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                   *       *       *       *       *




                              DON QUIXOTE
                             OF THE MANCHA




            [Illustration: DON QUIXOTE TESTING HIS HELMET]




                            [Illustration]

                              DON QUIXOTE
                             OF THE MANCHA

                                RETOLD
                                  BY
                                 JUDGE
                                 PARRY

                              ILLUSTRATED
                                  BY
                                WALTER
                                 CRANE

                               NEW YORK
                           JOHN LANE COMPANY
                                 1919




                                PREFACE


A version of _Don Quixote_ which is appended to Mr. Walter Crane's
illustrations needs perhaps no apology, but I desire to state briefly
what I have endeavoured to do. No existing abridgment of _Don Quixote_,
known to me, gives in simple narrative form the adventures of Knight
and Squire, with as much of the wisdom and humour of their discourse
as would be within the grasp of the younger generation of readers.
This—_The Story of Don Quixote_, as I call it—I have tried to
produce. In doing it I have made use of all the English translations,
but the basis of this book is Thomas Shelton's translation, the
language of which seems to me better to express the humour of Cervantes
than any other. Many will consider such a task in the nature of
sacrilege or, at the best, verging on the impertinent. With these views
I have much sympathy myself. But at least, let it be understood that
all I have attempted to do is to tell a well-known story in print, as
one who loves it would seek to tell it in words, to those around his
own fireside; in the hope that some may gather from this story that
there is a vast storehouse of humour and wisdom awaiting them in the
book itself.




                               CONTENTS


  CHAP.                                                   PAGE

  I. An Introduction to that famous gentleman, Don
  Quixote of the Mancha,                                     1

  II. Of the First Sally that Don Quixote made to
  seek Adventures,                                           7

  III. Of the Pleasant Manner of the Knighting of Don
  Quixote,                                                  14

  IV. Of what befell our Knight when he left the Inn,       21

  V. How Don Quixote returned home, and what happened
  to his Library, and how he sallied
  forth a second time to seek Adventures,                   30

  VI. Of the dreadful and never-to-be-imagined Adventure
  of the Windmills, and of the fearful
  Battle which the gallant Biscayan fought
  with Don Quixote,                                         38

  VII. Of what passed between Don Quixote and the
  Goatherds, and of the unfortunate Adventure
  with the Yanguesian Carriers,                             48

  VIII. How Don Quixote arrived at an Inn which he
  imagined to be a Castle, and there cured
  himself and Sancho with the Balsam of
  Fierabras,                                                58

  IX. How Sancho paid the Reckoning at the Inn
  which Don Quixote supposed was a Castle,                  68

  X. Of the Adventure of the Two Armies,                    75

  XI. Of a wonderful Adventure which Don Quixote
  went through without peril to himself or
  Sancho,                                                   83

  XII. The great Adventure and rich Winning of the
  Helmet of Mambrino,                                       92

  XIII. How Don Quixote set at liberty many poor
  Wretches who were being taken to a
  Place to which they had no wish to go,                    98

  XIV. Of what befell Don Quixote in the Brown
  Mountains,                                               108

  XV. The Story of Cardenio,                               118

  XVI. Of the Strange Adventures that happened to
  the Knight of the Mancha in the Brown
  Mountains, and of the Penance he did
  there in imitation of Beltenebros,                       126

  XVII. Of Sancho's Journey to the Lady Dulcinea,          136

  XVIII. The Story of Cardenio continued,                  143

  XIX. The Story of Dorothea, who loved Don
  Fernando,                                                152

  XX. Of the pleasant Plan they carried out to persuade
  Don Quixote not to continue his
  Penance,                                                 160

  XXI. Of the Journey to the Inn,                          168

  XXII. The Story Sancho Panza told his Master of
  his Visit to the Lady Dulcinea,                          177

  XXIII. What happened during their further Journey
  towards the Inn,                                         184

  XXIV. Of the extraordinary Battle which Don
  Quixote waged with what he took to
  be a Giant,                                              191

  XXV. Which treats of other rare Adventures which
  happened at the Inn,                                     198

  XXVI. Wherein is continued the History of the
  famous Princess Micomicona,                              205

  XXVII. Of the strange Enchantment of the Unfortunate
  Knight,                                                  212

  XXVIII. Wherein is continued the wonderful Adventures
  at the Inn,                                              220

  XXIX. Wherein is finally decided the Dispute about
  Mambrino's Helmet and the Pannel,                        227

  XXX. In which is finished the notable Adventures
  of our good Knight,                                      236




                         LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

                              FULL PAGES


  TITLE-PAGE.

  DON QUIXOTE TESTING HIS VISOR,                _Frontispiece_

  DON QUIXOTE KNIGHTED BY THE INNKEEPER, _facing page_      14

  THE WINDMILLS,                               "            38

  THE GOATHERDS,                               "            48

  THE TOSSING OF SANCHO,                       "            68

  THE HELMET OF MAMBRINO,                      "            92

  MEETING CARDENIO,                            "           108

  DON QUIXOTE'S PENANCE,                       "           126

  MEETING DOROTHEA,                            "           160

  THE WINE-SKINS,                              "           191

  DON QUIXOTE'S ENCHANTMENT,                   "           212


                              HALF PAGES

                                                          PAGE

  DON QUIXOTE WATCHING HIS ARMOUR,                           7

  DON QUIXOTE TO THE RESCUE OF ANDREW,                      21

  THE DESTRUCTION OF DON QUIXOTE'S LIBRARY,                 30

  THE MANNER OF DON QUIXOTE'S TRAVEL TO THE INN,            58

  OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE TWO ARMIES,                       75

  OF A WONDERFUL ADVENTURE,                                 83

  DON QUIXOTE FREES THE GALLEY SLAVES,                      98

  THE STORY OF CARDENIO,                                   118

  THE CURATE AND THE BARBER IN DISGUISE,                   136

  THE STORY OF CARDENIO CONTINUED,                         143

  THE DISCOVERY OF DOROTHEA,                               152

  SANCHO PANZA RECOVERS HIS DAPPLE,                        168

  SANCHO'S STORY OF HIS VISIT TO THE LADY
  DULCINEA,                                                177

  ANDREW SALUTES DON QUIXOTE,                              184

  OF THE RARE ADVENTURES AT THE INN,                       198

  DON QUIXOTE ADDRESSING DOROTHEA,                         205

  THE DISPUTED POMMEL,                                     220

  DON QUIXOTE ARRESTED,                                    227

  THE MANNER OF DON QUIXOTE'S RETURN HOME,                 236




                               CHAPTER I

               An Introduction to that famous gentleman,
                       Don Quixote of the Mancha


This is the story that Miguel de Cervantes, Spaniard, published in
1605, which the world has been reading again and again ever since.

Once upon a time there lived in a certain village in a province of
Spain called the Mancha, a gentleman named Quixada or Queseda—for
indeed historians differ about this—whose house was full of old
lances, halberds, and such other armours and weapons. He was, besides,
the owner of an ancient target or shield, a raw-boned steed, and a
swift greyhound. His pot consisted daily of common meats, some lentils
on Fridays, and perhaps a roast pigeon for Sunday's dinner. His dress
was a black suit with velvet breeches, and slippers of the same colour,
which he kept for holidays, and a suit of homespun which he wore on
week-days.

On the purchase of these few things he spent the small rents that came
to him every year. He had in his house a woman-servant of about some
forty years old, a Niece not yet twenty, and a lad that served him
both in field and at home, and could saddle his horse or manage a
pruning-hook.

The master himself was about fifty years old, a strong, hard-featured
man with a withered face. He was an early riser, and had once been very
fond of hunting. But now for a great portion of the year he applied
himself wholly to reading the old books of Knighthood, and this with
such keen delight that he forgot all about the pleasures of the chase,
and neglected all household matters. His mania and folly grew to such a
pitch that he sold many acres of his lands to buy books of the exploits
and adventures of the Knights of old. These he took for true and
correct histories, and when his friends the Curate of the village, or
Mr. Nicholas the worthy Barber of the town, came to see him, he would
dispute with them as to which of the Knights of romance had done the
greatest deeds.

So eagerly did he plunge into the reading of these books that he many
times spent whole days and nights poring over them; and in the end,
through little sleep and much reading, his brain became tired, and he
fairly lost his wits. His fancy was filled with those things that he
read, of enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds, wooings,
loves, tempests, and other impossible follies, and those romantic tales
so firmly took hold of him that he believed no history to be so certain
and sincere as they were.

Finally, his wit being extinguished, he was seized with one of the
strangest whims that ever madman stumbled on in this world, for it
seemed to him right and necessary that he himself should become a
Knight Errant, and ride through the world in arms to seek adventures
and practise in person all that he had read about the Knights of
old. Therefore he resolved that he would make a name for himself by
revenging the injuries of others, and courting all manner of dangers
and difficulties, until in the end he should be rewarded for his valour
in arms by the crown of some mighty Empire. And first of all he caused
certain old rusty arms that belonged to his great-grandfather, and
had lain for many years neglected and forgotten in a by-corner of his
house, to be brought out and well scoured. He trimmed them and dressed
them as well as he could, and then saw that they had something wanting,
for instead of a proper helmet they had only a morion or headpiece,
like a steel bonnet without any visor. This his industry supplied, for
he made a visor for his helmet by patching and pasting certain papers
together, and this pasteboard fitted to the morion gave it all the
appearance of a real helmet. Then, to make sure that it was strong
enough, he out with his sword and gave it a blow or two, and with the
very first did quite undo that which had cost him a week to make. He
did not at all approve the ease with which it was destroyed, and to
make things better he placed certain iron bars within it, in such a
manner that made him feel sure it was now sound and strong, without
putting it to a second trial.

He next visited his horse, who though he had more corners than a
Spanish _real_ or shilling, which in those days was anything but
round, and had nothing on him but skin and bone, yet he seemed to
him a better steed than Bucephalus, the noble animal that carried
Alexander the Great when he went to battle. He spent four days
inventing a name for his horse, saying to himself that it was not fit
that so famous a Knight's horse, and so good a beast, should want a
known name. Therefore he tried to find a name that should both give
people some notion of what he had been before he was the steed of a
Knight Errant, and also what he now was; for, seeing that his lord and
master was going to change his calling, it was only right that his
horse should have a new name, famous and high-sounding, and worthy
of his new position in life. And after having chosen, made up, put
aside, and thrown over any number of names as not coming up to his
idea, he finally hit upon Rozinante, a name in his opinion sublime and
well-sounding, expressing in a word what he had been when he was a
simple carriage horse, and what was expected of him in his new dignity.

The name being thus given to his horse, he made up his mind to give
himself a name also, and in that thought laboured another eight days.
Finally he determined to call himself Don Quixote, which has made
people think that his name was Quixada and not Queseda, as others
have said; and remembering that the great Knights of olden time were
not satisfied with a mere dry name, but added to it the name of their
kingdom or country, so he like a good Knight added to his own that also
of his province, and called himself Don Quixote of the Mancha, whereby
he declared his birthplace and did honour to his country by taking it
for his surname.

His armour being scoured, his morion transformed into a helmet, his
horse named, and himself furnished with a new name, he considered that
now he wanted nothing but a lady on whom he might bestow his service
and affection. 'For,' he said to himself, remembering what he had
read in the books of knightly adventures, 'if I should by good hap
encounter with some Giant, as Knights Errant ordinarily do, and if I
should overthrow him with one blow to the ground, or cut him with a
stroke in two halves, or finally overcome and make him yield to me, it
would be only right and proper that I should have some lady to whom I
might present him. Then would he, entering my sweet lady's presence,
say unto her with a humble and submissive voice: "Madam, I am the
Giant Caraculiambro, Lord of the Island called Malindrania, whom the
never-too-much-praised Knight Don Quixote of the Mancha hath overcome
in single combat. He hath commanded me to present myself to your
greatness, that it may please your Highness to dispose of me according
to your liking."'

You may believe that the heart of the Knight danced for joy when he
made that grand speech, and he was even more pleased when he had found
out one whom he might call his lady. For, they say, there lived in the
next village to his own a hale, buxom country wench with whom he was
sometime in love, though for the matter of that she had never known
of it or taken any notice of him whatever. She was called Aldonca
Lorenso, and her he thought fittest to honour as the lady of his fancy.
Then he began to search about in his mind for a name that should not
vary too much from her own, but should at the same time show people
that she was a Princess or lady of quality. Thus it was that he called
her Dulcinea of Toboso, a name sufficiently strange, romantic, and
musical for the lady of so brave a Knight. And now, having taken to
himself both armour, horse, and lady fair, he was ready to go forth and
seek adventures.




            [Illustration: DON QUIXOTE WATCHING HIS ARMOUR]




                              CHAPTER II

              Of the First Sally that Don Quixote made to
                            seek Adventures


All his preparations being made, he could no longer resist the desire
of carrying out his plans, his head being full of the wrongs he
intended to put right, the errors he wished to amend, and the evil
deeds he felt himself called upon to punish. And, therefore, without
telling any living creature, and unseen of anybody, somewhat before
daybreak—it being one of the warmest days in July—he armed himself
from head to foot, mounted on Rozinante, laced on his strange helmet,
gathered up his target, seized his lance, and through the back door
of his yard sallied forth into the fields, marvellously cheerful
and content to see how easily he had started on his new career. But
scarcely was he clear of the village when he was struck by a terrible
thought, and one which did well-nigh overthrow all his plans. For he
recollected that he had never been knighted, and therefore, according
to the laws of Knighthood, neither could he nor ought he to combat with
any Knight. And even if he were a Knight, he remembered to have read
that as a new Knight he ought to wear white armour without any device
upon his shield until he should win it by force of arms.

These thoughts made him waver a little in his plan; but more for the
reason that his head was full of his folly than for any other, he
determined to cause himself to be knighted by the first he met, as
others had done of whom he had read in the books which had so turned
his brain. As to the white armour, he resolved at the first opportunity
to scour his own until it should be whiter than ermine; and, having
satisfied himself with these intentions, he pursued his way without
following any other road than that which his horse was pleased to
choose, believing that to be the most correct way of meeting with
knightly adventures. And as he rode along he exclaimed to the empty
air as if he had been actually in love: 'O Princess Dulcinea, Lady of
this captive heart, much wrong hast thou done me by dismissing me and
reproaching me with thy cruel commandment not to appear before thy
beauty! I pray thee, sweet Lady, to remember this thy faithful slave,
who for thy love suffers so many tortures.'

A thousand other ravings, after the style and manner that his books had
taught him, did he add to this as he travelled along, meeting with no
adventure worthy to be set down, whilst the sun mounted so swiftly and
with so great heat that it would have been sufficient to have melted
his brains if he had had any left.

He journeyed all that day long, and at night both he and his horse
were tired and marvellously pressed by hunger, and looking about him
on every side to see whether he could discover any Castle to which he
might retire for the night, he saw an Inn near unto the highway on
which he travelled, which was as welcome a sight to him as if he had
seen a guiding star. Then spurring his horse he rode towards it as fast
as he might, and arrived there much about nightfall.

There stood by chance at the Inn door two jolly peasant women who were
travelling towards Seville with some carriers, who happened to take up
their lodging in that Inn the same evening. And as our Knight Errant
believed all that he saw or heard to take place in the same manner as
he had read in his books, he no sooner saw the Inn than he fancied
it to be a Castle with four turrets and pinnacles of shining silver,
with a drawbridge, a deep moat, and all such things as belong to grand
Castles. Drawing slowly towards it, he checked Rozinante with the
bridle when he was close to the Inn, and rested awhile to see if any
dwarf would mount on the battlements to give warning with the sound
of a trumpet how some Knight did approach the Castle; but seeing they
stayed so long, and Rozinante was eager to get up to his stable, he
went to the Inn door, and there beheld the two wenches that stood at
it, whom he supposed to be two beautiful damsels or lovely ladies
that did solace themselves before the Castle gates. At that moment it
happened that a certain swineherd, as he gathered together his hogs,
blew the horn which was wont to bring them together, and at once Don
Quixote imagined it was some dwarf who gave notice of his arrival;
and he rode up to the Inn door with marvellous delight. The ladies,
when they beheld one armed in that manner with lance and target, made
haste to run into the Inn; but Don Quixote, seeing their fear by their
flight, lifted up his pasteboard visor, showed his withered and dusky
face, and spoke to them thus: 'Let not your ladyships fly nor fear any
harm, for it does not belong to the order of Knighthood which I profess
to wrong anybody, much less such high-born damsels as your appearance
shows you to be.'

The wenches looked at him very earnestly, and sought with their eyes
for his face, which the ill-fashioned helmet concealed; but when they
heard themselves called high-born damsels, they could not contain
their laughter, which was so loud that Don Quixote was quite ashamed
of them and rebuked them, saying: 'Modesty is a comely ornament of the
beautiful, and too much laughter springing from trifles is great folly;
but I do not tell you this to make you the more ashamed, for my desire
is none other than to do you all the honour and service I may.'

This speech merely increased their laughter, and with it his anger,
which would have passed all bounds if the Innkeeper had not come out at
this instant. Now this Innkeeper was a man of exceeding fatness, and
therefore, as some think, of a very peaceable disposition; and when he
saw that strange figure, armed in such fantastic armour, he was very
nearly keeping the two women company in their merriment and laughter.
But being afraid of the owner of such a lance and target, he resolved
to behave civilly for fear of what might happen, and thus addressed
him: 'Sir Knight! if your Worship do seek for lodging, we have no bed
at liberty, but you shall find all other things in abundance.'

To which Don Quixote, noting the humility of the Constable of the
Castle—for such he took him to be—replied: 'Anything, Sir Constable,
may serve me, for my arms are my dress, and the battlefield is my bed.'

While he was speaking, the Innkeeper laid hand on Don Quixote's stirrup
and helped him to alight. This he did with great difficulty and pain,
for he had not eaten a crumb all that day. He then bade the Innkeeper
have special care of his horse, saying he was one of the best animals
that ever ate bread.

The Innkeeper looked at Rozinante again and again, but he did not seem
to him half so good as Don Quixote valued him. However, he led him
civilly to the stable, and returned to find his guest in the hands of
the high-born damsels, who were helping him off with his armour. They
had taken off his back and breast plates, but they could in no way get
his head and neck out of the strange, ill-fashioned helmet which he
had fastened on with green ribands.

Now these knots were so impossible to untie that the wenches would
have cut them, but this Don Quixote would not agree to. Therefore he
remained all the night with his helmet on, and looked the drollest and
strangest figure you could imagine. And he was now so pleased with the
women, whom he still took to be ladies and dames of the Castle, that
he said to them: 'Never was Knight so well attended on and served by
ladies as was Don Quixote. When he departed from his village, damsels
attended on him and princesses on his horse. O ladies! Rozinante is the
name of my steed, and I am called Don Quixote, and the time shall come
when your ladyships may command me and I obey, and then the valour of
mine arm shall discover the desire I have to do you service.'

The women could make nothing of his talk, but asked him if he would
eat, and Don Quixote replying that such was his desire, there was
straightway laid a table at the Inn door. The Host brought out a
portion of badly boiled haddocks, and a black, greasy loaf, which
was all the Inn could supply. But the manner of Don Quixote's eating
was the best sport in the world, for with his helmet on he could put
nothing into his mouth himself if others did not help him to find
his way, and therefore one of the wenches served his turn at that,
and helped to feed him. But they could not give him drink after that
manner, and he would have remained dry for ever if the Innkeeper had
not bored a cane, and putting one end in his mouth, poured the wine
down the other. And all this he suffered rather than cut the ribands of
his helmet.

And as he sat at supper the swineherd again sounded his horn, and
Don Quixote was still firm in the belief that he was in some famous
Castle where he was served with music, and that the stale haddock was
fresh trout, the bread of the finest flour, the two wenches high-born
damsels, and the Innkeeper the Constable of the Castle. Thus he thought
his career of Knight Errant was well begun, but he was still greatly
troubled by the thought that he was not yet dubbed Knight, and could
not therefore rightly follow his adventures until he received the
honour of Knighthood.




                              CHAPTER III

              Of the Pleasant Manner of the Knighting of
                              Don Quixote


When he had finished his sorry supper, he took his host with him to
the stable, and shutting the door threw himself down upon his knees
before him, saying: 'I will never rise from this place where I am, Sir
Constable, until your courtesy shall grant unto me a boon that I mean
to demand of you, something which will add to your renown and to the
profit of all the human race.'

The Innkeeper, seeing his guest at his feet, and hearing him speak
these words, stood confounded at the sight, not knowing what he would
say or do next, and tried to make him arise. But all was in vain until
he had promised him that he would grant him any gift that he sought at
his hands.

'Signor,' said Don Quixote, rising from his knees, 'I did never expect
less from your great magnificence, and now I will tell you that the
boon which I demand of you, and which you have so generously granted,
is that to-morrow in the morning you will dub me Knight. This night
I will watch mine armour in the Chapel of your Castle, and in the
morning, as I have said, the rest of my desires shall be fulfilled,
that I may set out in a proper manner throughout the four parts of
the world to seek adventures to the benefit of the poor and needy, as
is the duty of Knighthood and of Knights Errant.'

