilgrims they
      withdrew to the grove they saw, turning a considerable distance out of the
      road. They threw down their staves, took off their pilgrim's cloaks and
      remained in their under-clothing; they were all good-looking young
      fellows, except Ricote, who was a man somewhat advanced in years. They
      carried alforjas all of them, and all apparently well filled, at least
      with things provocative of thirst, such as would summon it from two
      leagues off. They stretched themselves on the ground, and making a
      tablecloth of the grass they spread upon it bread, salt, knives, walnut,
      scraps of cheese, and well-picked ham-bones which if they were past
      gnawing were not past sucking. They also put down a black dainty called,
      they say, caviar, and made of the eggs of fish, a great thirst-wakener.
      Nor was there any lack of olives, dry, it is true, and without any
      seasoning, but for all that toothsome and pleasant. But what made the best
      show in the field of the banquet was half a dozen botas of wine, for each
      of them produced his own from his alforjas; even the good Ricote, who from
      a Morisco had transformed himself into a German or Dutchman, took out his,
      which in size might have vied with the five others. They then began to eat
      with very great relish and very leisurely, making the most of each morsel&mdash;very
      small ones of everything&mdash;they took up on the point of the knife; and
      then all at the same moment raised their arms and botas aloft, the mouths
      placed in their mouths, and all eyes fixed on heaven just as if they were
      taking aim at it; and in this attitude they remained ever so long, wagging
      their heads from side to side as if in acknowledgment of the pleasure they
      were enjoying while they decanted the bowels of the bottles into their own
      stomachs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho beheld all, "and nothing gave him pain;" so far from that, acting
      on the proverb he knew so well, "when thou art at Rome do as thou seest,"
      he asked Ricote for his bota and took aim like the rest of them, and with
      not less enjoyment. Four times did the botas bear being uplifted, but the
      fifth it was all in vain, for they were drier and more sapless than a rush
      by that time, which made the jollity that had been kept up so far begin to
      flag.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every now and then some one of them would grasp Sancho's right hand in his
      own saying, "Espanoli y Tudesqui tuto uno: bon compano;" and Sancho would
      answer, "Bon compano, jur a Di!" and then go off into a fit of laughter
      that lasted an hour, without a thought for the moment of anything that had
      befallen him in his government; for cares have very little sway over us
      while we are eating and drinking. At length, the wine having come to an
      end with them, drowsiness began to come over them, and they dropped asleep
      on their very table and tablecloth. Ricote and Sancho alone remained
      awake, for they had eaten more and drunk less, and Ricote drawing Sancho
      aside, they seated themselves at the foot of a beech, leaving the pilgrims
      buried in sweet sleep; and without once falling into his own Morisco
      tongue Ricote spoke as follows in pure Castilian:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou knowest well, neighbour and friend Sancho Panza, how the
      proclamation or edict his Majesty commanded to be issued against those of
      my nation filled us all with terror and dismay; me at least it did,
      insomuch that I think before the time granted us for quitting Spain was
      out, the full force of the penalty had already fallen upon me and upon my
      children. I decided, then, and I think wisely (just like one who knows
      that at a certain date the house he lives in will be taken from him, and
      looks out beforehand for another to change into), I decided, I say, to
      leave the town myself, alone and without my family, and go to seek out
      some place to remove them to comfortably and not in the hurried way in
      which the others took their departure; for I saw very plainly, and so did
      all the older men among us, that the proclamations were not mere threats,
      as some said, but positive enactments which would be enforced at the
      appointed time; and what made me believe this was what I knew of the base
      and extravagant designs which our people harboured, designs of such a
      nature that I think it was a divine inspiration that moved his Majesty to
      carry out a resolution so spirited; not that we were all guilty, for some
      there were true and steadfast Christians; but they were so few that they
      could make no head against those who were not; and it was not prudent to
      cherish a viper in the bosom by having enemies in the house. In short it
      was with just cause that we were visited with the penalty of banishment, a
      mild and lenient one in the eyes of some, but to us the most terrible that
      could be inflicted upon us. Wherever we are we weep for Spain; for after
      all we were born there and it is our natural fatherland. Nowhere do we
      find the reception our unhappy condition needs; and in Barbary and all the
      parts of Africa where we counted upon being received, succoured, and
      welcomed, it is there they insult and ill-treat us most. We knew not our
      good fortune until we lost it; and such is the longing we almost all of us
      have to return to Spain, that most of those who like myself know the
      language, and there are many who do, come back to it and leave their wives
      and children forsaken yonder, so great is their love for it; and now I
      know by experience the meaning of the saying, sweet is the love of one's
      country.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I left our village, as I said, and went to France, but though they gave
      us a kind reception there I was anxious to see all I could. I crossed into
      Italy, and reached Germany, and there it seemed to me we might live with
      more freedom, as the inhabitants do not pay any attention to trifling
      points; everyone lives as he likes, for in most parts they enjoy liberty
      of conscience. I took a house in a town near Augsburg, and then joined
      these pilgrims, who are in the habit of coming to Spain in great numbers
      every year to visit the shrines there, which they look upon as their
      Indies and a sure and certain source of gain. They travel nearly all over
      it, and there is no town out of which they do not go full up of meat and
      drink, as the saying is, and with a real, at least, in money, and they
      come off at the end of their travels with more than a hundred crowns
      saved, which, changed into gold, they smuggle out of the kingdom either in
      the hollow of their staves or in the patches of their pilgrim's cloaks or
      by some device of their own, and carry to their own country in spite of
      the guards at the posts and passes where they are searched. Now my purpose
      is, Sancho, to carry away the treasure that I left buried, which, as it is
      outside the town, I shall be able to do without risk, and to write, or
      cross over from Valencia, to my daughter and wife, who I know are at
      Algiers, and find some means of bringing them to some French port and
      thence to Germany, there to await what it may be God's will to do with us;
      for, after all, Sancho, I know well that Ricota my daughter and Francisca
      Ricota my wife are Catholic Christians, and though I am not so much so,
      still I am more of a Christian than a Moor, and it is always my prayer to
      God that he will open the eyes of my understanding and show me how I am to
      serve him; but what amazes me and I cannot understand is why my wife and
      daughter should have gone to Barbary rather than to France, where they
      could live as Christians."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this Sancho replied, "Remember, Ricote, that may not have been open to
      them, for Juan Tiopieyo thy wife's brother took them, and being a true
      Moor he went where he could go most easily; and another thing I can tell
      thee, it is my belief thou art going in vain to look for what thou hast
      left buried, for we heard they took from thy brother-in-law and thy wife a
      great quantity of pearls and money in gold which they brought to be
      passed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That may be," said Ricote; "but I know they did not touch my hoard, for I
      did not tell them where it was, for fear of accidents; and so, if thou
      wilt come with me, Sancho, and help me to take it away and conceal it, I
      will give thee two hundred crowns wherewith thou mayest relieve thy
      necessities, and, as thou knowest, I know they are many."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would do it," said Sancho; "but I am not at all covetous, for I gave up
      an office this morning in which, if I was, I might have made the walls of
      my house of gold and dined off silver plates before six months were over;
      and so for this reason, and because I feel I would be guilty of treason to
      my king if I helped his enemies, I would not go with thee if instead of
      promising me two hundred crowns thou wert to give me four hundred here in
      hand."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what office is this thou hast given up, Sancho?" asked Ricote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have given up being governor of an island," said Sancho, "and such a
      one, faith, as you won't find the like of easily."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And where is this island?" said Ricote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Where?" said Sancho; "two leagues from here, and it is called the island
      of Barataria."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nonsense! Sancho," said Ricote; "islands are away out in the sea; there
      are no islands on the mainland."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What? No islands!" said Sancho; "I tell thee, friend Ricote, I left it
      this morning, and yesterday I was governing there as I pleased like a
      sagittarius; but for all that I gave it up, for it seemed to me a
      dangerous office, a governor's."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what hast thou gained by the government?" asked Ricote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have gained," said Sancho, "the knowledge that I am no good for
      governing, unless it is a drove of cattle, and that the riches that are to
      be got by these governments are got at the cost of one's rest and sleep,
      ay and even one's food; for in islands the governors must eat little,
      especially if they have doctors to look after their health."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't understand thee, Sancho," said Ricote; "but it seems to me all
      nonsense thou art talking. Who would give thee islands to govern? Is there
      any scarcity in the world of cleverer men than thou art for governors?
      Hold thy peace, Sancho, and come back to thy senses, and consider whether
      thou wilt come with me as I said to help me to take away treasure I left
      buried (for indeed it may be called a treasure, it is so large), and I
      will give thee wherewithal to keep thee, as I told thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And I have told thee already, Ricote, that I will not," said Sancho; "let
      it content thee that by me thou shalt not be betrayed, and go thy way in
      God's name and let me go mine; for I know that well-gotten gain may be
      lost, but ill-gotten gain is lost, itself and its owner likewise."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will not press thee, Sancho," said Ricote; "but tell me, wert thou in
      our village when my wife and daughter and brother-in-law left it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was so," said Sancho; "and I can tell thee thy daughter left it looking
      so lovely that all the village turned out to see her, and everybody said
      she was the fairest creature in the world. She wept as she went, and
      embraced all her friends and acquaintances and those who came out to see
      her, and she begged them all to commend her to God and Our Lady his
      mother, and this in such a touching way that it made me weep myself,
      though I'm not much given to tears commonly; and, faith, many a one would
      have liked to hide her, or go out and carry her off on the road; but the
      fear of going against the king's command kept them back. The one who
      showed himself most moved was Don Pedro Gregorio, the rich young heir thou
      knowest of, and they say he was deep in love with her; and since she left
      he has not been seen in our village again, and we all suspect he has gone
      after her to steal her away, but so far nothing has been heard of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I always had a suspicion that gentleman had a passion for my daughter,"
      said Ricote; "but as I felt sure of my Ricota's virtue it gave me no
      uneasiness to know that he loved her; for thou must have heard it said,
      Sancho, that the Morisco women seldom or never engage in amours with the
      old Christians; and my daughter, who I fancy thought more of being a
      Christian than of lovemaking, would not trouble herself about the
      attentions of this heir."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God grant it," said Sancho, "for it would be a bad business for both of
      them; but now let me be off, friend Ricote, for I want to reach where my
      master Don Quixote is to-night."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God be with thee, brother Sancho," said Ricote; "my comrades are
      beginning to stir, and it is time, too, for us to continue our journey;"
      and then they both embraced, and Sancho mounted Dapple, and Ricote leant
      upon his staff, and so they parted.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p54e" id="p54e"></a>
    </p>
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      <img alt="p54e.jpg (40K)" src="images/p54e.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch55b" id="ch55b"></a>CHAPTER LV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF WHAT BEFELL SANCHO ON THE ROAD, AND OTHER THINGS THAT CANNOT BE
      SURPASSED
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p55a" id="p55a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p55a.jpg (126K)" src="images/p55a.jpg" width="100%" />
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      <a href="images/p55a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The length of time he delayed with Ricote prevented Sancho from reaching
      the duke's castle that day, though he was within half a league of it when
      night, somewhat dark and cloudy, overtook him. This, however, as it was
      summer time, did not give him much uneasiness, and he turned aside out of
      the road intending to wait for morning; but his ill luck and hard fate so
      willed it that as he was searching about for a place to make himself as
      comfortable as possible, he and Dapple fell into a deep dark hole that lay
      among some very old buildings. As he fell he commended himself with all
      his heart to God, fancying he was not going to stop until he reached the
      depths of the bottomless pit; but it did not turn out so, for at little
      more than thrice a man's height Dapple touched bottom, and he found
      himself sitting on him without having received any hurt or damage
      whatever. He felt himself all over and held his breath to try whether he
      was quite sound or had a hole made in him anywhere, and finding himself
      all right and whole and in perfect health he was profuse in his thanks to
      God our Lord for the mercy that had been shown him, for he made sure he
      had been broken into a thousand pieces. He also felt along the sides of
      the pit with his hands to see if it were possible to get out of it without
      help, but he found they were quite smooth and afforded no hold anywhere,
      at which he was greatly distressed, especially when he heard how
      pathetically and dolefully Dapple was bemoaning himself, and no wonder he
      complained, nor was it from ill-temper, for in truth he was not in a very
      good case. "Alas," said Sancho, "what unexpected accidents happen at every
      step to those who live in this miserable world! Who would have said that
      one who saw himself yesterday sitting on a throne, governor of an island,
      giving orders to his servants and his vassals, would see himself to-day
      buried in a pit without a soul to help him, or servant or vassal to come
      to his relief? Here must we perish with hunger, my ass and myself, if
      indeed we don't die first, he of his bruises and injuries, and I of grief
      and sorrow. At any rate I'll not be as lucky as my master Don Quixote of
      La Mancha, when he went down into the cave of that enchanted Montesinos,
      where he found people to make more of him than if he had been in his own
      house; for it seems he came in for a table laid out and a bed ready made.
      There he saw fair and pleasant visions, but here I'll see, I imagine,
      toads and adders. Unlucky wretch that I am, what an end my follies and
      fancies have come to! They'll take up my bones out of this, when it is
      heaven's will that I'm found, picked clean, white and polished, and my
      good Dapple's with them, and by that, perhaps, it will be found out who we
      are, at least by such as have heard that Sancho Panza never separated from
      his ass, nor his ass from Sancho Panza. Unlucky wretches, I say again,
      that our hard fate should not let us die in our own country and among our
      own people, where if there was no help for our misfortune, at any rate
      there would be some one to grieve for it and to close our eyes as we
      passed away! O comrade and friend, how ill have I repaid thy faithful
      services! Forgive me, and entreat Fortune, as well as thou canst, to
      deliver us out of this miserable strait we are both in; and I promise to
      put a crown of laurel on thy head, and make thee look like a poet
      laureate, and give thee double feeds."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p55b" id="p55b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p55b.jpg (273K)" src="images/p55b.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <a href="images/p55b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      In this strain did Sancho bewail himself, and his ass listened to him, but
      answered him never a word, such was the distress and anguish the poor
      beast found himself in. At length, after a night spent in bitter moanings
      and lamentations, day came, and by its light Sancho perceived that it was
      wholly impossible to escape out of that pit without help, and he fell to
      bemoaning his fate and uttering loud shouts to find out if there was
      anyone within hearing; but all his shouting was only crying in the
      wilderness, for there was not a soul anywhere in the neighbourhood to hear
      him, and then at last he gave himself up for dead. Dapple was lying on his
      back, and Sancho helped him to his feet, which he was scarcely able to
      keep; and then taking a piece of bread out of his alforjas which had
      shared their fortunes in the fall, he gave it to the ass, to whom it was
      not unwelcome, saying to him as if he understood him, "With bread all
      sorrows are less."
    </p>
    <p>
      And now he perceived on one side of the pit a hole large enough to admit a
      person if he stooped and squeezed himself into a small compass. Sancho
      made for it, and entered it by creeping, and found it wide and spacious on
      the inside, which he was able to see as a ray of sunlight that penetrated
      what might be called the roof showed it all plainly. He observed too that
      it opened and widened out into another spacious cavity; seeing which he
      made his way back to where the ass was, and with a stone began to pick
      away the clay from the hole until in a short time he had made room for the
      beast to pass easily, and this accomplished, taking him by the halter, he
      proceeded to traverse the cavern to see if there was any outlet at the
      other end. He advanced, sometimes in the dark, sometimes without light,
      but never without fear; "God Almighty help me!" said he to himself; "this
      that is a misadventure to me would make a good adventure for my master Don
      Quixote. He would have been sure to take these depths and dungeons for
      flowery gardens or the palaces of Galiana, and would have counted upon
      issuing out of this darkness and imprisonment into some blooming meadow;
      but I, unlucky that I am, hopeless and spiritless, expect at every step
      another pit deeper than the first to open under my feet and swallow me up
      for good; 'welcome evil, if thou comest alone.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      In this way and with these reflections he seemed to himself to have
      travelled rather more than half a league, when at last he perceived a dim
      light that looked like daylight and found its way in on one side, showing
      that this road, which appeared to him the road to the other world, led to
      some opening.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Cide Hamete leaves him, and returns to Don Quixote, who in high
      spirits and satisfaction was looking forward to the day fixed for the
      battle he was to fight with him who had robbed Dona Rodriguez's daughter
      of her honour, for whom he hoped to obtain satisfaction for the wrong and
      injury shamefully done to her. It came to pass, then, that having sallied
      forth one morning to practise and exercise himself in what he would have
      to do in the encounter he expected to find himself engaged in the next
      day, as he was putting Rocinante through his paces or pressing him to the
      charge, he brought his feet so close to a pit that but for reining him in
      tightly it would have been impossible for him to avoid falling into it. He
      pulled him up, however, without a fall, and coming a little closer
      examined the hole without dismounting; but as he was looking at it he
      heard loud cries proceeding from it, and by listening attentively was able
      to make out that he who uttered them was saying, "Ho, above there! is
      there any Christian that hears me, or any charitable gentleman that will
      take pity on a sinner buried alive, on an unfortunate disgoverned
      governor?"
    </p>
    <p>
      It struck Don Quixote that it was the voice of Sancho Panza he heard,
      whereat he was taken aback and amazed, and raising his own voice as much
      as he could, he cried out, "Who is below there? Who is that complaining?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who should be here, or who should complain," was the answer, "but the
      forlorn Sancho Panza, for his sins and for his ill-luck governor of the
      island of Barataria, squire that was to the famous knight Don Quixote of
      La Mancha?"
    </p>
    <p>
      When Don Quixote heard this his amazement was redoubled and his
      perturbation grew greater than ever, for it suggested itself to his mind
      that Sancho must be dead, and that his soul was in torment down there; and
      carried away by this idea he exclaimed, "I conjure thee by everything that
      as a Catholic Christian I can conjure thee by, tell me who thou art; and
      if thou art a soul in torment, tell me what thou wouldst have me do for
      thee; for as my profession is to give aid and succour to those that need
      it in this world, it will also extend to aiding and succouring the
      distressed of the other, who cannot help themselves."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In that case," answered the voice, "your worship who speaks to me must be
      my master Don Quixote of La Mancha; nay, from the tone of the voice it is
      plain it can be nobody else."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Don Quixote I am," replied Don Quixote, "he whose profession it is to aid
      and succour the living and the dead in their necessities; wherefore tell
      me who thou art, for thou art keeping me in suspense; because, if thou art
      my squire Sancho Panza, and art dead, since the devils have not carried
      thee off, and thou art by God's mercy in purgatory, our holy mother the
      Roman Catholic Church has intercessory means sufficient to release thee
      from the pains thou art in; and I for my part will plead with her to that
      end, so far as my substance will go; without further delay, therefore,
      declare thyself, and tell me who thou art."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By all that's good," was the answer, "and by the birth of whomsoever your
      worship chooses, I swear, Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha, that I am your
      squire Sancho Panza, and that I have never died all my life; but that,
      having given up my government for reasons that would require more time to
      explain, I fell last night into this pit where I am now, and Dapple is
      witness and won't let me lie, for more by token he is here with me."
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor was this all; one would have fancied the ass understood what Sancho
      said, because that moment he began to bray so loudly that the whole cave
      rang again.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Famous testimony!" exclaimed Don Quixote; "I know that bray as well as if
      I was its mother, and thy voice too, my Sancho. Wait while I go to the
      duke's castle, which is close by, and I will bring some one to take thee
      out of this pit into which thy sins no doubt have brought thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Go, your worship," said Sancho, "and come back quick for God's sake; for
      I cannot bear being buried alive any longer, and I'm dying of fear."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote left him, and hastened to the castle to tell the duke and
      duchess what had happened Sancho, and they were not a little astonished at
      it; they could easily understand his having fallen, from the confirmatory
      circumstance of the cave which had been in existence there from time
      immemorial; but they could not imagine how he had quitted the government
      without their receiving any intimation of his coming. To be brief, they
      fetched ropes and tackle, as the saying is, and by dint of many hands and
      much labour they drew up Dapple and Sancho Panza out of the darkness into
      the light of day. A student who saw him remarked, "That's the way all bad
      governors should come out of their governments, as this sinner comes out
      of the depths of the pit, dead with hunger, pale, and I suppose without a
      farthing."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho overheard him and said, "It is eight or ten days, brother growler,
      since I entered upon the government of the island they gave me, and all
      that time I never had a bellyful of victuals, no not for an hour; doctors
      persecuted me and enemies crushed my bones; nor had I any opportunity of
      taking bribes or levying taxes; and if that be the case, as it is, I don't
      deserve, I think, to come out in this fashion; but 'man proposes and God
      disposes;' and God knows what is best, and what suits each one best; and
      'as the occasion, so the behaviour;' and 'let nobody say "I won't drink of
      this water;"' and 'where one thinks there are flitches, there are no
      pegs;' God knows my meaning and that's enough; I say no more, though I
      could."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be not angry or annoyed at what thou hearest, Sancho," said Don Quixote,
      "or there will never be an end of it; keep a safe conscience and let them
      say what they like; for trying to stop slanderers' tongues is like trying
      to put gates to the open plain. If a governor comes out of his government
      rich, they say he has been a thief; and if he comes out poor, that he has
      been a noodle and a blockhead."
    </p>
    <p>
      "They'll be pretty sure this time," said Sancho, "to set me down for a
      fool rather than a thief."
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus talking, and surrounded by boys and a crowd of people, they reached
      the castle, where in one of the corridors the duke and duchess stood
      waiting for them; but Sancho would not go up to see the duke until he had
      first put up Dapple in the stable, for he said he had passed a very bad
      night in his last quarters; then he went upstairs to see his lord and
      lady, and kneeling before them he said, "Because it was your highnesses'
      pleasure, not because of any desert of my own, I went to govern your
      island of Barataria, which 'I entered naked, and naked I find myself; I
      neither lose nor gain.' Whether I have governed well or ill, I have had
      witnesses who will say what they think fit. I have answered questions, I
      have decided causes, and always dying of hunger, for Doctor Pedro Recio of
      Tirteafuera, the island and governor doctor, would have it so. Enemies
      attacked us by night and put us in a great quandary, but the people of the
      island say they came off safe and victorious by the might of my arm; and
      may God give them as much health as there's truth in what they say. In
      short, during that time I have weighed the cares and responsibilities
      governing brings with it, and by my reckoning I find my shoulders can't
      bear them, nor are they a load for my loins or arrows for my quiver; and
      so, before the government threw me over I preferred to throw the
      government over; and yesterday morning I left the island as I found it,
      with the same streets, houses, and roofs it had when I entered it. I asked
      no loan of anybody, nor did I try to fill my pocket; and though I meant to
      make some useful laws, I made hardly any, as I was afraid they would not
      be kept; for in that case it comes to the same thing to make them or not
      to make them. I quitted the island, as I said, without any escort except
      my ass; I fell into a pit, I pushed on through it, until this morning by
      the light of the sun I saw an outlet, but not so easy a one but that, had
      not heaven sent me my master Don Quixote, I'd have stayed there till the
      end of the world. So now my lord and lady duke and duchess, here is your
      governor Sancho Panza, who in the bare ten days he has held the government
      has come by the knowledge that he would not give anything to be governor,
      not to say of an island, but of the whole world; and that point being
      settled, kissing your worships' feet, and imitating the game of the boys
      when they say, 'leap thou, and give me one,' I take a leap out of the
      government and pass into the service of my master Don Quixote; for after
      all, though in it I eat my bread in fear and trembling, at any rate I take
      my fill; and for my part, so long as I'm full, it's all alike to me
      whether it's with carrots or with partridges."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Sancho brought his long speech to an end, Don Quixote having been the
      whole time in dread of his uttering a host of absurdities; and when he
      found him leave off with so few, he thanked heaven in his heart. The duke
      embraced Sancho and told him he was heartily sorry he had given up the
      government so soon, but that he would see that he was provided with some
      other post on his estate less onerous and more profitable. The duchess
      also embraced him, and gave orders that he should be taken good care of,
      as it was plain to see he had been badly treated and worse bruised.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p55e" id="p55e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p55e.jpg (18K)" src="images/p55e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch56b" id="ch56b"></a>CHAPTER LVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE PRODIGIOUS AND UNPARALLELED BATTLE THAT TOOK PLACE BETWEEN DON
      QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA AND THE LACQUEY TOSILOS IN DEFENCE OF THE DAUGHTER OF
      DONA RODRIGUEZ
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p56a" id="p56a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p56a.jpg (158K)" src="images/p56a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p56a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The duke and duchess had no reason to regret the joke that had been played
      upon Sancho Panza in giving him the government; especially as their
      majordomo returned the same day, and gave them a minute account of almost
      every word and deed that Sancho uttered or did during the time; and to
      wind up with, eloquently described to them the attack upon the island and
      Sancho's fright and departure, with which they were not a little amused.
      After this the history goes on to say that the day fixed for the battle
      arrived, and that the duke, after having repeatedly instructed his lacquey
      Tosilos how to deal with Don Quixote so as to vanquish him without killing
      or wounding him, gave orders to have the heads removed from the lances,
      telling Don Quixote that Christian charity, on which he plumed himself,
      could not suffer the battle to be fought with so much risk and danger to
      life; and that he must be content with the offer of a battlefield on his
      territory (though that was against the decree of the holy Council, which
      prohibits all challenges of the sort) and not push such an arduous venture
      to its extreme limits. Don Quixote bade his excellence arrange all matters
      connected with the affair as he pleased, as on his part he would obey him
      in everything. The dread day, then, having arrived, and the duke having
      ordered a spacious stand to be erected facing the court of the castle for
      the judges of the field and the appellant duennas, mother and daughter,
      vast crowds flocked from all the villages and hamlets of the neighbourhood
      to see the novel spectacle of the battle; nobody, dead or alive, in those
      parts having ever seen or heard of such a one.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first person to enter the field and the lists was the master of the
      ceremonies, who surveyed and paced the whole ground to see that there was
      nothing unfair and nothing concealed to make the combatants stumble or
      fall; then the duennas entered and seated themselves, enveloped in mantles
      covering their eyes, nay even their bosoms, and displaying no slight
      emotion as Don Quixote appeared in the lists. Shortly afterwards,
      accompanied by several trumpets and mounted on a powerful steed that
      threatened to crush the whole place, the great lacquey Tosilos made his
      appearance on one side of the courtyard with his visor down and stiffly
      cased in a suit of stout shining armour. The horse was a manifest
      Frieslander, broad-backed and flea-bitten, and with half a hundred of wool
      hanging to each of his fetlocks. The gallant combatant came well primed by
      his master the duke as to how he was to bear himself against the valiant
      Don Quixote of La Mancha; being warned that he must on no account slay
      him, but strive to shirk the first encounter so as to avoid the risk of
      killing him, as he was sure to do if he met him full tilt. He crossed the
      courtyard at a walk, and coming to where the duennas were placed stopped
      to look at her who demanded him for a husband; the marshal of the field
      summoned Don Quixote, who had already presented himself in the courtyard,
      and standing by the side of Tosilos he addressed the duennas, and asked
      them if they consented that Don Quixote of La Mancha should do battle for
      their right. They said they did, and that whatever he should do in that
      behalf they declared rightly done, final and valid. By this time the duke
      and duchess had taken their places in a gallery commanding the enclosure,
      which was filled to overflowing with a multitude of people eager to see
      this perilous and unparalleled encounter. The conditions of the combat
      were that if Don Quixote proved the victor his antagonist was to marry the
      daughter of Dona Rodriguez; but if he should be vanquished his opponent
      was released from the promise that was claimed against him and from all
      obligations to give satisfaction. The master of the ceremonies apportioned
      the sun to them, and stationed them, each on the spot where he was to
      stand. The drums beat, the sound of the trumpets filled the air, the earth
      trembled under foot, the hearts of the gazing crowd were full of anxiety,
      some hoping for a happy issue, some apprehensive of an untoward ending to
      the affair, and lastly, Don Quixote, commending himself with all his heart
      to God our Lord and to the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, stood waiting for
      them to give the necessary signal for the onset. Our lacquey, however, was
      thinking of something very different; he only thought of what I am now
      going to mention.
    </p>
    <p>
      It seems that as he stood contemplating his enemy she struck him as the
      most beautiful woman he had ever seen all his life; and the little blind
      boy whom in our streets they commonly call Love had no mind to let slip
      the chance of triumphing over a lacquey heart, and adding it to the list
      of his trophies; and so, stealing gently upon him unseen, he drove a dart
      two yards long into the poor lacquey's left side and pierced his heart
      through and through; which he was able to do quite at his ease, for Love
      is invisible, and comes in and goes out as he likes, without anyone
      calling him to account for what he does. Well then, when they gave the
      signal for the onset our lacquey was in an ecstasy, musing upon the beauty
      of her whom he had already made mistress of his liberty, and so he paid no
      attention to the sound of the trumpet, unlike Don Quixote, who was off the
      instant he heard it, and, at the highest speed Rocinante was capable of,
      set out to meet his enemy, his good squire Sancho shouting lustily as he
      saw him start, "God guide thee, cream and flower of knights-errant! God
      give thee the victory, for thou hast the right on thy side!" But though
      Tosilos saw Don Quixote coming at him he never stirred a step from the
      spot where he was posted; and instead of doing so called loudly to the
      marshal of the field, to whom when he came up to see what he wanted he
      said, "Senor, is not this battle to decide whether I marry or do not marry
      that lady?" "Just so," was the answer. "Well then," said the lacquey, "I
      feel qualms of conscience, and I should lay a heavy burden upon it if I
      were to proceed any further with the combat; I therefore declare that I
      yield myself vanquished, and that I am willing to marry the lady at once."
    </p>
    <p>
      The marshal of the field was lost in astonishment at the words of Tosilos;
      and as he was one of those who were privy to the arrangement of the affair
      he knew not what to say in reply. Don Quixote pulled up in mid career when
      he saw that his enemy was not coming on to the attack. The duke could not
      make out the reason why the battle did not go on; but the marshal of the
      field hastened to him to let him know what Tosilos said, and he was amazed
      and extremely angry at it. In the meantime Tosilos advanced to where Dona
      Rodriguez sat and said in a loud voice, "Senora, I am willing to marry
      your daughter, and I have no wish to obtain by strife and fighting what I
      can obtain in peace and without any risk to my life."
    </p>
    <p>
      The valiant Don Quixote heard him, and said, "As that is the case I am
      released and absolved from my promise; let them marry by all means, and as
      'God our Lord has given her, may Saint Peter add his blessing.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      The duke had now descended to the courtyard of the castle, and going up to
      Tosilos he said to him, "Is it true, sir knight, that you yield yourself
      vanquished, and that moved by scruples of conscience you wish to marry
      this damsel?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is, senor," replied Tosilos.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And he does well," said Sancho, "for what thou hast to give to the mouse,
      give to the cat, and it will save thee all trouble."
    </p>
    <p>
      Tosilos meanwhile was trying to unlace his helmet, and he begged them to
      come to his help at once, as his power of breathing was failing him, and
      he could not remain so long shut up in that confined space. They removed
      it in all haste, and his lacquey features were revealed to public gaze. At
      this sight Dona Rodriguez and her daughter raised a mighty outcry,
      exclaiming, "This is a trick! This is a trick! They have put Tosilos, my
      lord the duke's lacquey, upon us in place of the real husband. The justice
      of God and the king against such trickery, not to say roguery!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Do not distress yourselves, ladies," said Don Quixote; "for this is no
      trickery or roguery; or if it is, it is not the duke who is at the bottom
      of it, but those wicked enchanters who persecute me, and who, jealous of
      my reaping the glory of this victory, have turned your husband's features
      into those of this person, who you say is a lacquey of the duke's; take my
      advice, and notwithstanding the malice of my enemies marry him, for beyond
      a doubt he is the one you wish for a husband."
    </p>
    <p>
      When the duke heard this all his anger was near vanishing in a fit of
      laughter, and he said, "The things that happen to Senor Don Quixote are so
      extraordinary that I am ready to believe this lacquey of mine is not one;
      but let us adopt this plan and device; let us put off the marriage for,
      say, a fortnight, and let us keep this person about whom we are uncertain
      in close confinement, and perhaps in the course of that time he may return
      to his original shape; for the spite which the enchanters entertain
      against Senor Don Quixote cannot last so long, especially as it is of so
      little advantage to them to practise these deceptions and
      transformations."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, senor," said Sancho, "those scoundrels are well used to changing
      whatever concerns my master from one thing into another. A knight that he
      overcame some time back, called the Knight of the Mirrors, they turned
      into the shape of the bachelor Samson Carrasco of our town and a great
      friend of ours; and my lady Dulcinea del Toboso they have turned into a
      common country wench; so I suspect this lacquey will have to live and die
      a lacquey all the days of his life."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the Rodriguez's daughter exclaimed, "Let him be who he may, this man
      that claims me for a wife; I am thankful to him for the same, for I had
      rather be the lawful wife of a lacquey than the cheated mistress of a
      gentleman; though he who played me false is nothing of the kind."
    </p>
    <p>
      To be brief, all the talk and all that had happened ended in Tosilos being
      shut up until it was seen how his transformation turned out. All hailed
      Don Quixote as victor, but the greater number were vexed and disappointed
      at finding that the combatants they had been so anxiously waiting for had
      not battered one another to pieces, just as the boys are disappointed when
      the man they are waiting to see hanged does not come out, because the
      prosecution or the court has pardoned him. The people dispersed, the duke
      and Don Quixote returned to the castle, they locked up Tosilos, Dona
      Rodriguez and her daughter remained perfectly contented when they saw that
      any way the affair must end in marriage, and Tosilos wanted nothing else.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p56e" id="p56e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p56e.jpg (46K)" src="images/p56e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch57b" id="ch57b"></a>CHAPTER LVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TREATS OF HOW DON QUIXOTE TOOK LEAVE OF THE DUKE, AND OF WHAT
      FOLLOWED WITH THE WITTY AND IMPUDENT ALTISIDORA, ONE OF THE DUCHESS'S
      DAMSELS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p57a" id="p57a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p57a.jpg (119K)" src="images/p57a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p57a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote now felt it right to quit a life of such idleness as he was
      leading in the castle; for he fancied that he was making himself sorely
      missed by suffering himself to remain shut up and inactive amid the
      countless luxuries and enjoyments his hosts lavished upon him as a knight,
      and he felt too that he would have to render a strict account to heaven of
      that indolence and seclusion; and so one day he asked the duke and duchess
      to grant him permission to take his departure. They gave it, showing at
      the same time that they were very sorry he was leaving them.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p57b" id="p57b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p57b.jpg (370K)" src="images/p57b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p57b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The duchess gave his wife's letters to Sancho Panza, who shed tears over
      them, saying, "Who would have thought that such grand hopes as the news of
      my government bred in my wife Teresa Panza's breast would end in my going
      back now to the vagabond adventures of my master Don Quixote of La Mancha?
      Still I'm glad to see my Teresa behaved as she ought in sending the
      acorns, for if she had not sent them I'd have been sorry, and she'd have
      shown herself ungrateful. It is a comfort to me that they can't call that
      present a bribe; for I had got the government already when she sent them,
      and it's but reasonable that those who have had a good turn done them
      should show their gratitude, if it's only with a trifle. After all I went
      into the government naked, and I come out of it naked; so I can say with a
      safe conscience&mdash;and that's no small matter&mdash;'naked I was born,
      naked I find myself, I neither lose nor gain.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus did Sancho soliloquise on the day of their departure, as Don Quixote,
      who had the night before taken leave of the duke and duchess, coming out
      made his appearance at an early hour in full armour in the courtyard of
      the castle. The whole household of the castle were watching him from the
      corridors, and the duke and duchess, too, came out to see him. Sancho was
      mounted on his Dapple, with his alforjas, valise, and proven supremely
      happy because the duke's majordomo, the same that had acted the part of
      the Trifaldi, had given him a little purse with two hundred gold crowns to
      meet the necessary expenses of the road, but of this Don Quixote knew
      nothing as yet. While all were, as has been said, observing him, suddenly
      from among the duennas and handmaidens the impudent and witty Altisidora
      lifted up her voice and said in pathetic tones:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Give ear, cruel knight;
  Draw rein; where's the need
Of spurring the flanks
  Of that ill-broken steed?
From what art thou flying?
  No dragon I am,
Not even a sheep,
  But a tender young lamb.
Thou hast jilted a maiden
  As fair to behold
As nymph of Diana
  Or Venus of old.