             [Illustration: THE KNIGHTING OF DON QUIXOTE]

The Innkeeper, who was a bit of a jester, and had before thought
that the wits of his guest were none of the best, was sure that his
suspicions were true when he heard him speak in this manner. And in
order to enjoy a joke at his expense, he resolved to fall in with his
humour, and told him that there was great reason in what he desired,
which was only natural and proper in a Knight of such worth as he
seemed to be. He added further that there was no Chapel in his Castle
where he might watch his arms, for he had broken it down to build it
up anew. But, nevertheless, he knew well that in a case of necessity
they might be watched in any other place, and therefore he might watch
them that night in the lower court of the Castle, where in the morning
he, the Innkeeper, would perform all the proper ceremonies, so that he
should be made not only a dubbed Knight, but such a one as should not
have a fellow in the whole universe.

The Innkeeper now gave orders that Don Quixote should watch his armour
in a great yard that lay near unto one side of the Inn, wherefore he
gathered together all his arms, laid them on a cistern near to a well,
and buckling on his target he laid hold of his lance and walked up and
down before the cistern very demurely, until night came down upon the
scene.

In the meantime the roguish Innkeeper told all the rest that lodged
in the Inn of the folly of his guest, the watching of his arms, and
the Knighthood which he expected to receive. They all wondered very
much at so strange a kind of folly, and going out to behold him from a
distance, they saw that sometimes he marched to and fro with a quiet
gesture, other times leaning upon his lance he looked upon his armour
for a good space of time without beholding any other thing save his
arms.

Although it was now night, yet was the moon so clear that everything
which the Knight did was easily seen by all beholders. And now one of
the carriers that lodged in the Inn resolved to give his mules some
water, and for that purpose it was necessary to move Don Quixote's
armour that lay on the cistern.

Seeing the carrier approach, Don Quixote called to him in a loud voice:
'O thou, whosoever thou art, bold Knight, who dares to touch the armour
of the bravest adventurer that ever girded sword, look well what thou
doest, and touch them not if thou meanest not to leave thy life in
payment for thy meddling!'

The carrier took no notice of these words, though it were better for
him if he had, but laying hold of the armour threw it piece by piece
into the middle of the yard.

When Don Quixote saw this, he lifted up his eyes towards heaven, and
addressing his thoughts, as it seemed, to his Lady Dulcinea, he said:
'Assist me, dear Lady, in this insult offered to thy vassal, and let
not thy favour and protection fail me in this my first adventure!'

Uttering these and other such words, he let slip his target or shield,
and lifting up his lance with both hands he gave the carrier so round a
knock on his pate that it overthrew him on to the ground, and if he had
caught him a second he would not have needed any surgeon to cure him.
This done, he gathered up his armour again, and laying the pieces where
they had been before, he began walking up and down near them with as
much quietness as he did at first.

But very soon afterwards another carrier, without knowing what had
happened, for his companion yet lay on the ground, came also to give
his mules water, and coming to take away the armour to get at the
cistern, Don Quixote let slip again his target, and lifting his lance
brought it down on the carrier's head, which he broke in several places.

All the people in the Inn, and amongst them the Innkeeper, came running
out when they heard the noise, and Don Quixote seeing them seized his
target, and, drawing his sword, cried aloud: 'O Lady of all beauty,
now, if ever, is the time for thee to turn the eyes of thy greatness
on thy Captive Knight who is on the eve of so marvellous great an
adventure.'

Saying this seemed to fill him with so great a courage, that if he had
been assaulted by all the carriers in the universe he would not have
retreated one step.

The companions of the wounded men, seeing their fellows in so evil
a plight, began to rain stones on Don Quixote from a distance, who
defended himself as well as he might with his target, and durst not
leave the cistern lest he should appear to abandon his arms.

The Innkeeper cried to them to let him alone, for he had already told
them that he was mad. But all the time Don Quixote cried out louder
than the Innkeeper, calling them all disloyal men and traitors, and
that the Lord of the Castle was a treacherous and bad Knight to allow
them to use a Knight Errant so basely; and if he had only received the
order of Knighthood he would have punished him soundly for his treason.
Then calling to the carriers he said: 'As for you base and rascally
ruffians, you are beneath my notice. Throw at me, approach, draw near
and do me all the hurt you may, for you shall ere long receive the
reward of your insolence.'

These words, which he spoke with great spirit and boldness, struck
a terrible fear into all those who assaulted him, and, partly moved
by his threats and partly persuaded by the Innkeeper, they left off
throwing stones at him, and he allowed them to carry away the wounded
men, while he returned to his watch with great quietness and gravity.

The Innkeeper did not very much like Don Quixote's pranks, and
therefore determined to shorten the ceremony and give him the order of
Knighthood at once before any one else was injured. Approaching him,
therefore, he made apologies for the insolence of the base fellows
who had thrown stones at him, and explained that it was not with his
consent, and that he thought them well punished for their impudence.
He added that it was not necessary for Don Quixote to watch his armour
any more, because the chief point of being knighted was to receive the
stroke of the sword on the neck and shoulder, and that ceremony he was
ready to perform at once.

All this Don Quixote readily believed, and answered that he was most
eager to obey him, and requested him to finish everything as speedily
as possible. For, he said, as soon as he was knighted, if he was
assaulted again, he intended not to leave one person alive in all the
Castle, except those which the Constable should command, whom he would
spare for his sake.

The Innkeeper, alarmed at what he said, and fearing lest he should
carry out his threat, set about the ceremony without delay. He brought
out his day-book, in which he wrote down the accounts of the hay and
straw which he sold to carriers who came to the Inn, and attended by
a small boy holding the end of a candle and walking before him, and
followed by the two women who were staying at the Inn, he approached
Don Quixote. He solemnly commanded him to kneel upon his knees, while
he mumbled something which he pretended to read out of the book that
he held in his hand. Then he gave him a good blow on the neck, and
after that another sound thwack over the shoulders with his own sword,
always as he did so continuing to mumble and murmur as though he were
reading something out of his book. This being done, he commanded one
of the damsels to gird on his sword, which she did with much grace and
cleverness. And it was with difficulty that they all kept from laughing
during this absurd ceremony, but what they had already seen of Don
Quixote's fury made them careful not to annoy him even by a smile.

When she had girded on his sword, the damsel said: 'May you be a
fortunate Knight, and meet with good success in all your adventures.'

Don Quixote asked her how she was called, that he might know to whom
he was obliged for the favours he had received. She answered with
great humility that she was named Tolosa, and was a butcher's daughter
of Toledo. Don Quixote replied requesting her to call herself from
henceforth the Lady Tolosa, which she promised to perform. The other
damsel buckled on his spurs, and when Don Quixote asked her name she
told him it was Molinera, and that she was daughter of an honest miller
of Antequera. Don Quixote entreated her also to call herself Lady
Molinera, and offered her new services and favours.

These strange and never-before-seen ceremonies being ended, Don Quixote
could not rest until he was mounted on horseback that he might go to
seek adventures. He therefore caused Rozinante to be instantly saddled,
leaped on his back, and embracing the Innkeeper, thanked him in a
thousand wild and ridiculous ways for the great favour he had done him
in dubbing him Knight. The Innkeeper, who was only eager to be rid
of him without delay, answered him in the same fashion, and let him
march off without demanding from him a single farthing for his food or
lodging.




          [Illustration: DON QUIXOTE TO THE RESCUE OF ANDREW]




                              CHAPTER IV

                Of what befell our Knight when he left
                                the Inn


It was dawn when Don Quixote went out from the Inn, so full of pleasure
to behold himself knighted that his very horse-girths were ready to
burst for joy. But calling to memory some advice that the Innkeeper had
given him, about the necessity of carrying with him money and clean
shirts when he went on his adventures, he determined to return to his
house and obtain these things, and also find for himself a Squire. For
this office he fixed in his own mind upon a ploughman, a neighbour of
his, a poor man who had many children, but yet a man who was very fit
as he thought to be his Squire.

With this view he turned Rozinante towards his own village, who,
knowing that he was on his way home, began to trot along with so good a
will that he seemed not to touch the ground.

He had not travelled far when he heard from a thicket hard by the
shrill cries of some weak and delicate mortal in grievous distress.

No sooner did he hear them than he exclaimed: 'I am indeed thankful for
the favour done to me by giving me so soon an opportunity of performing
what is due to my profession, and gathering the fruits of my desires.
These cries doubtless come from some distressed man or woman who has
need of my protection and aid.'

Then turning the reins, he guided Rozinante towards the place whence
the voice seemed to proceed. And within a few paces after he had
entered into the thicket, he saw a mare tied up to one oak, and to
another was tied a youth, all naked from the middle upward, of about
fifteen years of age. Now it was he that cried so pitifully, and not
without cause. For a sturdy fellow of a farmer was beating him soundly
with a girdle, accompanying each stroke with a reproof and piece of
advice, saying: 'The tongue must peace and the eyes be wary.' And the
boy, whose name was Andrew, answered: 'I will never do it again, good
master, I will never do it again. I promise to have more care of your
things from henceforth.'

Seeing what passed, Don Quixote cried out with an angry voice: 'Ill it
beseems you, discourteous Knight, to deal thus with one that cannot
defend himself. Mount, therefore, on horseback and take thy lance (for
the Farmer had a lance leaning against the very same tree to which
his mare was tied), for I will make thee know that it is the act of a
coward to do that which thou dost.'

The Farmer, beholding this strange figure buckled in armour, and
brandishing a lance over his head, gave himself up for a dead man, and
answered him with mild and submissive words, saying: 'Sir Knight, the
youth whom I am beating is mine own servant, and keepeth for me a flock
of sheep; but he is grown so negligent that he loseth one of them every
other day, and because I correct him for his carelessness and knavery,
he says I do it through covetousness and miserliness so as not to pay
him his due wages, but on my conscience I assure you he lies.'

'What? The lie, in my presence, rascally clown!' cried Don Quixote. 'By
the sun that shines above us, I will run thee through and through with
my lance, base Carle! Pay him instantly, without another word, or I
will finish and destroy thee in a moment. Loose him forthwith!'

The Farmer, hanging down his head, made no reply, but released poor
Andrew, of whom Don Quixote demanded how much his master owed him.
The boy answered that it was nine months' wages at seven _reals_ a
month. Casting it up, Don Quixote found that it amounted to sixty-three
_reals_, and commanded the Farmer to pay the money at once, unless he
had a mind to die for it.

This the Farmer, who was in a terrible fright, promised to do, but
said he: 'The worst of it is, Sir Knight, that I have no money here.
Let Andrew come with me to my house, and I will pay him his wages to
the last _real_.'

'I go with him?' said the boy, 'evil befall me if I do. No, Sir. I
don't intend to do that, for as soon as ever we were alone, he would
flay me alive.'

'He will not dare to do it,' said Don Quixote, 'for my command is
sufficient to make him respect me. And on condition that he will swear
to me to carry out his promise, by the order of Knighthood which he
hath received, I will set him free and assure thee of the payment.'

'Good your worship,' said the youth; 'mark well what you say, for
this man my master is no Knight, nor did he ever receive any order of
Knighthood. He is John Haldudo the rich, and lives at Quintanar.'

'That is no matter,' said Don Quixote, 'for there may be Knights of the
Haldudos.'

'The good Knight speaks well, friend Andrew,' said his master. 'Do me
but the pleasure to come with me, and I swear by all the orders of
Knighthood that are in the world to pay thee, as I have said, to the
last _real_.'

'With this,' said Don Quixote, 'I will rest satisfied; and see that
thou fulfillest it as thou hast sworn. If not, I swear again to thee by
the same oath to return and seek thee out once more and chastise thee.
And I will find thee out, though thou didst hide thyself closer than a
lizard. And if thou desirest to know who it is that commands thee thus,
know that I am the valiant Don Quixote of the Mancha, the righter of
wrongs and the scourge of injustice.'

Saying this, the Knight clapt spurs to his Rozinante, and was quickly
gone from him.

The Farmer followed him with his eyes, and seeing that he was beyond
the wood and quite out of sight, he returned to Andrew and said: 'Come
to me, child, for I will pay thee what I owe thee, as that righter of
wrongs hath commanded.'

'Upon my word,' said Andrew, 'you do well to fulfil the good Knight's
commandments. And I pray that he may live a thousand years, for he is
so brave and so just a judge that, if you pay me not, he will come back
and do all he promised.'

'I also do believe the same,' said the Farmer; 'but for the much love I
bear thee, I will increase the debt that I may add to the payment.'

And seizing him by the arm, he tied him again to the oak, where he gave
him so many blows as to leave him for dead.

'Call now, Master Andrew,' said he, 'for thy righter of wrongs; and
thou shalt see that he cannot undo this, though I think I have not
finished the doing of it, for I have yet a desire to flay thee alive as
thou didst fear.'

But he untied him at last, and gave him leave to go and seek out his
Judge, to the end that he might execute the sentence he had pronounced.
Andrew departed somewhat discontented, swearing to search for the
valiant Don Quixote of the Mancha, and relate to him point for point
all that had passed, that the Farmer might be repaid sevenfold.
Nevertheless he wept as he went along, and his master remained behind
laughing, and thus did the valiant Don Quixote right this wrong.

As for the Knight, it appeared to him that he had made a very happy
and noble beginning to his feats of arms. And as he rode towards his
village, he recited to himself in a low voice these words: 'Well mayest
thou call thyself happy above all other women of the earth, O! above
all beauties, beautiful Dulcinea of Toboso; since it has fallen to thy
lot to hold submissive to thy will a Knight so renowned and valorous as
is and ever shall be, Don Quixote of the Mancha, who, as all the world
knows, but yesterday received the order of Knighthood, and to-day hath
destroyed the greatest outrage and wrong that injustice and cruelty
could commit. To-day hath he wrested the scourge from the hand of the
pitiless foe who so cruelly beat the delicate infant.'

Soon afterwards he came to a spot where the road branched into four,
and there came into his fancy the cross-ways he had read of, where the
Knights Errant used to ponder which of the roads they should take.
And that he might imitate them, he let slip the reins on Rozinante's
neck, submitting his will to that of his steed, who followed his first
intention, which was to return home to his own stable. And having
travelled some two miles, Don Quixote discovered a great troop of
people, who, as it was afterwards known, were certain merchants of
Toledo, that rode towards Murcia to buy silks. They were six in number,
and came with their parasols or sun umbrellas, and four serving-men
a-horseback, and three lackeys.

Scarce had Don Quixote perceived them when he straight imagined them
to be a new adventure. And so that he might imitate as far as possible
the passages which he had read in his books, he settled himself with a
gallant air and resolute bearing firmly in his stirrups, grasped his
lance, brought his target over his breast, and stood, waiting, posted
in the middle of the road, for those whom he took to be Knights Errant
like himself.

And when they were so near that they might hear and see him, he lifted
up his voice and said: 'Let all the world stand and pass no further,
if all the world will not confess that there is not in all the world
a more beautiful damsel than the Empress of the Mancha, the peerless
Dulcinea of Toboso.'

The merchants stopped at the sound of these words to behold the
marvellous and ridiculous shape of him that spake them, and at once
suspected the madness of the speaker.

Curious to know the meaning of the confession he demanded from them,
one of the merchants, who was a bit of a wag and very sharp-witted,
said to Don Quixote: 'Sir Knight, we know not who that good lady may be
you speak of. Show her therefore to us, and if she be as beautiful as
you report, we will with right good-will, and without further trouble,
confess the truth of what you demand.'

'If I did show her to you,' replied Don Quixote, 'what merit would
there be in confessing a truth which is clear to all beholders? The
importance of my demand is that without seeing her you must believe
it, which if you refuse to do I challenge you all to battle, ye
proud preposterous crew. And now come on! One by one as the order of
Knighthood requires, or all at once as is the custom and base usage of
those of your breed. Here I await you, confiding in the right I have on
my side.'

'Sir Knight,' replied the Merchant, 'I request you in the name of all
the Princes here present, that in order that we may not burden our
conscience by confessing a thing which we have never beheld nor heard,
you will be pleased to show us some portrait of the lady, although
it be no bigger than a grain of wheat. For I do believe that we are
already so much on your side, that though her portrait showed her to us
a-squint of one eye, and wearing a hump on her back, we should say all
that you wish in her favour.'

'Infamous rabble,' replied Don Quixote, mightily enraged; 'she is
neither crook-eyed nor hump-backed, but is straighter than a spindle
of Guadamara. Dearly shall you pay for the foul words you have uttered
against so immense a beauty as my Lady.' So saying, he lowered his
lance against him who had spoken, with such wrath and fury, that if
Rozinante had not tripped and fallen in the midst of his career, it
would have fared ill with the rash Merchant.

But, alas! Rozinante fell; his master went rolling some distance across
the field, and though he struggled to arise yet was he never able, so
encumbered was he by his lance, target, spurs, helmet, and the weight
of his old-fashioned armour. And while he strove to rise he shouted;
'Fly not, cowardly brood! Tarry a little, ye base caitiffs! for not by
any fault of mine, but of my horse, am I thus discomfited!'

One of the lackeys with the company, hearing these saucy speeches of
the poor overthrown Knight, could not forbear returning him an answer
on his ribs, and coming up to him he seized his lance, and having
broken it into pieces, began with one of them to belabour him, so that
in spite of his armour he pounded him like wheat in a mill. His masters
called out to him to let the gentleman be, but the lackey was angry and
would not give up the game. And running for the other pieces of the
broken lance, he shivered them all over the poor fallen Knight, who
never closed his mouth, but cried out against them for brigands and
murderers, for such he took them to be.

At last the lackey was tired out, and the merchants followed on their
way talking about the poor belaboured Knight, who when he saw himself
alone, again made trial to arise; but if he could not do so when
sound and well, how could he after being pounded and almost beaten
to a jelly? And yet he still considered himself fortunate, for he
persuaded himself that this disgrace was one of those things that must
of occasion happen to a Knight Errant. And though he could not rise on
account of being mauled and bruised from head to foot, he put it all
down to the carelessness of his steed Rozinante.




       [Illustration: THE DESTRUCTION OF DON QUIXOTE'S LIBRARY]




                               CHAPTER V

                How Don Quixote returned home, and what
              happened to his Library, and how he sallied
                forth a second time to seek Adventures


Finding that he was unable to stir, the Knight pleased himself whilst
lying on the ground by remembering and repeating aloud passages from
his favourite books.

He was reciting the ballad of the Marquess of Mantua, in which a noble
knight has an adventure similar to his own, when there chanced to pass
by a labouring man, a neighbour of Don Quixote's, who was going to take
a load of wheat to the mill.

He, seeing a man stretched on the ground, came over to him and asked
who he was and what mishap had befallen him.

Don Quixote at once believed that the labourer was no other than the
Marquess of Mantua himself, and went on with his ballad which gave an
account of his disgrace.

The labourer was astonished at all these follies, and taking off the
Knight's visor, which was all broken to pieces with the beating, he
wiped his face, which was covered with dust; and when he had wiped
it he recognised him and cried: 'Senor Quixada (for so was he named
before he became a Knight Errant), who has brought your Worship to this
plight?'

But the Knight only went on with his ballad, and made no answer.

Seeing this, the good man took off as well as he could his breastplate
and corselet to see if he had any wound, but he found no blood nor sign
of any. He tried to raise him from the ground, which he did at last
with much ado. Then he mounted him upon his ass, which seemed a safer
carriage than the Knight's steed. Gathering up his arms, even to the
fragments of the lance, he fastened them upon Rozinante, whose bridle
he took hold of, as well as of the ass's halter; and so they journeyed
towards the village, Don Quixote continuing to mutter his nonsensical
stories.

In this manner they arrived at last at their village about sunset, but
the labourer waited until it grew somewhat dusk, so that folk should
not see the Knight so simply mounted.

When he entered the village and went to Don Quixote's house, he found
all in uproar there. For the Curate and the Barber—Don Quixote's great
friends—were there, and his Housekeeper was crying to them at the top
of her voice: 'What think ye has befallen my Master? For two days both
he and his horse, together with the target, lance, and armour, have
been missing. Woe is me! I am certain those horrid books of Knighthood
have turned his brain, for I have often heard him say that he would
become a Knight Errant and go and seek adventures throughout the world.'

And Don Quixote's Niece, who was there also, said to Master Nicholas
the Barber: 'And indeed I have known my dear Uncle continue reading
these unhappy books of "disadventures" two days and two nights
together. At the end of which, throwing down the book, he would lay
hand on his sword and would fall a-slashing of the walls. And when he
was wearied he would say that he had slain four Giants as great as four
towers. And I take great blame to myself that I did not tell you all
this before, that you might have burned those wretched books which have
caused all the mischief.'

'So I say, too,' said the Curate; 'and to-morrow they shall feed the
flames, so that they may do no further harm.'

By this time the labourer and Don Quixote had come to the house, and
all the household hearing them arrive, ran to embrace him. And Don
Quixote—who had not yet dismounted from the ass, for he was not
able—said: 'Stand still and touch me not, for I return very sore
wounded and hurt through the fault of my steed. Carry me to bed, and
summon, if it be possible, the wise Urganda, that she may examine and
cure my wounds.'

'Come, my dear Master,' said his Housekeeper, 'and welcome, for,
without sending for that Urganda, we shall know how to cure thee well
enough. Accursed, say I once again, and a hundred times accursed, may
those books of Knighthood be which have brought you to such a pass.'

With that they bore him up to his bed, and searching for his wounds
could not find any. Then he said he was all one bruise, through having
a grievous fall with his horse Rozinante, in a fight with ten Giants,
the most enormous and the boldest that could be found on earth.

'So ho!' said the Curate, 'there are Giants about, are there? By mine
honesty I will burn them all before to-morrow night.'

The next day, while the Knight was asleep, the Curate asked the Niece
for the keys of the library, which she gave him with a very good will.
Then they all went in, the Housekeeper with them, and found more than a
hundred very large volumes well bound, besides other smaller ones.

The Curate asked the Barber to hand him down the books from their
shelves one by one, that he might see whether any deserved to escape
the fire.

'No, no!' cried the Niece, 'you ought not to pardon any of them, seeing
they have all been offenders. Better fling them all out of the window
into the yard and make a heap of them, and then make a bonfire of them
where the smoke will offend nobody.'

With that the Housekeeper caught hold of some of the largest and flung
them out of the window. But the Curate took down several from the
shelves and began to examine them carefully, whilst the women cried out
for their destruction.

Whilst they were thus busied, Don Quixote began to cry aloud, saying:
'This way, this way, valorous Knights! Show the force of your valiant
arms lest we lose the tournament.'

Called away by this noise and clamour they left the books and ran to
Don Quixote, who had risen from his bed and was repeating his outcries
and ravings, cutting about with his sword all over the room with
slashes and back strokes, as wide awake as if he had never been asleep.
Wherefore, taking him up in their arms, they returned him by main force
into his bed.

With some difficulty they persuaded him to rest where he was, and after
he had eaten his breakfast he fell asleep once again.

That same night the Housekeeper set fire to and burned all the books
in the yard, and some went to the flames that had no harm in them; and
thus was fulfilled the old proverb, 'The Saint sometimes pays for the
Sinner.'

Now one of the remedies which the Curate and the Barber suggested for
their friend's malady was to wall up and close his library, so that
when he rose he should not find the books, and they might tell him the
Enchanters had carried them off, room and all.

This was done, and when two days afterwards Don Quixote rose from his
bed, the first thing he did was to go and visit his books. Not finding
the library where he had left it, he went from one corner of the house
to the other, looking for it. Sometimes he came to the place where the
door had been, and felt it with his hands, then would turn his eyes up
and down, here and there, to seek it, without speaking a word.

But at last he asked the Housekeeper where his library was. She being
well schooled what she should answer, replied: 'What library? There
is neither library nor books in this house now, for an Enchanter has
carried them all away.'

'Yes, dear Uncle,' said his Niece, 'while you were away, an Enchanter
came upon a cloud, and, alighting from a serpent on which he was
riding, entered the library, and what he did therein I know not. But
within a while after, he fled out at the roof of the house, and left
all the place full of smoke, and when we went to see what he had done
we found neither room nor books.'

'This must be the work of the learned Enchanter Freston,' replied Don
Quixote seriously; 'a great enemy of mine who has a grudge against me,
for he knows through his arts and his learning that I am in course of
time to fight and vanquish in single combat a Knight whom he favours.
But I tell him it is useless to oppose what is decreed.'

'Who doubts that, dear Uncle?' said his Niece. 'But why mix yourself
up in these quarrels? Better stay at home peacefully, for remember the
proverb says, "Many who go for wool come back shorn."'

'O Niece of mine,' said Don Quixote, 'how little dost thou understand
the matter! Before I am shorn I will pluck the beards of all who think
to touch but a hair of me.'

To these words the women made no reply because they saw his anger
increase.

For fifteen days after this he remained quietly at home, without
showing any signs of repeating his follies, and during this time he had
many arguments with his friends the Curate and the Barber about his
favourite Knights Errant. At the same time he was persuading a certain
labourer, his neighbour, an honest man, but one of very shallow wit,
to go away with him and serve him as Squire. In the end he gave him
so many fair words and promises that the poor fellow determined to go
with him. Don Quixote, among other things, told him that he ought to be
very pleased to depart with him, for at some time or other an adventure
might befall which should in the twinkling of an eye win him an Island
and leave him Governor thereof. On the faith of these and other like
promises, Sancho Panza (for so he was called) forsook his wife and
children and took service as Squire to his neighbour.

Don Quixote then set about to provide himself with money. This he did
by selling one thing, pawning another, and making bad bargains all
round. At last he got a pretty sum, and having patched up his broken
helmet as best he could, he told Sancho Panza the day and hour on
which he meant to start. He also charged him to provide himself with
a wallet, which Sancho promised to do, and said that he also meant to
take a very good Ass named Dapple along with him, which he had of his
own, because he was not used to travel much a-foot.

In the matter of the Ass, Don Quixote hesitated a little, calling to
mind whether ever he had read that any Knight Errant was ever attended
by a Squire mounted on ass-back, but no such case occurred to his
memory. Nevertheless, he decided that the Ass should be taken, with the
intention of providing his Squire with a more dignified mount, when he
had a chance, by unhorsing the first discourteous Knight he met with.

All this being arranged, Sancho Panza, without bidding his wife and
children farewell, and Don Quixote, without saying good-bye to his
Housekeeper and Niece, sallied forth from the village one night,
unknown to any person living. They travelled so far that night that at
daybreak they were safe against discovery, even if they were pursued.
And Sancho Panza rode along on his beast like a patriarch with his
wallet and bottle, full of a huge desire to see himself Governor of the
Island which his Master had promised him.




                              CHAPTER VI

          Of the dreadful and never-to-be-imagined Adventure
              of the Windmills, and of the fearful Battle
                which the gallant Biscayan fought with
                              Don Quixote


Whilst they were journeying along, Sancho Panza said to his Master:
'I pray you have good care, Sir Knight, that you forget not that
government of the Island which you have promised me, for I shall be
able to govern it be it never so great.'

And Don Quixote replied: 'Thou must understand, friend Sancho, that it
was a custom very much used by ancient Knights Errant, to make their
Squires Governors of the Islands and Kingdoms they conquered, and I
am resolved that so good a custom shall be kept up by me. And if thou
livest and I live, it may well be that I might conquer a Kingdom within
six days, and crown thee King of it.'

'By the same token,' said Sancho Panza, 'if I were a King, then should
Joan my wife become a Queen and my children Princes?'

'Who doubts of that?' said Don Quixote.

'That do I,' replied Sancho Panza, 'for I am fully persuaded that
though it rained Kingdoms down upon the earth, none of them would sit
well on my wife Joan. She is not worth a farthing for a Queen. She
might scrape through as a Countess, but I have my doubts of that.'

             [Illustration: DON QUIXOTE AND THE WINDMILLS]

As they were talking, they caught sight of some thirty or forty
windmills on a plain. As soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to his
Squire: 'Fortune is guiding our affairs better than we could desire.
For behold, friend Sancho, how there appear thirty or forty monstrous
Giants with whom I mean to do battle, and take all their lives. With
their spoils we will begin to be rich, for this is fair war, and it is
doing great service to clear away these evil fellows from off the face
of the earth.'

'What Giants?' said Sancho amazed.

'Those thou seest there,' replied his Master, 'with the long arms.'

'Take care, Sir,' cried Sancho, 'for those we see yonder are not Giants
but windmills, and those things which seem to be arms are their sails,
which being whirled round by the wind make the mill go.'

'It is clear,' answered Don Quixote, 'that thou art not yet experienced
in the matter of adventures. They are Giants, and if thou art afraid,
get thee away home, whilst I enter into cruel and unequal battle with
them.'

So saying, he clapped spurs to Rozinante, without heeding the cries
by which Sancho Panza warned him that he was going to encounter not
Giants but windmills. For he would neither listen to Sancho's outcries,
nor mark what he said, but shouted to the windmills in a loud voice:
'Fly not, cowards and vile creatures, for it is only one Knight that
assaults you!'

A slight breeze having sprung up at this moment, the great sail-arms
began to move, on seeing which Don Quixote shouted out again: 'Although
you should wield more arms than had the Giant Briareus, I shall make
you pay for your insolence!'

Saying this, and commending himself most devoutly to his Lady Dulcinea,
whom he desired to aid him in this peril, covering himself with his
buckler, and setting his lance in rest, he charged at Rozinante's best
gallop, and attacked the first mill before him. Thrusting his lance
through the sail, the wind turned it with such violence that it broke
his weapon into shivers, carrying him and his horse after it, and
having whirled them round, finally tumbled the Knight a good way off,
and rolled him over the plain sorely damaged.

Sancho Panza hastened to help him as fast as his Ass could go, and
when he came up he found the Knight unable to stir, such a shock had
Rozinante given him in the fall.

'Bless me,' said Sancho, 'did I not tell you that you should look well
what you did, for they were none other than windmills, nor could any
think otherwise unless he had windmills in his brains?'

'Peace, friend Sancho,' said Don Quixote, 'for the things of war are
constantly changing, and I think this must be the work of the same sage
Freston who robbed me of my library and books, and he hath changed
these Giants into windmills to take from me the glory of the victory.
But in the end his evil arts shall avail but little against the
goodness of my sword.'

'May it prove so,' said Sancho, as he helped his Master to rise and
remount Rozinante, who, poor steed, was himself much bruised by the
fall.

The next day they journeyed along towards the Pass of Lapice, a
romantic spot, at which they arrived about three o'clock in the
afternoon.

'Here,' said Don Quixote to his Squire, 'we may hope to dip our hands
up to the elbows in what are called adventures. But take note of this,
that although thou seest me in the greatest dangers of the world,
thou art not to set hand to thy sword in my defence, unless those who
assault me be base or vulgar people. If they be Knights thou mayest not
help me.'

'I do assure you, Sir,' said Sancho, 'that herein you shall be most
punctually obeyed, because I am by nature a quiet and peaceful man, and
have a strong dislike to thrusting myself into quarrels.'

Whilst they spoke thus, two Friars of the order of St. Benedict,
mounted on large mules—big enough to be dromedaries—appeared coming
along the road. They wore travelling masks to keep the dust out of
their eyes and carried large sun umbrellas. After them came a coach
with four or five a-horseback travelling with it, and two lackeys ran
hard by it. In the coach was a Biscayan Lady who was going to Seville.
The Friars were not of her company, though all were going the same way.

Scarcely had Don Quixote espied them than he exclaimed to his Squire:
'Either I much mistake, or this should be the most famous adventure
that hath ever been seen; for those dark forms that loom yonder are
doubtless Enchanters who are carrying off in that coach some Princess
they have stolen. Therefore I must with all my power undo this wrong.'

'This will be worse than the adventure of the windmills,' said Sancho.
'Do you not see that they are Benedictine Friars, and the coach will
belong to some people travelling?'

'I have told thee already, Sancho,' answered Don Quixote, 'that thou
art very ignorant in the matter of adventures. What I say is true, as
thou shalt see.'

So saying he spurred on his horse, and posted himself in the middle
of the road along which the Friars were coming, and when they were
near enough to hear him he exclaimed in a loud voice: 'Monstrous and
horrible crew! Surrender this instant those exalted Princesses, whom
you are carrying away in that coach, or prepare to receive instant
death as a just punishment of your wicked deeds.'

The Friars drew rein, and stood amazed at the figure and words of Don
Quixote, to whom they replied: 'Sir Knight, we are neither monstrous
nor wicked, but two religious men, Benedictines, travelling about our
business, and we know nothing about this coach or about any Princesses.'

'No soft words for me,' cried Don Quixote, 'for I know you well,
treacherous knaves.'

And without waiting for their reply he set spurs to Rozinante; and
laying his lance on his thigh, charged at the first Friar with such
fury and rage, that if he had not leaped from his mule he would have
been slain, or at least badly wounded.

The second Friar, seeing the way his companion was treated, made no
words but fled across the country swifter than the wind itself.

Sancho Panza, on seeing the Friar overthrown, dismounted very speedily
off his Ass and ran over to him, and would have stripped him of his
clothes. But two of the Friars' servants came up and asked him why he
was thus despoiling their master. Sancho replied that it was his due
by the law of arms, as lawful spoils gained in battle by his Lord and
Master, Don Quixote.

The lackeys, who knew nothing of battles or spoils, seeing that Don
Quixote was now out of the way, speaking with those that were in the
coach, set both at once upon Sancho and threw him down, plucked every
hair out of his beard and kicked and mauled him without mercy, leaving
him at last stretched on the ground senseless and breathless.

As for the Friar, he mounted again, trembling and terror-stricken, all
the colour having fled from his face, and spurring his mule, he joined
his companion, who was waiting for him hard by.

While this was happening, Don Quixote was talking to the Lady in the
coach, to whom he said: 'Dear Lady, you may now dispose of yourself as
you best please. For the pride of your robbers is laid in the dust by
this my invincible arm. And that you may not pine to learn the name of
your deliverer, know that I am called Don Quixote of the Mancha, Knight
Errant, adventurer, and captive of the peerless and beauteous Lady
Dulcinea of Toboso. And in reward of the benefits you have received at
my hands, I demand nothing else but that you return to Toboso, there to
present yourself in my name before my Lady, and tell her what I have
done to obtain your liberty.'

All this was listened to by a Biscayan Squire who accompanied the
coach. He hearing that the coach was not to pass on but was to return
to Toboso, went up to Don Quixote, and, laying hold of his lance, said
to him: 'Get away with thee, Sir Knight, for if thou leave not the
coach I will kill thee as sure as I am a Biscayan.'

'If,' replied Don Quixote haughtily, 'thou wert a gentleman, as thou
art not, I would ere this have punished thy folly and insolence,
caitiff creature.'

'I no gentleman?' cried the enraged Biscayan. 'Throw down thy lance and
draw thy sword, and thou shalt soon see that thou liest.'

'That shall be seen presently,' replied Don Quixote; and flinging his
lance to the ground he drew his sword, grasped his buckler tight, and
rushed at the Biscayan.

The Biscayan, seeing him come on in this manner, had nothing else to do
but to draw his sword. Luckily for him he was near the coach, whence he
snatched a cushion to serve him as a shield, and then they fell on one
another as if they had been mortal enemies.

Those that were present tried to stop them, but the Biscayan shouted
out that if he were hindered from ending the battle he would put his
Lady and all who touched him to the sword.

The Lady, amazed and terrified, made the coachman draw aside a little,
and sat watching the deadly combat from afar.

The Biscayan, to begin with, dealt Don Quixote a mighty blow over the
target, which, if it had not been for his armour, would have cleft him
to the waist. Don Quixote, feeling the weight of this tremendous blow
which had destroyed his visor and carried away part of his ear, cried
out aloud: 'O Dulcinea, Lady of my soul, flower of all beauty, help thy
Knight, who finds himself in this great danger!' To say this, to raise
his sword, to cover himself with his buckler, and to rush upon the
Biscayan was the work of a moment. With his head full of rage he now
raised himself in his stirrups, and, gripping his sword more firmly in
his two hands, struck at the Biscayan with such violence that he caught
him a terrible blow on the cushion, knocking this shield against his
head with tremendous violence. It was as though a mountain had fallen
on the Biscayan and crushed him, and the blood spouted from his nose
and mouth and ears. He would have fallen straightway from his mule if
he had not clasped her round the neck; but he lost his stirrups, then
let go his arms, and the mule, frightened at the blow, began to gallop
across the fields, so that after two or three plunges it threw him to
the ground.

Don Quixote leaped off his horse, ran towards him, and setting the
point of his sword between his eyes, bade him yield, or he would cut
off his head.

The Lady of the coach now came forward in great grief and begged the
favour of her Squire's life.

Don Quixote replied with great stateliness: 'Truly, fair Lady, I will
grant thy request, but it must be on one condition, that this Squire
shall go to Toboso and present himself in my name to the peerless Lady
Dulcinea, that she may deal with him as she thinks well.'

The Lady, who was in great distress, without considering what Don
Quixote required, or asking who Dulcinea might be, promised that he
should certainly perform this command.

'Then,' said Don Quixote, 'on the faith of that pledge I will do him no
more harm.'

Seeing the contest was now over, and his Master about to remount
Rozinante, Sancho ran to hold his stirrups, and before he mounted,
taking him by his hand he kissed it and said: 'I desire that it will
please you, good my Lord Don Quixote, to bestow on me the government of
that Island which in this terrible battle you have won.'

To which Don Quixote replied: 'Brother Sancho, these are not the
adventures of Islands, but of cross roads, wherein nothing is gained
but a broken pate or the loss of an ear. Have patience awhile, for the
adventures will come whereby I can make thee not only a Governor, but
something higher.'

Sancho thanked him heartily, and kissed his hand again and the hem of
his mailed shirt. Then he helped him to get on Rozinante, and leaped
upon his Ass to follow him.

And Don Quixote, without another word to the people of the coach, rode
away at a swift pace and turned into a wood that was hard by, leaving
Sancho to follow him as fast as his beast could trot.




                              CHAPTER VII

              Of what passed between Don Quixote and the
              Goatherds, and of the unfortunate Adventure
                     with the Yanguesian Carriers


As they rode along, Don Quixote turned to his Squire and said to him:
'Tell me now in very good earnest, didst thou ever see a more valorous
Knight than I am throughout the face of the earth? Didst thou ever
read in histories of any other that hath or ever had more courage in
fighting, more dexterity in wounding, or more skill in overthrowing?'

'The truth is,' replied Sancho, 'that I have never read any history
whatever, for I can neither read nor write. But what I dare wager is,
that I never in my life served a bolder Master than you are, and I only
trust that all this boldness does not land us within the four walls of
the gaol.'

'Peace, friend Sancho,' said Don Quixote; 'when didst thou read of a
Knight Errant that was brought before the Judge though he killed ever
so many people?'

'I have read nothing, as you know, good Master; but a truce to all
this, let me attend to your wound, for you are losing a good deal of
blood in that ear, and I have got some lint and a little white ointment
in my wallet.'

             [Illustration: DON QUIXOTE AND THE GOATHERDS]

'That,' said Don Quixote, 'would have been unnecessary if I had
remembered to make a bottleful of the Balsam of Fierabras, for with
only one drop of it both time and medicines are saved.'

'What Balsam is that, then?' asked Sancho Panza.

'It is a Balsam, the receipt of which I have in my memory, and whoever
possesses it need not fear death nor think to perish by any wound.
Therefore after I have made it and given it unto thee, thou hast
nothing else to do but when thou shalt see that in any battle I be
cloven in twain, than deftly to take up the portion of the body which
is fallen to the ground and put it up again on the half which remains
in the saddle, taking great care to fix it exactly in the right place.
Then thou shalt give me two draughts of the Balsam I have mentioned,
and I shall become as sound as an apple.'

'If that be true,' said Sancho, 'I renounce from now the government
of the promised Island, and will demand nothing else in payment of my
services but only the receipt of this precious liquor. But tell me, is
it costly in making?'

'With less than three _reals_,' said Don Quixote, 'a man may make three
gallons of it. But I mean to teach thee greater secrets than this, and
do thee greater favours also. And now let me dress my wound, for this
ear pains me more than I would wish.'

Sancho took out of his wallet his lint and ointment to cure his
Master. But before he could use them Don Quixote saw that the visor of
his helmet was broken, and he had like to have lost his senses. Setting
his hand to his sword, he cried: 'I swear an oath to lead the life
which was led by the great Marquis of Mantua when he swore to revenge
the death of his nephew Baldwin, which was not to eat off a tablecloth,
nor to comb his hair, nor to change his clothes, nor to quit his
armour, and other things which, though I cannot now remember, I take
as said, until I have had complete revenge on him that hath done this
outrage.'

'Look, your Worship, Sir Don Quixote,' said Sancho, when he heard these
strange words, 'you must note that if the Biscayan has done what you
told him, and presented himself before my Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, then
he has fully satisfied his debt, and deserves no other penalty unless
he commits a new fault.'

'Thou hast spoken well and hit the mark truly,' answered Don Quixote;
'and, therefore, in respect of that, I set the oath aside. But I make
it and confirm it again, that I will lead the life I have said, until I
take by force another helmet as good as this from some other Knight.'

'Such oaths are but mischief,' said Sancho discontentedly, 'for tell me
now, if by chance we do not come across a man armed with a helmet, what
are we to do? Do but consider that armed men travel not these roads,
but only carriers and waggoners, who not only wear no helmets, but
never heard them named all the days of their life.'

'Thou art mistaken in this,' said Don Quixote, 'for we shall not have
been here two hours before we shall see more Knights than went up
against Albraca to win Angelica the Fair.'

'So be it,' said Sancho, 'and may all turn out well for us, that the
time may come for the winning of that Island which is costing me so
dear.'

'Have no fear for thine Island, Sancho Panza,' said Don Quixote; 'and
now look if thou hast aught to eat in thy wallet, for soon we should
go in search of some Castle where we may lodge the night and make the
Balsam of which I have spoken, for in truth this ear of mine pains me
greatly.'

'I have got here an onion and a bit of cheese and a few crusts of
bread, but such coarse food is not fit for so valiant a Knight as your
Worship.'

'How little dost thou understand the matter,' replied Don Quixote, 'for
it is an honour to Knights Errant not to eat more than once a month,
and if by chance they should eat, to eat only of that which is next at
hand! And all this thou mightest have known hadst thou read as many
books as I have done. For though I studied many, yet did I never find
that Knights Errant did ever eat but by mere chance, or at some costly
banquets that were made for them. And the remainder of their days
they lived on herbs and roots. Therefore, friend Sancho, let not that
trouble thee which is my pleasure, for to a Knight Errant that which
comes is good.'

'Pardon me, Sir,' said Sancho, 'for since I can neither read nor write,
as I have already told you, I have not fallen in rightly with the laws
of Knighthood. But from henceforth my wallet shall be furnished with
all sorts of dried fruits for your Worship, because you are a Knight,
and for myself, seeing I am none, I will provide fowls and other
things, which are better eating.'