Bireno, AEneas, what worse shall I call thee?

Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee!

In thy claws, ruthless robber,
  Thou bearest away
The heart of a meek
  Loving maid for thy prey,
Three kerchiefs thou stealest,
  And garters a pair,
From legs than the whitest
  Of marble more fair;
And the sighs that pursue thee
  Would burn to the ground
Two thousand Troy Towns,
  If so many were found.

Bireno, AEneas, what worse shall I call thee?

Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee!

May no bowels of mercy
  To Sancho be granted,
And thy Dulcinea
  Be left still enchanted,
May thy falsehood to me
  Find its punishment in her,
For in my land the just
  Often pays for the sinner.
May thy grandest adventures
  Discomfitures prove,
May thy joys be all dreams,
  And forgotten thy love.

Bireno, AEneas, what worse shall I call thee?

Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee!

May thy name be abhorred
  For thy conduct to ladies,
From London to England,
  From Seville to Cadiz;
May thy cards be unlucky,
  Thy hands contain ne'er a
King, seven, or ace
  When thou playest primera;
When thy corns are cut
  May it be to the quick;
When thy grinders are drawn
  May the roots of them stick.

Bireno, AEneas, what worse shall I call thee?

Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee!

</pre>
    <p>
      All the while the unhappy Altisidora was bewailing herself in the above
      strain Don Quixote stood staring at her; and without uttering a word in
      reply to her he turned round to Sancho and said, "Sancho my friend, I
      conjure thee by the life of thy forefathers tell me the truth; say, hast
      thou by any chance taken the three kerchiefs and the garters this
      love-sick maid speaks of?"
    </p>
    <p>
      To this Sancho made answer, "The three kerchiefs I have; but the garters,
      as much as 'over the hills of Ubeda.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      The duchess was amazed at Altisidora's assurance; she knew that she was
      bold, lively, and impudent, but not so much so as to venture to make free
      in this fashion; and not being prepared for the joke, her astonishment was
      all the greater. The duke had a mind to keep up the sport, so he said, "It
      does not seem to me well done in you, sir knight, that after having
      received the hospitality that has been offered you in this very castle,
      you should have ventured to carry off even three kerchiefs, not to say my
      handmaid's garters. It shows a bad heart and does not tally with your
      reputation. Restore her garters, or else I defy you to mortal combat, for
      I am not afraid of rascally enchanters changing or altering my features as
      they changed his who encountered you into those of my lacquey, Tosilos."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God forbid," said Don Quixote, "that I should draw my sword against your
      illustrious person from which I have received such great favours. The
      kerchiefs I will restore, as Sancho says he has them; as to the garters
      that is impossible, for I have not got them, neither has he; and if your
      handmaiden here will look in her hiding-places, depend upon it she will
      find them. I have never been a thief, my lord duke, nor do I mean to be so
      long as I live, if God cease not to have me in his keeping. This damsel by
      her own confession speaks as one in love, for which I am not to blame, and
      therefore need not ask pardon, either of her or of your excellence, whom I
      entreat to have a better opinion of me, and once more to give me leave to
      pursue my journey."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And may God so prosper it, Senor Don Quixote," said the duchess, "that we
      may always hear good news of your exploits; God speed you; for the longer
      you stay, the more you inflame the hearts of the damsels who behold you;
      and as for this one of mine, I will so chastise her that she will not
      transgress again, either with her eyes or with her words."
    </p>
    <p>
      "One word and no more, O valiant Don Quixote, I ask you to hear," said
      Altisidora, "and that is that I beg your pardon about the theft of the
      garters; for by God and upon my soul I have got them on, and I have fallen
      into the same blunder as he did who went looking for his ass being all the
      while mounted on it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Didn't I say so?" said Sancho. "I'm a likely one to hide thefts! Why if I
      wanted to deal in them, opportunities came ready enough to me in my
      government."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote bowed his head, and saluted the duke and duchess and all the
      bystanders, and wheeling Rocinante round, Sancho following him on Dapple,
      he rode out of the castle, shaping his course for Saragossa.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p57e" id="p57e"></a>
    </p>
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    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch58b" id="ch58b"></a>CHAPTER LVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TELLS HOW ADVENTURES CAME CROWDING ON DON QUIXOTE IN SUCH NUMBERS
      THAT THEY GAVE ONE ANOTHER NO BREATHING-TIME
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p58a" id="p58a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p58a.jpg (105K)" src="images/p58a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p58a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      When Don Quixote saw himself in open country, free, and relieved from the
      attentions of Altisidora, he felt at his ease, and in fresh spirits to
      take up the pursuit of chivalry once more; and turning to Sancho, he said,
      "Freedom, Sancho, is one of the most precious gifts that heaven has
      bestowed upon men; no treasures that the earth holds buried or the sea
      conceals can compare with it; for freedom, as for honour, life may and
      should be ventured; and on the other hand, captivity is the greatest evil
      that can fall to the lot of man. I say this, Sancho, because thou hast
      seen the good cheer, the abundance we have enjoyed in this castle we are
      leaving; well then, amid those dainty banquets and snow-cooled beverages I
      felt as though I were undergoing the straits of hunger, because I did not
      enjoy them with the same freedom as if they had been mine own; for the
      sense of being under an obligation to return benefits and favours received
      is a restraint that checks the independence of the spirit. 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!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "For all your worship says," said Sancho, "it is not becoming that there
      should be no thanks on our part for two hundred gold crowns that the
      duke's majordomo has given me in a little purse which I carry next my
      heart, like a warming plaster or comforter, to meet any chance calls; for
      we shan't always find castles where they'll entertain us; now and then we
      may light upon roadside inns where they'll cudgel us."
    </p>
    <p>
      In conversation of this sort the knight and squire errant were pursuing
      their journey, when, after they had gone a little more than half a league,
      they perceived some dozen men dressed like labourers stretched upon their
      cloaks on the grass of a green meadow eating their dinner. They had beside
      them what seemed to be white sheets concealing some objects under them,
      standing upright or lying flat, and arranged at intervals. Don Quixote
      approached the diners, and, saluting them courteously first, he asked them
      what it was those cloths covered. "Senor," answered one of the party,
      "under these cloths are some images carved in relief intended for a
      retablo we are putting up in our village; we carry them covered up that
      they may not be soiled, and on our shoulders that they may not be broken."
    </p>
    <p>
      "With your good leave," said Don Quixote, "I should like to see them; for
      images that are carried so carefully no doubt must be fine ones."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I should think they were!" said the other; "let the money they cost speak
      for that; for as a matter of fact there is not one of them that does not
      stand us in more than fifty ducats; and that your worship may judge; wait
      a moment, and you shall see with your own eyes;" and getting up from his
      dinner he went and uncovered the first image, which proved to be one of
      Saint George on horseback with a serpent writhing at his feet and the
      lance thrust down its throat with all that fierceness that is usually
      depicted. The whole group was one blaze of gold, as the saying is. On
      seeing it Don Quixote said, "That knight was one of the best
      knights-errant the army of heaven ever owned; he was called Don Saint
      George, and he was moreover a defender of maidens. Let us see this next
      one."
    </p>
    <p>
      The man uncovered it, and it was seen to be that of Saint Martin on his
      horse, dividing his cloak with the beggar. The instant Don Quixote saw it
      he said, "This knight too was one of the Christian adventurers, but I
      believe he was generous rather than valiant, as thou mayest perceive,
      Sancho, by his dividing his cloak with the beggar and giving him half of
      it; no doubt it was winter at the time, for otherwise he would have given
      him the whole of it, so charitable was he."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It was not that, most likely," said Sancho, "but that he held with the
      proverb that says, 'For giving and keeping there's need of brains.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote laughed, and asked them to take off the next cloth, underneath
      which was seen the image of the patron saint of the Spains seated on
      horseback, his sword stained with blood, trampling on Moors and treading
      heads underfoot; and on seeing it Don Quixote exclaimed, "Ay, this is a
      knight, and of the squadrons of Christ! This one is called Don Saint James
      the Moorslayer, one of the bravest saints and knights the world ever had
      or heaven has now."
    </p>
    <p>
      They then raised another cloth which it appeared covered Saint Paul
      falling from his horse, with all the details that are usually given in
      representations of his conversion. When Don Quixote saw it, rendered in
      such lifelike style that one would have said Christ was speaking and Paul
      answering, "This," he said, "was in his time the greatest enemy that the
      Church of God our Lord had, and the greatest champion it will ever have; a
      knight-errant in life, a steadfast saint in death, an untiring labourer in
      the Lord's vineyard, a teacher of the Gentiles, whose school was heaven,
      and whose instructor and master was Jesus Christ himself."
    </p>
    <p>
      There were no more images, so Don Quixote bade them cover them up again,
      and said to those who had brought them, "I take it as a happy omen,
      brothers, to have seen what I have; for these saints and knights were of
      the same profession as myself, which is the calling of arms; only there is
      this difference between them and me, that they were saints, and fought
      with divine weapons, and I am a sinner and fight with human ones. They won
      heaven by force of arms, for heaven suffereth violence; and I, so far,
      know not what I have won by dint of my sufferings; but if my Dulcinea del
      Toboso were to be released from hers, perhaps with mended fortunes and a
      mind restored to itself I might direct my steps in a better path than I am
      following at present."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May God hear and sin be deaf," said Sancho to this.
    </p>
    <p>
      The men were filled with wonder, as well at the figure as at the words of
      Don Quixote, though they did not understand one half of what he meant by
      them. They finished their dinner, took their images on their backs, and
      bidding farewell to Don Quixote resumed their journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho was amazed afresh at the extent of his master's knowledge, as much
      as if he had never known him, for it seemed to him that there was no story
      or event in the world that he had not at his fingers' ends and fixed in
      his memory, and he said to him, "In truth, master mine, if this that has
      happened to us to-day is to be called an adventure, it has been one of the
      sweetest and pleasantest that have befallen us in the whole course of our
      travels; we have come out of it unbelaboured and undismayed, neither have
      we drawn sword nor have we smitten the earth with our bodies, nor have we
      been left famishing; blessed be God that he has let me see such a thing
      with my own eyes!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou sayest well, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "but remember all times are
      not alike nor do they always run the same way; and these things the vulgar
      commonly call omens, which are not based upon any natural reason, will by
      him who is wise be esteemed and reckoned happy accidents merely. One of
      these believers in omens will get up of a morning, leave his house, and
      meet a friar of the order of the blessed Saint Francis, and, as if he had
      met a griffin, he will turn about and go home. With another Mendoza the
      salt is spilt on his table, and gloom is spilt over his heart, as if
      nature was obliged to give warning of coming misfortunes by means of such
      trivial things as these. The wise man and the Christian should not trifle
      with what it may please heaven to do. Scipio on coming to Africa stumbled
      as he leaped on shore; his soldiers took it as a bad omen; but he,
      clasping the soil with his arms, exclaimed, 'Thou canst not escape me,
      Africa, for I hold thee tight between my arms.' Thus, Sancho, meeting
      those images has been to me a most happy occurrence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I can well believe it," said Sancho; "but I wish your worship would tell
      me what is the reason that the Spaniards, when they are about to give
      battle, in calling on that Saint James the Moorslayer, say 'Santiago and
      close Spain!' Is Spain, then, open, so that it is needful to close it; or
      what is the meaning of this form?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art very simple, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "God, look you, gave
      that great knight of the Red Cross to Spain as her patron saint and
      protector, especially in those hard struggles the Spaniards had with the
      Moors; and therefore they invoke and call upon him as their defender in
      all their battles; and in these he has been many a time seen beating down,
      trampling under foot, destroying and slaughtering the Hagarene squadrons
      in the sight of all; of which fact I could give thee many examples
      recorded in truthful Spanish histories."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho changed the subject, and said to his master, "I marvel, senor, at
      the boldness of Altisidora, the duchess's handmaid; he whom they call Love
      must have cruelly pierced and wounded her; they say he is a little blind
      urchin who, though blear-eyed, or more properly speaking sightless, if he
      aims at a heart, be it ever so small, hits it and pierces it through and
      through with his arrows. I have heard it said too that the arrows of Love
      are blunted and robbed of their points by maidenly modesty and reserve;
      but with this Altisidora it seems they are sharpened rather than blunted."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Bear in mind, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that love is influenced by no
      consideration, recognises no restraints of reason, and is of the same
      nature as death, that assails alike the lofty palaces of kings and the
      humble cabins of shepherds; and when it takes entire possession of a
      heart, the first thing it does is to banish fear and shame from it; and so
      without shame Altisidora declared her passion, which excited in my mind
      embarrassment rather than commiseration."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Notable cruelty!" exclaimed Sancho; "unheard-of ingratitude! I can only
      say for myself that the very smallest loving word of hers would have
      subdued me and made a slave of me. The devil! What a heart of marble, what
      bowels of brass, what a soul of mortar! But I can't imagine what it is
      that this damsel saw in your worship that could have conquered and
      captivated her so. What gallant figure was it, what bold bearing, what
      sprightly grace, what comeliness of feature, which of these things by
      itself, or what all together, could have made her fall in love with you?
      For indeed and in truth many a time I stop to look at your worship from
      the sole of your foot to the topmost hair of your head, and I see more to
      frighten one than to make one fall in love; moreover I have heard say that
      beauty is the first and main thing that excites love, and as your worship
      has none at all, I don't know what the poor creature fell in love with."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Recollect, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "there are two sorts of beauty,
      one of the mind, the other of the body; that of the mind displays and
      exhibits itself in intelligence, in modesty, in honourable conduct, in
      generosity, in good breeding; and all these qualities are possible and may
      exist in an ugly man; and when it is this sort of beauty and not that of
      the body that is the attraction, love is apt to spring up suddenly and
      violently. I, Sancho, perceive clearly enough that I am not beautiful, but
      at the same time I know I am not hideous; and it is enough for an honest
      man not to be a monster to be an object of love, if only he possesses the
      endowments of mind I have mentioned."
    </p>
    <p>
      While engaged in this discourse they were making their way through a wood
      that lay beyond the road, when suddenly, without expecting anything of the
      kind, Don Quixote found himself caught in some nets of green cord
      stretched from one tree to another; and unable to conceive what it could
      be, he said to Sancho, "Sancho, it strikes me this affair of these nets
      will prove one of the strangest adventures imaginable. May I die if the
      enchanters that persecute me are not trying to entangle me in them and
      delay my journey, by way of revenge for my obduracy towards Altisidora.
      Well then let me tell them that if these nets, instead of being green
      cord, were made of the hardest diamonds, or stronger than that wherewith
      the jealous god of blacksmiths enmeshed Venus and Mars, I would break them
      as easily as if they were made of rushes or cotton threads." But just as
      he was about to press forward and break through all, suddenly from among
      some trees two shepherdesses of surpassing beauty presented themselves to
      his sight&mdash;or at least damsels dressed like shepherdesses, save that
      their jerkins and sayas were of fine brocade; that is to say, the sayas
      were rich farthingales of gold embroidered tabby. Their hair, that in its
      golden brightness vied with the beams of the sun itself, fell loose upon
      their shoulders and was crowned with garlands twined with green laurel and
      red everlasting; and their years to all appearance were not under fifteen
      nor above eighteen.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p58b" id="p58b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p58b.jpg (452K)" src="images/p58b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p58b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the spectacle that filled Sancho with amazement, fascinated Don
      Quixote, made the sun halt in his course to behold them, and held all four
      in a strange silence. One of the shepherdesses, at length, was the first
      to speak and said to Don Quixote, "Hold, sir knight, and do not break
      these nets; for they are not spread here to do you any harm, but only for
      our amusement; and as I know you will ask why they have been put up, and
      who we are, I will tell you in a few words. In a village some two leagues
      from this, where there are many people of quality and rich gentlefolk, it
      was agreed upon by a number of friends and relations to come with their
      wives, sons and daughters, neighbours, friends and kinsmen, and make
      holiday in this spot, which is one of the pleasantest in the whole
      neighbourhood, setting up a new pastoral Arcadia among ourselves, we
      maidens dressing ourselves as shepherdesses and the youths as shepherds.
      We have prepared two eclogues, one by the famous poet Garcilasso, the
      other by the most excellent Camoens, in its own Portuguese tongue, but we
      have not as yet acted them. Yesterday was the first day of our coming
      here; we have a few of what they say are called field-tents pitched among
      the trees on the bank of an ample brook that fertilises all these meadows;
      last night we spread these nets in the trees here to snare the silly
      little birds that startled by the noise we make may fly into them. If you
      please to be our guest, senor, you will be welcomed heartily and
      courteously, for here just now neither care nor sorrow shall enter."
    </p>
    <p>
      She held her peace and said no more, and Don Quixote made answer, "Of a
      truth, fairest lady, Actaeon when he unexpectedly beheld Diana bathing in
      the stream could not have been more fascinated and wonderstruck than I at
      the sight of your beauty. I commend your mode of entertainment, and thank
      you for the kindness of your invitation; and if I can serve you, you may
      command me with full confidence of being obeyed, for my profession is none
      other than to show myself grateful, and ready to serve persons of all
      conditions, but especially persons of quality such as your appearance
      indicates; and if, instead of taking up, as they probably do, but a small
      space, these nets took up the whole surface of the globe, I would seek out
      new worlds through which to pass, so as not to break them; and that ye may
      give some degree of credence to this exaggerated language of mine, know
      that it is no less than Don Quixote of La Mancha that makes this
      declaration to you, if indeed it be that such a name has reached your
      ears."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah! friend of my soul," instantly exclaimed the other shepherdess, "what
      great good fortune has befallen us! Seest thou this gentleman we have
      before us? Well then let me tell thee he is the most valiant and the most
      devoted and the most courteous gentleman in all the world, unless a
      history of his achievements that has been printed and I have read is
      telling lies and deceiving us. I will lay a wager that this good fellow
      who is with him is one Sancho Panza his squire, whose drolleries none can
      equal."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's true," said Sancho; "I am that same droll and squire you speak of,
      and this gentleman is my master Don Quixote of La Mancha, the same that's
      in the history and that they talk about."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Oh, my friend," said the other, "let us entreat him to stay; for it will
      give our fathers and brothers infinite pleasure; I too have heard just
      what thou hast told me of the valour of the one and the drolleries of the
      other; and what is more, of him they say that he is the most constant and
      loyal lover that was ever heard of, and that his lady is one Dulcinea del
      Toboso, to whom all over Spain the palm of beauty is awarded."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And justly awarded," said Don Quixote, "unless, indeed, your unequalled
      beauty makes it a matter of doubt. But spare yourselves the trouble,
      ladies, of pressing me to stay, for the urgent calls of my profession do
      not allow me to take rest under any circumstances."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this instant there came up to the spot where the four stood a brother
      of one of the two shepherdesses, like them in shepherd costume, and as
      richly and gaily dressed as they were. They told him that their companion
      was the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha, and the other Sancho his squire,
      of whom he knew already from having read their history. The gay shepherd
      offered him his services and begged that he would accompany him to their
      tents, and Don Quixote had to give way and comply. And now the game was
      started, and the nets were filled with a variety of birds that deceived by
      the colour fell into the danger they were flying from. Upwards of thirty
      persons, all gaily attired as shepherds and shepherdesses, assembled on
      the spot, and were at once informed who Don Quixote and his squire were,
      whereat they were not a little delighted, as they knew of him already
      through his history. They repaired to the tents, where they found tables
      laid out, and choicely, plentifully, and neatly furnished. They treated
      Don Quixote as a person of distinction, giving him the place of honour,
      and all observed him, and were full of astonishment at the spectacle. At
      last the cloth being removed, Don Quixote with great composure lifted up
      his voice and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "One of the greatest sins that men are guilty of is&mdash;some will say
      pride&mdash;but I say ingratitude, going by the common saying that hell is
      full of ingrates. This sin, so far as it has lain in my power, I have
      endeavoured to avoid ever since I have enjoyed the faculty of reason; and
      if I am unable to requite good deeds that have been done me by other
      deeds, I substitute the desire to do so; and if that be not enough I make
      them known publicly; for he who declares and makes known the good deeds
      done to him would repay them by others if it were in his power, and for
      the most part those who receive are the inferiors of those who give. Thus,
      God is superior to all because he is the supreme giver, and the offerings
      of man fall short by an infinite distance of being a full return for the
      gifts of God; but gratitude in some degree makes up for this deficiency
      and shortcoming. I therefore, grateful for the favour that has been
      extended to me here, and unable to make a return in the same measure,
      restricted as I am by the narrow limits of my power, offer what I can and
      what I have to offer in my own way; and so I declare that for two full
      days I will maintain in the middle of this highway leading to Saragossa,
      that these ladies disguised as shepherdesses, who are here present, are
      the fairest and most courteous maidens in the world, excepting only the
      peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, sole mistress of my thoughts, be it said
      without offence to those who hear me, ladies and gentlemen."
    </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this Sancho, who had been listening with great attention, cried
      out in a loud voice, "Is it possible there is anyone in the world who will
      dare to say and swear that this master of mine is a madman? Say, gentlemen
      shepherds, is there a village priest, be he ever so wise or learned, who
      could say what my master has said; or is there knight-errant, whatever
      renown he may have as a man of valour, that could offer what my master has
      offered now?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote turned upon Sancho, and with a countenance glowing with anger
      said to him, "Is it possible, Sancho, there is anyone in the whole world
      who will say thou art not a fool, with a lining to match, and I know not
      what trimmings of impertinence and roguery? Who asked thee to meddle in my
      affairs, or to inquire whether I am a wise man or a blockhead? Hold thy
      peace; answer me not a word; saddle Rocinante if he be unsaddled; and let
      us go to put my offer into execution; for with the right that I have on my
      side thou mayest reckon as vanquished all who shall venture to question
      it;" and in a great rage, and showing his anger plainly, he rose from his
      seat, leaving the company lost in wonder, and making them feel doubtful
      whether they ought to regard him as a madman or a rational being. In the
      end, though they sought to dissuade him from involving himself in such a
      challenge, assuring him they admitted his gratitude as fully established,
      and needed no fresh proofs to be convinced of his valiant spirit, as those
      related in the history of his exploits were sufficient, still Don Quixote
      persisted in his resolve; and mounted on Rocinante, bracing his buckler on
      his arm and grasping his lance, he posted himself in the middle of a high
      road that was not far from the green meadow. Sancho followed on Dapple,
      together with all the members of the pastoral gathering, eager to see what
      would be the upshot of his vainglorious and extraordinary proposal.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote, then, having, as has been said, planted himself in the middle
      of the road, made the welkin ring with words to this effect: "Ho ye
      travellers and wayfarers, knights, squires, folk on foot or on horseback,
      who pass this way or shall pass in the course of the next two days! Know
      that Don Quixote of La Mancha, knight-errant, is posted here to maintain
      by arms that the beauty and courtesy enshrined in the nymphs that dwell in
      these meadows and groves surpass all upon earth, putting aside the lady of
      my heart, Dulcinea del Toboso. Wherefore, let him who is of the opposite
      opinion come on, for here I await him."
    </p>
    <p>
      Twice he repeated the same words, and twice they fell unheard by any
      adventurer; but fate, that was guiding affairs for him from better to
      better, so ordered it that shortly afterwards there appeared on the road a
      crowd of men on horseback, many of them with lances in their hands, all
      riding in a compact body and in great haste. No sooner had those who were
      with Don Quixote seen them than they turned about and withdrew to some
      distance from the road, for they knew that if they stayed some harm might
      come to them; but Don Quixote with intrepid heart stood his ground, and
      Sancho Panza shielded himself with Rocinante's hind-quarters. The troop of
      lancers came up, and one of them who was in advance began shouting to Don
      Quixote, "Get out of the way, you son of the devil, or these bulls will
      knock you to pieces!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Rabble!" returned Don Quixote, "I care nothing for bulls, be they the
      fiercest Jarama breeds on its banks. Confess at once, scoundrels, that
      what I have declared is true; else ye have to deal with me in combat."
    </p>
    <p>
      The herdsman had no time to reply, nor Don Quixote to get out of the way
      even if he wished; and so the drove of fierce bulls and tame bullocks,
      together with the crowd of herdsmen and others who were taking them to be
      penned up in a village where they were to be run the next day, passed over
      Don Quixote and over Sancho, Rocinante and Dapple, hurling them all to the
      earth and rolling them over on the ground. Sancho was left crushed, Don
      Quixote scared, Dapple belaboured and Rocinante in no very sound
      condition.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p58c" id="p58c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p58c.jpg (399K)" src="images/p58c.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <a href="images/p58c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      They all got up, however, at length, and Don Quixote in great haste,
      stumbling here and falling there, started off running after the drove,
      shouting out, "Hold! stay! ye rascally rabble, a single knight awaits you,
      and he is not of the temper or opinion of those who say, 'For a flying
      enemy make a bridge of silver.'" The retreating party in their haste,
      however, did not stop for that, or heed his menaces any more than last
      year's clouds. Weariness brought Don Quixote to a halt, and more enraged
      than avenged he sat down on the road to wait until Sancho, Rocinante and
      Dapple came up. When they reached him master and man mounted once more,
      and without going back to bid farewell to the mock or imitation Arcadia,
      and more in humiliation than contentment, they continued their journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p58e" id="p58e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p58e.jpg (68K)" src="images/p58e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p58e.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch59b" id="ch59b"></a>CHAPTER LIX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS RELATED THE STRANGE THING, WHICH MAY BE REGARDED AS AN
      ADVENTURE, THAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p59a" id="p59a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p59a.jpg (126K)" src="images/p59a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p59a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      A clear limpid spring which they discovered in a cool grove relieved Don
      Quixote and Sancho of the dust and fatigue due to the unpolite behaviour
      of the bulls, and by the side of this, having turned Dapple and Rocinante
      loose without headstall or bridle, the forlorn pair, master and man,
      seated themselves. Sancho had recourse to the larder of his alforjas and
      took out of them what he called the prog; Don Quixote rinsed his mouth and
      bathed his face, by which cooling process his flagging energies were
      revived. Out of pure vexation he remained without eating, and out of pure
      politeness Sancho did not venture to touch a morsel of what was before
      him, but waited for his master to act as taster. Seeing, however, that,
      absorbed in thought, he was forgetting to carry the bread to his mouth, he
      said never a word, and trampling every sort of good breeding under foot,
      began to stow away in his paunch the bread and cheese that came to his
      hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p59b" id="p59b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p59b.jpg (370K)" src="images/p59b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p59b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Eat, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote; "support life, which is of more
      consequence to thee than to me, and leave me to die under the pain of my
      thoughts and pressure of my misfortunes. I was born, Sancho, to live
      dying, and thou to die eating; and to prove the truth of what I say, look
      at me, printed in histories, famed in arms, courteous in behaviour,
      honoured by princes, courted by maidens; and after all, when I looked
      forward to palms, triumphs, and crowns, won and earned by my valiant
      deeds, I have this morning seen myself trampled on, kicked, and crushed by
      the feet of unclean and filthy animals. This thought blunts my teeth,
      paralyses my jaws, cramps my hands, and robs me of all appetite for food;
      so much so that I have a mind to let myself die of hunger, the cruelest
      death of all deaths."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So then," said Sancho, munching hard all the time, "your worship does not
      agree with the proverb that says, 'Let Martha die, but let her die with a
      full belly.' I, at any rate, have no mind to kill myself; so far from
      that, I mean to do as the cobbler does, who stretches the leather with his
      teeth until he makes it reach as far as he wants. I'll stretch out my life
      by eating until it reaches the end heaven has fixed for it; and let me
      tell you, senor, there's no greater folly than to think of dying of
      despair as your worship does; take my advice, and after eating lie down
      and sleep a bit on this green grass-mattress, and you will see that when
      you awake you'll feel something better."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote did as he recommended, for it struck him that Sancho's
      reasoning was more like a philosopher's than a blockhead's, and said he,
      "Sancho, if thou wilt do for me what I am going to tell thee my ease of
      mind would be more assured and my heaviness of heart not so great; and it
      is this; to go aside a little while I am sleeping in accordance with thy
      advice, and, making bare thy carcase to the air, to give thyself three or
      four hundred lashes with Rocinante's reins, on account of the three
      thousand and odd thou art to give thyself for the disenchantment of
      Dulcinea; for it is a great pity that the poor lady should be left
      enchanted through thy carelessness and negligence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is a good deal to be said on that point," said Sancho; "let us both
      go to sleep now, and after that, God has decreed what will happen. Let me
      tell your worship that for a man to whip himself in cold blood is a hard
      thing, especially if the stripes fall upon an ill-nourished and worse-fed
      body. Let my lady Dulcinea have patience, and when she is least expecting
      it, she will see me made a riddle of with whipping, and 'until death it's
      all life;' I mean that I have still life in me, and the desire to make
      good what I have promised."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote thanked him, and ate a little, and Sancho a good deal, and
      then they both lay down to sleep, leaving those two inseparable friends
      and comrades, Rocinante and Dapple, to their own devices and to feed
      unrestrained upon the abundant grass with which the meadow was furnished.
      They woke up rather late, mounted once more and resumed their journey,
      pushing on to reach an inn which was in sight, apparently a league off. I
      say an inn, because Don Quixote called it so, contrary to his usual
      practice of calling all inns castles. They reached it, and asked the
      landlord if they could put up there. He said yes, with as much comfort and
      as good fare as they could find in Saragossa. They dismounted, and Sancho
      stowed away his larder in a room of which the landlord gave him the key.
      He took the beasts to the stable, fed them, and came back to see what
      orders Don Quixote, who was seated on a bench at the door, had for him,
      giving special thanks to heaven that this inn had not been taken for a
      castle by his master. Supper-time came, and they repaired to their room,
      and Sancho asked the landlord what he had to give them for supper. To this
      the landlord replied that his mouth should be the measure; he had only to
      ask what he would; for that inn was provided with the birds of the air and
      the fowls of the earth and the fish of the sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There's no need of all that," said Sancho; "if they'll roast us a couple
      of chickens we'll be satisfied, for my master is delicate and eats little,
      and I'm not over and above gluttonous."
    </p>
    <p>
      The landlord replied he had no chickens, for the kites had stolen them.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then," said Sancho, "let senor landlord tell them to roast a pullet,
      so that it is a tender one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pullet! My father!" said the landlord; "indeed and in truth it's only
      yesterday I sent over fifty to the city to sell; but saving pullets ask
      what you will."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In that case," said Sancho, "you will not be without veal or kid."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Just now," said the landlord, "there's none in the house, for it's all
      finished; but next week there will be enough and to spare."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Much good that does us," said Sancho; "I'll lay a bet that all these
      short-comings are going to wind up in plenty of bacon and eggs."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By God," said the landlord, "my guest's wits must be precious dull; I
      tell him I have neither pullets nor hens, and he wants me to have eggs!
      Talk of other dainties, if you please, and don't ask for hens again."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Body o' me!" said Sancho, "let's settle the matter; say at once what you
      have got, and let us have no more words about it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In truth and earnest, senor guest," said the landlord, "all I have is a
      couple of cow-heels like calves' feet, or a couple of calves' feet like
      cowheels; they are boiled with chick-peas, onions, and bacon, and at this
      moment they are crying 'Come eat me, come eat me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I mark them for mine on the spot," said Sancho; "let nobody touch them;
      I'll pay better for them than anyone else, for I could not wish for
      anything more to my taste; and I don't care a pin whether they are feet or
      heels."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nobody shall touch them," said the landlord; "for the other guests I
      have, being persons of high quality, bring their own cook and caterer and
      larder with them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If you come to people of quality," said Sancho, "there's nobody more so
      than my master; but the calling he follows does not allow of larders or
      store-rooms; we lay ourselves down in the middle of a meadow, and fill
      ourselves with acorns or medlars."
    </p>
    <p>
      Here ended Sancho's conversation with the landlord, Sancho not caring to
      carry it any farther by answering him; for he had already asked him what
      calling or what profession it was his master was of.
    </p>
    <p>
      Supper-time having come, then, Don Quixote betook himself to his room, the
      landlord brought in the stew-pan just as it was, and he sat himself down
      to sup very resolutely. It seems that in another room, which was next to
      Don Quixote's, with nothing but a thin partition to separate it, he
      overheard these words, "As you live, Senor Don Jeronimo, while they are
      bringing supper, let us read another chapter of the Second Part of 'Don
      Quixote of La Mancha.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      The instant Don Quixote heard his own name he started to his feet and
      listened with open ears to catch what they said about him, and heard the
      Don Jeronimo who had been addressed say in reply, "Why would you have us
      read that absurd stuff, Don Juan, when it is impossible for anyone who has
      read the First Part of the history of 'Don Quixote of La Mancha' to take
      any pleasure in reading this Second Part?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "For all that," said he who was addressed as Don Juan, "we shall do well
      to read it, for there is no book so bad but it has something good in it.
      What displeases me most in it is that it represents Don Quixote as now
      cured of his love for Dulcinea del Toboso."
    </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this Don Quixote, full of wrath and indignation, lifted up his
      voice and said, "Whoever he may be who says that Don Quixote of La Mancha
      has forgotten or can forget Dulcinea del Toboso, I will teach him with
      equal arms that what he says is very far from the truth; for neither can
      the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso be forgotten, nor can forgetfulness have
      a place in Don Quixote; his motto is constancy, and his profession to
      maintain the same with his life and never wrong it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who is this that answers us?" said they in the next room.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who should it be," said Sancho, "but Don Quixote of La Mancha himself,
      who will make good all he has said and all he will say; for pledges don't
      trouble a good payer."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho had hardly uttered these words when two gentlemen, for such they
      seemed to be, entered the room, and one of them, throwing his arms round
      Don Quixote's neck, said to him, "Your appearance cannot leave any
      question as to your name, nor can your name fail to identify your
      appearance; unquestionably, senor, you are the real Don Quixote of La
      Mancha, cynosure and morning star of knight-errantry, despite and in
      defiance of him who has sought to usurp your name and bring to naught your
      achievements, as the author of this book which I here present to you has
      done;" and with this he put a book which his companion carried into the
      hands of Don Quixote, who took it, and without replying began to run his
      eye over it; but he presently returned it saying, "In the little I have
      seen I have discovered three things in this author that deserve to be
      censured. The first is some words that I have read in the preface; the
      next that the language is Aragonese, for sometimes he writes without
      articles; and the third, which above all stamps him as ignorant, is that
      he goes wrong and departs from the truth in the most important part of the
      history, for here he says that my squire Sancho Panza's wife is called
      Mari Gutierrez, when she is called nothing of the sort, but Teresa Panza;
      and when a man errs on such an important point as this there is good
      reason to fear that he is in error on every other point in the history."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A nice sort of historian, indeed!" exclaimed Sancho at this; "he must
      know a deal about our affairs when he calls my wife Teresa Panza, Mari
      Gutierrez; take the book again, senor, and see if I am in it and if he has
      changed my name."
    </p>
    <p>
      "From your talk, friend," said Don Jeronimo, "no doubt you are Sancho
      Panza, Senor Don Quixote's squire."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, I am," said Sancho; "and I'm proud of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Faith, then," said the gentleman, "this new author does not handle you
      with the decency that displays itself in your person; he makes you out a
      heavy feeder and a fool, and not in the least droll, and a very different
      being from the Sancho described in the First Part of your master's
      history."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God forgive him," said Sancho; "he might have left me in my corner
      without troubling his head about me; 'let him who knows how ring the
      bells; 'Saint Peter is very well in Rome.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      The two gentlemen pressed Don Quixote to come into their room and have
      supper with them, as they knew very well there was nothing in that inn fit
      for one of his sort. Don Quixote, who was always polite, yielded to their
      request and supped with them. Sancho stayed behind with the stew. and
      invested with plenary delegated authority seated himself at the head of
      the table, and the landlord sat down with him, for he was no less fond of
      cow-heel and calves' feet than Sancho was.
    </p>
    <p>
      While at supper Don Juan asked Don Quixote what news he had of the lady
      Dulcinea del Toboso, was she married, had she been brought to bed, or was
      she with child, or did she in maidenhood, still preserving her modesty and
      delicacy, cherish the remembrance of the tender passion of Senor Don
      Quixote?
    </p>
    <p>
      To this he replied, "Dulcinea is a maiden still, and my passion more
      firmly rooted than ever, our intercourse unsatisfactory as before, and her
      beauty transformed into that of a foul country wench;" and then he
      proceeded to give them a full and particular account of the enchantment of
      Dulcinea, and of what had happened him in the cave of Montesinos, together
      with what the sage Merlin had prescribed for her disenchantment, namely
      the scourging of Sancho.
    </p>
    <p>
      Exceedingly great was the amusement the two gentlemen derived from hearing
      Don Quixote recount the strange incidents of his history; and if they were
      amazed by his absurdities they were equally amazed by the elegant style in
      which he delivered them. On the one hand they regarded him as a man of wit
      and sense, and on the other he seemed to them a maundering blockhead, and
      they could not make up their minds whereabouts between wisdom and folly
      they ought to place him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho having finished his supper, and left the landlord in the X
      condition, repaired to the room where his master was, and as he came in
      said, "May I die, sirs, if the author of this book your worships have got
      has any mind that we should agree; as he calls me glutton (according to
      what your worships say) I wish he may not call me drunkard too."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But he does," said Don Jeronimo; "I cannot remember, however, in what
      way, though I know his words are offensive, and what is more, lying, as I
      can see plainly by the physiognomy of the worthy Sancho before me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Believe me," said Sancho, "the Sancho and the Don Quixote of this history
      must be different persons from those that appear in the one Cide Hamete
      Benengeli wrote, who are ourselves; my master valiant, wise, and true in
      love, and I simple, droll, and neither glutton nor drunkard."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I believe it," said Don Juan; "and were it possible, an order should be
      issued that no one should have the presumption to deal with anything
      relating to Don Quixote, save his original author Cide Hamete; just as
      Alexander commanded that no one should presume to paint his portrait save
      Apelles."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p60b" id="p60b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p60b.jpg (336K)" src="images/p60b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p60b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let him who will paint me," said Don Quixote; "but let him not abuse me;
      for patience will often break down when they heap insults upon it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "None can be offered to Senor Don Quixote," said Don Juan, "that he
      himself will not be able to avenge, if he does not ward it off with the
      shield of his patience, which, I take it, is great and strong."
    </p>
    <p>
      A considerable portion of the night passed in conversation of this sort,
      and though Don Juan wished Don Quixote to read more of the book to see
      what it was all about, he was not to be prevailed upon, saying that he
      treated it as read and pronounced it utterly silly; and, if by any chance
      it should come to its author's ears that he had it in his hand, he did not
      want him to flatter himself with the idea that he had read it; for our
      thoughts, and still more our eyes, should keep themselves aloof from what
      is obscene and filthy.
    </p>
    <p>
      They asked him whither he meant to direct his steps. He replied, to
      Saragossa, to take part in the harness jousts which were held in that city
      every year. Don Juan told him that the new history described how Don
      Quixote, let him be who he might, took part there in a tilting at the
      ring, utterly devoid of invention, poor in mottoes, very poor in costume,
      though rich in sillinesses.
    </p>
    <p>
      "For that very reason," said Don Quixote, "I will not set foot in
      Saragossa; and by that means I shall expose to the world the lie of this
      new history writer, and people will see that I am not the Don Quixote he
      speaks of."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You will do quite right," said Don Jeronimo; "and there are other jousts
      at Barcelona in which Senor Don Quixote may display his prowess."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is what I mean to do," said Don Quixote; "and as it is now time, I
      pray your worships to give me leave to retire to bed, and to place and
      retain me among the number of your greatest friends and servants."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And me too," said Sancho; "maybe I'll be good for something."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this they exchanged farewells, and Don Quixote and Sancho retired to
      their room, leaving Don Juan and Don Jeronimo amazed to see the medley he
      made of his good sense and his craziness; and they felt thoroughly
      convinced that these, and not those their Aragonese author described, were
      the genuine Don Quixote and Sancho. Don Quixote rose betimes, and bade
      adieu to his hosts by knocking at the partition of the other room. Sancho
      paid the landlord magnificently, and recommended him either to say less
      about the providing of his inn or to keep it better provided.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p59e" id="p59e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p59e.jpg (48K)" src="images/p59e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch60b" id="ch60b"></a>CHAPTER LX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON HIS WAY TO BARCELONA
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p60a" id="p60a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p60a.jpg (129K)" src="images/p60a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p60a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a fresh morning giving promise of a cool day as Don Quixote quitted
      the inn, first of all taking care to ascertain the most direct road to
      Barcelona without touching upon Saragossa; so anxious was he to make out
      this new historian, who they said abused him so, to be a liar. Well, as it
      fell out, nothing worthy of being recorded happened him for six days, at
      the end of which, having turned aside out of the road, he was overtaken by
      night in a thicket of oak or cork trees; for on this point Cide Hamete is
      not as precise as he usually is on other matters.
    </p>
    <p>
      Master and man dismounted from their beasts, and as soon as they had
      settled themselves at the foot of the trees, Sancho, who had had a good
      noontide meal that day, let himself, without more ado, pass the gates of
      sleep. But Don Quixote, whom his thoughts, far more than hunger, kept
      awake, could not close an eye, and roamed in fancy to and fro through all
      sorts of places. At one moment it seemed to him that he was in the cave of
      Montesinos and saw Dulcinea, transformed into a country wench, skipping
      and mounting upon her she-ass; again that the words of the sage Merlin
      were sounding in his ears, setting forth the conditions to be observed and
      the exertions to be made for the disenchantment of Dulcinea. He lost all
      patience when he considered the laziness and want of charity of his squire
      Sancho; for to the best of his belief he had only given himself five
      lashes, a number paltry and disproportioned to the vast number required.
      At this thought he felt such vexation and anger that he reasoned the
      matter thus: "If Alexander the Great cut the Gordian knot, saying, 'To cut
      comes to the same thing as to untie,' and yet did not fail to become lord
      paramount of all Asia, neither more nor less could happen now in
      Dulcinea's disenchantment if I scourge Sancho against his will; for, if it
      is the condition of the remedy that Sancho shall receive three thousand
      and odd lashes, what does it matter to me whether he inflicts them
      himself, or some one else inflicts them, when the essential point is that
      he receives them, let them come from whatever quarter they may?"
    </p>
    <p>
      With this idea he went over to Sancho, having first taken Rocinante's
      reins and arranged them so as to be able to flog him with them, and began
      to untie the points (the common belief is he had but one in front) by
      which his breeches were held up; but the instant he approached him Sancho
      woke up in his full senses and cried out, "What is this? Who is touching
      me and untrussing me?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is I," said Don Quixote, "and I come to make good thy shortcomings and
      relieve my own distresses; I come to whip thee, Sancho, and wipe off some
      portion of the debt thou hast undertaken. Dulcinea is perishing, thou art
      living on regardless, I am dying of hope deferred; therefore untruss
      thyself with a good will, for mine it is, here, in this retired spot, to
      give thee at least two thousand lashes."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not a bit of it," said Sancho; "let your worship keep quiet, or else by
      the living God the deaf shall hear us; the lashes I pledged myself to must
      be voluntary and not forced upon me, and just now I have no fancy to whip
      myself; it is enough if I give you my word to flog and flap myself when I
      have a mind."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It will not do to leave it to thy courtesy, Sancho," said Don Quixote,
      "for thou art hard of heart and, though a clown, tender of flesh;" and at
      the same time he strove and struggled to untie him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeing this Sancho got up, and grappling with his master he gripped him
      with all his might in his arms, giving him a trip with the heel stretched
      him on the ground on his back, and pressing his right knee on his chest
      held his hands in his own so that he could neither move nor breathe.
    </p>
    <p>
      "How now, traitor!" exclaimed Don Quixote. "Dost thou revolt against thy
      master and natural lord? Dost thou rise against him who gives thee his
      bread?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I neither put down king, nor set up king," said Sancho; "I only stand up
      for myself who am my own lord; if your worship promises me to be quiet,
      and not to offer to whip me now, I'll let you go free and unhindered; if
      not&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Traitor and Dona Sancha's foe,
Thou diest on the spot."