So saying he pulled out what he had, and the two fell to dinner in good
peace and company.

But being desirous to look out for a lodging for that night, they cut
short their meagre and sorry meal, mounted at once a-horseback, and
made haste to find out some dwellings before night did fall.

But the sun and their hopes did fail them at the same time, they being
then near the cabins of some Goatherds. Therefore they determined to
pass the night there. And though Sancho's grief was great to lie out of
a village, yet Don Quixote was more joyful than ever, for he thought
that as often as he slept under the open heaven, so often did he
perform an act worthy of a true Knight Errant.

They were welcomed by the Goatherds very cordially, and Sancho,
having put up Rozinante and his Ass the best way he could, made his
way towards the smell given out by certain pieces of goat's flesh
which were boiling in a pot on the fire. And though he longed that
very instant to see if they were ready, he did not do so, for he saw
the Goatherds were themselves taking them off the fire and spreading
some sheep-skins on the ground, and were laying their rustic table
as quickly as might be. Then with many expressions of good will they
invited the two to share in what they had. Those who belonged to the
fold, being six in number, sat round on the skins, having first with
rough compliments asked Don Quixote to seat himself upon a trough which
they placed for him turned upside down.

Don Quixote sat down, but Sancho remained on foot to serve him with
the cup which was made of horn. Seeing him standing, his Master said:
'That thou mayest see, Sancho, the good which is in Knight Errantry,
and how fair a chance they have who exercise it to arrive at honour and
position in the world, I desire that here by my side, and in company of
these good people, thou dost seat thyself, and be one and the same with
me that am thy Master and natural Lord. That thou dost eat in my dish
and drink in the same cup wherein I drink. For the same may be said of
Knight Errantry as is said of Love, that it makes all things equal.'

'Thanks for your favour,' replied Sancho, 'but I may tell your Worship
that provided I have plenty to eat, I can eat it as well, and better,
standing and by myself, than if I were seated on a level with an
Emperor. And, indeed, if I speak the truth, what I eat in my corner
without ceremony, though it be but a bread and onion, smacks much
better than turkeycocks at other tables, where I must chaw my meat
leisurely, drink but little, wipe my hands often, nor do other things
that solitude and liberty allow.'

'For all that,' said Don Quixote, 'here shalt thou sit, for the humble
shall be exalted,' and taking him by the arm, he forced his Squire to
sit down near himself.

The Goatherds did not understand the gibberish of Squires and Knights
Errant, and did nothing but eat, hold their peace, and stare at their
guests, who with great relish were gorging themselves with pieces as
big as their fists. The course of flesh being over, the Goatherds
spread on the skins a great number of parched acorns and half a cheese,
harder than if it had been made of mortar. The horn in the meantime
was not idle, but came full from the wine-skins and returned empty, as
though it had been a bucket sent to the well.

After Don Quixote had satisfied his appetite, he took up a fistful of
acorns, and beholding them earnestly, began in this manner: 'Happy time
and fortunate ages were those which our ancestors called Golden, not
because Gold—so much prized in this our Iron Age—was gotten in that
happy time without any labours, but because those who lived in that
time knew not these two words, _Thine_ and _Mine_. In that holy age all
things were in common. No man needed to do aught but lift up his hand
and take his food from the strong oak, which did liberally invite them
to gather his sweet and savoury fruit. The clear fountains and running
rivers did offer them transparent water in magnificent abundance,
and in the hollow trees did careful bees erect their commonwealth,
offering to every hand without interest the fertile crop of their
sweet labours.' Thus did the eloquent Knight describe the Golden Age,
when all was peace, friendship, and concord, and then he showed the
astonished Goatherds how an evil world had taken its place, and made
it necessary for Knights Errant like himself to come forward for
the protection of widows and orphans, and the defence of distressed
damsels. All this he did because the acorns that were given him called
to his mind the Golden Age. The Goatherds sat and listened with grave
attention, and Sancho made frequent visits to the second wine-skin
during his discourse. At length it was ended, and they sat round
the fire, drinking their wine and listening to one of the Goatherds
singing, and towards night, Don Quixote's ear becoming very painful,
one of his hosts made a dressing of rosemary leaves and salt, and bound
up his wound. By this means being eased of his pain, he was able to lie
down in one of the huts and sleep soundly after his day's adventures.

Don Quixote spent several days among the Goatherds, and at length, when
his wound was better, he thanked them for their hospitality, and rode
away in search of new adventures, followed by the faithful Sancho.

They came to a halt in a pleasant meadow rich with beautiful grass, by
the side of a delightful and refreshing stream, which seemed to invite
them to stop and spend there the sultry hours of noon, which were
already becoming oppressive.

Don Quixote and Sancho dismounted, and leaving Rozinante and Dapple
loose, to feed on the grass that was there in plenty, they ransacked
the wallet, and without any ceremony fell to eating what they found in
it.

Sancho had neglected to tie up Rozinante, and, as luck would have it,
a troop of Galician ponies belonging to some Yanguesian carriers, whose
custom it is to rest at noon with their teams in spots and places where
grass and water abound, were feeding in the same valley.

It must be believed that Rozinante supposed that the grass the ponies
were feeding on was better than his own; but be that as it may, he
started off at a little swift trot to feed among them. They resented
his appearance, and, as he sought to enter their ranks and feed among
them, they received him with their heels and teeth, with such vigour
that in a trice he had burst his girth, and his saddle was stripped
from his back. But the worst of all was that the carriers, taking part
with their own ponies, ran up with stakes and so belaboured him that
they brought him to the ground in a sore plight.

Upon this Don Quixote and Sancho, who witnessed the basting of
Rozinante, came running up all out of breath, and Don Quixote said
to Sancho: 'From what I see, friend Sancho, these be no Knights, but
base, rascally fellows of low breeding. I say this, that thou mayest
freely aid me in taking vengeance for the wrong which they have done to
Rozinante before our eyes.'

'What vengeance can we take,' replied Sancho, 'when there are more than
twenty, and we are but two—nay, perhaps but one and a half?'

'I count for a hundred,' said Don Quixote, and without further parley
he drew his sword and flew upon the Yanguesians, boldly followed by
Sancho Panza. With his first blow Don Quixote pierced a buff coat that
one of them wore, wounding him grievously in the shoulder. Then the
Yanguesians, finding themselves so rudely handled by two men only, they
being so many, betook themselves to their stakes, and hemming in their
adversaries in the midst of them, they laid on with great fury. In fact
the second thwack brought Sancho to the ground, and the same fate soon
befell Don Quixote, whose dexterity and courage availed him nothing,
for he fell at the feet of his unfortunate steed, who had not yet been
able to arise.

Then seeing the mischief they had done, the Yanguesians loaded their
team with as much haste as possible, and went their way, leaving the
adventurers in a doleful plight and a worse humour.




     [Illustration: THE MANNER OF DON QUIXOTE'S TRAVEL TO THE INN]




                             CHAPTER VIII

              How Don Quixote arrived at an Inn which he
           imagined to be a Castle, and there cured himself
                and Sancho with the Balsam of Fierabras


For some time after the Yanguesian Carriers had gone on their way Don
Quixote and Sancho Panza lay on the ground groaning and saying nothing.

The first that came to himself was Sancho Panza, who cried in a weak
and pitiful voice: 'Sir Don Quixote! O Sir Don Quixote!'

'What wouldst thou, brother Sancho?' answered Don Quixote in the same
faint and grievous tone as Sancho.

'I would, if it were possible,' said Sancho Panza, 'that your Worship
should give me a couple of mouthfuls of that Balsam of Fierabras, if
so be that your Worship has it at hand. Perhaps it will be as good for
broken bones as for wounds.'

'If I had it here,' sighed Don Quixote, 'we should lack nothing. But
I swear to thee, Sancho Panza, on the faith of a Knight Errant, that
before two days pass, unless fortune forbids, I will have it in my
possession.'

'I pray you,' asked Sancho, 'in how many days do you think we shall be
able to move our feet?'

'I cannot say,' said the battered Knight; 'but I take on myself the
blame of all, for I should not have drawn my sword against men that are
not Knights. Therefore, brother Sancho, take heed of what I tell thee,
for it mightily concerns the welfare of us both; and it is this, that
when thou seest such rabble offer us any wrong, wait not for me to draw
sword upon them, for I will not do it in any wise, but put thou thy
hand to thy sword and chastise them at thy pleasure.'

But Sancho Panza did not much relish his Master's advice, and replied:
'Sir, I am a peaceable, sober, and quiet man, and can let pass any
injury whatever, for I have a wife and children to take care of.
Therefore, let me also say a word to your Worship, that by no manner of
means shall I put hand to sword either against Clown or against Knight.
And from this time forth I forgive whatever insults are paid to me,
whether they are or shall be paid by persons high or low, rich or poor,
gentle or simple.'

On hearing this his Master said: 'Would that I had breath enough to be
able to speak easily, and that the pain I feel in this rib were less,
that I might make thee understand, Sancho, the mistake thou art making!
How can I appoint thee Governor of an Island when thou wouldst make an
end of all by having neither valour nor will to defend thy lands or
revenge thine injuries?'

'Alas!' groaned Sancho, 'I would that I had the courage and
understanding of which your Worship speaks, but in truth at this moment
I am more fit for plasters than preachments. See if your Worship can
rise, and we will help Rozinante, although he deserves it not, for he
was the chief cause of all this mauling.'

'Fortune always leaves one door open in disasters, and your Dapple will
now be able to supply the want of Rozinante and carry me hence to some
Castle where I may be healed of my wounds. Nor shall I esteem such
riding a dishonour, for I remember to have read that old Silenus, tutor
and guide of the merry God of Laughter, when he entered the City of a
hundred gates, rode very pleasantly, mounted on a handsome ass.'

'That may be,' replied Sancho, 'but there is a difference between
riding a-horseback and being laid athwart like a sack of rubbish.'

'Have done with your replies,' exclaimed Don Quixote, 'and rise as well
as thou art able and sit me on top of thine Ass, and let us depart
hence before the night comes and overtakes us in this wilderness.'

Then Sancho, with thirty groans and sixty sighs and a hundred and
twenty curses, lifted up Rozinante—who if he had had a tongue would
have complained louder than Sancho himself—and after much trouble set
Don Quixote on the Ass. Then tying Rozinante to his tail, he led the
Ass by the halter, and proceeded as best he could to where the highroad
seemed to lie.

And Fortune, which had guided their affairs from good to better, led
him on to a road on which he spied an Inn, which to his annoyance and
Don Quixote's joy must needs be a Castle. Sancho protested that it was
an Inn, and his Master that it was a Castle; and their dispute lasted
so long that they had time to arrive there before it was finished; and
into this Inn or Castle Sancho entered without more parley with all his
team.

The Innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote laid athwart of the Ass, asked
Sancho what ailed him. Sancho answered that it was nothing, only that
he had fallen down from a rock, and had bruised his ribs somewhat.
The Innkeeper's wife was by nature charitable, and she felt for the
sufferings of others, so she hastened at once to attend to Don Quixote,
and made her daughter, a comely young maiden, help her in taking care
of her guest. There was also serving in the Inn an Asturian wench,
broad-cheeked, flat-pated, with a snub nose, blind of one eye and the
other not very sound. This young woman, who was called Maritornes,
assisted the daughter, and the two made up a bed for Don Quixote in
a garret which had served for many years as a straw-loft. The bed on
which they placed him was made of four roughly planed boards on two
unequal trestles; a mattress which, in thinness, might have been a
quilt, so full of pellets that if they had not through the holes shown
themselves to be wool, they would to the touch seem to be pebbles.
There was a pair of sheets made of target leather; and as for the
coverlet, if any one had chosen to count the threads of it he could not
have missed one in the reckoning.

On this miserable bed did Don Quixote lie, and presently the Hostess
and her daughter plastered him over from head to foot, Maritornes
holding the candle for them.

While she was plastering him, the Hostess, seeing that he was in places
black and blue, said that it looked more like blows than a fall.
Sancho, however, declared they were not blows, but that the rock had
many sharp points, and each one had left a mark; and he added:

'Pray, good Mistress, spare some of that tow, as my back pains are not
a little.'

'In that case,' said the Hostess, 'you must have fallen too.'

'I did not fall,' said Sancho Panza, 'but with the sudden fright I
took on seeing my Master fall, my body aches as if they had given me a
thousand blows, and I now find myself with only a few bruises less than
my Master, Don Quixote.'

'What is this gentleman's name?' asked Maritornes.

'Don Quixote of the Mancha,' answered Sancho Panza; 'and he is a Knight
Errant, and one of the best and strongest that have been seen in the
world these many ages.'

'What is a Knight Errant?' asked the wench.

'Art thou so young in the world that thou knowest it not?' answered
Sancho Panza. 'Know then, Sister mine, that a Knight Errant is a thing
which in two words is found cudgelled and an Emperor. To-day he is the
most miserable creature in the world, and the most needy; to-morrow he
will have two or three crowns of Kingdoms to give to his Squire.'

'How is it, then,' said the Hostess, 'that thou hast not gotten at
least an Earldom, seeing thou art Squire to this good Knight?'

'It is early yet,' replied Sancho, 'for it is but a month since we set
out on our adventures. But believe me, if my Master, Don Quixote, gets
well of his wounds—or his fall, I should say—I would not sell my
hopes for the best title in Spain.'

To all this Don Quixote listened very attentively, and sitting up in
his bed as well as he could, he took the Hostess's hand and said:
'Believe me, beautiful Lady, that you may count yourself fortunate in
having entertained me in this your Castle. My Squire will inform you
who I am, for self-praise is no recommendation; only this I say, that I
will keep eternally written in memory the service you have done to me,
and I will be grateful to you as long as my life shall endure.'

The Hostess, her daughter, and the good Maritornes remained confounded
on hearing the words of the Knight Errant, which they understood as
well as if he had spoken in Greek, but yet they believed they were
words of compliment, and so they thanked him for his courtesy and
departed, leaving Sancho and his Master for the night.

There happened to be lodging in the Inn that night one of the Officers
of the Holy Brotherhood of Toledo, whose duty it was to travel the
roads and inquire into cases of highway robbery. He hearing some time
later that a man was lying in the house sorely wounded must needs go
and make an examination of the matter. He therefore lighted his lamp
and made his way to Don Quixote's garret.

As soon as Sancho Panza saw him enter arrayed in a shirt and a nightcap
with the lamp in his hand, which showed him to be a very ugly man, he
asked his Master: 'Will this by chance be some Wizard Moor come to
torment us?'

'A Wizard it cannot be,' said Don Quixote, 'for those under enchantment
never let themselves be seen.'

The Officer could make nothing of their talk, and came up to Don
Quixote, who lay face upwards encased in his plasters. 'Well,' said the
Officer roughly, 'how goes it, my good fellow?'

'I would speak more politely if I were you,' answered Don Quixote. 'Is
it the custom in this country, lout, to speak in that way to a Knight
Errant?'

The Officer, finding himself thus rudely addressed, could not endure
it, and, lifting up the lamp, oil and all, gave Don Quixote such a blow
on the pate with it that he broke his head in one or two places, and,
leaving all in darkness, left the room.

'Ah!' groaned Sancho, 'this is indeed the Wizard Moor, and he must be
keeping his treasures for others, and for us nothing but blows.'

'It is ever so,' replied Don Quixote; 'and we must take no notice
of these things of enchantment, nor must we be angry or vexed with
them, for since they are invisible, there is no one on whom to take
vengeance. Rise, Sancho, if thou canst, and call the Constable of this
fortress, and try to get him to give me a little wine, oil, salt, and
rosemary to prepare the health-giving Balsam, of which I have grievous
need, for there comes much blood from the wound which the phantom hath
given me.'

Sancho arose, not without aching bones, and crept in the dark to where
the Innkeeper was, and said to him:

'My Lord Constable, do us the favour and courtesy to give me a little
rosemary, oil, wine, and salt to cure one of the best Knights Errant
in the world, who lies yonder in bed sorely wounded at the hands of a
Moorish Enchanter.'

When the Innkeeper heard this he took Sancho Panza for a man out of
his wits, but nevertheless gave him what he wanted, and Sancho carried
it to Don Quixote. His Master was lying with his hands to his head,
groaning with pain from the blows of the lamp, which, however, had
only raised two big lumps; what he thought was blood being only the
perspiration running down his face.

He now took the things Sancho had brought, of which he made a compound,
mixing them together and boiling them a good while until they came to
perfection.

Then he asked for a phial into which to pour this precious liquor, but
as there was not one to be had in the Inn, he decided to pour it into a
tin oil-vessel which the Innkeeper had given him.

This being done, he at once made an experiment on himself of the virtue
of this precious Balsam, as he imagined it to be, and drank off a whole
quart of what was left in the boiling-pot.

The only result of this was that it made him very sick indeed, as
well it might, and, what with the sickness and the bruising and the
weariness of body, he fell fast asleep for several hours, and at the
end of his sleep awoke so refreshed and so much the better of his
bruises that he took himself to be cured, and verily believed he had
hit upon the Balsam of Fierabras.

Sancho Panza, to whom his Master's recovery seemed little short of a
miracle, begged that he might have what was left in the boiling-pot,
which was no small quantity. Don Quixote consenting, he took the pot in
both hands, and tossed it down, swallowing very little less than his
Master had done.

It happened, however, that Sancho's stomach was not so delicate as his
Master's, and he suffered such terrible pains and misery before he was
sick that he thought his last hour was come, and cursed the Balsam and
the thief who had given it to him.

Don Quixote, seeing him in this bad way, said: 'I believe, Sancho, that
all this evil befalleth thee because thou art not dubbed Knight, for I
am persuaded that this Balsam may not benefit any one that is not.'

'If your Worship knew that,' replied poor Sancho, 'bad luck to me and
mine, why did you let me taste it?'

Before Don Quixote could reply to this, Sancho became so terribly sick
that he could only lie groaning and moaning for two hours, at the end
of which he felt so shaken and shattered that he could scarcely stand,
and sadly wished that he had never become Squire to a Knight Errant.




                              CHAPTER IX

            How Sancho paid the Reckoning at the Inn which
                   Don Quixote supposed was a Castle


Now whilst Sancho Panza lay groaning in his bed, Don Quixote, who, as
we have said, felt somewhat eased and cured, made up his mind to set
off in search of new adventures. And full of this desire he himself
saddled Rozinante and put the pack-saddle on his Squire's beast, and
helped Sancho to dress and to mount his Ass. Then getting a-horseback
he rode over to the corner of the Inn and seized hold of a pike which
stood there, to make it serve him instead of a lance.

All the people that were staying at the Inn, some twenty in number,
stood staring at him, and among these was the Innkeeper's daughter. Don
Quixote kept turning his eyes towards her and sighing dolefully, which
every one, or at least all who had seen him the night before, thought
must be caused by the pain he was in from his bruises.

             [Illustration: HOW SANCHO PAID THE RECKONING]

When they were both mounted and standing by the Inn gate, he called
to the Innkeeper and said in a grave voice: 'Many and great are the
favours, Sir Constable, which I have received in this your Castle, and
I shall remain deeply grateful for them all the days of my life. If
I am able to repay you by avenging you on some proud miscreant that
hath done you any wrong, know that it is my office to help the weak,
to revenge the wronged, and to punish traitors. Ransack your memory,
and if you find anything of this sort for me to do, you have but to
utter it, and I promise you, by the Order of Knighthood which I have
received, to procure you satisfaction to your heart's content.'

'Sir Knight,' replied the Innkeeper with equal gravity, 'I have no need
that your Worship should avenge me any wrong, for I know how to take
what revenge I think good when an injury is done. All I want is that
your Worship should pay me the score you have run up this night in mine
Inn, both for the straw and barley of your two beasts, and your suppers
and your beds.'

'This then is an Inn?' exclaimed Don Quixote.

'Ay, that it is, and a very respectable one, too,' replied the
Innkeeper.

'All this time then I have been deceived,' said Don Quixote, 'for
in truth I thought it was a Castle and no mean one. But since it is
indeed an Inn and no Castle, all that can be done now is to ask you to
forgive me any payment, for I cannot break the laws of Knights Errant,
of whom I know for certain that they never paid for lodging or aught
else in the Inns where they stayed. For the good entertainment that
is given them is their due reward for the sufferings they endure,
seeking adventures both day and night, winter and summer, a-foot and
a-horseback, in thirst and hunger, in heat and cold, being exposed to
all the storms of heaven and the hardships of earth.'

'All that is no business of mine,' retorted the Innkeeper. 'Pay me what
you owe me, and keep your tales of Knights Errant for those who want
them. My business is to earn my living.'

'You are a fool and a saucy fellow,' said Don Quixote angrily, and,
spurring Rozinante and brandishing his lance, he swept out of the Inn
yard before any one could stop him, and rode on a good distance without
waiting to see if his Squire was following.

The Innkeeper, when he saw him go without paying, ran up to get his
due from Sancho Panza, who also refused to pay, and said to him: 'Sir,
seeing I am Squire to a Knight Errant, the same rule and reason for not
paying at inns and taverns hold as good for me as for my Master.'

The Innkeeper grew angry at these words, and threatened that if he did
not pay speedily he would get it from him in a way he would not like.

Sancho replied that by the Order of Knighthood which his Lord and
Master had received, he would not pay a penny though it cost him his
life.

But his bad fortune so managed it, that there happened to be at the
Inn at this time four wool-combers of Segovia, and three needlemakers
of Cordova, and two neighbours from Seville, all merry fellows, very
mischievous and playsome. And as if they were all moved with one idea,
they came up to Sancho, and pulling him down off his Ass, one of them
ran in for the Innkeeper's blanket, and they flung him into it. But
looking up and seeing that the ceiling was somewhat lower than they
needed for their business, they determined to go out into the yard,
which had no roof but the sky, and there placing Sancho in the middle
of the blanket, they began to toss him aloft and to make sport with him
by throwing him up and down. The outcries of the miserable be-tossed
Squire were so many and so loud that they reached the ears of his
Master, who, standing awhile to listen what it was, believed that some
new adventure was at hand, until he clearly recognised the shrieks to
come from poor Sancho. Immediately turning his horse, he rode back at a
gallop to the Inn gate, and finding it closed, rode round the wall to
see if he could find any place at which he might enter. But he scarcely
got to the wall of the Inn yard, which was not very high, when he
beheld the wicked sport they were making with his Squire. He saw him go
up and down with such grace and agility, that, had his anger allowed
him, I make no doubt he would have burst with laughter. He tried to
climb the wall from his horse, but he was so bruised and broken that he
could by no means alight from his saddle, and therefore from on top of
his horse he used such terrible threats against those that were tossing
Sancho that one could not set them down in writing.

But in spite of his reproaches they did not cease from their laughter
or labour, nor did the flying Sancho stop his lamentations, mingled now
with threats and now with prayers. Thus they carried on their merry
game, until at last from sheer weariness they stopped and let him be.
And then they brought him his Ass, and, helping him to mount it,
wrapped him in his coat, and the kind-hearted Maritornes, seeing him
so exhausted, gave him a pitcher of water, which, that it might be the
cooler, she fetched from the well.

Just as he was going to drink he heard his Master's voice calling to
him, saying: 'Son Sancho, drink not water, drink it not, my son, for
it will kill thee. Behold, here I have that most holy Balsam,'—and he
showed him the can of liquor,—'two drops of which if thou drinkest
thou wilt undoubtedly be cured.'

At these words Sancho shuddered, and replied to his Master: 'You forget
surely that I am no Knight, or else you do not remember the pains I
suffered last evening. Keep your liquor to yourself, and let me be in
peace.'

At the conclusion of this speech he began to drink, but finding it was
only water he would not taste it, and called for wine, which Maritornes
very kindly fetched for him, and likewise paid for it out of her own
purse.

As soon as Sancho had finished drinking, he stuck his heels into his
Ass, and the Inn gate being thrown wide open he rode out, highly
pleased at having paid for nothing, even at the price of a tossing. The
Innkeeper, however, had kept his wallet, but Sancho was so distracted
when he departed that he never missed it.

When Sancho reached his Master, he was almost too jaded and faint to
ride his beast. Don Quixote, seeing him in this plight, said to him:
'Now I am certain that yon Castle or Inn is without doubt enchanted,
for those who made sport with thee so cruelly, what else could they be
but phantoms, and beings of another world? And I am the more sure of
this, because when I was by the wall of the Inn yard I was not able to
mount it, or to alight from Rozinante, and therefore I must have been
enchanted. For if I could have moved, I would have avenged thee in a
way to make those scoundrels remember the jest for ever, even although
to do it I should have had to disobey the rules of Knighthood.'

'So would I also have avenged myself,' said Sancho, 'Knight or no
Knight, but I could not. And yet I believe that those who amused
themselves with me were no phantoms or enchanted beings, but men of
flesh and bones as we are, for one was called Pedro, and another
Tenorio, and the Innkeeper called a third Juan. But what I make out of
all this, is that those adventures which we go in search of, will bring
us at last so many misadventures that we shall not know our right foot
from our left. And the best thing for us to do, in my humble opinion,
is to return us again to our village and look after our own affairs,
and not go jumping, as the saying is, "out of the frying-pan into the
fire."'

'How little dost thou know of Knighthood, friend Sancho,' replied Don
Quixote. 'Peace, and have patience, for a day will come when thou shalt
see with thine own eyes how fine a thing it is to follow this calling.
What pleasure can equal that of winning a battle or triumphing over an
enemy?'

'I cannot tell,' answered Sancho; 'but this I know, that since we are
Knights Errant, we have never won any battle, unless it was that with
the Biscayan, and even then your Worship lost half an ear. And ever
after that time it has been nothing but cudgels and more cudgels,
blows and more blows,—I getting the tossing in the blanket to boot.
And all this happens to me from enchanted people on whom I cannot take
vengeance.'

'That grieves me,' replied Don Quixote; 'but who knows what may happen?
Fortune may bring me a sword like that of Amadis, which did not only
cut like a razor, but there was no armour however strong or enchanted
which could stand before it.'

'It will be like my luck,' said Sancho, 'that when your Worship finds
such a sword it will, like the Balsam, be of use only to those who are
Knights, whilst poor Squires will still have to sup sorrow.'

'Fear not that, Sancho,' replied his Master; and he rode ahead, his
mind full of adventures, followed at a little distance by his unhappy
Squire.




          [Illustration: OF THE ADVENTURE OF THE TWO ARMIES]




                               CHAPTER X

                  Of the Adventure of the Two Armies


Whilst they were riding on their way, Don Quixote saw a large, dense
cloud of dust rolling towards them, and turning to Sancho said: 'This
is the day on which shall be shown the might of my arm and on which
I am to do deeds which shall be written in the books of fame. Dost
thou see the dust which arises there? Know then that it is caused by
a mighty army composed of various and numberless nations that are
marching this way.'

'If that be so,' replied Sancho, 'then must there be two armies, for on
this other side there is as great a dust.'

Don Quixote turned round to behold it, and seeing that it was so, he
was marvellous glad, for he imagined that there were indeed two armies
coming to fight each other in the midst of that spacious plain. For at
every hour and moment his fancy was full of battles, enchantments, and
adventures, such as are related in the books of Knighthood, and all his
thoughts and wishes were turned towards such things.

As for the clouds he had seen, they were raised by two large flocks of
sheep which were being driven along the same road from two opposite
sides, and this by reason of the dust could not be seen until they came
near.

Don Quixote was so much in earnest when he called them armies that
Sancho at once believed it, asking: 'What then shall we do, good
Master?'

'What!' cried Don Quixote. 'Why, favour and help those who are in
distress and need. Thou must know, Sancho, that this which comes on
our front is led by the mighty Emperor Alifamfaron, Lord of the great
Island of Trapobana. This other which is marching at our back is the
army of his foe, the King of the Garamantes, Pentapolin of the Naked
Arm, for he always goes into battle with his right arm bare.'

'But why do these two Princes hate each other so much?' asked Sancho.

'They are enemies,' replied Don Quixote, 'because Alifamfaron is a
furious pagan and is deeply in love with Pentapolin's daughter, who is
a beautiful and gracious Princess and a Christian. Her father refuses
to give her to the pagan King until he abandons Mahomet's false
religion and becomes a convert to his own.'

'By my beard,' said Sancho, 'Pentapolin does right well, and I will
help him all I can.'

'Then thou wilt but do thy duty,' said Don Quixote, 'for it is not
necessary to be a dubbed Knight to engage in battles such as these.'

'Right!' replied Sancho, 'but where shall we stow this Ass that we may
be sure of finding him after the fight is over, for I think it is not
the custom to enter into battle mounted on such a beast.'

'That is true,' said Don Quixote; 'but thou mayest safely leave it to
chance whether he be lost or found, for after this battle we shall have
so many horses that even Rozinante runs a risk of being changed for
another. And now let us withdraw to that hillock yonder that we may get
a better view of both those great armies.'

They did so, and standing on the top of a hill gazed at the two great
clouds of dust which the imagination of Don Quixote had turned into
armies. And then Don Quixote, with all the eloquence he could muster,
described to Sancho the names of the different Knights in the two
armies, with their colours and devices and mottoes, and the numbers of
their squadrons, and the countries and provinces from which they came.

But though Sancho stood and listened in wonder he could see nothing
as yet of Knights or armies, and at last he cried out: 'Where are all
these grand Knights, good my Master? For myself, I can see none of
them. But perhaps it is all enchantment, as so many things have been.'

'How! Sayest thou so?' said Don Quixote. 'Dost thou not hear the horses
neigh and the trumpets sound and the noise of the drums?'

'I hear nothing else,' said Sancho, 'but the great bleating of sheep.'

And so it was, indeed, for by this time the two flocks were approaching
very near to them.

'The fear thou art in,' said Don Quixote, 'permits thee neither to
see nor hear aright, for one of the effects of fear is to disturb the
senses and make things seem different from what they are. If thou art
afraid, stand to one side and leave me to myself, for I alone can give
the victory to the side which I assist.'

So saying he clapped spurs to Rozinante, and, setting his lance in
rest, rode down the hillside like a thunderbolt.

Sancho shouted after him as loud as he could: 'Return, good Sir Don
Quixote! Return! For verily all those you go to charge are but sheep
and muttons. Return, I say! Alas that ever I was born! What madness
is this? Look, there are neither Knights, nor arms, nor shields, nor
soldiers, nor Emperors, but only sheep. What is it you do, wretch that
I am?'

For all this Don Quixote did not turn back, but rode on, shouting in a
loud voice: 'So ho! Knights! Ye that serve and fight under the banner
of Pentapolin of the Naked Arm, follow me, all of you. Ye shall see how
easily I will revenge him on his enemy Alifamfaron of Trapobana!'

With these words he dashed into the midst of the flock of sheep,
and began to spear them with as much courage and fury as if he were
fighting his mortal enemies.

The Shepherds that came with the flock cried to him to leave off, but
seeing their words had no effect, they unloosed their slings and began
to salute his pate with stones as big as one's fist.

But Don Quixote made no account of their stones, and galloping to and
fro everywhere cried out: 'Where art thou, proud Alifamfaron? Where art
thou? Come to me, for I am but one Knight alone, who desires to prove
my strength with thee, man to man, and make thee yield thy life for the
wrong thou hast done to the valorous Pentapolin.'

At that instant a stone gave him such a blow that it buried two of his
ribs in his body. Finding himself so ill-treated he thought for certain
that he was killed or sorely wounded, and recollecting his Balsam, he
drew out his oil pot and set it to his mouth to drink. But before he
could take as much as he wanted, another stone struck him full on the
hand, broke the oil pot into pieces, and carried away with it three
or four teeth and grinders out of his mouth, and sorely crushed two
fingers of his hand. So badly was he wounded by these two blows that he
now fell off his horse on to the ground.

The Shepherds ran up, and believing that they had killed him, they
collected their flocks in great haste, and carrying away their dead
muttons, of which there were seven, they went away without caring to
inquire into things any further.

Sancho was all this time standing on the hill looking at the mad pranks
his Master was performing, and tearing his beard and cursing the hour
when they had first met. Seeing, however, that he was fallen on the
ground, and the Shepherds had gone away, he came down the hill and went
up to his Master, and found him in a very bad way, although not quite
insensible.

'Did I not tell you, Sir Don Quixote,' said Sancho mournfully, 'did I
not tell you to come back, for those you went to attack were not armies
but sheep?'

'That thief of an Enchanter, my enemy, can alter things and make men
vanish away as he pleases. Know, Sancho, that it is very easy for those
kind of men to make us seem what they please, and this malicious being
who persecutes me, envious of the glory that I was to reap from this
battle, hath changed the Squadrons of the foe into flocks of sheep.
If thou dost not believe me, Sancho, get on thine Ass and follow them
fair and softly, and thou shalt see that when they have gone a little
way off they will return to their original shapes, and, ceasing to be
sheep, become men as right and straight as I painted them to you at
first.'

At this moment the Balsam that Don Quixote had swallowed began to make
him very sick, and Sancho Panza ran off to search in his wallet for
something that might cure him. But when he found that his wallet was
not upon his Ass, and remembered for the first time that it was left
at the Inn, he was on the point of losing his wits. He cursed himself
anew, and resolved in his heart to leave his Master and return to his
house, even though he should lose his wages and the government of the
promised Island.

Don Quixote had now risen, and with his left hand to his mouth that the
rest of his teeth might not fall out, with the other he took Rozinante
by the bridle, and went up to where his Squire stood leaning against
his Ass with his head in his hand, looking the picture of misery.

Don Quixote, seeing him look so miserable, said to him: 'Learn, Sancho,
not to be so easily downcast, for these storms that befall us are signs
that the weather will soon be fair. Therefore thou shouldst not vex
thyself about my misfortunes, for sure thou dost not share in them.'

'How not?' replied Sancho; 'mayhap he they tossed in a blanket
yesterday was not my father's son? And the wallet which is missing
to-day with all my chattels, is not that my misfortune?'

'What, is the wallet missing, Sancho?' said Don Quixote.

'Yes, it is missing,' answered Sancho.

'In that case we have nothing to eat to-day,' said Don Quixote.

'It would be so,' said Sancho, 'should the herbs of the field fail us,
which your Worship says you know of, and with which you have told me
Knights Errant must supply their wants.'

'Nevertheless,' answered Don Quixote, 'I would rather just now have a
hunch of bread, or a cottage loaf and a couple of pilchards' heads,
than all the herbs that Dioscorides has described. But before thou
mountest thine Ass, lend me here thy hand and see how many teeth and
grinders are lacking on this right side of my upper jaw, for there I
feel the pain.'

Sancho put his fingers in, and, feeling about, asked: 'How many
grinders did your Worship have before, on this side?'

'Four,' replied Don Quixote, 'besides the wisdom tooth, all whole and
sound.'

'Mind well what you say, Sir,' answered Sancho.

'Four, say I, if not five,' said Don Quixote, 'for in all my life I
never had tooth or grinder drawn from my mouth, nor has any fallen out
or been destroyed by decay.'

'Well, then, in this lower part,' said Sancho, 'your Worship has but
two grinders and a half, and in the upper, neither a half nor any, for
all is as smooth as the palm of my hand.'

'Unfortunate I!' exclaimed Don Quixote, 'for I would rather they
had deprived me of my arm, as long as it were not my sword arm.
Know, Sancho, that a mouth without grinders is like a mill without a
grindstone, and a tooth is more to be prized than a millstone. But
all this must we suffer who profess the stern rule of Knights Errant.
Mount, friend, and lead the way, for I will follow thee what pace thou
pleasest.'




              [Illustration: OF A WONDERFUL ADVENTURE—]




                              CHAPTER XI

              Of a wonderful Adventure which Don Quixote
                 went through without peril to himself
                               or Sancho


'Methinks, my Master,' said Sancho, 'that all the mishaps that have
befallen us in these days are without doubt in punishment for the sin
you committed against the rules of Knighthood, in not keeping your vow
which you made, not to eat bread, and all the other things you vowed to
do, until you got the helmet of Malandrino, or whatever his name was.'

'Thou art very right, Sancho,' said Don Quixote; 'but to tell the truth
it had passed from my memory; but I will make amends as may be done by
the rules of Knighthood.'

'And doubtless,' replied Sancho, 'all will then be well, and I shall
live to see none so great as Don Quixote of the Mancha, the Knight of
the Rueful Countenance.'

'Why do you give me that name, good Sancho?' asked his Master.

'Because truly,' replied his Squire, 'your Worship has now the most
ill-favoured face that any man ever saw, and it must be, I think,
because you are tired out after the battle, or on account of the loss
of your grinders.'

'I fancy,' said Don Quixote, 'that some sage must have put it into
thy head to give me such a name, for now I remember that all Knights
took a name of that kind, and there was "The Knight of the Flaming
Sword," and "The Knight of the Griffin," and many another. And from
this day forward I shall call myself by no other name than "The Knight
of the Rueful Countenance"; and that the name may become me better, I
will upon the first occasion cause to be painted on my shield a most
ill-favoured and sorrowful face.'

'There is no need,' said Sancho, 'to waste time and money in having
the countenance painted. All that has to be done is that your Worship
should discover your own, and show your face to those that look at you,
when without doubt they will name you "He of the Rueful Countenance."
Hunger and the loss of teeth have given your Worship so evil a face
that you may spare yourself the painting.'

Don Quixote laughed at his Squire's pleasantry, but determined
nevertheless to have the painting made on his shield according to his
fancy.

They had now arrived at a wide but hidden valley between two mountains,
where they alighted; and seeing a meadow on the side of the hill thick
with green and tender grass, they entered it and marched along, feeling
their way, for the night was so dark they could not see a jot.

They had scarcely gone two hundred paces when they heard a great noise
of water, as if it fell headlong from some great and steep rock, and
being by this time very thirsty, the sound cheered them greatly.

Stopping to listen whence it came, they heard another loud noise, which
drowned all their joy, especially Sancho's, who, as I have said, was by
nature timid and easily frightened.

They heard, I say, certain blows, louder than the sound of the rushing
water, and struck in regular beats, accompanied by the ugly sounds of
rattling irons and chains. These, with the furious sounds of the water,
and the surrounding darkness, were enough to strike terror into any
heart less brave than Don Quixote's.

The night, as I said, was dark, and they were now among some tall
trees, whose leaves, moved by a gentle breeze, made a low whispering
sound, so that the loneliness of the place, the darkness, the noise
of the water, the strange sounds of the heavy beating and rattling
chains, all caused horror and fright, the more so when they found that
the blows never ceased, and morning seemed as though it would never
come.

But Don Quixote was not disturbed by these things, and leaping on
Rozinante, he seized his shield, brandished his lance, and said:
'Friend Sancho, I am he for whom are reserved all dangerous, great, and
valorous feats. I am he who shall cause the feats of the Knights of
the Round Table to be forgotten. Mark well, trusty and loyal Squire,
the darkness of this night, the strange stillness, the dull, confused
trembling of the leaves, the dreadful noise of the water, which seems
as though it were leaping down from the steep mountains of the moon,
the constant thumping of the blows which wounds and pains our ears,
which all together and each by itself are enough to strike terror,
fear, and amazement into the mind of Mars, how much more in his that is
not accustomed to such adventures. But with me it causeth my heart to
almost burst in my bosom with joy to try this peril, however great it
may be. Therefore tighten Rozinante's girths a little, and may all be
well with thee. Wait for me here three days and no more. And if I do
not return in the end of that time, go back to our village, and from
thence, for my sake, to Toboso, where thou shalt say to my incomparable
Lady Dulcinea that her captive Knight died attempting things that might
make him worthy to be called hers.'

When Sancho heard his Master say these things he began to weep
piteously, and said to him: 'Sir, I see no reason why you should
undertake this fearful adventure. It is now night, there is no one
sees us, we can easily turn aside and go away from the danger, and
since no one sees us no one can set us down as cowards. Remember that
I left my country, wife, and children to come and serve you, and to
obtain that unlucky and accursed Island you have promised me so often,
and now you mean to forsake me here in this desert. Put it off at least
until the morning, for it can want but little from this to daybreak.'

'Let it want what it may,' answered Don Quixote, 'it shall never be
said of me that tears or prayers hindered my doing my duty as a Knight.'

Sancho, seeing that his Master's mind was made up, and that his tears,
entreaties, and prayers were of no avail, determined to use his wits,
and see if by trickery he could make him wait until daybreak. And so,
when he was tightening the horse's girths, he softly and without being
felt tied his Ass's halter to both Rozinante's legs, so fast that when
Don Quixote thought to depart he could not, for his horse was not able
to go a step except by little jumps.

Sancho, seeing the success of his trick, exclaimed: 'Behold, Sir, how
Heaven, moved by my tears and prayers, has ruled that Rozinante shall
not be able to go a step; and if you persist in urging, spurring, and
striking him, it will be to anger Fortune, and kick, as the saying is,
against the pricks.'

Don Quixote grew angry at this, and yet the more he spurred Rozinante
the less would he move. But at last he became convinced that it was no
further use attempting to make him go, and resolved to remain quiet
until the morning came, or until Rozinante would please to depart.
And having no idea that Sancho was the cause of this, he said to him:
'Since it is so, Sancho, that Rozinante is not able to move, I am
content to wait here until morning smiles, although I weep to think it
may be so long in coming.'

'You shall have no cause to weep,' replied Sancho; 'for I will tell you
stories from now till daylight, unless you would like to dismount and
snatch a little sleep upon the green grass, after the custom of Knights
Errant, that you may be the fresher the morrow to finish this terrible
adventure.'

'Who talks of sleeping?' said Don Quixote angrily. 'Am I one of those
Knights that repose in time of danger? Sleep thou, who wast born to
sleep, or do what thou please, for I shall do what I think right.'

'Good Sir, be not angry,' said Sancho, 'for I did not mean that'; and
coming as near to his Master as he durst, he placed one hand on the
pommel of his saddle and crept as near as he could, so great was the
fear he had of those blows, which all the while did sound without
ceasing.

After many hours spent in conversation the dawn approached, and Sancho,
seeing this, unloosed Rozinante very carefully. As soon as the horse
felt himself free, though he was never very mettlesome, he began to paw
with his hoofs, and Don Quixote, noticing that he moved, took it for a
good sign, and believed that it was now time to attempt this fearful
adventure.

And now the sun had risen, and everything appeared distinctly, and Don
Quixote saw that he was among some tall chestnut-trees that cast a very
dark shadow. He perceived that the hammering did not cease, but could
not discover what caused it, and so without delay he spurred Rozinante,
and turning back again to Sancho to bid him farewell, commanded him to
stay for him there three days at the longest, and that if he returned
not then, to take it for certain that he had ended his days in that
perilous adventure. He again repeated to him the message which he had
to carry to Lady Dulcinea, and assured him that if he came safe out of
this dreadful peril, the Squire might hold the promised Island as more
than certain.