</pre>
    <p>
      Don Quixote gave his promise, and swore by the life of his thoughts not to
      touch so much as a hair of his garments, and to leave him entirely free
      and to his own discretion to whip himself whenever he pleased.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p60c" id="p60c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p60c.jpg (250K)" src="images/p60c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p60c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho rose and removed some distance from the spot, but as he was about
      to place himself leaning against another tree he felt something touch his
      head, and putting up his hands encountered somebody's two feet with shoes
      and stockings on them. He trembled with fear and made for another tree,
      where the very same thing happened to him, and he fell a-shouting, calling
      upon Don Quixote to come and protect him. Don Quixote did so, and asked
      him what had happened to him, and what he was afraid of. Sancho replied
      that all the trees were full of men's feet and legs. Don Quixote felt
      them, and guessed at once what it was, and said to Sancho, "Thou hast
      nothing to be afraid of, for these feet and legs that thou feelest but
      canst not see belong no doubt to some outlaws and freebooters that have
      been hanged on these trees; for the authorities in these parts are wont to
      hang them up by twenties and thirties when they catch them; whereby I
      conjecture that I must be near Barcelona;" and it was, in fact, as he
      supposed; with the first light they looked up and saw that the fruit
      hanging on those trees were freebooters' bodies.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now day dawned; and if the dead freebooters had scared them, their
      hearts were no less troubled by upwards of forty living ones, who all of a
      sudden surrounded them, and in the Catalan tongue bade them stand and wait
      until their captain came up. Don Quixote was on foot with his horse
      unbridled and his lance leaning against a tree, and in short completely
      defenceless; he thought it best therefore to fold his arms and bow his
      head and reserve himself for a more favourable occasion and opportunity.
      The robbers made haste to search Dapple, and did not leave him a single
      thing of all he carried in the alforjas and in the valise; and lucky it
      was for Sancho that the duke's crowns and those he brought from home were
      in a girdle that he wore round him; but for all that these good folk would
      have stripped him, and even looked to see what he had hidden between the
      skin and flesh, but for the arrival at that moment of their captain, who
      was about thirty-four years of age apparently, strongly built, above the
      middle height, of stern aspect and swarthy complexion. He was mounted upon
      a powerful horse, and had on a coat of mail, with four of the pistols they
      call petronels in that country at his waist. He saw that his squires (for
      so they call those who follow that trade) were about to rifle Sancho
      Panza, but he ordered them to desist and was at once obeyed, so the girdle
      escaped. He wondered to see the lance leaning against the tree, the shield
      on the ground, and Don Quixote in armour and dejected, with the saddest
      and most melancholy face that sadness itself could produce; and going up
      to him he said, "Be not so cast down, good man, for you have not fallen
      into the hands of any inhuman Busiris, but into Roque Guinart's, which are
      more merciful than cruel."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The cause of my dejection," returned Don Quixote, "is not that I have
      fallen into thy hands, O valiant Roque, whose fame is bounded by no limits
      on earth, but that my carelessness should have been so great that thy
      soldiers should have caught me unbridled, when it is my duty, according to
      the rule of knight-errantry which I profess, to be always on the alert and
      at all times my own sentinel; for let me tell thee, great Roque, had they
      found me on my horse, with my lance and shield, it would not have been
      very easy for them to reduce me to submission, for I am Don Quixote of La
      Mancha, he who hath filled the whole world with his achievements."
    </p>
    <p>
      Roque Guinart at once perceived that Don Quixote's weakness was more akin
      to madness than to swagger; and though he had sometimes heard him spoken
      of, he never regarded the things attributed to him as true, nor could he
      persuade himself that such a humour could become dominant in the heart of
      man; he was extremely glad, therefore, to meet him and test at close
      quarters what he had heard of him at a distance; so he said to him,
      "Despair not, valiant knight, nor regard as an untoward fate the position
      in which thou findest thyself; it may be that by these slips thy crooked
      fortune will make itself straight; for heaven by strange circuitous ways,
      mysterious and incomprehensible to man, raises up the fallen and makes
      rich the poor."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote was about to thank him, when they heard behind them a noise as
      of a troop of horses; there was, however, but one, riding on which at a
      furious pace came a youth, apparently about twenty years of age, clad in
      green damask edged with gold and breeches and a loose frock, with a hat
      looped up in the Walloon fashion, tight-fitting polished boots, gilt
      spurs, dagger and sword, and in his hand a musketoon, and a pair of
      pistols at his waist.
    </p>
    <p>
      Roque turned round at the noise and perceived this comely figure, which
      drawing near thus addressed him, "I came in quest of thee, valiant Roque,
      to find in thee if not a remedy at least relief in my misfortune; and not
      to keep thee in suspense, for I see thou dost not recognise me, I will
      tell thee who I am; I am Claudia Jeronima, the daughter of Simon Forte,
      thy good friend, and special enemy of Clauquel Torrellas, who is thine
      also as being of the faction opposed to thee. Thou knowest that this
      Torrellas has a son who is called, or at least was not two hours since,
      Don Vicente Torrellas. Well, to cut short the tale of my misfortune, I
      will tell thee in a few words what this youth has brought upon me. He saw
      me, he paid court to me, I listened to him, and, unknown to my father, I
      loved him; for there is no woman, however secluded she may live or close
      she may be kept, who will not have opportunities and to spare for
      following her headlong impulses. In a word, he pledged himself to be mine,
      and I promised to be his, without carrying matters any further. Yesterday
      I learned that, forgetful of his pledge to me, he was about to marry
      another, and that he was to go this morning to plight his troth,
      intelligence which overwhelmed and exasperated me; my father not being at
      home I was able to adopt this costume you see, and urging my horse to
      speed I overtook Don Vicente about a league from this, and without waiting
      to utter reproaches or hear excuses I fired this musket at him, and these
      two pistols besides, and to the best of my belief I must have lodged more
      than two bullets in his body, opening doors to let my honour go free,
      enveloped in his blood. I left him there in the hands of his servants, who
      did not dare and were not able to interfere in his defence, and I come to
      seek from thee a safe-conduct into France, where I have relatives with
      whom I can live; and also to implore thee to protect my father, so that
      Don Vicente's numerous kinsmen may not venture to wreak their lawless
      vengeance upon him."
    </p>
    <p>
      Roque, filled with admiration at the gallant bearing, high spirit, comely
      figure, and adventure of the fair Claudia, said to her, "Come, senora, let
      us go and see if thy enemy is dead; and then we will consider what will be
      best for thee." Don Quixote, who had been listening to what Claudia said
      and Roque Guinart said in reply to her, exclaimed, "Nobody need trouble
      himself with the defence of this lady, for I take it upon myself. Give me
      my horse and arms, and wait for me here; I will go in quest of this
      knight, and dead or alive I will make him keep his word plighted to so
      great beauty."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nobody need have any doubt about that," said Sancho, "for my master has a
      very happy knack of matchmaking; it's not many days since he forced
      another man to marry, who in the same way backed out of his promise to
      another maiden; and if it had not been for his persecutors the enchanters
      changing the man's proper shape into a lacquey's the said maiden would not
      be one this minute."
    </p>
    <p>
      Roque, who was paying more attention to the fair Claudia's adventure than
      to the words of master or man, did not hear them; and ordering his squires
      to restore to Sancho everything they had stripped Dapple of, he directed
      them to return to the place where they had been quartered during the
      night, and then set off with Claudia at full speed in search of the
      wounded or slain Don Vicente. They reached the spot where Claudia met him,
      but found nothing there save freshly spilt blood; looking all round,
      however, they descried some people on the slope of a hill above them, and
      concluded, as indeed it proved to be, that it was Don Vicente, whom either
      dead or alive his servants were removing to attend to his wounds or to
      bury him. They made haste to overtake them, which, as the party moved
      slowly, they were able to do with ease. They found Don Vicente in the arms
      of his servants, whom he was entreating in a broken feeble voice to leave
      him there to die, as the pain of his wounds would not suffer him to go any
      farther. Claudia and Roque threw themselves off their horses and advanced
      towards him; the servants were overawed by the appearance of Roque, and
      Claudia was moved by the sight of Don Vicente, and going up to him half
      tenderly half sternly, she seized his hand and said to him, "Hadst thou
      given me this according to our compact thou hadst never come to this
      pass."
    </p>
    <p>
      The wounded gentleman opened his all but closed eyes, and recognising
      Claudia said, "I see clearly, fair and mistaken lady, that it is thou that
      hast slain me, a punishment not merited or deserved by my feelings towards
      thee, for never did I mean to, nor could I, wrong thee in thought or
      deed."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is not true, then," said Claudia, "that thou wert going this morning
      to marry Leonora the daughter of the rich Balvastro?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Assuredly not," replied Don Vicente; "my cruel fortune must have carried
      those tidings to thee to drive thee in thy jealousy to take my life; and
      to assure thyself of this, press my hands and take me for thy husband if
      thou wilt; I have no better satisfaction to offer thee for the wrong thou
      fanciest thou hast received from me."
    </p>
    <p>
      Claudia wrung his hands, and her own heart was so wrung that she lay
      fainting on the bleeding breast of Don Vicente, whom a death spasm seized
      the same instant. Roque was in perplexity and knew not what to do; the
      servants ran to fetch water to sprinkle their faces, and brought some and
      bathed them with it. Claudia recovered from her fainting fit, but not so
      Don Vicente from the paroxysm that had overtaken him, for his life had
      come to an end. On perceiving this, Claudia, when she had convinced
      herself that her beloved husband was no more, rent the air with her sighs
      and made the heavens ring with her lamentations; she tore her hair and
      scattered it to the winds, she beat her face with her hands and showed all
      the signs of grief and sorrow that could be conceived to come from an
      afflicted heart. "Cruel, reckless woman!" she cried, "how easily wert thou
      moved to carry out a thought so wicked! O furious force of jealousy, to
      what desperate lengths dost thou lead those that give thee lodging in
      their bosoms! O husband, whose unhappy fate in being mine hath borne thee
      from the marriage bed to the grave!"
    </p>
    <p>
      So vehement and so piteous were the lamentations of Claudia that they drew
      tears from Roque's eyes, unused as they were to shed them on any occasion.
      The servants wept, Claudia swooned away again and again, and the whole
      place seemed a field of sorrow and an abode of misfortune. In the end
      Roque Guinart directed Don Vicente's servants to carry his body to his
      father's village, which was close by, for burial. Claudia told him she
      meant to go to a monastery of which an aunt of hers was abbess, where she
      intended to pass her life with a better and everlasting spouse. He
      applauded her pious resolution, and offered to accompany her whithersoever
      she wished, and to protect her father against the kinsmen of Don Vicente
      and all the world, should they seek to injure him. Claudia would not on
      any account allow him to accompany her; and thanking him for his offers as
      well as she could, took leave of him in tears. The servants of Don Vicente
      carried away his body, and Roque returned to his comrades, and so ended
      the love of Claudia Jeronima; but what wonder, when it was the insuperable
      and cruel might of jealousy that wove the web of her sad story?
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p60d" id="p60d"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p60d.jpg (439K)" src="images/p60d.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p60d.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Roque Guinart found his squires at the place to which he had ordered them,
      and Don Quixote on Rocinante in the midst of them delivering a harangue to
      them in which he urged them to give up a mode of life so full of peril, as
      well to the soul as to the body; but as most of them were Gascons, rough
      lawless fellows, his speech did not make much impression on them. Roque on
      coming up asked Sancho if his men had returned and restored to him the
      treasures and jewels they had stripped off Dapple. Sancho said they had,
      but that three kerchiefs that were worth three cities were missing.
    </p>
    <p>
      "What are you talking about, man?" said one of the bystanders; "I have got
      them, and they are not worth three reals."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That is true," said Don Quixote; "but my squire values them at the rate
      he says, as having been given me by the person who gave them."
    </p>
    <p>
      Roque Guinart ordered them to be restored at once; and making his men fall
      in in line he directed all the clothing, jewellery, and money that they
      had taken since the last distribution to be produced; and making a hasty
      valuation, and reducing what could not be divided into money, he made
      shares for the whole band so equitably and carefully, that in no case did
      he exceed or fall short of strict distributive justice.
    </p>
    <p>
      When this had been done, and all left satisfied, Roque observed to Don
      Quixote, "If this scrupulous exactness were not observed with these
      fellows there would be no living with them."
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon this Sancho remarked, "From what I have seen here, justice is such a
      good thing that there is no doing without it, even among the thieves
      themselves."
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the squires heard this, and raising the butt-end of his harquebuss
      would no doubt have broken Sancho's head with it had not Roque Guinart
      called out to him to hold his hand. Sancho was frightened out of his wits,
      and vowed not to open his lips so long as he was in the company of these
      people.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this instant one or two of those squires who were posted as sentinels
      on the roads, to watch who came along them and report what passed to their
      chief, came up and said, "Senor, there is a great troop of people not far
      off coming along the road to Barcelona."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Roque replied, "Hast thou made out whether they are of the sort
      that are after us, or of the sort we are after?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The sort we are after," said the squire.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well then, away with you all," said Roque, "and bring them here to me at
      once without letting one of them escape."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p60e" id="p60e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p60e.jpg (420K)" src="images/p60e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p60e.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      They obeyed, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and Roque, left by themselves,
      waited to see what the squires brought, and while they were waiting Roque
      said to Don Quixote, "It must seem a strange sort of life to Senor Don
      Quixote, this of ours, strange adventures, strange incidents, and all full
      of danger; and I do not wonder that it should seem so, for in truth I must
      own there is no mode of life more restless or anxious than ours. What led
      me into it was a certain thirst for vengeance, which is strong enough to
      disturb the quietest hearts. I am by nature tender-hearted and kindly,
      but, as I said, the desire to revenge myself for a wrong that was done me
      so overturns all my better impulses that I keep on in this way of life in
      spite of what conscience tells me; and as one depth calls to another, and
      one sin to another sin, revenges have linked themselves together, and I
      have taken upon myself not only my own but those of others: it pleases
      God, however, that, though I see myself in this maze of entanglements, I
      do not lose all hope of escaping from it and reaching a safe port."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote was amazed to hear Roque utter such excellent and just
      sentiments, for he did not think that among those who followed such trades
      as robbing, murdering, and waylaying, there could be anyone capable of a
      virtuous thought, and he said in reply, "Senor Roque, the beginning of
      health lies in knowing the disease and in the sick man's willingness to
      take the medicines which the physician prescribes; you are sick, you know
      what ails you, and heaven, or more properly speaking God, who is our
      physician, will administer medicines that will cure you, and cure
      gradually, and not of a sudden or by a miracle; besides, sinners of
      discernment are nearer amendment than those who are fools; and as your
      worship has shown good sense in your remarks, all you have to do is to
      keep up a good heart and trust that the weakness of your conscience will
      be strengthened. And if you have any desire to shorten the journey and put
      yourself easily in the way of salvation, come with me, and I will show you
      how to become a knight-errant, a calling wherein so many hardships and
      mishaps are encountered that if they be taken as penances they will lodge
      you in heaven in a trice."
    </p>
    <p>
      Roque laughed at Don Quixote's exhortation, and changing the conversation
      he related the tragic affair of Claudia Jeronima, at which Sancho was
      extremely grieved; for he had not found the young woman's beauty,
      boldness, and spirit at all amiss.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now the squires despatched to make the prize came up, bringing with
      them two gentlemen on horseback, two pilgrims on foot, and a coach full of
      women with some six servants on foot and on horseback in attendance on
      them, and a couple of muleteers whom the gentlemen had with them. The
      squires made a ring round them, both victors and vanquished maintaining
      profound silence, waiting for the great Roque Guinart to speak. He asked
      the gentlemen who they were, whither they were going, and what money they
      carried with them; "Senor," replied one of them, "we are two captains of
      Spanish infantry; our companies are at Naples, and we are on our way to
      embark in four galleys which they say are at Barcelona under orders for
      Sicily; and we have about two or three hundred crowns, with which we are,
      according to our notions, rich and contented, for a soldier's poverty does
      not allow a more extensive hoard."
    </p>
    <p>
      Roque asked the pilgrims the same questions he had put to the captains,
      and was answered that they were going to take ship for Rome, and that
      between them they might have about sixty reals. He asked also who was in
      the coach, whither they were bound and what money they had, and one of the
      men on horseback replied, "The persons in the coach are my lady Dona
      Guiomar de Quinones, wife of the regent of the Vicaria at Naples, her
      little daughter, a handmaid and a duenna; we six servants are in
      attendance upon her, and the money amounts to six hundred crowns."
    </p>
    <p>
      "So then," said Roque Guinart, "we have got here nine hundred crowns and
      sixty reals; my soldiers must number some sixty; see how much there falls
      to each, for I am a bad arithmetician." As soon as the robbers heard this
      they raised a shout of "Long life to Roque Guinart, in spite of the
      lladres that seek his ruin!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The captains showed plainly the concern they felt, the regent's lady was
      downcast, and the pilgrims did not at all enjoy seeing their property
      confiscated. Roque kept them in suspense in this way for a while; but he
      had no desire to prolong their distress, which might be seen a bowshot
      off, and turning to the captains he said, "Sirs, will your worships be
      pleased of your courtesy to lend me sixty crowns, and her ladyship the
      regent's wife eighty, to satisfy this band that follows me, for 'it is by
      his singing the abbot gets his dinner;' and then you may at once proceed
      on your journey, free and unhindered, with a safe-conduct which I shall
      give you, so that if you come across any other bands of mine that I have
      scattered in these parts, they may do you no harm; for I have no intention
      of doing injury to soldiers, or to any woman, especially one of quality."
    </p>
    <p>
      Profuse and hearty were the expressions of gratitude with which the
      captains thanked Roque for his courtesy and generosity; for such they
      regarded his leaving them their own money. Senora Dona Guiomar de Quinones
      wanted to throw herself out of the coach to kiss the feet and hands of the
      great Roque, but he would not suffer it on any account; so far from that,
      he begged her pardon for the wrong he had done her under pressure of the
      inexorable necessities of his unfortunate calling. The regent's lady
      ordered one of her servants to give the eighty crowns that had been
      assessed as her share at once, for the captains had already paid down
      their sixty. The pilgrims were about to give up the whole of their little
      hoard, but Roque bade them keep quiet, and turning to his men he said, "Of
      these crowns two fall to each man and twenty remain over; let ten be given
      to these pilgrims, and the other ten to this worthy squire that he may be
      able to speak favourably of this adventure;" and then having writing
      materials, with which he always went provided, brought to him, he gave
      them in writing a safe-conduct to the leaders of his bands; and bidding
      them farewell let them go free and filled with admiration at his
      magnanimity, his generous disposition, and his unusual conduct, and
      inclined to regard him as an Alexander the Great rather than a notorious
      robber.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the squires observed in his mixture of Gascon and Catalan, "This
      captain of ours would make a better friar than highwayman; if he wants to
      be so generous another time, let it be with his own property and not
      ours."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p60f" id="p60f"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p60f.jpg (426K)" src="images/p60f.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p60f.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The unlucky wight did not speak so low but that Roque overheard him, and
      drawing his sword almost split his head in two, saying, "That is the way I
      punish impudent saucy fellows." They were all taken aback, and not one of
      them dared to utter a word, such deference did they pay him. Roque then
      withdrew to one side and wrote a letter to a friend of his at Barcelona,
      telling him that the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, the knight-errant of
      whom there was so much talk, was with him, and was, he assured him, the
      drollest and wisest man in the world; and that in four days from that
      date, that is to say, on Saint John the Baptist's Day, he was going to
      deposit him in full armour mounted on his horse Rocinante, together with
      his squire Sancho on an ass, in the middle of the strand of the city; and
      bidding him give notice of this to his friends the Niarros, that they
      might divert themselves with him. He wished, he said, his enemies the
      Cadells could be deprived of this pleasure; but that was impossible,
      because the crazes and shrewd sayings of Don Quixote and the humours of
      his squire Sancho Panza could not help giving general pleasure to all the
      world. He despatched the letter by one of his squires, who, exchanging the
      costume of a highwayman for that of a peasant, made his way into Barcelona
      and gave it to the person to whom it was directed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p60g" id="p60g"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p60g.jpg (42K)" src="images/p60g.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch61b" id="ch61b"></a>CHAPTER LXI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF WHAT HAPPENED DON QUIXOTE ON ENTERING BARCELONA, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
      MATTERS THAT PARTAKE OF THE TRUE RATHER THAN OF THE INGENIOUS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p61a" id="p61a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p61a.jpg (143K)" src="images/p61a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p61a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote passed three days and three nights with Roque, and had he
      passed three hundred years he would have found enough to observe and
      wonder at in his mode of life. At daybreak they were in one spot, at
      dinner-time in another; sometimes they fled without knowing from whom, at
      other times they lay in wait, not knowing for what. They slept standing,
      breaking their slumbers to shift from place to place. There was nothing
      but sending out spies and scouts, posting sentinels and blowing the
      matches of harquebusses, though they carried but few, for almost all used
      flintlocks. Roque passed his nights in some place or other apart from his
      men, that they might not know where he was, for the many proclamations the
      viceroy of Barcelona had issued against his life kept him in fear and
      uneasiness, and he did not venture to trust anyone, afraid that even his
      own men would kill him or deliver him up to the authorities; of a truth, a
      weary miserable life! At length, by unfrequented roads, short cuts, and
      secret paths, Roque, Don Quixote, and Sancho, together with six squires,
      set out for Barcelona. They reached the strand on Saint John's Eve during
      the night; and Roque, after embracing Don Quixote and Sancho (to whom he
      presented the ten crowns he had promised but had not until then given),
      left them with many expressions of good-will on both sides.
    </p>
    <p>
      Roque went back, while Don Quixote remained on horseback, just as he was,
      waiting for day, and it was not long before the countenance of the fair
      Aurora began to show itself at the balconies of the east, gladdening the
      grass and flowers, if not the ear, though to gladden that too there came
      at the same moment a sound of clarions and drums, and a din of bells, and
      a tramp, tramp, and cries of "Clear the way there!" of some runners, that
      seemed to issue from the city.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p61b" id="p61b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p61b.jpg (271K)" src="images/p61b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p61b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The dawn made way for the sun that with a face broader than a buckler
      began to rise slowly above the low line of the horizon; Don Quixote and
      Sancho gazed all round them; they beheld the sea, a sight until then
      unseen by them; it struck them as exceedingly spacious and broad, much
      more so than the lakes of Ruidera which they had seen in La Mancha. They
      saw the galleys along the beach, which, lowering their awnings, displayed
      themselves decked with streamers and pennons that trembled in the breeze
      and kissed and swept the water, while on board the bugles, trumpets, and
      clarions were sounding and filling the air far and near with melodious
      warlike notes. Then they began to move and execute a kind of skirmish upon
      the calm water, while a vast number of horsemen on fine horses and in
      showy liveries, issuing from the city, engaged on their side in a somewhat
      similar movement. The soldiers on board the galleys kept up a ceaseless
      fire, which they on the walls and forts of the city returned, and the
      heavy cannon rent the air with the tremendous noise they made, to which
      the gangway guns of the galleys replied. The bright sea, the smiling
      earth, the clear air&mdash;though at times darkened by the smoke of the
      guns&mdash;all seemed to fill the whole multitude with unexpected delight.
      Sancho could not make out how it was that those great masses that moved
      over the sea had so many feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now the horsemen in livery came galloping up with shouts and
      outlandish cries and cheers to where Don Quixote stood amazed and
      wondering; and one of them, he to whom Roque had sent word, addressing him
      exclaimed, "Welcome to our city, mirror, beacon, star and cynosure of all
      knight-errantry in its widest extent! Welcome, I say, valiant Don Quixote
      of La Mancha; not the false, the fictitious, the apocryphal, that these
      latter days have offered us in lying histories, but the true, the
      legitimate, the real one that Cide Hamete Benengeli, flower of historians,
      has described to us!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote made no answer, nor did the horsemen wait for one, but
      wheeling again with all their followers, they began curvetting round Don
      Quixote, who, turning to Sancho, said, "These gentlemen have plainly
      recognised us; I will wager they have read our history, and even that
      newly printed one by the Aragonese."
    </p>
    <p>
      The cavalier who had addressed Don Quixote again approached him and said,
      "Come with us, Senor Don Quixote, for we are all of us your servants and
      great friends of Roque Guinart's;" to which Don Quixote returned, "If
      courtesy breeds courtesy, yours, sir knight, is daughter or very nearly
      akin to the great Roque's; carry me where you please; I will have no will
      but yours, especially if you deign to employ it in your service."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p61c" id="p61c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p61c.jpg (448K)" src="images/p61c.jpg" width="100%" />
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      <a href="images/p61c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The cavalier replied with words no less polite, and then, all closing in
      around him, they set out with him for the city, to the music of the
      clarions and the drums. As they were entering it, the wicked one, who is
      the author of all mischief, and the boys who are wickeder than the wicked
      one, contrived that a couple of these audacious irrepressible urchins
      should force their way through the crowd, and lifting up, one of them
      Dapple's tail and the other Rocinante's, insert a bunch of furze under
      each. The poor beasts felt the strange spurs and added to their anguish by
      pressing their tails tight, so much so that, cutting a multitude of
      capers, they flung their masters to the ground. Don Quixote, covered with
      shame and out of countenance, ran to pluck the plume from his poor jade's
      tail, while Sancho did the same for Dapple. His conductors tried to punish
      the audacity of the boys, but there was no possibility of doing so, for
      they hid themselves among the hundreds of others that were following them.
      Don Quixote and Sancho mounted once more, and with the same music and
      acclamations reached their conductor's house, which was large and stately,
      that of a rich gentleman, in short; and there for the present we will
      leave them, for such is Cide Hamete's pleasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p61e" id="p61e"></a>
    </p>
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      <img alt="p61e.jpg (32K)" src="images/p61e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch62b" id="ch62b"></a>CHAPTER LXII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH DEALS WITH THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED HEAD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER
      TRIVIAL MATTERS WHICH CANNOT BE LEFT UNTOLD
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p62a" id="p62a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p62a.jpg (156K)" src="images/p62a.jpg" width="100%" />
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      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote's host was one Don Antonio Moreno by name, a gentleman of
      wealth and intelligence, and very fond of diverting himself in any fair
      and good-natured way; and having Don Quixote in his house he set about
      devising modes of making him exhibit his mad points in some harmless
      fashion; for jests that give pain are no jests, and no sport is worth
      anything if it hurts another. The first thing he did was to make Don
      Quixote take off his armour, and lead him, in that tight chamois suit we
      have already described and depicted more than once, out on a balcony
      overhanging one of the chief streets of the city, in full view of the
      crowd and of the boys, who gazed at him as they would at a monkey. The
      cavaliers in livery careered before him again as though it were for him
      alone, and not to enliven the festival of the day, that they wore it, and
      Sancho was in high delight, for it seemed to him that, how he knew not, he
      had fallen upon another Camacho's wedding, another house like Don Diego de
      Miranda's, another castle like the duke's. Some of Don Antonio's friends
      dined with him that day, and all showed honour to Don Quixote and treated
      him as a knight-errant, and he becoming puffed up and exalted in
      consequence could not contain himself for satisfaction. Such were the
      drolleries of Sancho that all the servants of the house, and all who heard
      him, were kept hanging upon his lips. While at table Don Antonio said to
      him, "We hear, worthy Sancho, that you are so fond of manjar blanco and
      forced-meat balls, that if you have any left, you keep them in your bosom
      for the next day."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, senor, that's not true," said Sancho, "for I am more cleanly than
      greedy, and my master Don Quixote here knows well that we two are used to
      live for a week on a handful of acorns or nuts. To be sure, if it so
      happens that they offer me a heifer, I run with a halter; I mean, I eat
      what I'm given, and make use of opportunities as I find them; but whoever
      says that I'm an out-of-the-way eater or not cleanly, let me tell him that
      he is wrong; and I'd put it in a different way if I did not respect the
      honourable beards that are at the table."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Indeed," said Don Quixote, "Sancho's moderation and cleanliness in eating
      might be inscribed and graved on plates of brass, to be kept in eternal
      remembrance in ages to come. It is true that when he is hungry there is a
      certain appearance of voracity about him, for he eats at a great pace and
      chews with both jaws; but cleanliness he is always mindful of; and when he
      was governor he learned how to eat daintily, so much so that he eats
      grapes, and even pomegranate pips, with a fork."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What!" said Don Antonio, "has Sancho been a governor?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay," said Sancho, "and of an island called Barataria. I governed it to
      perfection for ten days; and lost my rest all the time; and learned to
      look down upon all the governments in the world; I got out of it by taking
      to flight, and fell into a pit where I gave myself up for dead, and out of
      which I escaped alive by a miracle."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote then gave them a minute account of the whole affair of
      Sancho's government, with which he greatly amused his hearers.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the cloth being removed Don Antonio, taking Don Quixote by the hand,
      passed with him into a distant room in which there was nothing in the way
      of furniture except a table, apparently of jasper, resting on a pedestal
      of the same, upon which was set up, after the fashion of the busts of the
      Roman emperors, a head which seemed to be of bronze. Don Antonio traversed
      the whole apartment with Don Quixote and walked round the table several
      times, and then said, "Now, Senor Don Quixote, that I am satisfied that no
      one is listening to us, and that the door is shut, I will tell you of one
      of the rarest adventures, or more properly speaking strange things, that
      can be imagined, on condition that you will keep what I say to you in the
      remotest recesses of secrecy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I swear it," said Don Quixote, "and for greater security I will put a
      flag-stone over it; for I would have you know, Senor Don Antonio" (he had
      by this time learned his name), "that you are addressing one who, though
      he has ears to hear, has no tongue to speak; so that you may safely
      transfer whatever you have in your bosom into mine, and rely upon it that
      you have consigned it to the depths of silence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In reliance upon that promise," said Don Antonio, "I will astonish you
      with what you shall see and hear, and relieve myself of some of the
      vexation it gives me to have no one to whom I can confide my secrets, for
      they are not of a sort to be entrusted to everybody."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote was puzzled, wondering what could be the object of such
      precautions; whereupon Don Antonio taking his hand passed it over the
      bronze head and the whole table and the pedestal of jasper on which it
      stood, and then said, "This head, Senor Don Quixote, has been made and
      fabricated by one of the greatest magicians and wizards the world ever
      saw, a Pole, I believe, by birth, and a pupil of the famous Escotillo of
      whom such marvellous stories are told. He was here in my house, and for a
      consideration of a thousand crowns that I gave him he constructed this
      head, which has the property and virtue of answering whatever questions
      are put to its ear. He observed the points of the compass, he traced
      figures, he studied the stars, he watched favourable moments, and at
      length brought it to the perfection we shall see to-morrow, for on Fridays
      it is mute, and this being Friday we must wait till the next day. In the
      interval your worship may consider what you would like to ask it; and I
      know by experience that in all its answers it tells the truth."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote was amazed at the virtue and property of the head, and was
      inclined to disbelieve Don Antonio; but seeing what a short time he had to
      wait to test the matter, he did not choose to say anything except that he
      thanked him for having revealed to him so mighty a secret. They then
      quitted the room, Don Antonio locked the door, and they repaired to the
      chamber where the rest of the gentlemen were assembled. In the meantime
      Sancho had recounted to them several of the adventures and accidents that
      had happened his master.
    </p>
    <p>
      That afternoon they took Don Quixote out for a stroll, not in his armour
      but in street costume, with a surcoat of tawny cloth upon him, that at
      that season would have made ice itself sweat. Orders were left with the
      servants to entertain Sancho so as not to let him leave the house. Don
      Quixote was mounted, not on Rocinante, but upon a tall mule of easy pace
      and handsomely caparisoned. They put the surcoat on him, and on the back,
      without his perceiving it, they stitched a parchment on which they wrote
      in large letters, "This is Don Quixote of La Mancha." As they set out upon
      their excursion the placard attracted the eyes of all who chanced to see
      him, and as they read out, "This is Don Quixote of La Mancha," Don Quixote
      was amazed to see how many people gazed at him, called him by his name,
      and recognised him, and turning to Don Antonio, who rode at his side, he
      observed to him, "Great are the privileges knight-errantry involves, for
      it makes him who professes it known and famous in every region of the
      earth; see, Don Antonio, even the very boys of this city know me without
      ever having seen me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "True, Senor Don Quixote," returned Don Antonio; "for as fire cannot be
      hidden or kept secret, virtue cannot escape being recognised; and that
      which is attained by the profession of arms shines distinguished above all
      others."
    </p>
    <p>
      It came to pass, however, that as Don Quixote was proceeding amid the
      acclamations that have been described, a Castilian, reading the
      inscription on his back, cried out in a loud voice, "The devil take thee
      for a Don Quixote of La Mancha! What! art thou here, and not dead of the
      countless drubbings that have fallen on thy ribs? Thou art mad; and if
      thou wert so by thyself, and kept thyself within thy madness, it would not
      be so bad; but thou hast the gift of making fools and blockheads of all
      who have anything to do with thee or say to thee. Why, look at these
      gentlemen bearing thee company! Get thee home, blockhead, and see after
      thy affairs, and thy wife and children, and give over these fooleries that
      are sapping thy brains and skimming away thy wits."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Go your own way, brother," said Don Antonio, "and don't offer advice to
      those who don't ask you for it. Senor Don Quixote is in his full senses,
      and we who bear him company are not fools; virtue is to be honoured
      wherever it may be found; go, and bad luck to you, and don't meddle where
      you are not wanted."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By God, your worship is right," replied the Castilian; "for to advise
      this good man is to kick against the pricks; still for all that it fills
      me with pity that the sound wit they say the blockhead has in everything
      should dribble away by the channel of his knight-errantry; but may the bad
      luck your worship talks of follow me and all my descendants, if, from this
      day forth, though I should live longer than Methuselah, I ever give advice
      to anybody even if he asks me for it."
    </p>
    <p>
      The advice-giver took himself off, and they continued their stroll; but so
      great was the press of the boys and people to read the placard, that Don
      Antonio was forced to remove it as if he were taking off something else.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p62b" id="p62b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p62b.jpg (373K)" src="images/p62b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p62b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Night came and they went home, and there was a ladies' dancing party, for
      Don Antonio's wife, a lady of rank and gaiety, beauty and wit, had invited
      some friends of hers to come and do honour to her guest and amuse
      themselves with his strange delusions. Several of them came, they supped
      sumptuously, the dance began at about ten o'clock. Among the ladies were
      two of a mischievous and frolicsome turn, and, though perfectly modest,
      somewhat free in playing tricks for harmless diversion's sake. These two
      were so indefatigable in taking Don Quixote out to dance that they tired
      him down, not only in body but in spirit. It was a sight to see the figure
      Don Quixote made, long, lank, lean, and yellow, his garments clinging
      tight to him, ungainly, and above all anything but agile.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p62c" id="p62c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p62c.jpg (342K)" src="images/p62c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p62c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The gay ladies made secret love to him, and he on his part secretly
      repelled them, but finding himself hard pressed by their blandishments he
      lifted up his voice and exclaimed, "Fugite, partes adversae! Leave me in
      peace, unwelcome overtures; avaunt, with your desires, ladies, for she who
      is queen of mine, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, suffers none but hers
      to lead me captive and subdue me;" and so saying he sat down on the floor
      in the middle of the room, tired out and broken down by all this exertion
      in the dance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Antonio directed him to be taken up bodily and carried to bed, and the
      first that laid hold of him was Sancho, saying as he did so, "In an evil
      hour you took to dancing, master mine; do you fancy all mighty men of
      valour are dancers, and all knights-errant given to capering? If you do, I
      can tell you you are mistaken; there's many a man would rather undertake
      to kill a giant than cut a caper. If it had been the shoe-fling you were
      at I could take your place, for I can do the shoe-fling like a gerfalcon;
      but I'm no good at dancing."
    </p>
    <p>
      With these and other observations Sancho set the whole ball-room laughing,
      and then put his master to bed, covering him up well so that he might
      sweat out any chill caught after his dancing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day Don Antonio thought he might as well make trial of the
      enchanted head, and with Don Quixote, Sancho, and two others, friends of
      his, besides the two ladies that had tired out Don Quixote at the ball,
      who had remained for the night with Don Antonio's wife, he locked himself
      up in the chamber where the head was. He explained to them the property it
      possessed and entrusted the secret to them, telling them that now for the
      first time he was going to try the virtue of the enchanted head; but
      except Don Antonio's two friends no one else was privy to the mystery of
      the enchantment, and if Don Antonio had not first revealed it to them they
      would have been inevitably reduced to the same state of amazement as the
      rest, so artfully and skilfully was it contrived.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first to approach the ear of the head was Don Antonio himself, and in
      a low voice but not so low as not to be audible to all, he said to it,