Here Sancho began to weep afresh at the pitiful words of his good
Master, and determined not to abandon him until the last end of this
adventure. And thereupon Don Quixote rode forward towards the terrible
noises, Sancho following him on foot, leading by the halter his good
Dapple, who was the constant companion of his good or evil fortune.

Having gone a good distance among those chestnuts and shady trees, they
came to a little meadow which lay at the foot of some high rocks, down
which a mighty rush of water descended. At the foot of the rocks were
some houses, so roughly built that they seemed more like ruins than
houses, from whence came the din and clatter of the strokes which still
never ceased.

Rozinante started at the noise of the water and the hammering, and
being made quiet by Don Quixote, drew near little by little to the
houses. Don Quixote murmured devoutly the name of his beloved Lady
Dulcinea, and Sancho, never apart from his Master's side, stretched out
his neck and eyes as far as he could, to see if he could make out what
it was that caused them so much terror and dismay.

And when they had gone about another hundred paces they turned a
corner, and there before their eyes was the cause of that hideous
and terrible noise that had kept them all the night so miserable and
frightened. This was nothing worse than a mill for fulling cloth, whose
six great iron maces or pestles, driven by the water-wheels, kept on
day and night falling and rising from their troughs with successive
hammering blows. And this had caused the terrible noise which had so
terrified the adventurers.

When Don Quixote saw what it was, he stood mute and ashamed. Sancho
beheld him, and saw that he hung his head on his breast. Don Quixote
looked also at his Squire, and saw that his cheeks were swollen with
laughter, with evident signs that he was in danger of bursting. Don
Quixote's melancholy was not so great that he could help smiling a
little at seeing Sancho, and Sancho, when he saw his Master beginning
to laugh, burst out loud and long, with such force that he had to put
his hands to his sides to prevent them splitting.

Four times he ended and four times he started again; but what chiefly
enraged Don Quixote was that he began to repeat in a jesting manner,
imitating his Master: 'Friend Sancho, I am he for whom are reserved
all dangerous, great, and valorous feats.' And he went on repeating the
greater part of what Don Quixote had said when they first heard the
fearsome sounds.

This was more than Don Quixote could bear, and lifting up the end of
his lance, he gave him two such blows on the back, that if he had
caught them on his pate they would have freed his Master from paying
him any more wages.

Sancho, seeing that he had carried the jest too far, said very humbly:
'Please, good Master, I did but jest.'

'But why dost thou jest? I tell thee I do not jest,' replied Don
Quixote. 'Come here, Master Merryman, and tell me, am I, being as I am
a Knight, to distinguish noises, and to know which are those of mills
and which are of Giants? Turn me those six hammers into Giants and cast
them at me, one by one, or all together, and if I do not turn all their
heels up, then mock me as much as thou pleasest.'

'No more, good Sir,' said Sancho, 'for I confess I have been somewhat
too laughsome, but henceforth you may be sure that I will not once
unfold my lips to jest at your doings, but only to honour you as my
Master and Lord.'

'By doing so thou shalt live on the face of the earth, for next to
our parents we are bound to respect our Masters as if they were our
fathers.'




                              CHAPTER XII

              The great Adventure and rich Winning of the
                          Helmet of Mambrino


It now began to rain, and Sancho would have entered one of the
fulling-mills for shelter, but Don Quixote had taken such a dislike to
them, on account of the jest of which he had been the victim, that he
would not go near them.

Turning to the right, he made away into a highroad not unlike the one
on which they had travelled the day before. Very shortly Don Quixote
espied a man a-horseback who wore on his head something that glittered
like gold. Scarce had he seen him when he turned to Sancho and said:
'Methinks, Sancho, that there is no proverb that is not true, for all
proverbs are sentences taken out of experience itself, which is the
universal mother of all sciences. And there is a proverb which says,
"When one door shuts another opens." I say this because if Fortune
closed the door for us last night, deceiving us in the adventure of
the fulling-mills, to-day it opens wide the door to a better and more
certain adventure. For here, if I be not deceived, there comes one
towards us that wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino, about
which I made the oath thou knowest of.'

      [Illustration: THE RICH WINNING OF THE HELMET OF MAMBRINO]

'See well what you say, Sir, and better what you do,' said Sancho,
'for I would not meet with more fulling-mills to hammer us out of our
senses.'

'Peace, fellow!' cried Don Quixote; 'what has a helmet to do with
fulling-mills?'

'I know not,' replied Sancho; 'but if I might speak as I used to, I
would give you such reasons that your Worship should see that you were
mistaken in what you say.'

'How can I be mistaken in what I say?' cried Don Quixote. 'Tell me,
seest thou not that Knight who comes riding towards us on a dapple grey
horse, with a helmet of gold on his head?'

'That which I see and make out,' replied Sancho, 'is nothing but a man
on a grey ass like mine carrying on his head something which shines.'

'Why that is Mambrino's helmet,' said Don Quixote. 'Stand aside and
leave me alone with him, and thou shalt see how, without a word, this
adventure shall be ended and the helmet I have longed for be mine.'

'As to standing aside,' muttered Sancho, 'that I will take care to do,
but I trust this is not another case of fulling-mills.'

'I have already told thee,' said Don Quixote angrily, 'to make no
mention of the mills, and if thou dost not obey me, I vow that I will
batter the soul out of thy body.'

At this Sancho, fearing lest his Master should carry out his threat,
held his peace.

Now the truth of the matter as to the helmet, the horse, and the Knight
which Don Quixote saw, was this. There were in that neighbourhood two
villages, the one so small that it had neither shop nor barber, but the
larger one had; and the barber, therefore, served the smaller village
on any occasion when any one wanted his beard trimmed. It so happened
that he was now journeying to the smaller village, bringing with him a
brazen basin, and as he rode along it chanced to rain, and therefore,
to save his hat, which was a new one, he clapped the basin on his
head, and the basin being clean scoured, glittered half a league off.
He rode upon a grey ass, as Sancho said, and that was the reason why
Don Quixote took him to be a Knight with a helmet of gold riding on a
dapple grey steed, for everything he came across he made to fit in with
the things he had read of in the books of Knighthood.

And when he saw the unfortunate rider draw near, without stopping to
speak a word, he ran at him with his lance, putting Rozinante at full
gallop, and intending to pierce him through and through. And as he
came up to him, without stopping his horse, he shouted to him: 'Defend
thyself, caitiff wretch, or else render to me of thine own will what is
mine by all the rights of war.'

The barber, who saw this wild figure bearing down on him as he was
riding along without thought or fear of attack, had no other way to
avoid the thrust of the lance than to fall off his ass on to the
ground. And no sooner did he touch the earth than he sprang up more
nimbly than a deer and raced away across the plain faster than the
wind, leaving behind him on the ground the coveted basin. With this Don
Quixote was well content, and said that the Pagan was a wise man in
leaving behind him that for which he was attacked.

Then he commanded Sancho to take up the helmet, who lifting it said:
'The basin is a good one, and is worth eight _reals_ if it is worth a
farthing.'

He gave it to his Master, who placed it upon his head, turning it about
from side to side in search of the visor, and seeing he could not find
it, said: 'Doubtless the Pagan for whom this helmet was first forged
had a very great head, and the worst of it is that half of the helmet
is wanting.'

When Sancho heard him call the basin a helmet he could not contain his
laughter, but presently remembering his Master's anger, he checked
himself in the midst of it.

'Why dost thou laugh, Sancho?' said Don Quixote.

'I laugh,' said he, 'to think of the great head the Pagan owner of this
helmet had. For it is all the world like a barber's basin.'

'Know, Sancho, that I imagine,' replied Don Quixote, 'that this famous
piece of the enchanted helmet must by some strange accident have fallen
into some one's hands that knew not its great worth, and seeing that it
was of pure gold, he hath melted down one half and made of the other
half this, which seems, as thou sayest, to be a barber's basin. But be
that as it may, to me, who know its value, its transformation makes no
matter. I will have it altered at the first village where I can find a
smith, and meanwhile I will wear it as well as I can, for something is
better than nothing, all the more as it will do to protect me against
any blow from a stone.'

'That is,' said Sancho, 'if they do not shoot from a sling, as they
shot in the battle of the two armies, when they made their mark on
your Worship's grinders and broke the oil-pot wherein you carried that
blessed Balsam.'

'I do not much care for the loss of the Balsam,' replied Don Quixote,
'for as thou knowest, Sancho, I have the receipt for it in my memory.'

'So have I too,' groaned Sancho; 'but if ever I make it or try it again
as long as I live may this be my last hour. But letting that pass, what
shall we do with this dapple grey steed that looks so like a grey ass,
that Martino, or whatever his name was, has left behind him? For from
the haste he made to get away I do not think he intends to come back,
and by my beard the beast is a good one.'

'I am not accustomed to ransack and spoil those whom I overcome, nor is
it the practice of Knighthood to take the horses of others unless the
victor chance in combat to lose his own. Therefore, Sancho, leave the
horse or ass, or what else thou pleasest to call it, for when his owner
sees us departed he will return again for it.'

'Truly,' said Sancho, 'the laws of Knighthood are strict, and if I may
not change one ass for another, may I at least change the harness?'

'Of that I am not very sure,' said Don Quixote, 'and as it is a matter
of doubt, you must not change them unless thy need is extreme.'

'So extreme,' said Sancho, 'that if they were for mine own person I
could not need them more.'

So saying he decked out his Ass with a thousand fineries robbed from
the other, and made him look vastly better. Then, having taken a drink
at the stream, they turned their backs on the hateful fulling-mills,
and rode along the highroad, Don Quixote all the way describing to
Sancho the successes in store for them, until he was interrupted by an
adventure that must be told in another chapter.




          [Illustration: DON QUIXOTE FREES THE GALLEY SLAVES]




                             CHAPTER XIII

               How Don Quixote set at liberty many poor
               Wretches who were being taken to a Place
                    to which they had no wish to go


As they rode onwards, Don Quixote lifted up his eyes and saw coming
along the road about a dozen men on foot, strung together on a great
wire chain like beads. The chain was fastened round their necks,
and they had manacles on their hands. There rode with them two men
a-horseback, and two others followed on foot. The horsemen had
firelocks, and those on foot javelins and swords.

As soon as Sancho saw them he said: 'This is a chain of galley slaves,
people forced by the King to go to the galleys.'

'How! People forced?' asked Don Quixote. 'Is it possible that the King
will force anybody?'

'I say not so,' answered Sancho, 'but they are people condemned for
their offences to serve the King in the galleys.'

'In fact,' replied Don Quixote, 'however you put it, these folk are
being taken where they go by force and not of their own free will.'

'That is so,' said Sancho.

'Then if it be so,' continued his Master, 'here I see before me my duty
to redress outrages and to give help to the poor and the afflicted.'

'I pray you, Sir,' said Sancho, 'consider that Justice, representing
the King himself, does wrong or violence to nobody, but only punishes
those who have committed crimes.'

By this time the chain of galley slaves came up, and Don Quixote in
very courteous words asked those in charge of them to be good enough to
inform him why they carried people away in that manner.

One of the guardians a-horseback answered that they were slaves
condemned by his Majesty to the galleys, and that there was no more to
be said, nor ought Don Quixote to desire any further information.

'For all that,' replied Don Quixote very politely, 'I would fain learn
from every one of them the cause of his disgrace.'

To this the guardian a-horseback answered: 'Although we carry here the
register of the crimes of all these wretches, yet if you wish to do so,
ask it from themselves; and no doubt they will tell you their stories,
for they are men who take delight in boasting of their rascalities.'

With this permission, which Don Quixote would have taken for himself if
they had not given it, he went up to the chain and asked of the first
one for what sins he had found himself in such straits.

He answered that his offence was no other than for being in love.

'For that and no more?' cried Don Quixote; 'but if folk are sent there
for being in love, I should have been pulling an oar there long ago.'

'My love was not of the kind your Worship imagines,' replied the galley
slave, 'for mine was that I loved overmuch a basket stuffed with fine
linen, which I embraced so lovingly, that if the law had not taken it
from me by violence, I should not of my own free will have forsaken
it till now. I was taken in the act and sent for three years to the
galleys.'

Don Quixote now inquired of the second his cause of offence, but he
answered him not a word, seeming too downcast and melancholy to speak.

But the first one spoke for him, and said: 'Sir, this man goes for
being a Canary bird—I mean a musician or singer.'

'Is it possible,' said Don Quixote, 'that musicians and singers are
sent to the galleys?'

'Yes, indeed,' said the slave, 'there is nothing worse than to sing in
anguish.'

'I do not understand it,' said Don Quixote, 'but I have heard say that
he who sings scares away sorrow.'

But one of the guards interrupted him and said: 'Sir Knight, among
these wretches "to sing in anguish" means to confess on the rack. They
put this poor wretch to the torture, and he confessed that he was a
stealer of beasts. And because he has confessed he is condemned to the
galleys for six years. And he is sad and pensive because the other
thieves maltreat, abuse, and despise him. For, as they say, a _nay_ has
as many letters as a _yea_, and it is good luck for a criminal when
there are no witnesses and proofs, and his fate depends on his own
tongue, and in my opinion there is much reason in that.'

'I think so likewise,' said Don Quixote, and he passed on to where the
third slave stood, and put to him the same question as to the others.

The man replied very coolly, saying: 'I go to the galleys because I
wanted ten ducats.'

'I will give thee twenty with all my heart to free thee from that
misfortune,' said Don Quixote.

'That,' replied the Slave, 'would be like one that hath money in the
midst of the sea, and yet is dying of hunger because he can get no meat
to buy with it. If I had had the twenty ducats your Worship offers me
at the right time, I would have greased the lawyer's pen with them, and
so sharpened the advocate's wit, that instead of being trailed along
here like a greyhound, I should now have been walking about in the
market-place of Toledo. But patience. What must be must be!'

Don Quixote went from one to another, receiving different answers,
until he came to the last, who was a man about thirty years old, of
very comely looks, except that he had a squint. He was differently tied
from the rest, for he wore a chain to his leg, so long that it wound
round his whole body. He had besides round his neck two iron rings,
from one of which two wires came down to his waist, on which were
fastened two manacles. These held his hands fast locked with a great
hanging lock, so that he could neither put his hand to his mouth nor
bend down his head to his hands.

Don Quixote asked why he was so loaded with iron more than the rest.

The Guard answered that it was because he had committed more crimes
than all the rest put together, and that he was such a desperate
scoundrel that although they carried him tied up in that fashion, they
were not sure of him, but feared that he might make an escape. 'He
goes,' continued the Guard, 'to the galleys for ten years; and when
I tell you he is the infamous Gines of Passamonte, you will need, I
think, to know no more about him.'

At this, Gines, who seemed very impatient at the Guard's history, broke
out into a torrent of abuse, and then, turning to Don Quixote, said:
'Sir Knight, if you have anything to bestow on us, give it us now, and
begone, for you do but weary us by wanting to know the stories of
other men's lives; and if you want to learn more, know that I am Gines
of Passamonte, whose life has been written by his own hand.'

'He speaks truly,' said the Guard, 'for he himself hath penned his own
history.'

'And how is the book called?' asked Don Quixote.

'It is called the _Life of Gines of Passamonte_,' replied the Slave.

'And is it yet ended?' inquired the Knight.

'How can it be finished,' replied Gines, 'seeing my life is not yet
finished? I intend to finish it in the galleys.'

'You seem to be a clever fellow,' said Don Quixote.

'And an unlucky one,' replied Gines, 'for bad luck always pursues
genius.'

'It pursues knaves,' interrupted the Guard; and at this Gines burst out
again into abuse and bad language, which ended in the Guard threatening
to beat him with his rod if he did not hold his peace.

At this Don Quixote put himself between them, and entreated the Guard
not to use him hardly, seeing that it was not much that one who carried
his hands so tied should have his tongue free.

Then turning himself towards the slaves he said: 'I have gathered from
all you have said, dear brethren, that although they punish you for
your faults, yet the pains you suffer do not please you, and that you
march towards them with a very ill will. All this prompts me to do that
for you, for which I was sent into the world, and for which I became a
Knight Errant, and to which end I vowed at all times to succour the
poor and help those that are oppressed. But as it is prudent not to do
by foul means what can be done by fair, I will entreat these gentlemen
your guardians that they will unloose you and let you depart in peace,
for it seems to me a harsh thing to make slaves of those who are born
free.' And turning to the guards he continued: 'These things I ask of
you in a peaceable and quiet manner, and if you grant my request I
shall give you my thanks; but if you will not do it willingly, then
shall this lance and sword of mine, guided by the invincible valour of
mine arm, force you to do my will.'

'This is pretty fooling,' replied the Guard. 'Would you have us release
to you those the King has imprisoned? Go your way, good Sir, settle the
basin on your head more straightly, and study to find out, if you have
wits enough, how many feet a cat has.'

'You are a cat and a rat and a knave!' said Don Quixote in a rage.
And without a word he set on him so fiercely, and without giving him
time to defend himself, that he struck him to the earth badly wounded
with his lance. Luckily for the Knight this was the Guard that had the
firelock.

At first the other guards stood astounded at this unexpected event.
Then they recovered themselves, and the horsemen drew their swords, the
footmen grasped their javelins, and all of them attacked Don Quixote,
who quietly prepared to receive them. No doubt he would have been in
some danger, but the slaves, seeing a chance of liberty, broke the
chain by which they were linked together. The hurly-burly was such that
the guards first ran to prevent the slaves getting free, then to defend
themselves from Don Quixote who attacked them, so that they could do
nothing to any purpose to keep their prisoners. Sancho, for his part,
helped to loose Gines of Passamonte, who was the first to leap into
the field free from all fetters, and setting upon the other overthrown
guard, he took his sword and firelock from him. With the latter in his
hand, by pointing it at one and aiming it at the other, he cleared the
field of all the guards, who were the more easily got rid of because
the galley slaves were now all at liberty, and showered at their late
keepers volleys of stones.

When their victory was complete, Don Quixote called all the slaves
together, and they gathered round to hear what he commanded, when he
spoke to them as follows: 'It is the duty of well-bred people to be
grateful for benefits received, and ingratitude is one of the worst of
sins. I say this, Sirs, because you know what good you have received
at my hand, and the only reward I ask, is that you all go from here
laden with the chains from which I have just freed your necks to the
City of Toboso, and there present yourselves before the Lady Dulcinea
of Toboso, and tell her that her Knight of the Rueful Countenance sends
you there to do her service. Relate unto her the way in which I won
your freedom; and this being done, you may then go your ways.'

Gines answered for all the rest, saying: 'That which you demand is
impossible to perform, because we must not travel the roads together,
but go alone and divided, to the end that we be not captured again
by the guards of the Holy Brotherhood, who will make search for us.
To tell us to go to Toboso is as absurd as to seek for pears on an
elm-tree, and we shall not do it.'

At this Don Quixote was mightily enraged, and said: 'I tell thee, Don
Gines, or whatever thy name is, that after what thou hast said thou
shalt go thyself alone, with thy tail between thy legs and bearing the
whole length of the chains with thee.'

Gines, who was a violent fellow, and quite understood that Don Quixote
was not very wise, seeing the foolish way in which he had set them at
liberty, would not stand this abuse, and winked at his companions, who,
stepping aside, sent such a shower of stones against Don Quixote that
he had not time to cover himself with his shield, and poor Rozinante
was in such terror that he would not move forward to the attack. Sancho
ran behind his Ass, and by this means sheltered himself from the
tempest of stones that rained on both of them. Several stones struck
Don Quixote on the body with such force that at last he fell from his
horse and on to the ground, and no sooner was he fallen than Gines
leaped upon him, and, taking the basin from his head, gave him three
or four blows with it on the shoulders, and afterwards struck it on
the ground so as to break it into pieces. They then stripped him of a
tunic he wore over his armour, and would have taken his stockings if
they could have got them from under his armour. From Sancho they took
his coat, leaving him in his shirt sleeves, and, dividing the spoils of
battle among themselves, they made the best of their way off, each one
as it pleased him, with no further thought of their benefactor or his
Lady Dulcinea of Toboso.

The Ass, Rozinante, Sancho, and Don Quixote remained alone. The Ass,
with drooping head, stood shaking his ears every now and then as if he
thought the storm of stones was not yet over, Rozinante lay overthrown
by his Master, who was lying on the ground, Sancho stood trembling at
the thought of the bullets of the Holy Brotherhood, and Don Quixote was
amazed to see himself so wickedly used by those to whom he had done so
great a service.




                              CHAPTER XIV

                   Of what befell Don Quixote in the
                            Brown Mountains


Don Quixote, finding himself in such a bad plight, said to his Squire:
'I have often heard it said that to do good to ungrateful men, is to
cast water into the sea. If I had listened to your advice, I might have
avoided this trouble. But, now that it is over, there is nothing for it
but to be patient and to be wise another time.'

'If you take warning by this or anything else,' replied Sancho, 'call
me a Turk. But, as you say, you might have avoided this trouble by
taking my advice. Listen to what I say now, and you will avoid a
greater danger. For let me tell you that it is no use talking about
Knighthood and its customs to the Holy Brotherhood, for it cares not
two farthings for all the Knights Errant in the world, and for myself,
I seem to hear their arrows buzzing round my ears already.'

'Thou art by nature a coward, Sancho,' replied Don Quixote; 'but that
thou mayest not say that I am obstinate, and that I never follow thine
advice, I will take thy counsel this time, and hide myself from the
attacks thou fearest so greatly. But it must be on one condition,
that thou never tell to any mortal creature that I withdrew myself out
of this danger for fear, but only to humour thy wishes. For if thou
sayest anything else thou liest.'

             [Illustration: DON QUIXOTE MEETING CARDENIO]

'Sir,' answered Sancho Panza, 'to retreat is not to run away, nor is it
wise to wait where there is more danger than hope, and it is the part
of a wise man to spend to-day in keeping himself safe for to-morrow.
Therefore, rude clown as I am, take my advice, and mount Rozinante and
follow me as quickly as you are able.'

Don Quixote mounted Rozinante without another word, and, Sancho leading
the way on his Ass, they entered that part of the Brown Mountains that
was near them, a favourite haunt for outlaws and robbers in those days,
and a spot where they would be safe from pursuit. For it was Sancho's
plan to hide themselves for some days among the crags, so as not to be
found even if the Holy Brotherhood should come and look for them.

They arrived that night in the very midst of the mountains, and there
Sancho thought it best to spend the night, and, indeed, as many days
as their food lasted; and with this intention they took up their abode
among a number of tall trees that grew between two rocks.

It happened, however, that Gines of Passamonte, the famous cheat and
robber whom Don Quixote by his valour and folly had released from his
chains, resolved to hide himself also among the same mountains, and
destiny led him to the very spot where Don Quixote and his Squire
were hiding, and at the very moment that they had fallen asleep, tired
out with the day's toil. And as the wicked are always ungrateful, and
necessity forces them to evil deeds, Gines, who was neither grateful
nor good natured, resolved to rob Sancho Panza of his Ass, not caring
for Rozinante, as he thought he was not worth riding or selling. Sancho
Panza slept soundly, and, while he slept, Gines stole his Ass, and
before morning he was so far off as to be past finding.

The morning sun arose bringing joy to the earth, but only grief to poor
Sancho, for he missed his Dapple, and, finding himself deprived of
him, he began the saddest and most doleful lamentation possible, and
when Don Quixote awoke he heard him mourning in a most melancholy way,
crying out: 'O my beloved Ass, born in mine own house, the sport of my
children, the comfort of my wife, the envy of my neighbours, the ease
of my burdens, and, beyond all, the support of my household, for with
what I gained daily by thee did I pay half of mine expenses!'

Don Quixote, who heard this lament, and knew the cause of it, comforted
Sancho as best he could, and desired him to have patience, promising
to give him a letter to command those at his house to hand over to him
three out of five ass foals that he had at home. Sancho was comforted
by this, dried his tears, moderated his sobs, and thanked Don Quixote
for the favours he had done him.

And as they entered farther among the mountains the Knight felt glad
at heart that he had come to a place so suitable for the adventures he
was in search of. They reminded him of marvellous stories he had read
of what had happened to Knights Errant in similar wild places, and
his mind was so full of these things that he thought of nothing else
whatever. As for Sancho, he trudged behind his Master, loaded with the
things that his Ass should have carried.

While Sancho was thus walking along, he raised his eyes and saw that
his Master had come to a stop, and was trying with the point of his
lance to lift what seemed like a bundle that was lying on the ground.
Upon which he ran to see whether his Master wanted his aid, and came up
to him just as he was lifting up a saddle cushion with a portmanteau
fast to it. These were half rotten and falling to pieces, yet they
weighed so much that Sancho's help was required to lift them up. His
Master ordered him to see what was in the portmanteau, and Sancho
obeyed him as quickly as might be. And although it was shut with a
chain and a padlock, yet Sancho could see through the rents and tears
what was inside it, namely, four fine Holland shirts and other linen
clothes, both curious and delicate, besides a handkerchief containing a
good quantity of gold.

'At last,' cried Sancho, 'we have met with an adventure worth
something,' and searching on he came across a little memorandum book
very richly bound.

Don Quixote asked him for this, but bade him keep the money for himself.

For this rich favour Sancho kissed his hands, and taking all the
linen, he crammed it into their provision-bag.

Don Quixote, having considered awhile, said: 'Methinks, Sancho, that
some traveller having lost his way must have passed over the mountains,
and being met by thieves, they slew him and buried him in this secret
place.'

'It cannot be so,' answered Sancho, 'for if they had been thieves they
would not have left the money behind them.'

'Thou sayest true,' said Don Quixote, 'and therefore I cannot guess
what can have happened. But stay, we will look at the pocket-book, and
see whether there is anything written in it by which we may discover
what we want to know.'

He opened it, and the first thing he found in it was a poem, which was
all about the author's love for some fair Chloe who would not care for
him. Don Quixote read this aloud to Sancho.

'Nothing can be learned from these verses,' said the Squire, 'unless by
that clue which is there we may get some help.'

'What clue is there here?' said Don Quixote.

'I thought your Lordship mentioned a clue there.'

'I did not say _clue_, but _Chloe_,' replied Don Quixote, 'which
no doubt is the name of the lady of whom the author of this poem
complains.'

After looking through the book again, Don Quixote found a despairing
love-letter, and several other verses and letters full of laments and
misery, from which he came to the conclusion that the owner of the
book was some sad rejected lover.

The Knight of the Rueful Countenance was very desirous to know who was
the owner of the portmanteau, believing from what he had seen that he
must be a man of some position, whom the disdain and cruelty of a fair
lady had driven to desperate courses. But as there was no one in this
remote and solitary place to satisfy his curiosity, he rode on, taking
any road that Rozinante chose, in the firm belief that he would find
some strange adventure among the mountains.

And as he rode he saw a man on top of a little mountain, leaping from
rock to rock and tuft to tuft with marvellous agility. He made him out
to be half-naked, with a black and matted beard, his hair long and
tangled, his feet unshod, and his legs bare. He wore some breeches of
tawny velvet, but these appeared so torn to rags that his skin showed
in many places. His head, too, was bare, and although he ran by with
all haste, yet was the Knight able to mark all these things. But he
could not follow him, because it was not in Rozinante's power, being
in a weak state and naturally very slow and steady-going, to travel
over these rough places at any speed. Don Quixote at once came to the
conclusion that he was the owner of the portmanteau, and resolved to go
in search of him, even if he should have to spend a whole year in the
mountains till he found him. So he commanded Sancho to go on one side
of the mountain, while he went the other, and, said he, 'one of us
may thus come across this man who has vanished so suddenly out of our
sight.'

'I dare not do so,' replied Sancho, 'for on parting one step from
you, fear seizes me and fills me with a thousand kinds of terror and
affright. Let me say, once for all, that henceforth I do not stir a
finger's-breadth from your presence.'

'Well,' replied Don Quixote, 'I am glad that thou dost build upon my
valour, which shall not fail thee even though everything else fails
thee. Follow me, then, and keep thine eyes open, so that we may find
this strange man, who is no doubt the owner of the portmanteau.'

'Surely,' said Sancho, 'it were better not to find him, for if we
should meet him, and he turned out to be the owner of the money, we
should have to return it to him. Let us rather keep it faithfully until
some one turns up to claim it, when perhaps I shall have spent it all,
and in that case I shall be free from blame.'

'In that thou art mistaken, Sancho,' replied Don Quixote, 'for now that
we have a suspicion who the owner is, we are bound to search him out
and restore him his money.'

So saying Don Quixote led the way, and in a little time they came upon
a dead mule, half devoured by dogs and crows; and as they were looking
at it they heard a whistle, such as shepherds use, and there appeared
at their left hand a great number of goats, and behind them on the top
of the mountain was the Goatherd, who was quite an old man.

Don Quixote called to him, and begged him to come down to where they
stood; and the Goatherd, after looking at them for a few minutes, in
surprise at seeing them in this lonely spot, descended to where they
stood.

'I wager,' he said, as he came towards them, 'that you are wondering
how the mule came there that lies dead in that bottom. Well, it has
been lying there these six months. Tell me, have you come across his
master as yet?'

'We have fallen in with nobody,' replied Don Quixote, 'but a saddle
cushion and a portmanteau, which we found not far from here.'

'I have also found the same portmanteau,' said the Goatherd, 'but I
would never take it up nor approach it for fear some ill-luck should
come upon me, or lest some one should accuse me of theft.'

'Tell me, my good fellow,' said Don Quixote, 'do you know who is the
owner of these things?'

'All I can tell you is this,' said the Goatherd, 'that some six months
ago, more or less, there arrived at one of our sheepfolds, some three
leagues off, a young gentleman of comely presence mounted on that mule
which lies dead there, and with the same saddle cushion and portmanteau
that you have seen. He asked us which was the most hidden part of the
mountain, and we told him that this was, which is certainly true, for
if you go a league further on perhaps you might not find your way out,
and indeed I marvel how you found your way in so readily. As soon as
the young man had heard our answer he turned his bridle and went
towards the place we showed him, and made towards these mountains.
After that we did not see him for a good many days, until one day, when
one of our shepherds came by with provisions, he attacked him and beat
him, and carried off all the bread and cheese that he carried, and then
fled away back again to the mountains. When we heard of this, some of
us goatherds went to look for him, and spent almost two days in the
most solitary places in the mountains, and in the end found him lurking
in the hollow part of a large cork-tree. He came out to us very meekly,
his clothes torn and his face burned by the sun, so that we hardly knew
him again. He saluted us courteously, and in a few civil words told
us not to wonder at his condition, for he was working out a penance
placed upon him for the sins he had committed. We begged him to tell
us who he was, but he would not do so. We begged him also that when
he had need of food he would tell us where we might find him, and we
would willingly bring it to him, and told him there was no need to take
it by force. He thanked us very much for our offer, and asked pardon
for his violence, and promised in future to ask food of our shepherds
without giving annoyance to any one. But even while he was speaking to
us, he bit his lips and bent his brows, and it was clear some fit of
madness was upon him, for he cried out: "O treacherous Fernando, here
thou shalt pay me the injury thou didst me; these hands shall rend thy
heart!" and many other wild and whirring words which he addressed to
some Fernando. But at the same time he fell upon one of our goatherds,
and we had no little trouble to get him away. Then without another word
he fled to the briars and the brambles, where we could not follow him.
By this we think that he has a madness which comes upon him at times,
for sometimes he will take his food from our shepherds with courtesy
and humanity, at others he seizes it by force, though they are ever
willing to give it. We have thought to take him by force to the town
of Almodavar, to see if he can be cured, or to find out if he has any
relatives to whom we can restore him. This, Sirs, is all that I can
tell you of what you have asked me, and for certain he it is who is the
owner of the things you have found.'

Don Quixote was greatly amazed by what he had heard, and determined to
search for him through the mountains, without leaving a corner or cave
unsought until he had found him.




                 [Illustration: THE STORY OF CARDENIO]




                              CHAPTER XV

                         The Story of Cardenio


Fortune favoured Don Quixote in his search for the strange owner
of the portmanteau, for, even as he was speaking to the Goatherd,
he appeared at that very instant through a gorge of the mountain,
murmuring to himself words which one could not have understood near at
hand, much less afar off. His clothes were such as have been described,
only differing in this, that when he drew near, Don Quixote noticed
that he wore a leather jerkin, which, though tattered and torn, was
perfumed with amber. From this he guessed that the man who wore such
garments was a person of quality. On coming towards them, the youth
addressed them in a hoarse tone but with great courtesy, and Don
Quixote returned his greetings with equal kindness, and, alighting from
Rozinante, went to meet him, and clasping him in his arms, embraced him
as though he had known him for a very long time.

Then the stranger, whom we may call the Tattered One, addressed the
Knight of the Rueful Countenance in the following words: 'Truly, good
Sir, whoever you may be, for I know you not, I thank you with all my
heart for your grace and courtesy towards me, and wish only that I
could repay you some of the kindness you shower on me.'

'So great is my desire to serve you,' replied Don Quixote, 'that I was
fully resolved never to part out of these mountains until I had found
you, and heard from your own lips whether there was any remedy for your
grief. For it is a consolation in sorrow to have some one to condole
with you. And I entreat you, Sir, tell me who you are, and what has
brought you to live and die in these solitudes like a brute beast. For
I swear by the high honour of Knighthood which I have received, that if
you will tell me everything, I will either help you in all good earnest
to overcome your troubles, or, if that cannot be, then I will assist in
lamenting them.'

The Tattered One looked at Don Quixote from head to foot, and stared
at him in amazement for a long time. At length he said: 'If you have
anything to eat, give it to me, and after I have eaten I will do all
that you ask in return for the kindness you show me.'

Sancho and the Goatherd then gave him what food they had, and this
he devoured with the eagerness of a wild beast, so that he seemed to
swallow the food rather than chew it, and whilst he ate the others left
him in peace. Having ended his dinner, he made signs to them to follow
him, which they did, and he took them to a little meadow hard by that
place at the back of the mountain.

Arriving there he laid himself down on the grass, the others doing the
same, and he began as follows:—

'If it is your pleasure, Sirs, to hear of my misfortunes, you must
promise me that you will not interrupt the thread of my sad story by
questions or anything else, for directly you do I shall stop telling
it.'

Don Quixote promised in the name of them all, and the Tattered One
commenced his story.

'My name is Cardenio; the place of my birth one of the best cities in
Andalusia; my lineage noble, my parents rich, and my misfortunes so
great that I think no one was ever to be pitied as I am. There dwelt
in the same city wherein I was born a damsel as noble and rich as I
was, whose name was Lucinda. I loved, honoured, and adored Lucinda
from earliest childhood, and she loved me with all the earnestness of
youth. Our parents knew of our love, and were not sorry to see it, and
so we grew up in mutual esteem and affection. Ah! how many letters have
I written, and how many verses have I penned, and how many songs has
she inspired! At length the time came when I could wait no longer, and
I went to ask her of her father for my lawful wife. He answered that
he thanked me for the desire I showed to honour him and to honour
myself with his loved treasure, but that my father being alive, it was
by strict right his business to make that demand. For if it were not
done with his good will and pleasure, Lucinda was not the woman to be
taken or given by stealth. I thanked him for his kindness, and, feeling
there was reason in what he said, I hurried to my father to tell him
my desires. At the moment I entered his room he was standing with a
letter open in his hand, and before I could speak to him he gave it to
me, saying as he did so: "By that letter, Cardenio, you may learn the
desire that the Duke Ricardo has to do you favour." This Duke Ricardo,
you must know, gentlemen, is a Grandee of Spain, whose dukedom is
situated in the best part of all Andalusia. I took the letter and read
it, and it was so very kind that it seemed to me wrong that my father
should not do what he asked. For he wanted me as a companion—not as
a servant—to his eldest son, and offered to advance me in life if he
should find me worthy. I read the letter, and could see that it was no
time now to speak to my father, who said to me: "Cardenio, thou must be
ready in two days to depart, and to do all that the Duke desires, and
be thankful that such a future lies open before thee."

'The time for my departure arrived. I spoke to my dear Lucinda and also
to her father, and begged him to wait for a while until I knew what the
Duke Ricardo wanted of me, and until my future was certain. He promised
not to bestow his daughter elsewhere, and she vowed to be always
faithful to me, and so I left.

'I was indeed well received by the Duke Ricardo and nobly treated. His
elder son liked me well, and was kind to me, but the one who rejoiced
most at my coming was Fernando, his second son, a young man who was
both noble, gallant, and very comely. In a short time he had so made me
his friend that there were no secrets between us, and he told me all
his thoughts and desires, and confided to me a love affair of his own
which caused him much anxiety.

'He had fallen in love with the daughter of a farmer, his father's
vassal, whose parents were rich, and she herself was beautiful, modest,
and virtuous. But he did not dare to tell his father of his love
because of their difference in rank, and though he had promised to
marry this farmer's daughter, he had come to fear that the Duke would
never consent to let him carry out his desire. He told me that he could
find no better mode of keeping the remembrance of her beauty out of his
mind, than by leaving home for some months; and he suggested that we
should both depart for awhile to my father's house, under the pretence
of going to buy horses, for the city where I was born was a place where
they bred the best horses in the world.

'When I heard of his wishes I did all I could to strengthen them, and
urged him to carry out his plan, which offered me a chance of seeing
once more my dear Lucinda.

'At last the Duke gave him leave, and ordered me to go with him. We
arrived at my native city, and my father gave him the reception due
to his rank. I again saw Lucinda. My love for her increased, though
indeed it had never grown cold, and to my sorrow I told Don Fernando
all about it, for I thought by the laws of friendship it was not right
to hide anything from him. I described her beauty, her grace, and her
wit, with such eloquence, that my praises stirred in him a desire
to see a damsel enriched by such rare virtues. To my misfortune I
yielded to his wish, and took him with me one night to a window where
Lucinda and I were wont to speak together. He stood mute, as one beside
himself, and from that moment he could speak nothing but praises of
my Lucinda. Yet I confess that I took no pleasure in hearing her thus
praised, because it roused in me a strange feeling of jealousy. I
did not fear the faith and honour of Lucinda, but at the same time I
felt a hidden terror of the future. Now Don Fernando continued, as my
friend, to read all the letters I sent to Lucinda, or she to me, under
the pretence that he took great delight in the wit of both of us, and
it fell out that Lucinda asked me to send her a book of the Knightly
Adventures of Amadis of Gaul.'

No sooner did Don Quixote hear the name of one of his favourite heroes
than he interrupted the story, saying: 'If, my good Sir, you had told
me that your Lady Lucinda was a reader of knightly adventures, you
need not have said anything else to make me acknowledge her wit. Waste
no further words on her beauty and worth, for now I assert that from
her devotion to books of Knighthood, the Lady Lucinda is the fairest
and most accomplished woman in all the world. Pardon my interruption,
but when I hear anything said of the books of Knights Errant, I can no
more keep from speaking of them than the sunbeams can help giving forth
warmth. Therefore forgive me, and proceed.'

While Don Quixote was speaking, Cardenio held his head down, his face
grew sullen, and he bit his lip. When he looked up, he seemed to have
forgotten all about his story, and in a burst of rage said: 'A plague
on all your books of Knighthood! Amadis was a fool, and the Queen
Madasima was a wicked woman.'

'By all that is good,' replied Don Quixote, in great anger—for this
Queen was a favourite heroine of his—'it is a villainy to say such a
thing. The Queen Madasima was a very noble lady, and whoever says or
thinks the contrary lies like an arrant coward, and this I will make
him know a-horseback or a-foot, armed or disarmed, by night or day, as
he liketh best.'

Cardenio stood gazing at Don Quixote strangely—for now the mad fit
was on him—and hearing himself called liar and coward, he caught up
a stone that was near him, and gave the Knight such a blow with it
that he threw him backwards on the ground. Sancho Panza, seeing his
Master so roughly handled, set upon the madman with his fists, but the
Tattered One overthrew him with one blow and trampled him under his
feet like dough. After this he departed into the wood very quietly.

Sancho got up and wanted to take vengeance on the Goatherd, who, he
said, should have warned them about the madman. The Goatherd declared
he had done so, and Sancho retorted that he had not; and from words
they got to blows, and had seized each other by the beards, when Don
Quixote parted them, saying that the Goatherd was in no way to blame
for what had happened. He then again inquired where Cardenio was likely
to be found, and the Goatherd repeated what he had said at first, that
his abode was uncertain, but that if they went much about in those
parts they would be sure to meet with him either mad or sane.




                              CHAPTER XVI

            Of the Strange Adventures that happened to the
             Knight of the Mancha in the Brown Mountains,
                  and of the Penance he did there in
                       imitation of Beltenebros


Don Quixote took leave of the Goatherd, and, mounting once again on
Rozinante, he commanded Sancho to follow him, who obeyed, but with
a very ill will. They travelled slowly, entering the thickest and
roughest part of the mountains, and at last Sancho Panza, who was
growing very impatient, burst out: 'Good Sir Don Quixote, let me speak
what is on my mind, for it is a hard thing to go about looking for
adventures all one's life, and find nothing but tramplings under the
feet, and tossings in blankets, and stoning, and blows, and buffets.'

'Speak on,' replied his Master, 'for I will hear what thou hast to say.'

'Then,' replied Sancho, 'I would know what benefit your Worship could
reap by taking the part of the Queen Magimasas, or whatever you call
her. For if you had let it pass, I believe the madman would have
finished his tale, and I should have escaped a beating.'

              [Illustration: DON QUIXOTE DOING PENANCE]

'In faith, Sancho,' replied Don Quixote, 'if thou knewest as well as I
do, how honourable a lady was Queen Madasima, thou wouldst rather say
I behaved with great patience. Cardenio knew not what he was saying to
call her wicked, and must have been out of his senses.'

'So say I,' said Sancho, 'and you ought not to take notice of the words
of a madman.'

'Against sane and mad,' replied Don Quixote, 'is every Knight Errant
bound to stand up for the honour of women, whoever they may be. Be
silent, therefore, and meddle not with what does not concern thee.
Understand that all I do is guided by the rules of Knighthood, which
are better known to me than to any Knight that ever lived.'

'Sir!' replied Sancho, 'is there any rule of Knighthood which obliges
us to wander among the mountains looking for a madman, who, if he is
found, will probably break our heads again?'

'Peace, I say, Sancho, once again!' exclaimed Don Quixote, 'for thou
must know that it is not only the desire of finding the madman that
brings me into these wilds, but because I have in mind to carry out an
adventure that shall bring me eternal fame and renown over the whole
face of the earth.'