      "Head, tell me by the virtue that lies in thee what am I at this moment
      thinking of?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The head, without any movement of the lips, answered in a clear and
      distinct voice, so as to be heard by all, "I cannot judge of thoughts."
    </p>
    <p>
      All were thunderstruck at this, and all the more so as they saw that there
      was nobody anywhere near the table or in the whole room that could have
      answered. "How many of us are here?" asked Don Antonio once more; and it
      was answered him in the same way softly, "Thou and thy wife, with two
      friends of thine and two of hers, and a famous knight called Don Quixote
      of La Mancha, and a squire of his, Sancho Panza by name."
    </p>
    <p>
      Now there was fresh astonishment; now everyone's hair was standing on end
      with awe; and Don Antonio retiring from the head exclaimed, "This suffices
      to show me that I have not been deceived by him who sold thee to me, O
      sage head, talking head, answering head, wonderful head! Let some one else
      go and put what question he likes to it."
    </p>
    <p>
      And as women are commonly impulsive and inquisitive, the first to come
      forward was one of the two friends of Don Antonio's wife, and her question
      was, "Tell me, Head, what shall I do to be very beautiful?" and the answer
      she got was, "Be very modest."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I question thee no further," said the fair querist.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her companion then came up and said, "I should like to know, Head, whether
      my husband loves me or not;" the answer given to her was, "Think how he
      uses thee, and thou mayest guess;" and the married lady went off saying,
      "That answer did not need a question; for of course the treatment one
      receives shows the disposition of him from whom it is received."
    </p>
    <p>
      Then one of Don Antonio's two friends advanced and asked it, "Who am I?"
      "Thou knowest," was the answer. "That is not what I ask thee," said the
      gentleman, "but to tell me if thou knowest me." "Yes, I know thee, thou
      art Don Pedro Noriz," was the reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not seek to know more," said the gentleman, "for this is enough to
      convince me, O Head, that thou knowest everything;" and as he retired the
      other friend came forward and asked it, "Tell me, Head, what are the
      wishes of my eldest son?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have said already," was the answer, "that I cannot judge of wishes;
      however, I can tell thee the wish of thy son is to bury thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's 'what I see with my eyes I point out with my finger,'" said the
      gentleman, "so I ask no more."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Antonio's wife came up and said, "I know not what to ask thee, Head; I
      would only seek to know of thee if I shall have many years of enjoyment of
      my good husband;" and the answer she received was, "Thou shalt, for his
      vigour and his temperate habits promise many years of life, which by their
      intemperance others so often cut short."
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Don Quixote came forward and said, "Tell me, thou that answerest, was
      that which I describe as having happened to me in the cave of Montesinos
      the truth or a dream? Will Sancho's whipping be accomplished without fail?
      Will the disenchantment of Dulcinea be brought about?"
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p62d" id="p62d"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
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      <a href="images/p62d.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "As to the question of the cave," was the reply, "there is much to be
      said; there is something of both in it. Sancho's whipping will proceed
      leisurely. The disenchantment of Dulcinea will attain its due
      consummation."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I seek to know no more," said Don Quixote; "let me but see Dulcinea
      disenchanted, and I will consider that all the good fortune I could wish
      for has come upon me all at once."
    </p>
    <p>
      The last questioner was Sancho, and his questions were, "Head, shall I by
      any chance have another government? Shall I ever escape from the hard life
      of a squire? Shall I get back to see my wife and children?" To which the
      answer came, "Thou shalt govern in thy house; and if thou returnest to it
      thou shalt see thy wife and children; and on ceasing to serve thou shalt
      cease to be a squire."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Good, by God!" said Sancho Panza; "I could have told myself that; the
      prophet Perogrullo could have said no more."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What answer wouldst thou have, beast?" said Don Quixote; "is it not
      enough that the replies this head has given suit the questions put to it?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, it is enough," said Sancho; "but I should have liked it to have made
      itself plainer and told me more."
    </p>
    <p>
      The questions and answers came to an end here, but not the wonder with
      which all were filled, except Don Antonio's two friends who were in the
      secret. This Cide Hamete Benengeli thought fit to reveal at once, not to
      keep the world in suspense, fancying that the head had some strange
      magical mystery in it. He says, therefore, that on the model of another
      head, the work of an image maker, which he had seen at Madrid, Don Antonio
      made this one at home for his own amusement and to astonish ignorant
      people; and its mechanism was as follows. The table was of wood painted
      and varnished to imitate jasper, and the pedestal on which it stood was of
      the same material, with four eagles' claws projecting from it to support
      the weight more steadily. The head, which resembled a bust or figure of a
      Roman emperor, and was coloured like bronze, was hollow throughout, as was
      the table, into which it was fitted so exactly that no trace of the
      joining was visible. The pedestal of the table was also hollow and
      communicated with the throat and neck of the head, and the whole was in
      communication with another room underneath the chamber in which the head
      stood. Through the entire cavity in the pedestal, table, throat and neck
      of the bust or figure, there passed a tube of tin carefully adjusted and
      concealed from sight. In the room below corresponding to the one above was
      placed the person who was to answer, with his mouth to the tube, and the
      voice, as in an ear-trumpet, passed from above downwards, and from below
      upwards, the words coming clearly and distinctly; it was impossible, thus,
      to detect the trick. A nephew of Don Antonio's, a smart sharp-witted
      student, was the answerer, and as he had been told beforehand by his uncle
      who the persons were that would come with him that day into the chamber
      where the head was, it was an easy matter for him to answer the first
      question at once and correctly; the others he answered by guess-work, and,
      being clever, cleverly. Cide Hamete adds that this marvellous contrivance
      stood for some ten or twelve days; but that, as it became noised abroad
      through the city that he had in his house an enchanted head that answered
      all who asked questions of it, Don Antonio, fearing it might come to the
      ears of the watchful sentinels of our faith, explained the matter to the
      inquisitors, who commanded him to break it up and have done with it, lest
      the ignorant vulgar should be scandalised. By Don Quixote, however, and by
      Sancho the head was still held to be an enchanted one, and capable of
      answering questions, though more to Don Quixote's satisfaction than
      Sancho's.
    </p>
    <p>
      The gentlemen of the city, to gratify Don Antonio and also to do the
      honours to Don Quixote, and give him an opportunity of displaying his
      folly, made arrangements for a tilting at the ring in six days from that
      time, which, however, for reason that will be mentioned hereafter, did not
      take place.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote took a fancy to stroll about the city quietly and on foot, for
      he feared that if he went on horseback the boys would follow him; so he
      and Sancho and two servants that Don Antonio gave him set out for a walk.
      Thus it came to pass that going along one of the streets Don Quixote
      lifted up his eyes and saw written in very large letters over a door,
      "Books printed here," at which he was vastly pleased, for until then he
      had never seen a printing office, and he was curious to know what it was
      like. He entered with all his following, and saw them drawing sheets in
      one place, correcting in another, setting up type here, revising there; in
      short all the work that is to be seen in great printing offices. He went
      up to one case and asked what they were about there; the workmen told him,
      he watched them with wonder, and passed on. He approached one man, among
      others, and asked him what he was doing. The workman replied, "Senor, this
      gentleman here" (pointing to a man of prepossessing appearance and a
      certain gravity of look) "has translated an Italian book into our Spanish
      tongue, and I am setting it up in type for the press."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What is the title of the book?" asked Don Quixote; to which the author
      replied, "Senor, in Italian the book is called Le Bagatelle."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what does Le Bagatelle import in our Spanish?" asked Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Le Bagatelle," said the author, "is as though we should say in Spanish
      Los Juguetes; but though the book is humble in name it has good solid
      matter in it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I," said Don Quixote, "have some little smattering of Italian, and I
      plume myself on singing some of Ariosto's stanzas; but tell me, senor&mdash;I
      do not say this to test your ability, but merely out of curiosity&mdash;have
      you ever met with the word pignatta in your book?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, often," said the author.
    </p>
    <p>
      "And how do you render that in Spanish?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "How should I render it," returned the author, "but by olla?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Body o' me," exclaimed Don Quixote, "what a proficient you are in the
      Italian language! I would lay a good wager that where they say in Italian
      piace you say in Spanish place, and where they say piu you say mas, and
      you translate su by arriba and giu by abajo."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I translate them so of course," said the author, "for those are their
      proper equivalents."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I would venture to swear," said Don Quixote, "that your worship is not
      known in the world, which always begrudges their reward to rare wits and
      praiseworthy labours. What talents lie wasted there! What genius thrust
      away into corners! What worth left neglected! Still it seems to me that
      translation from one language into another, if it be not from the queens
      of languages, the Greek and the Latin, is like looking at Flemish tapestries
      on the wrong side; for though the figures are visible, they are full of
      threads that make them indistinct, and they do not show with the
      smoothness and brightness of the right side; and translation from easy
      languages argues neither ingenuity nor command of words, any more than
      transcribing or copying out one document from another. But I do not mean
      by this to draw the inference that no credit is to be allowed for the work
      of translating, for a man may employ himself in ways worse and less
      profitable to himself. This estimate does not include two famous
      translators, Doctor Cristobal de Figueroa, in his Pastor Fido, and Don
      Juan de Jauregui, in his Aminta, wherein by their felicity they leave it
      in doubt which is the translation and which the original. But tell me, are
      you printing this book at your own risk, or have you sold the copyright to
      some bookseller?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I print at my own risk," said the author, "and I expect to make a
      thousand ducats at least by this first edition, which is to be of two
      thousand copies that will go off in a twinkling at six reals apiece."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A fine calculation you are making!" said Don Quixote; "it is plain you
      don't know the ins and outs of the printers, and how they play into one
      another's hands. I promise you when you find yourself saddled with two
      thousand copies you will feel so sore that it will astonish you,
      particularly if the book is a little out of the common and not in any way
      highly spiced."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What!" said the author, "would your worship, then, have me give it to a
      bookseller who will give three maravedis for the copyright and think he is
      doing me a favour? I do not print my books to win fame in the world, for I
      am known in it already by my works; I want to make money, without which
      reputation is not worth a rap."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God send your worship good luck," said Don Quixote; and he moved on to
      another case, where he saw them correcting a sheet of a book with the
      title of "Light of the Soul;" noticing it he observed, "Books like this,
      though there are many of the kind, are the ones that deserve to be
      printed, for many are the sinners in these days, and lights unnumbered are
      needed for all that are in darkness."
    </p>
    <p>
      He passed on, and saw they were also correcting another book, and when he
      asked its title they told him it was called, "The Second Part of the
      Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha," by one of Tordesillas.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have heard of this book already," said Don Quixote, "and verily and on
      my conscience I thought it had been by this time burned to ashes as a
      meddlesome intruder; but its Martinmas will come to it as it does to every
      pig; for fictions have the more merit and charm about them the more nearly
      they approach the truth or what looks like it; and true stories, the truer
      they are the better they are;" and so saying he walked out of the printing
      office with a certain amount of displeasure in his looks. That same day
      Don Antonio arranged to take him to see the galleys that lay at the beach,
      whereat Sancho was in high delight, as he had never seen any all his life.
      Don Antonio sent word to the commandant of the galleys that he intended to
      bring his guest, the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, of whom the
      commandant and all the citizens had already heard, that afternoon to see
      them; and what happened on board of them will be told in the next chapter.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p62e" id="p62e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p62e.jpg (18K)" src="images/p62e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch63b" id="ch63b"></a>CHAPTER LXIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE MISHAP THAT BEFELL SANCHO PANZA THROUGH THE VISIT TO THE GALLEYS,
      AND THE STRANGE ADVENTURE OF THE FAIR MORISCO
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p63a" id="p63a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p63a.jpg (151K)" src="images/p63a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p63a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Profound were Don Quixote's reflections on the reply of the enchanted
      head, not one of them, however, hitting on the secret of the trick, but
      all concentrated on the promise, which he regarded as a certainty, of
      Dulcinea's disenchantment. This he turned over in his mind again and again
      with great satisfaction, fully persuaded that he would shortly see its
      fulfillment; and as for Sancho, though, as has been said, he hated being a
      governor, still he had a longing to be giving orders and finding himself
      obeyed once more; this is the misfortune that being in authority, even in
      jest, brings with it.
    </p>
    <p>
      To resume; that afternoon their host Don Antonio Moreno and his two
      friends, with Don Quixote and Sancho, went to the galleys. The commandant
      had been already made aware of his good fortune in seeing two such famous
      persons as Don Quixote and Sancho, and the instant they came to the shore
      all the galleys struck their awnings and the clarions rang out. A skiff
      covered with rich carpets and cushions of crimson velvet was immediately
      lowered into the water, and as Don Quixote stepped on board of it, the
      leading galley fired her gangway gun, and the other galleys did the same;
      and as he mounted the starboard ladder the whole crew saluted him (as is
      the custom when a personage of distinction comes on board a galley) by
      exclaiming "Hu, hu, hu," three times. The general, for so we shall call
      him, a Valencian gentleman of rank, gave him his hand and embraced him,
      saying, "I shall mark this day with a white stone as one of the happiest I
      can expect to enjoy in my lifetime, since I have seen Senor Don Quixote of
      La Mancha, pattern and image wherein we see contained and condensed all
      that is worthy in knight-errantry."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote delighted beyond measure with such a lordly reception, replied
      to him in words no less courteous. All then proceeded to the poop, which
      was very handsomely decorated, and seated themselves on the bulwark
      benches; the boatswain passed along the gangway and piped all hands to
      strip, which they did in an instant. Sancho, seeing such a number of men
      stripped to the skin, was taken aback, and still more when he saw them
      spread the awning so briskly that it seemed to him as if all the devils
      were at work at it; but all this was cakes and fancy bread to what I am
      going to tell now. Sancho was seated on the captain's stage, close to the
      aftermost rower on the right-hand side. He, previously instructed in what
      he was to do, laid hold of Sancho, hoisting him up in his arms, and the
      whole crew, who were standing ready, beginning on the right, proceeded to
      pass him on, whirling him along from hand to hand and from bench to bench
      with such rapidity that it took the sight out of poor Sancho's eyes, and
      he made quite sure that the devils themselves were flying away with him;
      nor did they leave off with him until they had sent him back along the
      left side and deposited him on the poop; and the poor fellow was left
      bruised and breathless and all in a sweat, and unable to comprehend what
      it was that had happened to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote when he saw Sancho's flight without wings asked the general if
      this was a usual ceremony with those who came on board the galleys for the
      first time; for, if so, as he had no intention of adopting them as a
      profession, he had no mind to perform such feats of agility, and if anyone
      offered to lay hold of him to whirl him about, he vowed to God he would
      kick his soul out; and as he said this he stood up and clapped his hand
      upon his sword. At this instant they struck the awning and lowered the
      yard with a prodigious rattle. Sancho thought heaven was coming off its
      hinges and going to fall on his head, and full of terror he ducked it and
      buried it between his knees; nor were Don Quixote's knees altogether under
      control, for he too shook a little, squeezed his shoulders together and
      lost colour. The crew then hoisted the yard with the same rapidity and
      clatter as when they lowered it, all the while keeping silence as though
      they had neither voice nor breath. The boatswain gave the signal to weigh
      anchor, and leaping upon the middle of the gangway began to lay on to the
      shoulders of the crew with his courbash or whip, and to haul out gradually
      to sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Sancho saw so many red feet (for such he took the oars to be) moving
      all together, he said to himself, "It's these that are the real chanted
      things, and not the ones my master talks of. What can those wretches have
      done to be so whipped; and how does that one man who goes along there
      whistling dare to whip so many? I declare this is hell, or at least
      purgatory!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote, observing how attentively Sancho regarded what was going on,
      said to him, "Ah, Sancho my friend, how quickly and cheaply might you
      finish off the disenchantment of Dulcinea, if you would strip to the waist
      and take your place among those gentlemen! Amid the pain and sufferings of
      so many you would not feel your own much; and moreover perhaps the sage
      Merlin would allow each of these lashes, being laid on with a good hand,
      to count for ten of those which you must give yourself at last."
    </p>
    <p>
      The general was about to ask what these lashes were, and what was
      Dulcinea's disenchantment, when a sailor exclaimed, "Monjui signals that
      there is an oared vessel off the coast to the west."
    </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this the general sprang upon the gangway crying, "Now then, my
      sons, don't let her give us the slip! It must be some Algerine corsair
      brigantine that the watchtower signals to us." The three others
      immediately came alongside the chief galley to receive their orders. The
      general ordered two to put out to sea while he with the other kept in
      shore, so that in this way the vessel could not escape them. The crews
      plied the oars driving the galleys so furiously that they seemed to fly.
      The two that had put out to sea, after a couple of miles sighted a vessel
      which, so far as they could make out, they judged to be one of fourteen or
      fifteen banks, and so she proved. As soon as the vessel discovered the
      galleys she went about with the object and in the hope of making her
      escape by her speed; but the attempt failed, for the chief galley was one
      of the fastest vessels afloat, and overhauled her so rapidly that they on
      board the brigantine saw clearly there was no possibility of escaping, and
      the rais therefore would have had them drop their oars and give themselves
      up so as not to provoke the captain in command of our galleys to anger.
      But chance, directing things otherwise, so ordered it that just as the
      chief galley came close enough for those on board the vessel to hear the
      shouts from her calling on them to surrender, two Toraquis, that is to say
      two Turks, both drunken, that with a dozen more were on board the
      brigantine, discharged their muskets, killing two of the soldiers that
      lined the sides of our vessel. Seeing this the general swore he would not
      leave one of those he found on board the vessel alive, but as he bore down
      furiously upon her she slipped away from him underneath the oars. The
      galley shot a good way ahead; those on board the vessel saw their case was
      desperate, and while the galley was coming about they made sail, and by
      sailing and rowing once more tried to sheer off; but their activity did
      not do them as much good as their rashness did them harm, for the galley
      coming up with them in a little more than half a mile threw her oars over
      them and took the whole of them alive. The other two galleys now joined
      company and all four returned with the prize to the beach, where a vast
      multitude stood waiting for them, eager to see what they brought back. The
      general anchored close in, and perceived that the viceroy of the city was
      on the shore. He ordered the skiff to push off to fetch him, and the yard
      to be lowered for the purpose of hanging forthwith the rais and the rest
      of the men taken on board the vessel, about six-and-thirty in number, all
      smart fellows and most of them Turkish musketeers. He asked which was the
      rais of the brigantine, and was answered in Spanish by one of the
      prisoners (who afterwards proved to be a Spanish renegade), "This young
      man, senor that you see here is our rais," and he pointed to one of the
      handsomest and most gallant-looking youths that could be imagined. He did
      not seem to be twenty years of age.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell me, dog," said the general, "what led thee to kill my soldiers, when
      thou sawest it was impossible for thee to escape? Is that the way to
      behave to chief galleys? Knowest thou not that rashness is not valour?
      Faint prospects of success should make men bold, but not rash."
    </p>
    <p>
      The rais was about to reply, but the general could not at that moment
      listen to him, as he had to hasten to receive the viceroy, who was now
      coming on board the galley, and with him certain of his attendants and
      some of the people.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have had a good chase, senor general," said the viceroy.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your excellency shall soon see how good, by the game strung up to this
      yard," replied the general.
    </p>
    <p>
      "How so?" returned the viceroy.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Because," said the general, "against all law, reason, and usages of war
      they have killed on my hands two of the best soldiers on board these
      galleys, and I have sworn to hang every man that I have taken, but above
      all this youth who is the rais of the brigantine," and he pointed to him
      as he stood with his hands already bound and the rope round his neck,
      ready for death.
    </p>
    <p>
      The viceroy looked at him, and seeing him so well-favoured, so graceful,
      and so submissive, he felt a desire to spare his life, the comeliness of
      the youth furnishing him at once with a letter of recommendation. He
      therefore questioned him, saying, "Tell me, rais, art thou Turk, Moor, or
      renegade?"
    </p>
    <p>
      To which the youth replied, also in Spanish, "I am neither Turk, nor Moor,
      nor renegade."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What art thou, then?" said the viceroy.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A Christian woman," replied the youth.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A woman and a Christian, in such a dress and in such circumstances! It is
      more marvellous than credible," said the viceroy.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Suspend the execution of the sentence," said the youth; "your vengeance
      will not lose much by waiting while I tell you the story of my life."
    </p>
    <p>
      What heart could be so hard as not to be softened by these words, at any
      rate so far as to listen to what the unhappy youth had to say? The general
      bade him say what he pleased, but not to expect pardon for his flagrant
      offence. With this permission the youth began in these words.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Born of Morisco parents, I am of that nation, more unhappy than wise,
      upon which of late a sea of woes has poured down. In the course of our
      misfortune I was carried to Barbary by two uncles of mine, for it was in
      vain that I declared I was a Christian, as in fact I am, and not a mere
      pretended one, or outwardly, but a true Catholic Christian. It availed me
      nothing with those charged with our sad expatriation to protest this, nor
      would my uncles believe it; on the contrary, they treated it as an untruth
      and a subterfuge set up to enable me to remain behind in the land of my
      birth; and so, more by force than of my own will, they took me with them.
      I had a Christian mother, and a father who was a man of sound sense and a
      Christian too; I imbibed the Catholic faith with my mother's milk, I was
      well brought up, and neither in word nor in deed did I, I think, show any
      sign of being a Morisco. To accompany these virtues, for such I hold them,
      my beauty, if I possess any, grew with my growth; and great as was the
      seclusion in which I lived it was not so great but that a young gentleman,
      Don Gaspar Gregorio by name, eldest son of a gentleman who is lord of a
      village near ours, contrived to find opportunities of seeing me. How he
      saw me, how we met, how his heart was lost to me, and mine not kept from
      him, would take too long to tell, especially at a moment when I am in
      dread of the cruel cord that threatens me interposing between tongue and
      throat; I will only say, therefore, that Don Gregorio chose to accompany
      me in our banishment. He joined company with the Moriscoes who were going
      forth from other villages, for he knew their language very well, and on
      the voyage he struck up a friendship with my two uncles who were carrying
      me with them; for my father, like a wise and far-sighted man, as soon as
      he heard the first edict for our expulsion, quitted the village and
      departed in quest of some refuge for us abroad. He left hidden and buried,
      at a spot of which I alone have knowledge, a large quantity of pearls and
      precious stones of great value, together with a sum of money in gold
      cruzadoes and doubloons. He charged me on no account to touch the
      treasure, if by any chance they expelled us before his return. I obeyed
      him, and with my uncles, as I have said, and others of our kindred and
      neighbours, passed over to Barbary, and the place where we took up our
      abode was Algiers, much the same as if we had taken it up in hell itself.
      The king heard of my beauty, and report told him of my wealth, which was
      in some degree fortunate for me. He summoned me before him, and asked me
      what part of Spain I came from, and what money and jewels I had. I
      mentioned the place, and told him the jewels and money were buried there;
      but that they might easily be recovered if I myself went back for them.
      All this I told him, in dread lest my beauty and not his own covetousness
      should influence him. While he was engaged in conversation with me, they
      brought him word that in company with me was one of the handsomest and
      most graceful youths that could be imagined. I knew at once that they were
      speaking of Don Gaspar Gregorio, whose comeliness surpasses the most
      highly vaunted beauty. I was troubled when I thought of the danger he was
      in, for among those barbarous Turks a fair youth is more esteemed than a
      woman, be she ever so beautiful. The king immediately ordered him to be
      brought before him that he might see him, and asked me if what they said
      about the youth was true. I then, almost as if inspired by heaven, told
      him it was, but that I would have him to know it was not a man, but a
      woman like myself, and I entreated him to allow me to go and dress her in
      the attire proper to her, so that her beauty might be seen to perfection,
      and that she might present herself before him with less embarrassment. He
      bade me go by all means, and said that the next day we should discuss the
      plan to be adopted for my return to Spain to carry away the hidden
      treasure. I saw Don Gaspar, I told him the danger he was in if he let it
      be seen he was a man, I dressed him as a Moorish woman, and that same
      afternoon I brought him before the king, who was charmed when he saw him,
      and resolved to keep the damsel and make a present of her to the Grand
      Signor; and to avoid the risk she might run among the women of his
      seraglio, and distrustful of himself, he commanded her to be placed in the
      house of some Moorish ladies of rank who would protect and attend to her;
      and thither he was taken at once. What we both suffered (for I cannot deny
      that I love him) may be left to the imagination of those who are separated
      if they love one another dearly. The king then arranged that I should
      return to Spain in this brigantine, and that two Turks, those who killed
      your soldiers, should accompany me. There also came with me this Spanish
      renegade"&mdash;and here she pointed to him who had first spoken&mdash;"whom
      I know to be secretly a Christian, and to be more desirous of being left
      in Spain than of returning to Barbary. The rest of the crew of the
      brigantine are Moors and Turks, who merely serve as rowers. The two Turks,
      greedy and insolent, instead of obeying the orders we had to land me and
      this renegade in Christian dress (with which we came provided) on the
      first Spanish ground we came to, chose to run along the coast and make
      some prize if they could, fearing that if they put us ashore first, we
      might, in case of some accident befalling us, make it known that the
      brigantine was at sea, and thus, if there happened to be any galleys on
      the coast, they might be taken. We sighted this shore last night, and
      knowing nothing of these galleys, we were discovered, and the result was
      what you have seen. To sum up, there is Don Gregorio in woman's dress,
      among women, in imminent danger of his life; and here am I, with hands
      bound, in expectation, or rather in dread, of losing my life, of which I
      am already weary. Here, sirs, ends my sad story, as true as it is unhappy;
      all I ask of you is to allow me to die like a Christian, for, as I have
      already said, I am not to be charged with the offence of which those of my
      nation are guilty;" and she stood silent, her eyes filled with moving
      tears, accompanied by plenty from the bystanders. The viceroy, touched
      with compassion, went up to her without speaking and untied the cord that
      bound the hands of the Moorish girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      But all the while the Morisco Christian was telling her strange story, an
      elderly pilgrim, who had come on board of the galley at the same time as
      the viceroy, kept his eyes fixed upon her; and the instant she ceased
      speaking he threw himself at her feet, and embracing them said in a voice
      broken by sobs and sighs, "O Ana Felix, my unhappy daughter, I am thy
      father Ricote, come back to look for thee, unable to live without thee, my
      soul that thou art!"
    </p>
    <p>
      At these words of his, Sancho opened his eyes and raised his head, which
      he had been holding down, brooding over his unlucky excursion; and looking
      at the pilgrim he recognised in him that same Ricote he met the day he
      quitted his government, and felt satisfied that this was his daughter. She
      being now unbound embraced her father, mingling her tears with his, while
      he addressing the general and the viceroy said, "This, sirs, is my
      daughter, more unhappy in her adventures than in her name. She is Ana
      Felix, surnamed Ricote, celebrated as much for her own beauty as for my
      wealth. I quitted my native land in search of some shelter or refuge for
      us abroad, and having found one in Germany I returned in this pilgrim's
      dress, in the company of some other German pilgrims, to seek my daughter
      and take up a large quantity of treasure I had left buried. My daughter I
      did not find, the treasure I found and have with me; and now, in this
      strange roundabout way you have seen, I find the treasure that more than
      all makes me rich, my beloved daughter. If our innocence and her tears and
      mine can with strict justice open the door to clemency, extend it to us,
      for we never had any intention of injuring you, nor do we sympathise with
      the aims of our people, who have been justly banished."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I know Ricote well," said Sancho at this, "and I know too that what he
      says about Ana Felix being his daughter is true; but as to those other
      particulars about going and coming, and having good or bad intentions, I
      say nothing."
    </p>
    <p>
      While all present stood amazed at this strange occurrence the general
      said, "At any rate your tears will not allow me to keep my oath; live,
      fair Ana Felix, all the years that heaven has allotted you; but these rash
      insolent fellows must pay the penalty of the crime they have committed;"
      and with that he gave orders to have the two Turks who had killed his two
      soldiers hanged at once at the yard-arm. The viceroy, however, begged him
      earnestly not to hang them, as their behaviour savoured rather of madness
      than of bravado. The general yielded to the viceroy's request, for revenge
      is not easily taken in cold blood. They then tried to devise some scheme
      for rescuing Don Gaspar Gregorio from the danger in which he had been
      left. Ricote offered for that object more than two thousand ducats that he
      had in pearls and gems; they proposed several plans, but none so good as
      that suggested by the renegade already mentioned, who offered to return to
      Algiers in a small vessel of about six banks, manned by Christian rowers,
      as he knew where, how, and when he could and should land, nor was he
      ignorant of the house in which Don Gaspar was staying. The general and the
      viceroy had some hesitation about placing confidence in the renegade and
      entrusting him with the Christians who were to row, but Ana Felix said she
      could answer for him, and her father offered to go and pay the ransom of
      the Christians if by any chance they should not be forthcoming. This,
      then, being agreed upon, the viceroy landed, and Don Antonio Moreno took
      the fair Morisco and her father home with him, the viceroy charging him to
      give them the best reception and welcome in his power, while on his own
      part he offered all that house contained for their entertainment; so great
      was the good-will and kindliness the beauty of Ana Felix had infused into
      his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p63e" id="p63e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p63e.jpg (23K)" src="images/p63e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch64b" id="ch64b"></a>CHAPTER LXIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      TREATING OF THE ADVENTURE WHICH GAVE DON QUIXOTE MORE UNHAPPINESS THAN ALL
      THAT HAD HITHERTO BEFALLEN HIM
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p64a" id="p64a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p64a.jpg (80K)" src="images/p64a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p64a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The wife of Don Antonio Moreno, so the history says, was extremely happy
      to see Ana Felix in her house. She welcomed her with great kindness,
      charmed as well by her beauty as by her intelligence; for in both respects
      the fair Morisco was richly endowed, and all the people of the city
      flocked to see her as though they had been summoned by the ringing of the
      bells.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote told Don Antonio that the plan adopted for releasing Don
      Gregorio was not a good one, for its risks were greater than its
      advantages, and that it would be better to land himself with his arms and
      horse in Barbary; for he would carry him off in spite of the whole Moorish
      host, as Don Gaiferos carried off his wife Melisendra.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Remember, your worship," observed Sancho on hearing him say so, "Senor
      Don Gaiferos carried off his wife from the mainland, and took her to
      France by land; but in this case, if by chance we carry off Don Gregorio,
      we have no way of bringing him to Spain, for there's the sea between."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There's a remedy for everything except death," said Don Quixote; "if they
      bring the vessel close to the shore we shall be able to get on board
      though all the world strive to prevent us."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your worship hits it off mighty well and mighty easy," said Sancho; "but
      'it's a long step from saying to doing;' and I hold to the renegade, for
      he seems to me an honest good-hearted fellow."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Antonio then said that if the renegade did not prove successful, the
      expedient of the great Don Quixote's expedition to Barbary should be
      adopted. Two days afterwards the renegade put to sea in a light vessel of
      six oars a-side manned by a stout crew, and two days later the galleys
      made sail eastward, the general having begged the viceroy to let him know
      all about the release of Don Gregorio and about Ana Felix, and the viceroy
      promised to do as he requested.
    </p>
    <p>
      One morning as Don Quixote went out for a stroll along the beach, arrayed
      in full armour (for, as he often said, that was "his only gear, his only
      rest the fray," and he never was without it for a moment), he saw coming
      towards him a knight, also in full armour, with a shining moon painted on
      his shield, who, on approaching sufficiently near to be heard, said in a
      loud voice, addressing himself to Don Quixote, "Illustrious knight, and
      never sufficiently extolled Don Quixote of La Mancha, I am the Knight of
      the White Moon, whose unheard-of achievements will perhaps have recalled
      him to thy memory. I come to do battle with thee and prove the might of
      thy arm, to the end that I make thee acknowledge and confess that my lady,
      let her be who she may, is incomparably fairer than thy Dulcinea del
      Toboso. If thou dost acknowledge this fairly and openly, thou shalt escape
      death and save me the trouble of inflicting it upon thee; if thou fightest
      and I vanquish thee, I demand no other satisfaction than that, laying
      aside arms and abstaining from going in quest of adventures, thou withdraw
      and betake thyself to thine own village for the space of a year, and live
      there without putting hand to sword, in peace and quiet and beneficial
      repose, the same being needful for the increase of thy substance and the
      salvation of thy soul; and if thou dost vanquish me, my head shall be at
      thy disposal, my arms and horse thy spoils, and the renown of my deeds
      transferred and added to thine. Consider which will be thy best course,
      and give me thy answer speedily, for this day is all the time I have for
      the despatch of this business."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote was amazed and astonished, as well at the Knight of the White
      Moon's arrogance, as at his reason for delivering the defiance, and with
      calm dignity he answered him, "Knight of the White Moon, of whose
      achievements I have never heard until now, I will venture to swear you
      have never seen the illustrious Dulcinea; for had you seen her I know you
      would have taken care not to venture yourself upon this issue, because the
      sight would have removed all doubt from your mind that there ever has been
      or can be a beauty to be compared with hers; and so, not saying you lie,
      but merely that you are not correct in what you state, I accept your
      challenge, with the conditions you have proposed, and at once, that the
      day you have fixed may not expire; and from your conditions I except only
      that of the renown of your achievements being transferred to me, for I
      know not of what sort they are nor what they may amount to; I am satisfied
      with my own, such as they be. Take, therefore, the side of the field you
      choose, and I will do the same; and to whom God shall give it may Saint
      Peter add his blessing."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Knight of the White Moon had been seen from the city, and it was told
      the viceroy how he was in conversation with Don Quixote. The viceroy,
      fancying it must be some fresh adventure got up by Don Antonio Moreno or
      some other gentleman of the city, hurried out at once to the beach
      accompanied by Don Antonio and several other gentlemen, just as Don
      Quixote was wheeling Rocinante round in order to take up the necessary
      distance. The viceroy upon this, seeing that the pair of them were
      evidently preparing to come to the charge, put himself between them,
      asking them what it was that led them to engage in combat all of a sudden
      in this way. The Knight of the White Moon replied that it was a question
      of precedence of beauty; and briefly told him what he had said to Don
      Quixote, and how the conditions of the defiance agreed upon on both sides
      had been accepted. The viceroy went over to Don Antonio, and asked in a
      low voice did he know who the Knight of the White Moon was, or was it some
      joke they were playing on Don Quixote. Don Antonio replied that he neither
      knew who he was nor whether the defiance was in joke or in earnest. This
      answer left the viceroy in a state of perplexity, not knowing whether he
      ought to let the combat go on or not; but unable to persuade himself that
      it was anything but a joke he fell back, saying, "If there be no other way
      out of it, gallant knights, except to confess or die, and Don Quixote is
      inflexible, and your worship of the White Moon still more so, in God's
      hand be it, and fall on."
    </p>
    <p>
      He of the White Moon thanked the viceroy in courteous and well-chosen
      words for the permission he gave them, and so did Don Quixote, who then,
      commending himself with all his heart to heaven and to his Dulcinea, as
      was his custom on the eve of any combat that awaited him, proceeded to
      take a little more distance, as he saw his antagonist was doing the same;
      then, without blast of trumpet or other warlike instrument to give them
      the signal to charge, both at the same instant wheeled their horses; and
      he of the White Moon, being the swifter, met Don Quixote after having
      traversed two-thirds of the course, and there encountered him with such
      violence that, without touching him with his lance (for he held it high,
      to all appearance purposely), he hurled Don Quixote and Rocinante to the
      earth, a perilous fall. He sprang upon him at once, and placing the lance
      over his visor said to him, "You are vanquished, sir knight, nay dead
      unless you admit the conditions of our defiance."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote, bruised and stupefied, without raising his visor said in a
      weak feeble voice as if he were speaking out of a tomb, "Dulcinea del
      Toboso is the fairest woman in the world, and I the most unfortunate
      knight on earth; it is not fitting that this truth should suffer by my
      feebleness; drive your lance home, sir knight, and take my life, since you
      have taken away my honour."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That will I not, in sooth," said he of the White Moon; "live the fame of
      the lady Dulcinea's beauty undimmed as ever; all I require is that the
      great Don Quixote retire to his own home for a year, or for so long a time
      as shall by me be enjoined upon him, as we agreed before engaging in this
      combat."
    </p>
    <p>
      The viceroy, Don Antonio, and several others who were present heard all
      this, and heard too how Don Quixote replied that so long as nothing in
      prejudice of Dulcinea was demanded of him, he would observe all the rest
      like a true and loyal knight. The engagement given, he of the White Moon
      wheeled about, and making obeisance to the viceroy with a movement of the
      head, rode away into the city at a half gallop. The viceroy bade Don
      Antonio hasten after him, and by some means or other find out who he was.
      They raised Don Quixote up and uncovered his face, and found him pale and
      bathed with sweat.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p64b" id="p64b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p64b.jpg (344K)" src="images/p64b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p64b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Rocinante from the mere hard measure he had received lay unable to stir
      for the present. Sancho, wholly dejected and woebegone, knew not what to
      say or do. He fancied that all was a dream, that the whole business was a
      piece of enchantment. Here was his master defeated, and bound not to take
      up arms for a year. He saw the light of the glory of his achievements
      obscured; the hopes of the promises lately made him swept away like smoke
      before the wind; Rocinante, he feared, was crippled for life, and his
      master's bones out of joint; for if he were only shaken out of his madness
      it would be no small luck. In the end they carried him into the city in a
      hand-chair which the viceroy sent for, and thither the viceroy himself
      returned, eager to ascertain who this Knight of the White Moon was who had
      left Don Quixote in such a sad plight.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p64e" id="p64e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p64e.jpg (44K)" src="images/p64e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p64e.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch65b" id="ch65b"></a>CHAPTER LXV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHEREIN IS MADE KNOWN WHO THE KNIGHT OF THE WHITE MOON WAS; LIKEWISE DON
      GREGORIO'S RELEASE, AND OTHER EVENTS
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p65a" id="p65a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p65a.jpg (149K)" src="images/p65a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p65a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Antonio Moreno followed the Knight of the White Moon, and a number of
      boys followed him too, nay pursued him, until they had him fairly housed
      in a hostel in the heart of the city. Don Antonio, eager to make his
      acquaintance, entered also; a squire came out to meet him and remove his
      armour, and he shut himself into a lower room, still attended by Don
      Antonio, whose bread would not bake until he had found out who he was. He
      of the White Moon, seeing then that the gentleman would not leave him,
      said, "I know very well, senor, what you have come for; it is to find out
      who I am; and as there is no reason why I should conceal it from you,
      while my servant here is taking off my armour I will tell you the true
      state of the case, without leaving out anything. You must know, senor,
      that I am called the bachelor Samson Carrasco. I am of the same village as
      Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose craze and folly make all of us who know
      him feel pity for him, and I am one of those who have felt it most; and
      persuaded that his chance of recovery lay in quiet and keeping at home and
      in his own house, I hit upon a device for keeping him there. Three months
      ago, therefore, I went out to meet him as a knight-errant, under the
      assumed name of the Knight of the Mirrors, intending to engage him in
      combat and overcome him without hurting him, making it the condition of
      our combat that the vanquished should be at the disposal of the victor.
      What I meant to demand of him (for I regarded him as vanquished already)
      was that he should return to his own village, and not leave it for a whole
      year, by which time he might be cured. But fate ordered it otherwise, for
      he vanquished me and unhorsed me, and so my plan failed. He went his way,
      and I came back conquered, covered with shame, and sorely bruised by my
      fall, which was a particularly dangerous one. But this did not quench my
      desire to meet him again and overcome him, as you have seen to-day. And as
      he is so scrupulous in his observance of the laws of knight-errantry, he
      will, no doubt, in order to keep his word, obey the injunction I have laid
      upon him. This, senor, is how the matter stands, and I have nothing more
      to tell you. I implore of you not to betray me, or tell Don Quixote who I
      am; so that my honest endeavours may be successful, and that a man of
      excellent wits&mdash;were he only rid of the fooleries of chivalry&mdash;may
      get them back again."
    </p>
    <p>
      "O senor," said Don Antonio, "may God forgive you the wrong you have done
      the whole world in trying to bring the most amusing madman in it back to
      his senses. Do you not see, senor, that the gain by Don Quixote's sanity
      can never equal the enjoyment his crazes give? But my belief is that all
      the senor bachelor's pains will be of no avail to bring a man so
      hopelessly cracked to his senses again; and if it were not uncharitable, I
      would say may Don Quixote never be cured, for by his recovery we lose not
      only his own drolleries, but his squire Sancho Panza's too, any one of
      which is enough to turn melancholy itself into merriment. However, I'll
      hold my peace and say nothing to him, and we'll see whether I am right in
      my suspicion that Senor Carrasco's efforts will be fruitless."
    </p>
    <p>
      The bachelor replied that at all events the affair promised well, and he
      hoped for a happy result from it; and putting his services at Don
      Antonio's commands he took his leave of him; and having had his armour
      packed at once upon a mule, he rode away from the city the same day on the
      horse he rode to battle, and returned to his own country without meeting
      any adventure calling for record in this veracious history.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Antonio reported to the viceroy what Carrasco told him, and the
      viceroy was not very well pleased to hear it, for with Don Quixote's
      retirement there was an end to the amusement of all who knew anything of
      his mad doings.
    </p>
    <p>
      Six days did Don Quixote keep his bed, dejected, melancholy, moody and out
      of sorts, brooding over the unhappy event of his defeat. Sancho strove to
      comfort him, and among other things he said to him, "Hold up your head,
      senor, and be of good cheer if you can, and give thanks to heaven that if
      you have had a tumble to the ground you have not come off with a broken
      rib; and, as you know that 'where they give they take,' and that 'there
      are not always fletches where there are pegs,' a fig for the doctor, for
      there's no need of him to cure this ailment. Let us go home, and give over
      going about in search of adventures in strange lands and places; rightly
      looked at, it is I that am the greater loser, though it is your worship
      that has had the worse usage. With the government I gave up all wish to be
      a governor again, but I did not give up all longing to be a count; and
      that will never come to pass if your worship gives up becoming a king by
      renouncing the calling of chivalry; and so my hopes are going to turn into
      smoke."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Peace, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "thou seest my suspension and
      retirement is not to exceed a year; I shall soon return to my honoured
      calling, and I shall not be at a loss for a kingdom to win and a county to
      bestow on thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "May God hear it and sin be deaf," said Sancho; "I have always heard say
      that 'a good hope is better than a bad holding."
    </p>
    <p>
      As they were talking Don Antonio came in looking extremely pleased and
      exclaiming, "Reward me for my good news, Senor Don Quixote! Don Gregorio
      and the renegade who went for him have come ashore&mdash;ashore do I say?
      They are by this time in the viceroy's house, and will be here
      immediately."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote cheered up a little and said, "Of a truth I am almost ready to
      say I should have been glad had it turned out just the other way, for it
      would have obliged me to cross over to Barbary, where by the might of my
      arm I should have restored to liberty, not only Don Gregorio, but all the
      Christian captives there are in Barbary. But what am I saying, miserable
      being that I am? Am I not he that has been conquered? Am I not he that has
      been overthrown? Am I not he who must not take up arms for a year? Then
      what am I making professions for; what am I bragging about; when it is
      fitter for me to handle the distaff than the sword?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No more of that, senor," said Sancho; "'let the hen live, even though it
      be with her pip; 'today for thee and to-morrow for me;' in these affairs
      of encounters and whacks one must not mind them, for he that falls to-day
      may get up to-morrow; unless indeed he chooses to lie in bed, I mean gives
      way to weakness and does not pluck up fresh spirit for fresh battles; let
      your worship get up now to receive Don Gregorio; for the household seems
      to be in a bustle, and no doubt he has come by this time;" and so it
      proved, for as soon as Don Gregorio and the renegade had given the viceroy
      an account of the voyage out and home, Don Gregorio, eager to see Ana
      Felix, came with the renegade to Don Antonio's house. When they carried
      him away from Algiers he was in woman's dress; on board the vessel,
      however, he exchanged it for that of a captive who escaped with him; but
      in whatever dress he might be he looked like one to be loved and served
      and esteemed, for he was surpassingly well-favoured, and to judge by
      appearances some seventeen or eighteen years of age. Ricote and his
      daughter came out to welcome him, the father with tears, the daughter with
      bashfulness. They did not embrace each other, for where there is deep love
      there will never be overmuch boldness. Seen side by side, the comeliness
      of Don Gregorio and the beauty of Ana Felix were the admiration of all who
      were present. It was silence that spoke for the lovers at that moment, and
      their eyes were the tongues that declared their pure and happy feelings.
      The renegade explained the measures and means he had adopted to rescue Don
      Gregorio, and Don Gregorio at no great length, but in a few words, in
      which he showed that his intelligence was in advance of his years,
      described the peril and embarrassment he found himself in among the women
      with whom he had sojourned. To conclude, Ricote liberally recompensed and
      rewarded as well the renegade as the men who had rowed; and the renegade
      effected his readmission into the body of the Church and was reconciled
      with it, and from a rotten limb became by penance and repentance a clean
      and sound one.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two days later the viceroy discussed with Don Antonio the steps they
      should take to enable Ana Felix and her father to stay in Spain, for it
      seemed to them there could be no objection to a daughter who was so good a
      Christian and a father to all appearance so well disposed remaining there.
      Don Antonio offered to arrange the matter at the capital, whither he was
      compelled to go on some other business, hinting that many a difficult
      affair was settled there with the help of favour and bribes.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nay," said Ricote, who was present during the conversation, "it will not
      do to rely upon favour or bribes, because with the great Don Bernardino de
      Velasco, Conde de Salazar, to whom his Majesty has entrusted our
      expulsion, neither entreaties nor promises, bribes nor appeals to
      compassion, are of any use; for though it is true he mingles mercy with
      justice, still, seeing that the whole body of our nation is tainted and
      corrupt, he applies to it the cautery that burns rather than the salve
      that soothes; and thus, by prudence, sagacity, care and the fear he
      inspires, he has borne on his mighty shoulders the weight of this great
      policy and carried it into effect, all our schemes and plots,
      importunities and wiles, being ineffectual to blind his Argus eyes, ever
      on the watch lest one of us should remain behind in concealment, and like
      a hidden root come in course of time to sprout and bear poisonous fruit in
      Spain, now cleansed, and relieved of the fear in which our vast numbers
      kept it. Heroic resolve of the great Philip the Third, and unparalleled
      wisdom to have entrusted it to the said Don Bernardino de Velasco!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "At any rate," said Don Antonio, "when I am there I will make all possible
      efforts, and let heaven do as pleases it best; Don Gregorio will come with
      me to relieve the anxiety which his parents must be suffering on account
      of his absence; Ana Felix will remain in my house with my wife, or in a
      monastery; and I know the viceroy will be glad that the worthy Ricote
      should stay with him until we see what terms I can make."
    </p>
    <p>
      The viceroy agreed to all that was proposed; but Don Gregorio on learning
      what had passed declared he could not and would not on any account leave
      Ana Felix; however, as it was his purpose to go and see his parents and
      devise some way of returning for her, he fell in with the proposed
      arrangement. Ana Felix remained with Don Antonio's wife, and Ricote in the
      viceroy's house.
    </p>
    <p>
      The day for Don Antonio's departure came; and two days later that for Don
      Quixote's and Sancho's, for Don Quixote's fall did not suffer him to take
      the road sooner. There were tears and sighs, swoonings and sobs, at the
      parting between Don Gregorio and Ana Felix. Ricote offered Don Gregorio a
      thousand crowns if he would have them, but he would not take any save five
      which Don Antonio lent him and he promised to repay at the capital. So the
      two of them took their departure, and Don Quixote and Sancho afterwards,
      as has been already said, Don Quixote without his armour and in travelling
      gear, and Sancho on foot, Dapple being loaded with the armour.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p65e" id="p65e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p65e.jpg (43K)" src="images/p65e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch66b" id="ch66b"></a>CHAPTER LXVI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH TREATS OF WHAT HE WHO READS WILL SEE, OR WHAT HE WHO HAS IT READ TO
      HIM WILL HEAR
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p66a" id="p66a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p66a.jpg (125K)" src="images/p66a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p66a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      As he left Barcelona, Don Quixote turned gaze upon the spot where he had
      fallen. "Here Troy was," said he; "here my ill-luck, not my cowardice,
      robbed me of all the glory I had won; here Fortune made me the victim of
      her caprices; here the lustre of my achievements was dimmed; here, in a
      word, fell my happiness never to rise again."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p66b" id="p66b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p66b.jpg (251K)" src="images/p66b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p66b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor," said Sancho on hearing this, "it is the part of brave hearts to
      be patient in adversity just as much as to be glad in prosperity; I judge
      by myself, for, if when I was a governor I was glad, now that I am a
      squire and on foot I am not sad; and I have heard say that she whom
      commonly they call Fortune is a drunken whimsical jade, and, what is more,
      blind, and therefore neither sees what she does, nor knows whom she casts
      down or whom she sets up."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art a great philosopher, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "thou speakest
      very sensibly; I know not who taught thee. But I can tell thee there is no
      such thing as Fortune in the world, nor does anything which takes place
      there, be it good or bad, come about by chance, but by the special
      preordination of heaven; and hence the common saying that 'each of us is
      the maker of his own Fortune.' I have been that of mine; but not with the
      proper amount of prudence, and my self-confidence has therefore made me
      pay dearly; for I ought to have reflected that Rocinante's feeble strength
      could not resist the mighty bulk of the Knight of the White Moon's horse.
      In a word, I ventured it, I did my best, I was overthrown, but though I
      lost my honour I did not lose nor can I lose the virtue of keeping my
      word. When I was a knight-errant, daring and valiant, I supported my
      achievements by hand and deed, and now that I am a humble squire I will
      support my words by keeping the promise I have given. Forward then, Sancho
      my friend, let us go to keep the year of the novitiate in our own country,
      and in that seclusion we shall pick up fresh strength to return to the by
      me never-forgotten calling of arms."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor," returned Sancho, "travelling on foot is not such a pleasant thing
      that it makes me feel disposed or tempted to make long marches. Let us
      leave this armour hung up on some tree, instead of some one that has been
      hanged; and then with me on Dapple's back and my feet off the ground we
      will arrange the stages as your worship pleases to measure them out; but
      to suppose that I am going to travel on foot, and make long ones, is to
      suppose nonsense."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou sayest well, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "let my armour be hung up
      for a trophy, and under it or round it we will carve on the trees what was
      inscribed on the trophy of Roland's armour-
    </p>
    <p>
      These let none move<br /> Who dareth not his might with Roland prove."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's the very thing," said Sancho; "and if it was not that we should
      feel the want of Rocinante on the road, it would be as well to leave him
      hung up too."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And yet, I had rather not have either him or the armour hung up," said
      Don Quixote, "that it may not be said, 'for good service a bad return.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your worship is right," said Sancho; "for, as sensible people hold, 'the
      fault of the ass must not be laid on the pack-saddle;' and, as in this
      affair the fault is your worship's, punish yourself and don't let your
      anger break out against the already battered and bloody armour, or the
      meekness of Rocinante, or the tenderness of my feet, trying to make them
      travel more than is reasonable."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p66c" id="p66c"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p66c.jpg (389K)" src="images/p66c.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p66c.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      In converse of this sort the whole of that day went by, as did the four
      succeeding ones, without anything occurring to interrupt their journey,
      but on the fifth as they entered a village they found a great number of
      people at the door of an inn enjoying themselves, as it was a holiday.
      Upon Don Quixote's approach a peasant called out, "One of these two
      gentlemen who come here, and who don't know the parties, will tell us what
      we ought to do about our wager."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I will, certainly," said Don Quixote, "and according to the rights
      of the case, if I can manage to understand it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well, here it is, worthy sir," said the peasant; "a man of this village
      who is so fat that he weighs twenty stone challenged another, a neighbour
      of his, who does not weigh more than nine, to run a race. The agreement
      was that they were to run a distance of a hundred paces with equal
      weights; and when the challenger was asked how the weights were to be
      equalised he said that the other, as he weighed nine stone, should put
      eleven in iron on his back, and that in this way the twenty stone of the
      thin man would equal the twenty stone of the fat one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not at all," exclaimed Sancho at once, before Don Quixote could answer;
      "it's for me, that only a few days ago left off being a governor and a
      judge, as all the world knows, to settle these doubtful questions and give
      an opinion in disputes of all sorts."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Answer in God's name, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote, "for I am not
      fit to give crumbs to a cat, my wits are so confused and upset."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this permission Sancho said to the peasants who stood clustered round
      him, waiting with open mouths for the decision to come from his,
      "Brothers, what the fat man requires is not in reason, nor has it a shadow
      of justice in it; because, if it be true, as they say, that the challenged
      may choose the weapons, the other has no right to choose such as will
      prevent and keep him from winning. My decision, therefore, is that the fat
      challenger prune, peel, thin, trim and correct himself, and take eleven
      stone of his flesh off his body, here or there, as he pleases, and as
      suits him best; and being in this way reduced to nine stone weight, he
      will make himself equal and even with nine stone of his opponent, and they
      will be able to run on equal terms."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By all that's good," said one of the peasants as he heard Sancho's
      decision, "but the gentleman has spoken like a saint, and given judgment
      like a canon! But I'll be bound the fat man won't part with an ounce of
      his flesh, not to say eleven stone."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The best plan will be for them not to run," said another, "so that
      neither the thin man break down under the weight, nor the fat one strip
      himself of his flesh; let half the wager be spent in wine, and let's take
      these gentlemen to the tavern where there's the best, and 'over me be the
      cloak when it rains."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thank you, sirs," said Don Quixote; "but I cannot stop for an instant,
      for sad thoughts and unhappy circumstances force me to seem discourteous
      and to travel apace;" and spurring Rocinante he pushed on, leaving them
      wondering at what they had seen and heard, at his own strange figure and
      at the shrewdness of his servant, for such they took Sancho to be; and
      another of them observed, "If the servant is so clever, what must the
      master be? I'll bet, if they are going to Salamanca to study, they'll come
      to be alcaldes of the Court in a trice; for it's a mere joke&mdash;only to
      read and read, and have interest and good luck; and before a man knows
      where he is he finds himself with a staff in his hand or a mitre on his
      head."
    </p>
    <p>
      That night master and man passed out in the fields in the open air, and
      the next day as they were pursuing their journey they saw coming towards
      them a man on foot with alforjas at the neck and a javelin or spiked staff
      in his hand, the very cut of a foot courier; who, as soon as he came close
      to Don Quixote, increased his pace and half running came up to him, and
      embracing his right thigh, for he could reach no higher, exclaimed with
      evident pleasure, "O Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha, what happiness it
      will be to the heart of my lord the duke when he knows your worship is
      coming back to his castle, for he is still there with my lady the
      duchess!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I do not recognise you, friend," said Don Quixote, "nor do I know who you
      are, unless you tell me."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am Tosilos, my lord the duke's lacquey, Senor Don Quixote," replied the
      courier; "he who refused to fight your worship about marrying the daughter
      of Dona Rodriguez."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God bless me!" exclaimed Don Quixote; "is it possible that you are the
      one whom mine enemies the enchanters changed into the lacquey you speak of
      in order to rob me of the honour of that battle?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nonsense, good sir!" said the messenger; "there was no enchantment or
      transformation at all; I entered the lists just as much lacquey Tosilos as
      I came out of them lacquey Tosilos. I thought to marry without fighting,
      for the girl had taken my fancy; but my scheme had a very different
      result, for as soon as your worship had left the castle my lord the duke
      had a hundred strokes of the stick given me for having acted contrary to
      the orders he gave me before engaging in the combat; and the end of the
      whole affair is that the girl has become a nun, and Dona Rodriguez has
      gone back to Castile, and I am now on my way to Barcelona with a packet of
      letters for the viceroy which my master is sending him. If your worship
      would like a drop, sound though warm, I have a gourd here full of the
      best, and some scraps of Tronchon cheese that will serve as a provocative
      and wakener of your thirst if so be it is asleep."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I take the offer," said Sancho; "no more compliments about it; pour out,
      good Tosilos, in spite of all the enchanters in the Indies."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art indeed the greatest glutton in the world, Sancho," said Don
      Quixote, "and the greatest booby on earth, not to be able to see that this
      courier is enchanted and this Tosilos a sham one; stop with him and take
      thy fill; I will go on slowly and wait for thee to come up with me."
    </p>
    <p>
      The lacquey laughed, unsheathed his gourd, unwalletted his scraps, and
      taking out a small loaf of bread he and Sancho seated themselves on the
      green grass, and in peace and good fellowship finished off the contents of
      the alforjas down to the bottom, so resolutely that they licked the
      wrapper of the letters, merely because it smelt of cheese.
    </p>
    <p>
      Said Tosilos to Sancho, "Beyond a doubt, Sancho my friend, this master of
      thine ought to be a madman."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ought!" said Sancho; "he owes no man anything; he pays for everything,
      particularly when the coin is madness. I see it plain enough, and I tell
      him so plain enough; but what's the use? especially now that it is all
      over with him, for here he is beaten by the Knight of the White Moon."
    </p>
    <p>
      Tosilos begged him to explain what had happened him, but Sancho replied
      that it would not be good manners to leave his master waiting for him; and
      that some other day if they met there would be time enough for that; and
      then getting up, after shaking his doublet and brushing the crumbs out of
      his beard, he drove Dapple on before him, and bidding adieu to Tosilos
      left him and rejoined his master, who was waiting for him under the shade
      of a tree.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p66e" id="p66e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p66e.jpg (29K)" src="images/p66e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch67b" id="ch67b"></a>CHAPTER LXVII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE RESOLUTION DON QUIXOTE FORMED TO TURN SHEPHERD AND TAKE TO A LIFE
      IN THE FIELDS WHILE THE YEAR FOR WHICH HE HAD GIVEN HIS WORD WAS RUNNING
      ITS COURSE; WITH OTHER EVENTS TRULY DELECTABLE AND HAPPY
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p67a" id="p67a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p67a.jpg (145K)" src="images/p67a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p67a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      If a multitude of reflections used to harass Don Quixote before he had
      been overthrown, a great many more harassed him since his fall. He was
      under the shade of a tree, as has been said, and there, like flies on
      honey, thoughts came crowding upon him and stinging him. Some of them
      turned upon the disenchantment of Dulcinea, others upon the life he was
      about to lead in his enforced retirement. Sancho came up and spoke in high
      praise of the generous disposition of the lacquey Tosilos.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Is it possible, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that thou dost still think
      that he yonder is a real lacquey? Apparently it has escaped thy memory
      that thou hast seen Dulcinea turned and transformed into a peasant wench,
      and the Knight of the Mirrors into the bachelor Carrasco; all the work of
      the enchanters that persecute me. But tell me now, didst thou ask this
      Tosilos, as thou callest him, what has become of Altisidora, did she weep
      over my absence, or has she already consigned to oblivion the love
      thoughts that used to afflict her when I was present?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The thoughts that I had," said Sancho, "were not such as to leave time
      for asking fool's questions. Body o' me, senor! is your worship in a
      condition now to inquire into other people's thoughts, above all love
      thoughts?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Look ye, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "there is a great difference between
      what is done out of love and what is done out of gratitude. A knight may
      very possibly be proof against love; but it is impossible, strictly
      speaking, for him to be ungrateful. Altisidora, to all appearance, loved
      me truly; she gave me the three kerchiefs thou knowest of; she wept at my
      departure, she cursed me, she abused me, casting shame to the winds she
      bewailed herself in public; all signs that she adored me; for the wrath of
      lovers always ends in curses. I had no hopes to give her, nor treasures to
      offer her, for mine are given to Dulcinea, and the treasures of
      knights-errant are like those of the fairies,' illusory and deceptive; all
      I can give her is the place in my memory I keep for her, without
      prejudice, however, to that which I hold devoted to Dulcinea, whom thou
      art wronging by thy remissness in whipping thyself and scourging that
      flesh&mdash;would that I saw it eaten by wolves&mdash;which would rather
      keep itself for the worms than for the relief of that poor lady."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor," replied Sancho, "if the truth is to be told, I cannot persuade
      myself that the whipping of my backside has anything to do with the
      disenchantment of the enchanted; it is like saying, 'If your head aches
      rub ointment on your knees;' at any rate I'll make bold to swear that in
      all the histories dealing with knight-errantry that your worship has read
      you have never come across anybody disenchanted by whipping; but whether
      or no I'll whip myself when I have a fancy for it, and the opportunity
      serves for scourging myself comfortably."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God grant it," said Don Quixote; "and heaven give thee grace to take it
      to heart and own the obligation thou art under to help my lady, who is
      thine also, inasmuch as thou art mine."
    </p>
    <p>
      As they pursued their journey talking in this way they came to the very
      same spot where they had been trampled on by the bulls. Don Quixote
      recognised it, and said he to Sancho, "This is the meadow where we came
      upon those gay shepherdesses and gallant shepherds who were trying to
      revive and imitate the pastoral Arcadia there, an idea as novel as it was
      happy, in emulation whereof, if so be thou dost approve of it, Sancho, I
      would have ourselves turn shepherds, at any rate for the time I have to
      live in retirement. I will buy some ewes and everything else requisite for
      the pastoral calling; and, I under the name of the shepherd Quixotize and
      thou as the shepherd Panzino, we will roam the woods and groves and
      meadows singing songs here, lamenting in elegies there, drinking of the
      crystal waters of the springs or limpid brooks or flowing rivers. The oaks
      will yield us their sweet fruit with bountiful hand, the trunks of the
      hard cork trees a seat, the willows shade, the roses perfume, the
      widespread meadows carpets tinted with a thousand dyes; the clear pure air
      will give us breath, the moon and stars lighten the darkness of the night
      for us, song shall be our delight, lamenting our joy, Apollo will supply
      us with verses, and love with conceits whereby we shall make ourselves
      famed for ever, not only in this but in ages to come."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Egad," said Sancho, "but that sort of life squares, nay corners, with my
      notions; and what is more the bachelor Samson Carrasco and Master Nicholas
      the barber won't have well seen it before they'll want to follow it and
      turn shepherds along with us; and God grant it may not come into the
      curate's head to join the sheepfold too, he's so jovial and fond of
      enjoying himself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art in the right of it, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "and the bachelor
      Samson Carrasco, if he enters the pastoral fraternity, as no doubt he
      will, may call himself the shepherd Samsonino, or perhaps the shepherd
      Carrascon; Nicholas the barber may call himself Niculoso, as old Boscan
      formerly was called Nemoroso; as for the curate I don't know what name we
      can fit to him unless it be something derived from his title, and we call
      him the shepherd Curiambro. For the shepherdesses whose lovers we shall
      be, we can pick names as we would pears; and as my lady's name does just
      as well for a shepherdess's as for a princess's, I need not trouble myself
      to look for one that will suit her better; to thine, Sancho, thou canst
      give what name thou wilt."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't mean to give her any but Teresona," said Sancho, "which will go
      well with her stoutness and with her own right name, as she is called
      Teresa; and then when I sing her praises in my verses I'll show how chaste
      my passion is, for I'm not going to look 'for better bread than ever came
      from wheat' in other men's houses. It won't do for the curate to have a
      shepherdess, for the sake of good example; and if the bachelor chooses to
      have one, that is his look-out."
    </p>
    <p>
      "God bless me, Sancho my friend!" said Don Quixote, "what a life we shall
      lead! What hautboys and Zamora bagpipes we shall hear, what tabors,
      timbrels, and rebecks! And then if among all these different sorts of
      music that of the albogues is heard, almost all the pastoral instruments
      will be there."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What are albogues?" asked Sancho, "for I never in my life heard tell of
      them or saw them."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Albogues," said Don Quixote, "are brass plates like candlesticks that
      struck against one another on the hollow side make a noise which, if not
      very pleasing or harmonious, is not disagreeable and accords very well
      with the rude notes of the bagpipe and tabor. The word albogue is Morisco,
      as are all those in our Spanish tongue that begin with al; for example,
      almohaza, almorzar, alhombra, alguacil, alhucema, almacen, alcancia, and
      others of the same sort, of which there are not many more; our language
      has only three that are Morisco and end in i, which are borcegui,
      zaquizami, and maravedi. Alheli and alfaqui are seen to be Arabic, as well
      by the "al" at the beginning as by the "i" they end with. I mention this
      incidentally, the chance allusion to albogues having reminded me of it;
      and it will be of great assistance to us in the perfect practice of this
      calling that I am something of a poet, as thou knowest, and that besides
      the bachelor Samson Carrasco is an accomplished one. Of the curate I say
      nothing; but I will wager he has some spice of the poet in him, and no
      doubt Master Nicholas too, for all barbers, or most of them, are guitar
      players and stringers of verses. I will bewail my separation; thou shalt
      glorify thyself as a constant lover; the shepherd Carrascon will figure as
      a rejected one, and the curate Curiambro as whatever may please him best;
      and so all will go as gaily as heart could wish."
    </p>
    <p>
      To this Sancho made answer, "I am so unlucky, senor, that I'm afraid the
      day will never come when I'll see myself at such a calling. O what neat
      spoons I'll make when I'm a shepherd! What messes, creams, garlands,
      pastoral odds and ends! And if they don't get me a name for wisdom,
      they'll not fail to get me one for ingenuity. My daughter Sanchica will
      bring us our dinner to the pasture. But stay&mdash;she's good-looking, and
      shepherds there are with more mischief than simplicity in them; I would
      not have her 'come for wool and go back shorn;' love-making and lawless
      desires are just as common in the fields as in the cities, and in
      shepherds' shanties as in royal palaces; 'do away with the cause, you do
      away with the sin;' 'if eyes don't see hearts don't break' and 'better a
      clear escape than good men's prayers.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "A truce to thy proverbs, Sancho," exclaimed Don Quixote; "any one of
      those thou hast uttered would suffice to explain thy meaning; many a time
      have I recommended thee not to be so lavish with proverbs and to exercise
      some moderation in delivering them; but it seems to me it is only
      'preaching in the desert;' 'my mother beats me and I go on with my
      tricks."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It seems to me," said Sancho, "that your worship is like the common
      saying, 'Said the frying-pan to the kettle, Get away, blackbreech.' You
      chide me for uttering proverbs, and you string them in couples yourself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Observe, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "I bring in proverbs to the
      purpose, and when I quote them they fit like a ring to the finger; thou
      bringest them in by the head and shoulders, in such a way that thou dost
      drag them in, rather than introduce them; if I am not mistaken, I have
      told thee already that proverbs are short maxims drawn from the experience
      and observation of our wise men of old; but the proverb that is not to the
      purpose is a piece of nonsense and not a maxim. But enough of this; as
      nightfall is drawing on let us retire some little distance from the high
      road to pass the night; what is in store for us to-morrow God knoweth."
    </p>
    <p>
      They turned aside, and supped late and poorly, very much against Sancho's
      will, who turned over in his mind the hardships attendant upon
      knight-errantry in woods and forests, even though at times plenty
      presented itself in castles and houses, as at Don Diego de Miranda's, at
      the wedding of Camacho the Rich, and at Don Antonio Moreno's; he
      reflected, however, that it could not be always day, nor always night; and
      so that night he passed in sleeping, and his master in waking.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p67e" id="p67e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p67e.jpg (55K)" src="images/p67e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch68b" id="ch68b"></a>CHAPTER LXVIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE BRISTLY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p68a" id="p68a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p68a.jpg (119K)" src="images/p68a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p68a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The night was somewhat dark, for though there was a moon in the sky it was
      not in a quarter where she could be seen; for sometimes the lady Diana
      goes on a stroll to the antipodes, and leaves the mountains all black and
      the valleys in darkness. Don Quixote obeyed nature so far as to sleep his
      first sleep, but did not give way to the second, very different from
      Sancho, who never had any second, because with him sleep lasted from night
      till morning, wherein he showed what a sound constitution and few cares he
      had. Don Quixote's cares kept him restless, so much so that he awoke
      Sancho and said to him, "I am amazed, Sancho, at the unconcern of thy
      temperament. I believe thou art made of marble or hard brass, incapable of
      any emotion or feeling whatever. I lie awake while thou sleepest, I weep
      while thou singest, I am faint with fasting while thou art sluggish and
      torpid from pure repletion. It is the duty of good servants to share the
      sufferings and feel the sorrows of their masters, if it be only for the
      sake of appearances. See the calmness of the night, the solitude of the
      spot, inviting us to break our slumbers by a vigil of some sort. Rise as
      thou livest, and retire a little distance, and with a good heart and
      cheerful courage give thyself three or four hundred lashes on account of
      Dulcinea's disenchantment score; and this I entreat of thee, making it a
      request, for I have no desire to come to grips with thee a second time, as
      I know thou hast a heavy hand. As soon as thou hast laid them on we will
      pass the rest of the night, I singing my separation, thou thy constancy,
      making a beginning at once with the pastoral life we are to follow at our
      village."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Senor," replied Sancho, "I'm no monk to get up out of the middle of my
      sleep and scourge myself, nor does it seem to me that one can pass from
      one extreme of the pain of whipping to the other of music. Will your
      worship let me sleep, and not worry me about whipping myself? or you'll
      make me swear never to touch a hair of my doublet, not to say my flesh."
    </p>
    <p>
      "O hard heart!" said Don Quixote, "O pitiless squire! O bread ill-bestowed
      and favours ill-acknowledged, both those I have done thee and those I mean
      to do thee! Through me hast thou seen thyself a governor, and through me
      thou seest thyself in immediate expectation of being a count, or obtaining
      some other equivalent title, for I&mdash;post tenebras spero lucem."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know what that is," said Sancho; "all I know is that so long as I
      am asleep I have neither fear nor hope, trouble nor glory; and good luck
      betide him that invented sleep, the cloak that covers over all a man's
      thoughts, the food that removes hunger, the drink that drives away thirst,
      the fire that warms the cold, the cold that tempers the heat, and, to wind
      up with, the universal coin wherewith everything is bought, the weight and
      balance that makes the shepherd equal with the king and the fool with the
      wise man. Sleep, I have heard say, has only one fault, that it is like
      death; for between a sleeping man and a dead man there is very little
      difference."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Never have I heard thee speak so elegantly as now, Sancho," said Don
      Quixote; "and here I begin to see the truth of the proverb thou dost
      sometimes quote, 'Not with whom thou art bred, but with whom thou art
      fed.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ha, by my life, master mine," said Sancho, "it's not I that am stringing
      proverbs now, for they drop in pairs from your worship's mouth faster than
      from mine; only there is this difference between mine and yours, that
      yours are well-timed and mine are untimely; but anyhow, they are all
      proverbs."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this point they became aware of a harsh indistinct noise that seemed to
      spread through all the valleys around. Don Quixote stood up and laid his
      hand upon his sword, and Sancho ensconced himself under Dapple and put the
      bundle of armour on one side of him and the ass's pack-saddle on the
      other, in fear and trembling as great as Don Quixote's perturbation. Each
      instant the noise increased and came nearer to the two terrified men, or
      at least to one, for as to the other, his courage is known to all. The
      fact of the matter was that some men were taking above six hundred pigs to
      sell at a fair, and were on their way with them at that hour, and so great
      was the noise they made and their grunting and blowing, that they deafened
      the ears of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, and they could not make out what
      it was. The wide-spread grunting drove came on in a surging mass, and
      without showing any respect for Don Quixote's dignity or Sancho's, passed
      right over the pair of them, demolishing Sancho's entrenchments, and not
      only upsetting Don Quixote but sweeping Rocinante off his feet into the
      bargain; and what with the trampling and the grunting, and the pace at
      which the unclean beasts went, pack-saddle, armour, Dapple and Rocinante
      were left scattered on the ground and Sancho and Don Quixote at their
      wits' end.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho got up as well as he could and begged his master to give him his
      sword, saying he wanted to kill half a dozen of those dirty unmannerly
      pigs, for he had by this time found out that that was what they were.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let them be, my friend," said Don Quixote; "this insult is the penalty of
      my sin; and it is the righteous chastisement of heaven that jackals should
      devour a vanquished knight, and wasps sting him and pigs trample him under
      foot."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I suppose it is the chastisement of heaven, too," said Sancho, "that
      flies should prick the squires of vanquished knights, and lice eat them,
      and hunger assail them. If we squires were the sons of the knights we
      serve, or their very near relations, it would be no wonder if the penalty
      of their misdeeds overtook us, even to the fourth generation. But what
      have the Panzas to do with the Quixotes? Well, well, let's lie down again
      and sleep out what little of the night there's left, and God will send us
      dawn and we shall be all right."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p68b" id="p68b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p68b.jpg (345K)" src="images/p68b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p68b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sleep thou, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "for thou wast born to sleep
      as I was born to watch; and during the time it now wants of dawn I will
      give a loose rein to my thoughts, and seek a vent for them in a little
      madrigal which, unknown to thee, I composed in my head last night."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I should think," said Sancho, "that the thoughts that allow one to make
      verses cannot be of great consequence; let your worship string verses as
      much as you like and I'll sleep as much as I can;" and forthwith, taking
      the space of ground he required, he muffled himself up and fell into a
      sound sleep, undisturbed by bond, debt, or trouble of any sort. Don
      Quixote, propped up against the trunk of a beech or a cork tree&mdash;for
      Cide Hamete does not specify what kind of tree it was&mdash;sang in this
      strain to the accompaniment of his own sighs:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
  When in my mind
I muse, O Love, upon thy cruelty,
  To death I flee,
In hope therein the end of all to find.

  But drawing near
That welcome haven in my sea of woe,
  Such joy I know,
That life revives, and still I linger here.

  Thus life doth slay,
And death again to life restoreth me;
  Strange destiny,
That deals with life and death as with a play!

</pre>
    <p>
      He accompanied each verse with many sighs and not a few tears, just like
      one whose heart was pierced with grief at his defeat and his separation
      from Dulcinea.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now daylight came, and the sun smote Sancho on the eyes with his
      beams. He awoke, roused himself up, shook himself and stretched his lazy
      limbs, and seeing the havoc the pigs had made with his stores he cursed
      the drove, and more besides. Then the pair resumed their journey, and as
      evening closed in they saw coming towards them some ten men on horseback
      and four or five on foot. Don Quixote's heart beat quick and Sancho's
      quailed with fear, for the persons approaching them carried lances and
      bucklers, and were in very warlike guise. Don Quixote turned to Sancho and
      said, "If I could make use of my weapons, and my promise had not tied my
      hands, I would count this host that comes against us but cakes and fancy
      bread; but perhaps it may prove something different from what we
      apprehend." The men on horseback now came up, and raising their lances
      surrounded Don Quixote in silence, and pointed them at his back and
      breast, menacing him with death. One of those on foot, putting his finger
      to his lips as a sign to him to be silent, seized Rocinante's bridle and
      drew him out of the road, and the others driving Sancho and Dapple before
      them, and all maintaining a strange silence, followed in the steps of the
      one who led Don Quixote. The latter two or three times attempted to ask
      where they were taking him to and what they wanted, but the instant he
      began to open his lips they threatened to close them with the points of
      their lances; and Sancho fared the same way, for the moment he seemed
      about to speak one of those on foot punched him with a goad, and Dapple
      likewise, as if he too wanted to talk. Night set in, they quickened their
      pace, and the fears of the two prisoners grew greater, especially as they
      heard themselves assailed with&mdash;"Get on, ye Troglodytes;" "Silence,
      ye barbarians;" "March, ye cannibals;" "No murmuring, ye Scythians;"
      "Don't open your eyes, ye murderous Polyphemes, ye blood-thirsty lions,"
      and suchlike names with which their captors harassed the ears of the
      wretched master and man. Sancho went along saying to himself, "We,
      tortolites, barbers, animals! I don't like those names at all; 'it's in a
      bad wind our corn is being winnowed;' 'misfortune comes upon us all at
      once like sticks on a dog,' and God grant it may be no worse than them
      that this unlucky adventure has in store for us."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote rode completely dazed, unable with the aid of all his wits to
      make out what could be the meaning of these abusive names they called
      them, and the only conclusion he could arrive at was that there was no
      good to be hoped for and much evil to be feared. And now, about an hour
      after midnight, they reached a castle which Don Quixote saw at once was
      the duke's, where they had been but a short time before. "God bless me!"
      said he, as he recognised the mansion, "what does this mean? It is all
      courtesy and politeness in this house; but with the vanquished good turns
      into evil, and evil into worse."
    </p>
    <p>
      They entered the chief court of the castle and found it prepared and
      fitted up in a style that added to their amazement and doubled their
      fears, as will be seen in the following chapter.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p68e" id="p68e"></a>
    </p>
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    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch69b" id="ch69b"></a>CHAPTER LXIX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE STRANGEST AND MOST EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE
      IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF THIS GREAT HISTORY
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p69a" id="p69a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p69a.jpg (141K)" src="images/p69a.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <a href="images/p69a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The horsemen dismounted, and, together with the men on foot, without a
      moment's delay taking up Sancho and Don Quixote bodily, they carried them
      into the court, all round which near a hundred torches fixed in sockets
      were burning, besides above five hundred lamps in the corridors, so that
      in spite of the night, which was somewhat dark, the want of daylight could
      not be perceived. In the middle of the court was a catafalque, raised
      about two yards above the ground and covered completely by an immense
      canopy of black velvet, and on the steps all round it white wax tapers
      burned in more than a hundred silver candlesticks. Upon the catafalque was
      seen the dead body of a damsel so lovely that by her beauty she made death
      itself look beautiful. She lay with her head resting upon a cushion of
      brocade and crowned with a garland of sweet-smelling flowers of divers
      sorts, her hands crossed upon her bosom, and between them a branch of
      yellow palm of victory. On one side of the court was erected a stage,
      where upon two chairs were seated two persons who from having crowns on
      their heads and sceptres in their hands appeared to be kings of some sort,
      whether real or mock ones. By the side of this stage, which was reached by
      steps, were two other chairs on which the men carrying the prisoners
      seated Don Quixote and Sancho, all in silence, and by signs giving them to
      understand that they too were to be silent; which, however, they would
      have been without any signs, for their amazement at all they saw held them
      tongue-tied. And now two persons of distinction, who were at once
      recognised by Don Quixote as his hosts the duke and duchess, ascended the
      stage attended by a numerous suite, and seated themselves on two gorgeous
      chairs close to the two kings, as they seemed to be. Who would not have
      been amazed at this? Nor was this all, for Don Quixote had perceived that
      the dead body on the catafalque was that of the fair Altisidora. As the
      duke and duchess mounted the stage Don Quixote and Sancho rose and made
      them a profound obeisance, which they returned by bowing their heads
      slightly. At this moment an official crossed over, and approaching Sancho
      threw over him a robe of black buckram painted all over with flames of
      fire, and taking off his cap put upon his head a mitre such as those
      undergoing the sentence of the Holy Office wear; and whispered in his ear
      that he must not open his lips, or they would put a gag upon him, or take
      his life. Sancho surveyed himself from head to foot and saw himself all
      ablaze with flames; but as they did not burn him, he did not care two
      farthings for them. He took off the mitre and seeing it painted with devils
      he put it on again, saying to himself, "Well, so far those don't burn me
      nor do these carry me off." Don Quixote surveyed him too, and though fear
      had got the better of his faculties, he could not help smiling to see the
      figure Sancho presented. And now from underneath the catafalque, so it
      seemed, there rose a low sweet sound of flutes, which, coming unbroken by
      human voice (for there silence itself kept silence), had a soft and
      languishing effect. Then, beside the pillow of what seemed to be the dead
      body, suddenly appeared a fair youth in a Roman habit, who, to the
      accompaniment of a harp which he himself played, sang in a sweet and clear
      voice these two stanzas:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
While fair Altisidora, who the sport
  Of cold Don Quixote's cruelty hath been,
Returns to life, and in this magic court
  The dames in sables come to grace the scene,
And while her matrons all in seemly sort
  My lady robes in baize and bombazine,
Her beauty and her sorrows will I sing
With defter quill than touched the Thracian string.

But not in life alone, methinks, to me
  Belongs the office; Lady, when my tongue
Is cold in death, believe me, unto thee
  My voice shall raise its tributary song.
My soul, from this strait prison-house set free,
  As o'er the Stygian lake it floats along,
Thy praises singing still shall hold its way,
And make the waters of oblivion stay.

</pre>
    <p>
      At this point one of the two that looked like kings exclaimed, "Enough,
      enough, divine singer! It would be an endless task to put before us now
      the death and the charms of the peerless Altisidora, not dead as the
      ignorant world imagines, but living in the voice of fame and in the
      penance which Sancho Panza, here present, has to undergo to restore her to
      the long-lost light. Do thou, therefore, O Rhadamanthus, who sittest in
      judgment with me in the murky caverns of Dis, as thou knowest all that the
      inscrutable fates have decreed touching the resuscitation of this damsel,
      announce and declare it at once, that the happiness we look forward to
      from her restoration be no longer deferred."
    </p>
    <p>
      No sooner had Minos the fellow judge of Rhadamanthus said this, than
      Rhadamanthus rising up said:
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ho, officials of this house, high and low, great and small, make haste
      hither one and all, and print on Sancho's face four-and-twenty smacks, and
      give him twelve pinches and six pin thrusts in the back and arms; for upon
      this ceremony depends the restoration of Altisidora."
    </p>
    <p>
      On hearing this Sancho broke silence and cried out, "By all that's good,
      I'll as soon let my face be smacked or handled as turn Moor. Body o' me!
      What has handling my face got to do with the resurrection of this damsel?
      'The old woman took kindly to the blits; they enchant Dulcinea, and whip
      me in order to disenchant her; Altisidora dies of ailments God was pleased
      to send her, and to bring her to life again they must give me
      four-and-twenty smacks, and prick holes in my body with pins, and raise
      weals on my arms with pinches! Try those jokes on a brother-in-law; 'I'm
      an old dog, and "tus, tus" is no use with me.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou shalt die," said Rhadamanthus in a loud voice; "relent, thou tiger;
      humble thyself, proud Nimrod; suffer and he silent, for no impossibilities
      are asked of thee; it is not for thee to inquire into the difficulties in
      this matter; smacked thou must be, pricked thou shalt see thyself, and
      with pinches thou must be made to howl. Ho, I say, officials, obey my
      orders; or by the word of an honest man, ye shall see what ye were born
      for."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this some six duennas, advancing across the court, made their
      appearance in procession, one after the other, four of them with
      spectacles, and all with their right hands uplifted, showing four fingers
      of wrist to make their hands look longer, as is the fashion now-a-days. No
      sooner had Sancho caught sight of them than, bellowing like a bull, he
      exclaimed, "I might let myself be handled by all the world; but allow
      duennas to touch me&mdash;not a bit of it! Scratch my face, as my master
      was served in this very castle; run me through the body with burnished
      daggers; pinch my arms with red-hot pincers; I'll bear all in patience to
      serve these gentlefolk; but I won't let duennas touch me, though the devil
      should carry me off!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Don Quixote, too, broke silence, saying to Sancho, "Have patience, my
      son, and gratify these noble persons, and give all thanks to heaven that
      it has infused such virtue into thy person, that by its sufferings thou
      canst disenchant the enchanted and restore to life the dead."
    </p>
    <p>
      The duennas were now close to Sancho, and he, having become more tractable
      and reasonable, settling himself well in his chair presented his face and
      beard to the first, who delivered him a smack very stoutly laid on, and
      then made him a low curtsey.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Less politeness and less paint, senora duenna," said Sancho; "by God your
      hands smell of vinegar-wash."
    </p>
    <p>
      In line, all the duennas smacked him and several others of the household
      pinched him; but what he could not stand was being pricked by the pins;
      and so, apparently out of patience, he started up out of his chair, and
      seizing a lighted torch that stood near him fell upon the duennas and the
      whole set of his tormentors, exclaiming, "Begone, ye ministers of hell;
      I'm not made of brass not to feel such out-of-the-way tortures."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this instant Altisidora, who probably was tired of having been so long
      lying on her back, turned on her side; seeing which the bystanders cried
      out almost with one voice, "Altisidora is alive! Altisidora lives!"
    </p>
    <p>
      Rhadamanthus bade Sancho put away his wrath, as the object they had in
      view was now attained. When Don Quixote saw Altisidora move, he went on
      his knees to Sancho saying to him, "Now is the time, son of my bowels, not
      to call thee my squire, for thee to give thyself some of those lashes thou
      art bound to lay on for the disenchantment of Dulcinea. Now, I say, is the
      time when the virtue that is in thee is ripe, and endowed with efficacy to
      work the good that is looked for from thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Sancho made answer, "That's trick upon trick, I think, and not
      honey upon pancakes; a nice thing it would be for a whipping to come now,
      on the top of pinches, smacks, and pin-proddings! You had better take a
      big stone and tie it round my neck, and pitch me into a well; I should not
      mind it much, if I'm to be always made the cow of the wedding for the cure
      of other people's ailments. Leave me alone; or else by God I'll fling the
      whole thing to the dogs, let come what may."
    </p>
    <p>
      Altisidora had by this time sat up on the catafalque, and as she did so
      the clarions sounded, accompanied by the flutes, and the voices of all
      present exclaiming, "Long life to Altisidora! long life to Altisidora!"
      The duke and duchess and the kings Minos and Rhadamanthus stood up, and
      all, together with Don Quixote and Sancho, advanced to receive her and
      take her down from the catafalque; and she, making as though she were
      recovering from a swoon, bowed her head to the duke and duchess and to the
      kings, and looking sideways at Don Quixote, said to him, "God forgive
      thee, insensible knight, for through thy cruelty I have been, to me it
      seems, more than a thousand years in the other world; and to thee, the
      most compassionate upon earth, I render thanks for the life I am now in
      possession of. From this day forth, friend Sancho, count as thine six
      smocks of mine which I bestow upon thee, to make as many shirts for
      thyself, and if they are not all quite whole, at any rate they are all
      clean."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho kissed her hands in gratitude, kneeling, and with the mitre in his
      hand. The duke bade them take it from him, and give him back his cap and
      doublet and remove the flaming robe. Sancho begged the duke to let them
      leave him the robe and mitre; as he wanted to take them home for a token
      and memento of that unexampled adventure. The duchess said they must leave
      them with him; for he knew already what a great friend of his she was. The
      duke then gave orders that the court should be cleared, and that all
      should retire to their chambers, and that Don Quixote and Sancho should be
      conducted to their old quarters.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p69e" id="p69e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p69e.jpg (60K)" src="images/p69e.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch70b" id="ch70b"></a>CHAPTER LXX.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      WHICH FOLLOWS SIXTY-NINE AND DEALS WITH MATTERS INDISPENSABLE FOR THE
      CLEAR COMPREHENSION OF THIS HISTORY
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p70a" id="p70a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p70a.jpg (131K)" src="images/p70a.jpg" width="100%" />
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    <p>
      <a href="images/p70a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho slept that night in a cot in the same chamber with Don Quixote, a
      thing he would have gladly excused if he could for he knew very well that
      with questions and answers his master would not let him sleep, and he was
      in no humour for talking much, as he still felt the pain of his late
      martyrdom, which interfered with his freedom of speech; and it would have
      been more to his taste to sleep in a hovel alone, than in that luxurious
      chamber in company. And so well founded did his apprehension prove, and so
      correct was his anticipation, that scarcely had his master got into bed
      when he said, "What dost thou think of tonight's adventure, Sancho? Great
      and mighty is the power of cold-hearted scorn, for thou with thine own
      eyes hast seen Altisidora slain, not by arrows, nor by the sword, nor by
      any warlike weapon, nor by deadly poisons, but by the thought of the
      sternness and scorn with which I have always treated her."
    </p>
    <p>
      "She might have died and welcome," said Sancho, "when she pleased and how
      she pleased; and she might have left me alone, for I never made her fall
      in love or scorned her. I don't know nor can I imagine how the recovery of
      Altisidora, a damsel more fanciful than wise, can have, as I have said
      before, anything to do with the sufferings of Sancho Panza. Now I begin to
      see plainly and clearly that there are enchanters and enchanted people in
      the world; and may God deliver me from them, since I can't deliver myself;
      and so I beg of your worship to let me sleep and not ask me any more
      questions, unless you want me to throw myself out of the window."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sleep, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote, "if the pinprodding and
      pinches thou hast received and the smacks administered to thee will let
      thee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No pain came up to the insult of the smacks," said Sancho, "for the
      simple reason that it was duennas, confound them, that gave them to me;
      but once more I entreat your worship to let me sleep, for sleep is relief
      from misery to those who are miserable when awake."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Be it so, and God be with thee," said Don Quixote.
    </p>
    <p>
      They fell asleep, both of them, and Cide Hamete, the author of this great
      history, took this opportunity to record and relate what it was that
      induced the duke and duchess to get up the elaborate plot that has been
      described. The bachelor Samson Carrasco, he says, not forgetting how he as
      the Knight of the Mirrors had been vanquished and overthrown by Don
      Quixote, which defeat and overthrow upset all his plans, resolved to try
      his hand again, hoping for better luck than he had before; and so, having
      learned where Don Quixote was from the page who brought the letter and
      present to Sancho's wife, Teresa Panza, he got himself new armour and
      another horse, and put a white moon upon his shield, and to carry his arms
      he had a mule led by a peasant, not by Tom Cecial his former squire for
      fear he should be recognised by Sancho or Don Quixote. He came to the
      duke's castle, and the duke informed him of the road and route Don Quixote
      had taken with the intention of being present at the jousts at Saragossa.
      He told him, too, of the jokes he had practised upon him, and of the
      device for the disenchantment of Dulcinea at the expense of Sancho's
      backside; and finally he gave him an account of the trick Sancho had
      played upon his master, making him believe that Dulcinea was enchanted and
      turned into a country wench; and of how the duchess, his wife, had
      persuaded Sancho that it was he himself who was deceived, inasmuch as
      Dulcinea was really enchanted; at which the bachelor laughed not a little,
      and marvelled as well at the sharpness and simplicity of Sancho as at the
      length to which Don Quixote's madness went. The duke begged of him if he
      found him (whether he overcame him or not) to return that way and let him
      know the result. This the bachelor did; he set out in quest of Don
      Quixote, and not finding him at Saragossa, he went on, and how he fared
      has been already told. He returned to the duke's castle and told him all,
      what the conditions of the combat were, and how Don Quixote was now, like
      a loyal knight-errant, returning to keep his promise of retiring to his
      village for a year, by which time, said the bachelor, he might perhaps be
      cured of his madness; for that was the object that had led him to adopt
      these disguises, as it was a sad thing for a gentleman of such good parts
      as Don Quixote to be a madman. And so he took his leave of the duke, and
      went home to his village to wait there for Don Quixote, who was coming
      after him. Thereupon the duke seized the opportunity of practising this
      mystification upon him; so much did he enjoy everything connected with
      Sancho and Don Quixote. He had the roads about the castle far and near,
      everywhere he thought Don Quixote was likely to pass on his return,
      occupied by large numbers of his servants on foot and on horseback, who
      were to bring him to the castle, by fair means or foul, if they met him.
      They did meet him, and sent word to the duke, who, having already settled
      what was to be done, as soon as he heard of his arrival, ordered the
      torches and lamps in the court to be lit and Altisidora to be placed on
      the catafalque with all the pomp and ceremony that has been described, the
      whole affair being so well arranged and acted that it differed but little
      from reality. And Cide Hamete says, moreover, that for his part he
      considers the concocters of the joke as crazy as the victims of it, and
      that the duke and duchess were not two fingers' breadth removed from being
      something like fools themselves when they took such pains to make game of
      a pair of fools.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for the latter, one was sleeping soundly and the other lying awake
      occupied with his desultory thoughts, when daylight came to them bringing
      with it the desire to rise; for the lazy down was never a delight to Don
      Quixote, victor or vanquished. Altisidora, come back from death to life as
      Don Quixote fancied, following up the freak of her lord and lady, entered
      the chamber, crowned with the garland she had worn on the catafalque and
      in a robe of white taffeta embroidered with gold flowers, her hair flowing
      loose over her shoulders, and leaning upon a staff of fine black ebony.
      Don Quixote, disconcerted and in confusion at her appearance, huddled
      himself up and well-nigh covered himself altogether with the sheets and
      counterpane of the bed, tongue-tied, and unable to offer her any civility.
      Altisidora seated herself on a chair at the head of the bed, and, after a
      deep sigh, said to him in a feeble, soft voice, "When women of rank and
      modest maidens trample honour under foot, and give a loose to the tongue
      that breaks through every impediment, publishing abroad the inmost secrets
      of their hearts, they are reduced to sore extremities. Such a one am I,
      Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha, crushed, conquered, love-smitten, but yet
      patient under suffering and virtuous, and so much so that my heart broke
      with grief and I lost my life. For the last two days I have been dead,
      slain by the thought of the cruelty with which thou hast treated me,
      obdurate knight,
    </p>
    <p>
      O harder thou than marble to my plaint;
    </p>
    <p>
      or at least believed to be dead by all who saw me; and had it not been
      that Love, taking pity on me, let my recovery rest upon the sufferings of
      this good squire, there I should have remained in the other world."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Love might very well have let it rest upon the sufferings of my ass, and
      I should have been obliged to him," said Sancho. "But tell me, senora&mdash;and
      may heaven send you a tenderer lover than my master&mdash;what did you see
      in the other world? What goes on in hell? For of course that's where one
      who dies in despair is bound for."
    </p>
    <p>
      "To tell you the truth," said Altisidora, "I cannot have died outright,
      for I did not go into hell; had I gone in, it is very certain I should
      never have come out again, do what I might. The truth is, I came to the
      gate, where some dozen or so of devils were playing tennis, all in
      breeches and doublets, with falling collars trimmed with Flemish bonelace,
      and ruffles of the same that served them for wristbands, with four
      fingers' breadth of the arms exposed to make their hands look longer; in
      their hands they held rackets of fire; but what amazed me still more was
      that books, apparently full of wind and rubbish, served them for tennis
      balls, a strange and marvellous thing; this, however, did not astonish me
      so much as to observe that, although with players it is usual for the
      winners to be glad and the losers sorry, there in that game all were
      growling, all were snarling, and all were cursing one another." "That's no
      wonder," said Sancho; "for devils, whether playing or not, can never be
      content, win or lose."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very likely," said Altisidora; "but there is another thing that surprises
      me too, I mean surprised me then, and that was that no ball outlasted the
      first throw or was of any use a second time; and it was wonderful the
      constant succession there was of books, new and old. To one of them, a
      brand-new, well-bound one, they gave such a stroke that they knocked the
      guts out of it and scattered the leaves about. 'Look what book that is,'
      said one devil to another, and the other replied, 'It is the "Second Part
      of the History of Don Quixote of La Mancha," not by Cide Hamete, the
      original author, but by an Aragonese who by his own account is of
      Tordesillas.' 'Out of this with it,' said the first, 'and into the depths
      of hell with it out of my sight.' 'Is it so bad?' said the other. 'So bad
      is it,' said the first, 'that if I had set myself deliberately to make a
      worse, I could not have done it.' They then went on with their game,
      knocking other books about; and I, having heard them mention the name of
      Don Quixote whom I love and adore so, took care to retain this vision in
      my memory."
    </p>
    <p>
      "A vision it must have been, no doubt," said Don Quixote, "for there is no
      other I in the world; this history has been going about here for some time
      from hand to hand, but it does not stay long in any, for everybody gives
      it a taste of his foot. I am not disturbed by hearing that I am wandering
      in a fantastic shape in the darkness of the pit or in the daylight above,
      for I am not the one that history treats of. If it should be good,
      faithful, and true, it will have ages of life; but if it should be bad,
      from its birth to its burial will not be a very long journey."
    </p>
    <p>
      Altisidora was about to proceed with her complaint against Don Quixote,
      when he said to her, "I have several times told you, senora that it
      grieves me you should have set your affections upon me, as from mine they
      can only receive gratitude, but no return. I was born to belong to
      Dulcinea del Toboso, and the fates, if there are any, dedicated me to her;
      and to suppose that any other beauty can take the place she occupies in my
      heart is to suppose an impossibility. This frank declaration should
      suffice to make you retire within the bounds of your modesty, for no one
      can bind himself to do impossibilities."
    </p>
    <p>
      Hearing this, Altisidora, with a show of anger and agitation, exclaimed,
      "God's life! Don Stockfish, soul of a mortar, stone of a date, more
      obstinate and obdurate than a clown asked a favour when he has his mind
      made up, if I fall upon you I'll tear your eyes out! Do you fancy, Don
      Vanquished, Don Cudgelled, that I died for your sake? All that you have
      seen to-night has been make-believe; I'm not the woman to let the black of
      my nail suffer for such a camel, much less die!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I can well believe," said Sancho; "for all that about lovers pining
      to death is absurd; they may talk of it, but as for doing it&mdash;Judas
      may believe that!"
    </p>
    <p>
      While they were talking, the musician, singer, and poet, who had sung the
      two stanzas given above came in, and making a profound obeisance to Don
      Quixote said, "Will your worship, sir knight, reckon and retain me in the
      number of your most faithful servants, for I have long been a great
      admirer of yours, as well because of your fame as because of your
      achievements?" "Will your worship tell me who you are," replied Don
      Quixote, "so that my courtesy may be answerable to your deserts?" The
      young man replied that he was the musician and songster of the night
      before. "Of a truth," said Don Quixote, "your worship has a most excellent
      voice; but what you sang did not seem to me very much to the purpose; for
      what have Garcilasso's stanzas to do with the death of this lady?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Don't be surprised at that," returned the musician; "for with the callow
      poets of our day the way is for every one to write as he pleases and
      pilfer where he chooses, whether it be germane to the matter or not, and
      now-a-days there is no piece of silliness they can sing or write that is
      not set down to poetic licence."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote was about to reply, but was prevented by the duke and duchess,
      who came in to see him, and with them there followed a long and delightful
      conversation, in the course of which Sancho said so many droll and saucy
      things that he left the duke and duchess wondering not only at his
      simplicity but at his sharpness. Don Quixote begged their permission to
      take his departure that same day, inasmuch as for a vanquished knight like
      himself it was fitter he should live in a pig-sty than in a royal palace.
      They gave it very readily, and the duchess asked him if Altisidora was in
      his good graces.
    </p>
    <p>
      He replied, "Senora, let me tell your ladyship that this damsel's ailment
      comes entirely of idleness, and the cure for it is honest and constant
      employment. She herself has told me that lace is worn in hell; and as she
      must know how to make it, let it never be out of her hands; for when she
      is occupied in shifting the bobbins to and fro, the image or images of
      what she loves will not shift to and fro in her thoughts; this is the
      truth, this is my opinion, and this is my advice."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And mine," added Sancho; "for I never in all my life saw a lace-maker
      that died for love; when damsels are at work their minds are more set on
      finishing their tasks than on thinking of their loves. I speak from my own
      experience; for when I'm digging I never think of my old woman; I mean my
      Teresa Panza, whom I love better than my own eyelids." "You say well,
      Sancho," said the duchess, "and I will take care that my Altisidora
      employs herself henceforward in needlework of some sort; for she is
      extremely expert at it." "There is no occasion to have recourse to that
      remedy, senora," said Altisidora; "for the mere thought of the cruelty
      with which this vagabond villain has treated me will suffice to blot him
      out of my memory without any other device; with your highness's leave I
      will retire, not to have before my eyes, I won't say his rueful
      countenance, but his abominable, ugly looks." "That reminds me of the
      common saying, that 'he that rails is ready to forgive,'" said the duke.
    </p>
    <p>
      Altisidora then, pretending to wipe away her tears with a handkerchief,
      made an obeisance to her master and mistress and quitted the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ill luck betide thee, poor damsel," said Sancho, "ill luck betide thee!
      Thou hast fallen in with a soul as dry as a rush and a heart as hard as
      oak; had it been me, i'faith 'another cock would have crowed to thee.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      So the conversation came to an end, and Don Quixote dressed himself and
      dined with the duke and duchess, and set out the same evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p70e" id="p70e"></a>
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    <h2>
      <a name="ch71b" id="ch71b"></a>CHAPTER LXXI.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO ON THE WAY TO
      THEIR VILLAGE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p71a" id="p71a"></a>
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    <p>
      The vanquished and afflicted Don Quixote went along very downcast in one
      respect and very happy in another. His sadness arose from his defeat, and
      his satisfaction from the thought of the virtue that lay in Sancho, as had
      been proved by the resurrection of Altisidora; though it was with
      difficulty he could persuade himself that the love-smitten damsel had been
      really dead. Sancho went along anything but cheerful, for it grieved him
      that Altisidora had not kept her promise of giving him the smocks; and
      turning this over in his mind he said to his master, "Surely, senor, I'm
      the most unlucky doctor in the world; there's many a physician that, after
      killing the sick man he had to cure, requires to be paid for his work,
      though it is only signing a bit of a list of medicines, that the
      apothecary and not he makes up, and, there, his labour is over; but with
      me though to cure somebody else costs me drops of blood, smacks, pinches,
      pinproddings, and whippings, nobody gives me a farthing. Well, I swear by
      all that's good if they put another patient into my hands, they'll have to
      grease them for me before I cure him; for, as they say, 'it's by his
      singing the abbot gets his dinner,' and I'm not going to believe that
      heaven has bestowed upon me the virtue I have, that I should be dealing it
      out to others all for nothing."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art right, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote, "and Altisidora has
      behaved very badly in not giving thee the smocks she promised; and
      although that virtue of thine is gratis data&mdash;as it has cost thee no
      study whatever, any more than such study as thy personal sufferings may be&mdash;I
      can say for myself that if thou wouldst have payment for the lashes on
      account of the disenchant of Dulcinea, I would have given it to thee
      freely ere this. I am not sure, however, whether payment will comport with
      the cure, and I would not have the reward interfere with the medicine. I
      think there will be nothing lost by trying it; consider how much thou
      wouldst have, Sancho, and whip thyself at once, and pay thyself down with
      thine own hand, as thou hast money of mine."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this proposal Sancho opened his eyes and his ears a palm's breadth
      wide, and in his heart very readily acquiesced in whipping himself, and
      said he to his master, "Very well then, senor, I'll hold myself in
      readiness to gratify your worship's wishes if I'm to profit by it; for the
      love of my wife and children forces me to seem grasping. Let your worship
      say how much you will pay me for each lash I give myself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "I were to requite thee as the
      importance and nature of the cure deserves, the treasures of Venice, the
      mines of Potosi, would be insufficient to pay thee. See what thou hast of
      mine, and put a price on each lash."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Of them," said Sancho, "there are three thousand three hundred and odd;
      of these I have given myself five, the rest remain; let the five go for
      the odd ones, and let us take the three thousand three hundred, which at a
      quarter real apiece (for I will not take less though the whole world
      should bid me) make three thousand three hundred quarter reals; the three
      thousand are one thousand five hundred half reals, which make seven
      hundred and fifty reals; and the three hundred make a hundred and fifty
      half reals, which come to seventy-five reals, which added to the seven
      hundred and fifty make eight hundred and twenty-five reals in all. These I
      will stop out of what I have belonging to your worship, and I'll return
      home rich and content, though well whipped, for 'there's no taking trout'&mdash;but
      I say no more."
    </p>
    <p>
      "O blessed Sancho! O dear Sancho!" said Don Quixote; "how we shall be
      bound to serve thee, Dulcinea and I, all the days of our lives that heaven
      may grant us! If she returns to her lost shape (and it cannot be but that
      she will) her misfortune will have been good fortune, and my defeat a most
      happy triumph. But look here, Sancho; when wilt thou begin the scourging?
      For if thou wilt make short work of it, I will give thee a hundred reals
      over and above."
    </p>
    <p>
      "When?" said Sancho; "this night without fail. Let your worship order it
      so that we pass it out of doors and in the open air, and I'll scarify
      myself."
    </p>
    <p>
      Night, longed for by Don Quixote with the greatest anxiety in the world,
      came at last, though it seemed to him that the wheels of Apollo's car had
      broken down, and that the day was drawing itself out longer than usual,
      just as is the case with lovers, who never make the reckoning of their
      desires agree with time. They made their way at length in among some
      pleasant trees that stood a little distance from the road, and there
      vacating Rocinante's saddle and Dapple's pack-saddle, they stretched
      themselves on the green grass and made their supper off Sancho's stores,
      and he making a powerful and flexible whip out of Dapple's halter and
      headstall retreated about twenty paces from his master among some beech
      trees. Don Quixote seeing him march off with such resolution and spirit,
      said to him, "Take care, my friend, not to cut thyself to pieces; allow
      the lashes to wait for one another, and do not be in so great a hurry as
      to run thyself out of breath midway; I mean, do not lay on so strenuously
      as to make thy life fail thee before thou hast reached the desired number;
      and that thou mayest not lose by a card too much or too little, I will
      station myself apart and count on my rosary here the lashes thou givest
      thyself. May heaven help thee as thy good intention deserves."
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Pledges don't distress a good payer,'" said Sancho; "I mean to lay on in
      such a way as without killing myself to hurt myself, for in that, no
      doubt, lies the essence of this miracle."
    </p>
    <p>
      He then stripped himself from the waist upwards, and snatching up the rope
      he began to lay on and Don Quixote to count the lashes. He might have
      given himself six or eight when he began to think the joke no trifle, and
      its price very low; and holding his hand for a moment, he told his master
      that he cried off on the score of a blind bargain, for each of those
      lashes ought to be paid for at the rate of half a real instead of a
      quarter.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Go on, Sancho my friend, and be not disheartened," said Don Quixote; "for
      I double the stakes as to price."
    </p>
    <p>
      "In that case," said Sancho, "in God's hand be it, and let it rain
      lashes." But the rogue no longer laid them on his shoulders, but laid on
      to the trees, with such groans every now and then, that one would have
      thought at each of them his soul was being plucked up by the roots. Don
      Quixote, touched to the heart, and fearing he might make an end of
      himself, and that through Sancho's imprudence he might miss his own
      object, said to him, "As thou livest, my friend, let the matter rest where
      it is, for the remedy seems to me a very rough one, and it will be well to
      have patience; 'Zamora was not won in an hour.' If I have not reckoned
      wrong thou hast given thyself over a thousand lashes; that is enough for
      the present; 'for the ass,' to put it in homely phrase, 'bears the load,
      but not the overload.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, no, senor," replied Sancho; "it shall never be said of me, 'The money
      paid, the arms broken;' go back a little further, your worship, and let me
      give myself at any rate a thousand lashes more; for in a couple of bouts
      like this we shall have finished off the lot, and there will be even cloth
      to spare."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As thou art in such a willing mood," said Don Quixote, "may heaven aid
      thee; lay on and I'll retire."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho returned to his task with so much resolution that he soon had the
      bark stripped off several trees, such was the severity with which he
      whipped himself; and one time, raising his voice, and giving a beech a
      tremendous lash, he cried out, "Here dies Samson, and all with him!"
    </p>
    <p>
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    <p>
      At the sound of his piteous cry and of the stroke of the cruel lash, Don
      Quixote ran to him at once, and seizing the twisted halter that served him
      for a courbash, said to him, "Heaven forbid, Sancho my friend, that to
      please me thou shouldst lose thy life, which is needed for the support of
      thy wife and children; let Dulcinea wait for a better opportunity, and I
      will content myself with a hope soon to be realised, and have patience
      until thou hast gained fresh strength so as to finish off this business to
      the satisfaction of everybody."
    </p>
    <p>
      "As your worship will have it so, senor," said Sancho, "so be it; but
      throw your cloak over my shoulders, for I'm sweating and I don't want to
      take cold; it's a risk that novice disciplinants run."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote obeyed, and stripping himself covered Sancho, who slept until
      the sun woke him; they then resumed their journey, which for the time
      being they brought to an end at a village that lay three leagues farther
      on. They dismounted at a hostelry which Don Quixote recognised as such and
      did not take to be a castle with moat, turrets, portcullis, and
      drawbridge; for ever since he had been vanquished he talked more
      rationally about everything, as will be shown presently. They quartered
      him in a room on the ground floor, where in place of leather hangings
      there were pieces of painted serge such as they commonly use in villages.
      On one of them was painted by some very poor hand the Rape of Helen, when
      the bold guest carried her off from Menelaus, and on the other was the
      story of Dido and AEneas, she on a high tower, as though she were making
      signals with a half sheet to her fugitive guest who was out at sea flying
      in a frigate or brigantine. He noticed in the two stories that Helen did
      not go very reluctantly, for she was laughing slyly and roguishly; but the
      fair Dido was shown dropping tears the size of walnuts from her eyes. Don
      Quixote as he looked at them observed, "Those two ladies were very
      unfortunate not to have been born in this age, and I unfortunate above all
      men not to have been born in theirs. Had I fallen in with those gentlemen,
      Troy would not have been burned or Carthage destroyed, for it would have
      been only for me to slay Paris, and all these misfortunes would have been
      avoided."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'll lay a bet," said Sancho, "that before long there won't be a tavern,
      roadside inn, hostelry, or barber's shop where the story of our doings
      won't be painted up; but I'd like it painted by the hand of a better
      painter than painted these."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thou art right, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for this painter is like
      Orbaneja, a painter there was at Ubeda, who when they asked him what he
      was painting, used to say, 'Whatever it may turn out; and if he chanced to
      paint a cock he would write under it, 'This is a cock,' for fear they
      might think it was a fox. The painter or writer, for it's all the same,
      who published the history of this new Don Quixote that has come out, must
      have been one of this sort I think, Sancho, for he painted or wrote
      'whatever it might turn out;' or perhaps he is like a poet called Mauleon
      that was about the Court some years ago, who used to answer at haphazard
      whatever he was asked, and on one asking him what Deum de Deo meant, he
      replied De donde diere. But, putting this aside, tell me, Sancho, hast
      thou a mind to have another turn at thyself to-night, and wouldst thou
      rather have it indoors or in the open air?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Egad, senor," said Sancho, "for what I'm going to give myself, it comes
      all the same to me whether it is in a house or in the fields; still I'd
      like it to be among trees; for I think they are company for me and help me
      to bear my pain wonderfully."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And yet it must not be, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote; "but, to
      enable thee to recover strength, we must keep it for our own village; for
      at the latest we shall get there the day after tomorrow."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho said he might do as he pleased; but that for his own part he would
      like to finish off the business quickly before his blood cooled and while
      he had an appetite, because "in delay there is apt to be danger" very
      often, and "praying to God and plying the hammer," and "one take was
      better than two I'll give thee's," and "a sparrow in the hand than a
      vulture on the wing."
    </p>
    <p>
      "For God's sake, Sancho, no more proverbs!" exclaimed Don Quixote; "it
      seems to me thou art becoming sicut erat again; speak in a plain, simple,
      straight-forward way, as I have often told thee, and thou wilt find the
      good of it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know what bad luck it is of mine," said Sancho, "but I can't
      utter a word without a proverb that is not as good as an argument to my
      mind; however, I mean to mend if I can;" and so for the present the
      conversation ended.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p71e" id="p71e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p71e.jpg (42K)" src="images/p71e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch72b" id="ch72b"></a>CHAPTER LXXII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF HOW DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO REACHED THEIR VILLAGE
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p72a" id="p72a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p72a.jpg (155K)" src="images/p72a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p72a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      All that day Don Quixote and Sancho remained in the village and inn
      waiting for night, the one to finish off his task of scourging in the open
      country, the other to see it accomplished, for therein lay the
      accomplishment of his wishes. Meanwhile there arrived at the hostelry a
      traveller on horseback with three or four servants, one of whom said to
      him who appeared to be the master, "Here, Senor Don Alvaro Tarfe, your
      worship may take your siesta to-day; the quarters seem clean and cool."
    </p>
    <p>
      When he heard this Don Quixote said to Sancho, "Look here, Sancho; on
      turning over the leaves of that book of the Second Part of my history I
      think I came casually upon this name of Don Alvaro Tarfe."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very likely," said Sancho; "we had better let him dismount, and by-and-by
      we can ask about it."
    </p>
    <p>
      The gentleman dismounted, and the landlady gave him a room on the ground
      floor opposite Don Quixote's and adorned with painted serge hangings of
      the same sort. The newly arrived gentleman put on a summer coat, and
      coming out to the gateway of the hostelry, which was wide and cool,
      addressing Don Quixote, who was pacing up and down there, he asked, "In
      what direction is your worship bound, gentle sir?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "To a village near this which is my own village," replied Don Quixote;
      "and your worship, where are you bound for?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am going to Granada, senor," said the gentleman, "to my own country."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And a goodly country," said Don Quixote; "but will your worship do me the
      favour of telling me your name, for it strikes me it is of more importance
      to me to know it than I can tell you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My name is Don Alvaro Tarfe," replied the traveller.
    </p>
    <p>
      To which Don Quixote returned, "I have no doubt whatever that your worship
      is that Don Alvaro Tarfe who appears in print in the Second Part of the
      history of Don Quixote of La Mancha, lately printed and published by a new
      author."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I am the same," replied the gentleman; "and that same Don Quixote, the
      principal personage in the said history, was a very great friend of mine,
      and it was I who took him away from home, or at least induced him to come
      to some jousts that were to be held at Saragossa, whither I was going
      myself; indeed, I showed him many kindnesses, and saved him from having
      his shoulders touched up by the executioner because of his extreme
      rashness."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tell me, Senor Don Alvaro," said Don Quixote, "am I at all like that Don
      Quixote you talk of?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No indeed," replied the traveller, "not a bit."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And that Don Quixote-" said our one, "had he with him a squire called
      Sancho Panza?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "He had," said Don Alvaro; "but though he had the name of being very
      droll, I never heard him say anything that had any drollery in it."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I can well believe," said Sancho at this, "for to come out with
      drolleries is not in everybody's line; and that Sancho your worship speaks
      of, gentle sir, must be some great scoundrel, dunderhead, and thief, all
      in one; for I am the real Sancho Panza, and I have more drolleries than if
      it rained them; let your worship only try; come along with me for a year
      or so, and you will find they fall from me at every turn, and so rich and
      so plentiful that though mostly I don't know what I am saying I make
      everybody that hears me laugh. And the real Don Quixote of La Mancha, the
      famous, the valiant, the wise, the lover, the righter of wrongs, the
      guardian of minors and orphans, the protector of widows, the killer of
      damsels, he who has for his sole mistress the peerless Dulcinea del
      Toboso, is this gentleman before you, my master; all other Don Quixotes
      and all other Sancho Panzas are dreams and mockeries."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By God I believe it," said Don Alvaro; "for you have uttered more
      drolleries, my friend, in the few words you have spoken than the other
      Sancho Panza in all I ever heard from him, and they were not a few. He was
      more greedy than well-spoken, and more dull than droll; and I am convinced
      that the enchanters who persecute Don Quixote the Good have been trying to
      persecute me with Don Quixote the Bad. But I don't know what to say, for I
      am ready to swear I left him shut up in the Casa del Nuncio at Toledo, and
      here another Don Quixote turns up, though a very different one from mine."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't know whether I am good," said Don Quixote, "but I can safely say
      I am not 'the Bad;' and to prove it, let me tell you, Senor Don Alvaro
      Tarfe, I have never in my life been in Saragossa; so far from that, when
      it was told me that this imaginary Don Quixote had been present at the
      jousts in that city, I declined to enter it, in order to drag his
      falsehood before the face of the world; and so I went on straight to
      Barcelona, the treasure-house of courtesy, haven of strangers, asylum of
      the poor, home of the valiant, champion of the wronged, pleasant exchange
      of firm friendships, and city unrivalled in site and beauty. And though
      the adventures that befell me there are not by any means matters of
      enjoyment, but rather of regret, I do not regret them, simply because I
      have seen it. In a word, Senor Don Alvaro Tarfe, I am Don Quixote of La
      Mancha, the one that fame speaks of, and not the unlucky one that has
      attempted to usurp my name and deck himself out in my ideas. I entreat
      your worship by your devoir as a gentleman to be so good as to make a
      declaration before the alcalde of this village that you never in all your
      life saw me until now, and that neither am I the Don Quixote in print in
      the Second Part, nor this Sancho Panza, my squire, the one your worship
      knew."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That I will do most willingly," replied Don Alvaro; "though it amazes me
      to find two Don Quixotes and two Sancho Panzas at once, as much alike in
      name as they differ in demeanour; and again I say and declare that what I
      saw I cannot have seen, and that what happened me cannot have happened."
    </p>
    <p>
      "No doubt your worship is enchanted, like my lady Dulcinea del Toboso,"
      said Sancho; "and would to heaven your disenchantment rested on my giving
      myself another three thousand and odd lashes like what I'm giving myself
      for her, for I'd lay them on without looking for anything."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I don't understand that about the lashes," said Don Alvaro. Sancho
      replied that it was a long story to tell, but he would tell him if they
      happened to be going the same road.
    </p>
    <p>
      By this dinner-time arrived, and Don Quixote and Don Alvaro dined
      together. The alcalde of the village came by chance into the inn together
      with a notary, and Don Quixote laid a petition before him, showing that it
      was requisite for his rights that Don Alvaro Tarfe, the gentleman there
      present, should make a declaration before him that he did not know Don
      Quixote of La Mancha, also there present, and that he was not the one that
      was in print in a history entitled "Second Part of Don Quixote of La
      Mancha, by one Avellaneda of Tordesillas." The alcalde finally put it in
      legal form, and the declaration was made with all the formalities required
      in such cases, at which Don Quixote and Sancho were in high delight, as if
      a declaration of the sort was of any great importance to them, and as if
      their words and deeds did not plainly show the difference between the two
      Don Quixotes and the two Sanchos. Many civilities and offers of service
      were exchanged by Don Alvaro and Don Quixote, in the course of which the
      great Manchegan displayed such good taste that he disabused Don Alvaro of
      the error he was under; and he, on his part, felt convinced he must have
      been enchanted, now that he had been brought in contact with two such
      opposite Don Quixotes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Evening came, they set out from the village, and after about half a league
      two roads branched off, one leading to Don Quixote's village, the other
      the road Don Alvaro was to follow. In this short interval Don Quixote told
      him of his unfortunate defeat, and of Dulcinea's enchantment and the
      remedy, all which threw Don Alvaro into fresh amazement, and embracing Don
      Quixote and Sancho, he went his way, and Don Quixote went his. That night
      he passed among trees again in order to give Sancho an opportunity of
      working out his penance, which he did in the same fashion as the night
      before, at the expense of the bark of the beech trees much more than of
      his back, of which he took such good care that the lashes would not have
      knocked off a fly had there been one there. The duped Don Quixote did not
      miss a single stroke of the count, and he found that together with those
      of the night before they made up three thousand and twenty-nine. The sun
      apparently had got up early to witness the sacrifice, and with his light
      they resumed their journey, discussing the deception practised on Don
      Alvaro, and saying how well done it was to have taken his declaration
      before a magistrate in such an unimpeachable form. That day and night they
      travelled on, nor did anything worth mention happen to them, unless it was
      that in the course of the night Sancho finished off his task, whereat Don
      Quixote was beyond measure joyful. He watched for daylight, to see if
      along the road he should fall in with his already disenchanted lady
      Dulcinea; and as he pursued his journey there was no woman he met that he
      did not go up to, to see if she was Dulcinea del Toboso, as he held it
      absolutely certain that Merlin's promises could not lie. Full of these
      thoughts and anxieties, they ascended a rising ground wherefrom they
      descried their own village, at the sight of which Sancho fell on his knees
      exclaiming, "Open thine eyes, longed-for home, and see how thy son Sancho
      Panza comes back to thee, if not very rich, very well whipped! Open thine
      arms and receive, too, thy son Don Quixote, who, if he comes vanquished by
      the arm of another, comes victor over himself, which, as he himself has
      told me, is the greatest victory anyone can desire. I'm bringing back
      money, for if I was well whipped, I went mounted like a gentleman."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p72b" id="p72b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p72b.jpg (375K)" src="images/p72b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p72b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Have done with these fooleries," said Don Quixote; "let us push on
      straight and get to our own place, where we will give free range to our
      fancies, and settle our plans for our future pastoral life."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this they descended the slope and directed their steps to their
      village.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p72e" id="p72e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p72e.jpg (35K)" src="images/p72e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch73b" id="ch73b"></a>CHAPTER LXXIII.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF THE OMENS DON QUIXOTE HAD AS HE ENTERED HIS OWN VILLAGE, AND OTHER
      INCIDENTS THAT EMBELLISH AND GIVE A COLOUR TO THIS GREAT HISTORY
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p73a" id="p73a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p73a.jpg (141K)" src="images/p73a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p73a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      At the entrance of the village, so says Cide Hamete, Don Quixote saw two
      boys quarrelling on the village threshing-floor one of whom said to the
      other, "Take it easy, Periquillo; thou shalt never see it again as long as
      thou livest."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote heard this, and said he to Sancho, "Dost thou not mark,
      friend, what that boy said, 'Thou shalt never see it again as long as thou
      livest'?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Well," said Sancho, "what does it matter if the boy said so?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "What!" said Don Quixote, "dost thou not see that, applied to the object
      of my desires, the words mean that I am never to see Dulcinea more?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Sancho was about to answer, when his attention was diverted by seeing a
      hare come flying across the plain pursued by several greyhounds and
      sportsmen. In its terror it ran to take shelter and hide itself under
      Dapple. Sancho caught it alive and presented it to Don Quixote, who was
      saying, "Malum signum, malum signum! a hare flies, greyhounds chase it,
      Dulcinea appears not."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your worship's a strange man," said Sancho; "let's take it for granted
      that this hare is Dulcinea, and these greyhounds chasing it the malignant
      enchanters who turned her into a country wench; she flies, and I catch her
      and put her into your worship's hands, and you hold her in your arms and
      cherish her; what bad sign is that, or what ill omen is there to be found
      here?"
    </p>
    <p>
      The two boys who had been quarrelling came over to look at the hare, and
      Sancho asked one of them what their quarrel was about. He was answered by
      the one who had said, "Thou shalt never see it again as long as thou
      livest," that he had taken a cage full of crickets from the other boy, and
      did not mean to give it back to him as long as he lived. Sancho took out
      four cuartos from his pocket and gave them to the boy for the cage, which
      he placed in Don Quixote's hands, saying, "There, senor! there are the
      omens broken and destroyed, and they have no more to do with our affairs,
      to my thinking, fool as I am, than with last year's clouds; and if I
      remember rightly I have heard the curate of our village say that it does
      not become Christians or sensible people to give any heed to these silly
      things; and even you yourself said the same to me some time ago, telling
      me that all Christians who minded omens were fools; but there's no need of
      making words about it; let us push on and go into our village."
    </p>
    <p>
      The sportsmen came up and asked for their hare, which Don Quixote gave
      them. They then went on, and upon the green at the entrance of the town
      they came upon the curate and the bachelor Samson Carrasco busy with their
      breviaries. It should be mentioned that Sancho had thrown, by way of a
      sumpter-cloth, over Dapple and over the bundle of armour, the buckram robe
      painted with flames which they had put upon him at the duke's castle the
      night Altisidora came back to life. He had also fixed the mitre on
      Dapple's head, the oddest transformation and decoration that ever ass in
      the world underwent. They were at once recognised by both the curate and
      the bachelor, who came towards them with open arms. Don Quixote dismounted
      and received them with a close embrace; and the boys, who are lynxes that
      nothing escapes, spied out the ass's mitre and came running to see it,
      calling out to one another, "Come here, boys, and see Sancho Panza's ass
      figged out finer than Mingo, and Don Quixote's beast leaner than ever."
    </p>
    <p>
      So at length, with the boys capering round them, and accompanied by the
      curate and the bachelor, they made their entrance into the town, and
      proceeded to Don Quixote's house, at the door of which they found his
      housekeeper and niece, whom the news of his arrival had already reached.
      It had been brought to Teresa Panza, Sancho's wife, as well, and she with
      her hair all loose and half naked, dragging Sanchica her daughter by the
      hand, ran out to meet her husband; but seeing him coming in by no means as
      good case as she thought a governor ought to be, she said to him, "How is
      it you come this way, husband? It seems to me you come tramping and
      footsore, and looking more like a disorderly vagabond than a governor."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hold your tongue, Teresa," said Sancho; "often 'where there are pegs
      there are no flitches;' let's go into the house and there you'll hear
      strange things. I bring money, and that's the main thing, got by my own
      industry without wronging anybody."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You bring the money, my good husband," said Teresa, "and no matter
      whether it was got this way or that; for, however you may have got it,
      you'll not have brought any new practice into the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      Sanchica embraced her father and asked him if he brought her anything, for
      she had been looking out for him as for the showers of May; and she taking
      hold of him by the girdle on one side, and his wife by the hand, while the
      daughter led Dapple, they made for their house, leaving Don Quixote in
      his, in the hands of his niece and housekeeper, and in the company of the
      curate and the bachelor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote at once, without any regard to time or season, withdrew in
      private with the bachelor and the curate, and in a few words told them of
      his defeat, and of the engagement he was under not to quit his village for
      a year, which he meant to keep to the letter without departing a hair's
      breadth from it, as became a knight-errant bound by scrupulous good faith
      and the laws of knight-errantry; and of how he thought of turning shepherd
      for that year, and taking his diversion in the solitude of the fields,
      where he could with perfect freedom give range to his thoughts of love
      while he followed the virtuous pastoral calling; and he besought them, if
      they had not a great deal to do and were not prevented by more important
      business, to consent to be his companions, for he would buy sheep enough
      to qualify them for shepherds; and the most important point of the whole
      affair, he could tell them, was settled, for he had given them names that
      would fit them to a T. The curate asked what they were. Don Quixote
      replied that he himself was to be called the shepherd Quixotize and the
      bachelor the shepherd Carrascon, and the curate the shepherd Curambro, and
      Sancho Panza the shepherd Pancino.
    </p>
    <p>
      Both were astounded at Don Quixote's new craze; however, lest he should
      once more make off out of the village from them in pursuit of his
      chivalry, they trusting that in the course of the year he might be cured,
      fell in with his new project, applauded his crazy idea as a bright one,
      and offered to share the life with him. "And what's more," said Samson
      Carrasco, "I am, as all the world knows, a very famous poet, and I'll be
      always making verses, pastoral, or courtly, or as it may come into my
      head, to pass away our time in those secluded regions where we shall be
      roaming. But what is most needful, sirs, is that each of us should choose
      the name of the shepherdess he means to glorify in his verses, and that we
      should not leave a tree, be it ever so hard, without writing up and
      carving her name on it, as is the habit and custom of love-smitten
      shepherds."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's the very thing," said Don Quixote; "though I am relieved from
      looking for the name of an imaginary shepherdess, for there's the peerless
      Dulcinea del Toboso, the glory of these brooksides, the ornament of these
      meadows, the mainstay of beauty, the cream of all the graces, and, in a
      word, the being to whom all praise is appropriate, be it ever so
      hyperbolical."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very true," said the curate; "but we the others must look about for
      accommodating shepherdesses that will answer our purpose one way or
      another."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And," added Samson Carrasco, "if they fail us, we can call them by the
      names of the ones in print that the world is filled with, Filidas,
      Amarilises, Dianas, Fleridas, Galateas, Belisardas; for as they sell them
      in the market-places we may fairly buy them and make them our own. If my
      lady, or I should say my shepherdess, happens to be called Ana, I'll sing
      her praises under the name of Anarda, and if Francisca, I'll call her
      Francenia, and if Lucia, Lucinda, for it all comes to the same thing; and
      Sancho Panza, if he joins this fraternity, may glorify his wife Teresa
      Panza as Teresaina."
    </p>
    <p>
      Don Quixote laughed at the adaptation of the name, and the curate bestowed
      vast praise upon the worthy and honourable resolution he had made, and
      again offered to bear him company all the time that he could spare from
      his imperative duties. And so they took their leave of him, recommending
      and beseeching him to take care of his health and treat himself to a
      suitable diet.
    </p>
    <p>
      It so happened his niece and the housekeeper overheard all the three of
      them said; and as soon as they were gone they both of them came in to Don
      Quixote, and said the niece, "What's this, uncle? Now that we were
      thinking you had come back to stay at home and lead a quiet respectable
      life there, are you going to get into fresh entanglements, and turn 'young
      shepherd, thou that comest here, young shepherd going there?' Nay! indeed
      'the straw is too hard now to make pipes of.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "And," added the housekeeper, "will your worship be able to bear, out in
      the fields, the heats of summer, and the chills of winter, and the howling
      of the wolves? Not you; for that's a life and a business for hardy men,
      bred and seasoned to such work almost from the time they were in
      swaddling-clothes. Why, to make choice of evils, it's better to be a
      knight-errant than a shepherd! Look here, senor; take my advice--and I'm
      not giving it to you full of bread and wine, but fasting, and with fifty
      years upon my head--stay at home, look after your affairs, go often to
      confession, be good to the poor, and upon my soul be it if any evil comes
      to you."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hold your peace, my daughters," said Don Quixote; "I know very well what
      my duty is; help me to bed, for I don't feel very well; and rest assured
      that, knight-errant now or wandering shepherd to be, I shall never fail to
      have a care for your interests, as you will see in the end." And the good
      wenches (for that they undoubtedly were), the housekeeper and niece,
      helped him to bed, where they gave him something to eat and made him as
      comfortable as possible.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      <a name="ch74b" id="ch74b"></a>CHAPTER LXXIV.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      OF HOW DON QUIXOTE FELL SICK, AND OF THE WILL HE MADE, AND HOW HE DIED
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="p74a" id="p74a"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p74a.jpg (96K)" src="images/p74a.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p74a.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      As nothing that is man's can last for ever, but all tends ever downwards
      from its beginning to its end, and above all man's life, and as Don
      Quixote's enjoyed no special dispensation from heaven to stay its course,
      its end and close came when he least looked for it. For--whether it was of
      the dejection the thought of his defeat produced, or of heaven's will that
      so ordered it--a fever settled upon him and kept him in his bed for six
      days, during which he was often visited by his friends the curate, the
      bachelor, and the barber, while his good squire Sancho Panza never quitted
      his bedside. They, persuaded that it was grief at finding himself
      vanquished, and the object of his heart, the liberation and disenchantment
      of Dulcinea, unattained, that kept him in this state, strove by all the
      means in their power to cheer him up; the bachelor bidding him take heart
      and get up to begin his pastoral life, for which he himself, he said, had
      already composed an eclogue that would take the shine out of all Sannazaro
      had ever written, and had bought with his own money two famous dogs to
      guard the flock, one called Barcino and the other Butron, which a herdsman
      of Quintanar had sold him.
    </p>
    <p>
      But for all this Don Quixote could not shake off his sadness. His friends
      called in the doctor, who felt his pulse and was not very well satisfied
      with it, and said that in any case it would be well for him to attend to
      the health of his soul, as that of his body was in a bad way. Don Quixote
      heard this calmly; but not so his housekeeper, his niece, and his squire,
      who fell weeping bitterly, as if they had him lying dead before them. The
      doctor's opinion was that melancholy and depression were bringing him to
      his end. Don Quixote begged them to leave him to himself, as he had a wish
      to sleep a little. They obeyed, and he slept at one stretch, as the saying
      is, more than six hours, so that the housekeeper and niece thought he was
      going to sleep for ever. But at the end of that time he woke up, and in a
      loud voice exclaimed, "Blessed be Almighty God, who has shown me such
      goodness. In truth his mercies are boundless, and the sins of men can
      neither limit them nor keep them back!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The niece listened with attention to her uncle's words, and they struck
      her as more coherent than what usually fell from him, at least during his
      illness, so she asked, "What are you saying, senor? Has anything strange
      occurred? What mercies or what sins of men are you talking of?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The mercies, niece," said Don Quixote, "are those that God has this
      moment shown me, and with him, as I said, my sins are no impediment to
      them. My reason is now free and clear, rid of the dark shadows of
      ignorance that my unhappy constant study of those detestable books of
      chivalry cast over it. Now I see through their absurdities and deceptions,
      and it only grieves me that this destruction of my illusions has come so
      late that it leaves me no time to make some amends by reading other books
      that might be a light to my soul. Niece, I feel myself at the point of
      death, and I would fain meet it in such a way as to show that my life has
      not been so ill that I should leave behind me the name of a madman; for
      though I have been one, I would not that the fact should be made plainer
      at my death. Call in to me, my dear, my good friends the curate, the
      bachelor Samson Carrasco, and Master Nicholas the barber, for I wish to
      confess and make my will." But his niece was saved the trouble by the
      entrance of the three. The instant Don Quixote saw them he exclaimed,
      "Good news for you, good sirs, that I am no longer Don Quixote of La
      Mancha, but Alonso Quixano, whose way of life won for him the name of
      Good. Now am I the enemy of Amadis of Gaul and of the whole countless
      troop of his descendants; odious to me now are all the profane stories of
      knight-errantry; now I perceive my folly, and the peril into which reading
      them brought me; now, by God's mercy schooled into my right senses, I
      loathe them."
    </p>
    <p>
      When the three heard him speak in this way, they had no doubt whatever
      that some new craze had taken possession of him; and said Samson, "What?
      Senor Don Quixote! Now that we have intelligence of the lady Dulcinea
      being disenchanted, are you taking this line; now, just as we are on the
      point of becoming shepherds, to pass our lives singing, like princes, are
      you thinking of turning hermit? Hush, for heaven's sake, be rational and
      let's have no more nonsense."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All that nonsense," said Don Quixote, "that until now has been a reality
      to my hurt, my death will, with heaven's help, turn to my good. I feel,
      sirs, that I am rapidly drawing near death; a truce to jesting; let me
      have a confessor to confess me, and a notary to make my will; for in
      extremities like this, man must not trifle with his soul; and while the
      curate is confessing me let some one, I beg, go for the notary."
    </p>
    <p>
      They looked at one another, wondering at Don Quixote's words; but, though
      uncertain, they were inclined to believe him, and one of the signs by
      which they came to the conclusion he was dying was this so sudden and
      complete return to his senses after having been mad; for to the words
      already quoted he added much more, so well expressed, so devout, and so
      rational, as to banish all doubt and convince them that he was sound of
      mind. The curate turned them all out, and left alone with him confessed
      him. The bachelor went for the notary and returned shortly afterwards with
      him and with Sancho, who, having already learned from the bachelor the
      condition his master was in, and finding the housekeeper and niece
      weeping, began to blubber and shed tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      The confession over, the curate came out saying, "Alonso Quixano the Good
      is indeed dying, and is indeed in his right mind; we may now go in to him
      while he makes his will."
    </p>
    <p>
      This news gave a tremendous impulse to the brimming eyes of the
      housekeeper, niece, and Sancho Panza his good squire, making the tears
      burst from their eyes and a host of sighs from their hearts; for of a
      truth, as has been said more than once, whether as plain Alonso Quixano
      the Good, or as Don Quixote of La Mancha, Don Quixote was always of a
      gentle disposition and kindly in all his ways, and hence he was beloved,
      not only by those of his own house, but by all who knew him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The notary came in with the rest, and as soon as the preamble of the will
      had been set out and Don Quixote had commended his soul to God with all
      the devout formalities that are usual, coming to the bequests, he said,
      "Item, it is my will that, touching certain moneys in the hands of Sancho
      Panza (whom in my madness I made my squire), inasmuch as between him and
      me there have been certain accounts and debits and credits, no claim be
      made against him, nor any account demanded of him in respect of them; but
      that if anything remain over and above, after he has paid himself what I
      owe him, the balance, which will be but little, shall be his, and much
      good may it do him; and if, as when I was mad I had a share in giving him
      the government of an island, so, now that I am in my senses, I could give
      him that of a kingdom, it should be his, for the simplicity of his
      character and the fidelity of his conduct deserve it." And then, turning
      to Sancho, he said, "Forgive me, my friend, that I led thee to seem as mad
      as myself, making thee fall into the same error I myself fell into, that
      there were and still are knights-errant in the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah!" said Sancho weeping, "don't die, master, but take my advice and live
      many years; for the foolishest thing a man can do in this life is to let
      himself die without rhyme or reason, without anybody killing him, or any
      hands but melancholy's making an end of him. Come, don't be lazy, but get
      up from your bed and let us take to the fields in shepherd's trim as we
      agreed. Perhaps behind some bush we shall find the lady Dulcinea
      disenchanted, as fine as fine can be. If it be that you are dying of
      vexation at having been vanquished, lay the blame on me, and say you were
      overthrown because I had girthed Rocinante badly; besides you must have
      seen in your books of chivalry that it is a common thing for knights to
      upset one another, and for him who is conquered to-day to be conqueror
      tomorrow."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very true," said Samson, "and good Sancho Panza's view of these cases is
      quite right."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sirs, not so fast," said Don Quixote, "'in last year's nests there are no
      birds this year.' I was mad, now I am in my senses; I was Don Quixote of
      La Mancha, I am now, as I said, Alonso Quixano the Good; and may my
      repentance and sincerity restore me to the esteem you used to have for me;
      and now let Master Notary proceed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Item, I leave all my property absolutely to Antonia Quixana my niece,
      here present, after all has been deducted from the most available portion
      of it that may be required to satisfy the bequests I have made. And the
      first disbursement I desire to be made is the payment of the wages I owe
      for the time my housekeeper has served me, with twenty ducats, over and
      above, for a gown. The curate and the bachelor Samson Carrasco, now
      present, I appoint my executors.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Item, it is my wish that if Antonia Quixana, my niece, desires to marry,
      she shall marry a man of whom it shall be first of all ascertained by
      information taken that he does not know what books of chivalry are; and if
      it should be proved that he does, and if, in spite of this, my niece
      insists upon marrying him, and does marry him, then that she shall forfeit
      the whole of what I have left her, which my executors shall devote to
      works of charity as they please.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Item, I entreat the aforesaid gentlemen my executors, that, if any happy
      chance should lead them to discover the author who is said to have written
      a history now going about under the title of 'Second Part of the
      Achievements of Don Quixote of La Mancha,' they beg of him on my behalf as
      earnestly as they can to forgive me for having been, without intending it,
      the cause of his writing so many and such monstrous absurdities as he has
      written in it; for I am leaving the world with a feeling of compunction at
      having provoked him to write them."
    </p>
    <p>
      With this he closed his will, and a faintness coming over him he stretched
      himself out at full length on the bed. All were in a flutter and made
      haste to relieve him, and during the three days he lived after that on
      which he made his will he fainted away very often. The house was all in
      confusion; but still the niece ate and the housekeeper drank and Sancho
      Panza enjoyed himself; for inheriting property wipes out or softens down
      in the heir the feeling of grief the dead man might be expected to leave
      behind him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p74b" id="p74b"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p74b.jpg (391K)" src="images/p74b.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p74b.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <p>
      At last Don Quixote's end came, after he had received all the sacraments,
      and had in full and forcible terms expressed his detestation of books of
      chivalry. The notary was there at the time, and he said that in no book of
      chivalry had he ever read of any knight-errant dying in his bed so calmly
      and so like a Christian as Don Quixote, who amid the tears and
      lamentations of all present yielded up his spirit, that is to say died. On
      perceiving it the curate begged the notary to bear witness that Alonso
      Quixano the Good, commonly called Don Quixote of La Mancha, had passed
      away from this present life, and died naturally; and said he desired this
      testimony in order to remove the possibility of any other author save Cide
      Hamete Benengeli bringing him to life again falsely and making
      interminable stories out of his achievements.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the end of the Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha, whose village
      Cide Hamete would not indicate precisely, in order to leave all the towns
      and villages of La Mancha to contend among themselves for the right to
      adopt him and claim him as a son, as the seven cities of Greece contended
      for Homer. The lamentations of Sancho and the niece and housekeeper are
      omitted here, as well as the new epitaphs upon his tomb; Samson Carrasco,
      however, put the following lines:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
A doughty gentleman lies here;
A stranger all his life to fear;
Nor in his death could Death prevail,
In that last hour, to make him quail.
He for the world but little cared;
And at his feats the world was scared;
A crazy man his life he passed,
But in his senses died at last.

</pre>
    <p>
      And said most sage Cide Hamete to his pen, "Rest here, hung up by this
      brass wire, upon this shelf, O my pen, whether of skilful make or clumsy
      cut I know not; here shalt thou remain long ages hence, unless
      presumptuous or malignant story-tellers take thee down to profane thee.
      But ere they touch thee warn them, and, as best thou canst, say to them:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
Hold off! ye weaklings; hold your hands!
  Adventure it let none,
For this emprise, my lord the king,
  Was meant for me alone.

</pre>
    <p>
      For me alone was Don Quixote born, and I for him; it was his to act, mine
      to write; we two together make but one, notwithstanding and in spite of
      that pretended Tordesillesque writer who has ventured or would venture
      with his great, coarse, ill-trimmed ostrich quill to write the
      achievements of my valiant knight;--no burden for his shoulders, nor
      subject for his frozen wit: whom, if perchance thou shouldst come to know
      him, thou shalt warn to leave at rest where they lie the weary mouldering
      bones of Don Quixote, and not to attempt to carry him off, in opposition
      to all the privileges of death, to Old Castile, making him rise from the
      grave where in reality and truth he lies stretched at full length,
      powerless to make any third expedition or new sally; for the two that he
      has already made, so much to the enjoyment and approval of everybody to
      whom they have become known, in this as well as in foreign countries, are
      quite sufficient for the purpose of turning into ridicule the whole of
      those made by the whole set of the knights-errant; and so doing shalt thou
      discharge thy Christian calling, giving good counsel to one that bears
      ill-will to thee. And I shall remain satisfied, and proud to have been the
      first who has ever enjoyed the fruit of his writings as fully as he could
      desire; for my desire has been no other than to deliver over to the
      detestation of mankind the false and foolish tales of the books of
      chivalry, which, thanks to that of my true Don Quixote, are even now
      tottering, and doubtless doomed to fall for ever. Farewell."
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <a name="p74e" id="p74e"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="p74e.jpg (49K)" src="images/p74e.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a href="images/p74e.jpg"><img alt="Full Size" src="images/enlarge.jpg" /></a><br />
      <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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