'Is it a dangerous adventure?' asked Sancho.

'That is according as it turns out,' replied Don Quixote. 'But I will
keep you no longer in the dark about it. You must know that Amadis
of Gaul was the most perfect of all the Knights Errant. And as he
was the morning star and the sun of all valiant Knights, so am I wise
in imitating all he did. And I remember that when his Lady Oriana
disdained his love, he showed his wisdom, virtue, and manhood by
changing his name to Beltenebros and retiring to a wild country, there
to perform a penance. And as I may more easily imitate him in this than
in slaying giants, beheading serpents, killing monsters, destroying
armies, and putting navies to flight, and because this mountain seems
to fit for the purpose, I intend myself to do penance here.'

'But what is it that your Worship intends to do in this out of the way
spot?' asked Sancho.

'Have not I told thee already,' replied his Master, 'that I mean to
copy Amadis of Gaul, by acting here the part of a despairing, mad, and
furious lover?'

'I believe,' continued Sancho, 'that the Knights who went through these
penances must have had some reason for so doing, but what cause has
your Worship for going mad? What Lady hath disdained you? How has the
Lady Dulcinea of Toboso ever treated you unkindly?'

'That is just the point of it,' said Don Quixote: 'for a Knight Errant
to go mad for good reason has no merit in it, but the whole kernel of
the matter is to go mad without a cause. Therefore, Sancho, waste no
more time, for mad I am, and mad I shall remain, until thou return
again with the answer to a letter which I mean to send with thee to my
Lady Dulcinea. If the answer is such as I deserve, my penance will end,
but if the contrary, I shall run mad in good earnest. But tell me,
Sancho, hast thou kept safely the helmet of Mambrino?'

'Really, Sir Knight,' answered Sancho, 'I cannot listen patiently to
some things your Worship says, and I sometimes think all you tell me of
Knighthood is nothing but a pack of lies. For to hear your Worship say
that a barber's basin is Mambrino's helmet, and not to find out your
mistake in four days, makes one wonder whether one is standing on one's
head or one's heels. I carry the basin right enough in my baggage, all
battered and dented, and intend to take it home and put it to rights,
and soap my beard in it when I return to my wife and children.'

'Ah, Sancho,' replied Don Quixote, 'I think that thou hast the
shallowest pate that ever any Squire had or hath in this world. Is it
possible thou hast so long travelled with me and not found out that all
the adventures of Knights Errant appear illusions, follies, and dreams,
and turn out all contrariwise? So this that thou callest a barber's
basin is to me Mambrino's helmet, and to another person has some
other shape altogether. Not that it has all these shapes, but these
things are the work of wicked enchanters or magicians, who transform
everything, making things seem what they please in order to annoy us.'

By this time they had arrived at the foot of a lofty mountain, which
stood like a huge rock apart from all the rest. Close by glided a
smooth river, hemmed in on every side by a green and fertile meadow.
Around were many fine trees and plants and flowers, which made the
spot a most delightful one.

'Here!' cried Don Quixote in a loud voice, 'I elect to do my penance.
Here shall the tears from my eyes swell the limpid streams, and here
shall the sighs of my heart stir the leaves of every mountain tree. O
Dulcinea of Toboso, day of my night and star of my fortunes, consider
the pass to which I am come, and return a favourable answer to my
wishes!'

With this he alighted from Rozinante, and, taking off his saddle and
bridle, gave him a slap on his haunches, and said: 'He gives thee
liberty that wants it himself, O steed, famous for thy swiftness and
the great works thou hast done!'

When Sancho heard all this he could not help saying: 'I wish Dapple
were here, for he deserves at least as long a speech in his praise; but
truly, Sir Knight, if my journey with your letter, and your penance
here, are really to take place, it would be better to saddle Rozinante
again, that he may supply the want of mine Ass.'

'As thou likest about that,' said Don Quixote; 'but thou must not
depart for three days as yet, during which time thou shalt see what I
will say and do for my Lady's sake, that thou mayest tell her all about
it.'

'But what more can I see,' asked Sancho, 'than what I have already
seen?'

'Thou art well up in the matter, certainly,' replied his Master, 'for
as yet I have done nothing, and if I am to be a despairing lover, I
must tear my clothes, and throw away mine armour, and beat my head
against these rocks, with many other things that shall make thee
marvel.'

'For goodness' sake,' cried Sancho, 'take care how you go knocking
your head against rocks, for you might happen to come up against so
ungracious a rock that it would put an end to the penance altogether.
If the knocks on the head are necessary, I should content yourself,
seeing that this madness is all make-believe, with striking your head
on some softer thing, and leave the rest to me, for I will tell your
Lady that I saw you strike your head on the point of a rock that was
harder than a diamond.'

'I thank thee, Sancho, for thy good will,' replied the Knight, 'but the
rules of Knighthood forbid me to act or to speak a lie, and therefore
the knocks of the head must be real solid knocks, and it will be
necessary for thee to leave me some lint to cure them, seeing that
fortune has deprived us of that precious Balsam.'

'It was worse to lose the Ass,' said Sancho, 'seeing that with him we
lost lint and everything; but pray, your Worship, never mention that
horrible Balsam again, for the very name of it nearly turns me inside
out. And now write your letter, and let me saddle Rozinante and begone,
for I warrant when I once get to Toboso I will tell the Lady Dulcinea
such strange things of your follies and madness, that I shall make her
as soft as a glove even though I find her harder than a cork-tree. And
with her sweet and honied answer I will return as speedily as a witch
on a broomstick, and release you from your penance.'

'But how shall we write a letter here?' said Don Quixote.

'And how can you write the order for the handing over to me of the
ass-colts?' asked Sancho.

'Seeing there is no paper,' said the Knight, 'we might, like the
ancients, write on waxen tablets, but that wax is as hard to find
as paper. But now that I come to think of it, there is Cardenio's
pocket-book. I will write on that, and thou shalt have the matter of
it written out in a good round hand at the first village wherein thou
shalt find a schoolmaster.'

'But what is to be done about the signature?' asked Sancho.

'The letters of Amadis were never signed,' replied Don Quixote.

'That is all very well,' said Sancho, 'but the paper for the three
asses must be signed, for if it be copied out they shall say it is
false, and then I shall not get the ass-colts.'

'Well, then, the order for the ass-colts shall be signed in the book,'
said Don Quixote; 'and as for the love-letter, thou shalt put this
ending to it, "Yours till death, the Knight of the Rueful Countenance."
And it will be no great matter that it goes in a strange hand, for as
well as I remember Dulcinea can neither read nor write, nor has she
ever seen my handwriting. For indeed, during the twelve years I have
been loving her more dearly than the light of my eyes, I have only
seen her four times, and I doubt if she hath ever noticed me at all,
so closely have her father Lorenzo Corchuelo, and her mother Aldonza
brought her up.'

'Ha! ha!' cried Sancho, 'then the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso is the
daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, and is called Aldonza Corchuelo?'

'That is she,' said Don Quixote, 'and a lady worthy to be the Empress
of this wide universe.'

'I know her very well,' replied Sancho, 'and can tell you that she
can throw an iron bar with the strongest lad in our village. She is a
girl of mettle, tall and stout, and a sturdy lass that can hold her
own with any Knight Errant in the world. Out upon her, what an arm she
hath! Why, I saw her one day stand on top of the church belfry, to call
her father's servants from the fields, and, though they were half a
league off, they heard her as though she were in the next field; and
the best of her is there is nothing coy about her, but she jokes with
all and makes game and jest of everybody. To be frank with you, Sir
Don Quixote, I have been living under a great mistake, for, really and
truly, I thought all this while that the Lady Dulcinea was some great
Princess with whom your Worship was in love.'

'I have told thee, Sancho, many times before now,' said Don Quixote,
'that thou art a very great babbler. Understand, then, that my Lady
Dulcinea is to me as good and beautiful as any Princess in the world,
and that is enough.'

With these words he took out the pocket-book, and, going aside, began
to write with great gravity. When he had ended, he called Sancho to him
and read him the following letter:—

  'SOVEREIGN LADY,

 'The sore wounded one, O sweetest Dulcinea of Toboso, sends thee the
 health which he wants himself. If thy beauty disdain me, I cannot
 live. My good Squire Sancho will give thee ample account, O ungrateful
 fair one, of the penance I do for love of thee. Should it be thy
 pleasure to favour me, I am thine. If not, by ending my life I shall
 satisfy both thy cruelty and my desires.

  'Thine until death,
  'THE KNIGHT OF THE RUEFUL COUNTENANCE.'

'By my fathers life,' said Sancho, 'it is the noblest thing that ever
I heard in my life; and now will your Worship write the order for the
three ass-colts?'

'With pleasure,' answered Don Quixote, and he did as he was desired.

'And now,' said Sancho, 'let me saddle Rozinante and be off. For I
intend to start without waiting to see those mad pranks your Worship is
going to play. There is one thing I am afraid of, though, and that is,
that on my return I shall not be able to find the place where I leave
you, it is so wild and difficult.'

'Take the marks well, and when thou shouldst return I will mount to the
tops of the highest rocks. Also it will be well to cut down some boughs
and strew them after you as you go, that they may serve as marks to
find your way back, like the clue in Theseus' labyrinth.'

Sancho did this, and, not heeding his Master's request to stay and see
him go through some mad tricks in order that he might describe them to
Dulcinea, he mounted Rozinante and rode away.

He had not got more than a hundred paces when he returned and said:
'Sir, what you said was true, and it would be better for my conscience
if I saw the follies you are about to do before I describe them to your
Lady.'

'Did I not tell thee so?' said Don Quixote; 'wait but a minute.'

Then stripping himself in all haste of most of his clothes, Don Quixote
began cutting capers and turning somersaults in his shirt tails, until
even Sancho was satisfied that he might truthfully tell the Lady
Dulcinea that her lover was mad, and so, turning away, he started in
good earnest upon his journey.




          [Illustration: THE CURATE & THE BARBER IN DISGUISE]




                             CHAPTER XVII

               Of Sancho's Journey to the Lady Dulcinea


Don Quixote, left to himself, climbed to the top of a high mountain,
and spent his days making poems about the beautiful Dulcinea, which he
recited to the rocks and trees around him. In this, and in calling upon
the nymphs of the streams, and the satyrs of the woods, to hear his
cries, did he pass his time while Sancho was away.

As for his Squire, turning out on the highway, he took the road which
led to Toboso, and arrived the next day at the Inn where he had been
tossed in a blanket. He no sooner saw it than he imagined that he was
once again flying through the air, and he half made up his mind that he
would not enter the Inn, although it was now dinner-hour and he felt
a marvellous longing to taste some cooked meat again, as he had eaten
nothing but cold fare for a good many days.

This longing made him draw near to the Inn, remaining still in some
doubt as to whether he should enter it or not.

As he stood musing, there came out of the Inn two persons who
recognised him at once, and the one said to the other: 'Tell me, Sir
Curate, is not that horseman riding there Sancho Panza, who departed
with Don Quixote to be his Squire?'

'It is,' said the Curate, 'and that is Don Quixote's horse.'

They knew him well enough, for they were Don Quixote's friends, the
Curate and the Barber, who not so long ago had helped to burn his books
and wall up his library; so, wanting to learn news of Don Quixote, they
went up to him and said: 'Friend Sancho Panza, where have you left your
Master?'

Sancho Panza knew them instantly, but wanted to conceal the place and
manner in which the Knight remained, and answered that his Master was
kept in a certain place by affairs of the greatest importance of which
he must say nothing.

'That will not do, friend Sancho,' said the Barber. 'If thou dost not
tell us where he is, we shall believe that thou hast robbed and slain
him, seeing that thou art riding his horse. Verily thou must find us
the owner of the steed, or it will be the worse for thee.'

'Your threats do not trouble me, for I am not one who would rob or
murder anybody, and, for my Master, he is enjoying himself doing
penance in the Brown Mountains, where I have just left him.'

Then Sancho told them from beginning to end how his Master was carrying
out his penance, and of the mad pranks he intended to perform, and how
he, Sancho, was bearing a letter to the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, who
was none other than the daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo, with whom the
Knight was head and ears in love.

Both of them were amazed at what they heard, although they knew
something of Don Quixote's madness already. They asked Sancho to show
them the letter he was carrying to the Lady Dulcinea. Sancho told them
it was written in the pocket-book, and that he was ordered to get it
copied out at the first village he came to.

The Curate told him that if he would show it to them, he would make a
fair copy of it for him. Then Sancho thrust his hand into his bosom
to search for the little book, but he could not find it, nor would he
have found it if he had hunted until Doomsday, for he had left it with
Don Quixote, who had quite forgotten to give it to him, nor had he
remembered to ask for it when he came away. When Sancho discovered that
the book was lost, his face grew as pale as death, and feeling all over
his body he saw clearly that it was not to be found. Without more ado
he laid hold of his beard, and with both his fists plucked out half his
hair and gave himself half a dozen blows about his face and nose, so
that he was soon bathed in his own blood.

Seeing this, the Curate and the Barber asked him what was the matter,
that he should treat himself so ill.

'What is the matter?' cried poor Sancho. 'Why, I have let slip through
my fingers three of the finest ass-colts you ever saw.'

'How so?' asked the Barber.

'Why, I have lost the pocket-book,' replied Sancho, 'which had in it
not only the letter for Dulcinea, but also a note of hand signed by my
Master addressed to his Niece, ordering her to give me three ass-colts
of the four or five that were left at his house.' So saying, he told
them the story of his lost Dapple.

The Curate comforted him by telling him that as soon as they had found
his Master they would get him to write out the paper again in proper
form. With this Sancho took courage, and said if that could be done all
would be right, for he cared not much for the loss of Dulcinea's letter
as he knew it by heart.

'Say it then, Sancho,' said the Barber, 'and we will write it out.'

Then Sancho stood still and began to scratch his head and try to call
the letter to memory. He stood first on one leg and then on the other,
and looked first to heaven and then to earth, while he gnawed off half
his nails, and at the end of a long pause said: 'I doubt if I can
remember all, but it began, "High and unsavoury Lady."'

'I warrant you,' interrupted the Barber, 'it was not "unsavoury" but
"sovereign Lady."'

'So it was,' cried Sancho; 'and then there was something about the
wounded one sending health and sickness and what not to the ungrateful
fair, and so it scrambled along until it ended in "Yours till death,
the Knight of the Rueful Countenance."'

They were both much amused at Sancho's good memory, and praised it
highly, asking him to repeat the letter once or twice more to them, so
that they might be able to write it down when they got a chance. Three
times did Sancho repeat it, and each time he made as many new mistakes.
Then he told them other things about his Master, but never a word about
being tossed in a blanket, although he refused, without giving any
reason, to enter the Inn, though he begged them to bring him something
nice and hot to eat, and some barley for Rozinante, when they had
finished their own repast.

With that they went into the Inn, and after a while the Curate brought
him some meat, which Sancho was very glad to see.

Now whilst the Curate and the Barber were in the Inn they discussed
together the best means of bringing Don Quixote back to his home, and
the Curate hit upon a plan which fitted in well with Don Quixote's
humour, and seemed likely to be successful. This plan was, as he
told the Barber, to dress himself like a wandering damsel, while the
Barber took the part of her Squire, and in this disguise they were to
go to where Don Quixote was undergoing his penance, and the Curate,
pretending that he was an afflicted and sorely distressed damsel, was
to demand of him a boon, which as a valiant Knight Errant he could not
refuse.

The service which the damsel was to ask was that Don Quixote would
follow her where she should lead him, to right a wrong which some
wicked Knight had done her. Besides this, she was to pray him not to
command her to unveil herself or inquire as to her condition, until he
had done her right against the wicked Knight. And thus they hoped to
lead Don Quixote back to his own village, and afterwards to cure him of
his mad ideas.

The Curate's notion pleased the Barber well, and they resolved to carry
it out. They borrowed of the Innkeeper's wife a gown and a head-dress,
leaving with her in exchange the Curate's new cassock. The Barber made
for himself a great beard of a red ox's tail in which the Innkeeper
used to hang his horse-comb.

The Innkeeper's wife asked them what they wanted these things for, and
the Curate told her shortly all about Don Quixote's madness, and how
this disguise was necessary to bring him away from the mountains where
he had taken up his abode.

The Innkeeper and his wife then remembered all about their strange
guest, and told the Barber and the Curate all about him and his Balsam,
and how Sancho had fared with the blanket. Then the Innkeeper's wife
dressed up the Curate so cleverly that it could not have been better
done. She attired him in a stuff gown with bands of black velvet
several inches broad, and a bodice and sleeves of green velvet trimmed
with white satin, both of which might have been made in the days of
the Flood. The Curate would not consent to wear a head-dress like a
woman's, but put on a white quilted linen nightcap, which he carried to
sleep in. Then with two strips of black stuff he made himself a mask
and fixed it on, and this covered his face and beard very neatly. He
then put on his large hat, and, wrapping himself in his cloak, seated
himself like a woman sideways on his mule, whilst the Barber mounted
his, with a beard reaching down to his girdle, made, as was said, from
a red ox's tail.

They now took their leave, and all at the Inn wished them a good
success; but they had not gone very far when the Curate began to dread
that he was not doing right in dressing up as a woman and gadding about
in such a costume, even on so good an errand. He therefore proposed to
the Barber that he should be the distressed damsel, and he, the Curate,
would take the part of the Squire and teach him what to say and how to
behave. Sancho now came up to them, and, seeing them in their strange
dresses, could not contain his laughter.

The Curate soon threw off his disguise, and the Barber did the same,
and both resolved not to dress up any more until they should come
nearer to Don Quixote, when the Barber should be the distressed damsel
and the Curate should be the Squire.

Then they pursued their journey towards the Brown Mountains, guided by
Sancho, to whom they explained that it was necessary that his Master
should be led away from his penance, if he was ever to become an
Emperor and be in a position to give Sancho his desired Island.




            [Illustration: THE STORY OF CARDENIO CONTINUED]




                             CHAPTER XVIII

                    The Story of Cardenio continued


The next day they arrived at the place where Sancho had left the boughs
strewn along his path, and there he told them they were near to Don
Quixote, and that they had better get dressed. For they had told Sancho
part of their plan to take away his Master from this wretched penance
he was performing, and warned him not to tell the Knight who they were.
They also said that if Don Quixote asked, as they were sure he would,
whether he had delivered his letter to Dulcinea, he was to say that he
had done so; but as his Lady could not read, she had sent a message
that he was to return to her. Sancho listened to all this talk, and
said he would remember everything, for he was anxious that his Master
should give up penances and go forth again in search of Islands. He
also suggested that it were best he should go on in advance, as perhaps
the message from Dulcinea would of itself be enough to bring Don
Quixote away from the mountains.

With that, Sancho went off into the mountain gorges, leaving the other
two behind by a stream overhung with pleasant trees and rocks.

It was one of the hottest days of August, when in those parts the heat
is very great, and it was about three in the afternoon when Sancho left
them. The two were resting in the shade at their ease when they heard
the sound of a voice, not accompanied by any instrument, but singing
very sweetly and melodiously. The song surprised them not a little, for
this did not seem the place in which to find so good a singer.

The singer finished his song, and the Barber and Curate, in wonder and
delight, listened for more. But as silence continued, they agreed to go
in search of this strange musician. As they were moving away he again
burst into song, and at the end of this, uttered a deep sigh, and the
music was changed into sobs and heart-rending moans.

They had not gone far in their search when, in turning the corner of
a rock, they saw a man of the same figure that Sancho had described
to them when he had told them the story of Cardenio. The Curate at
once went up to him, and in a kindly manner begged him to quit this
wretched, wandering life, lest he should perish among the mountains.

Cardenio, who was in his right mind at this time, and quite free from
his mad fit, replied: 'Whoever you may be, good Sirs, I see clearly
that, unworthy as I am, there are yet human beings who would show
me kindness by persuading me to live in some better place; and I
know myself how this terrible madness masters me, and many blame my
outrageous conduct rather than pity my misfortunes. But if you will
listen to my story, you will know why I have been driven here, what has
made me mad, and will understand how far I ought to be blamed, and how
much I may be pitied.'

The Curate and the Barber, who wanted nothing better than to learn the
cause of his woe from his own lips, asked him to tell his story, and
promised they would do all they could for his consolation.

Upon this Cardenio began his story, and told them all that he had told
Don Quixote, until he came to the book that Lucinda had borrowed about
Amadis of Gaul. There was no interruption from Don Quixote on this
occasion, so Cardenio went on to tell them how, when Lucinda returned
the book he found in it a letter full of the most tender wishes
beautifully expressed.

'It was this letter,' continued Cardenio, 'that moved me to again ask
Lucinda for wife; it was this letter also which made Don Fernando
determine to ruin me before my happiness could be complete. I told Don
Fernando how matters stood with me, and how her father expected mine to
ask for Lucinda, and how I dared not speak to my father about it for
fear he should refuse his consent; not because he was ignorant of the
beauty and worth of Lucinda, but because he did not wish me to marry
so soon, or at least not until he had seen what the Duke Ricardo would
do for me. I told Don Fernando that I could not venture to speak to my
father about it, and he offered to speak on my behalf, and persuade my
father to ask for Lucinda's hand.

'How could I imagine that with a gentleman like Fernando, my own
friend, such a thing as treachery was possible? But so it was!
And my friend, as I thought him, knowing that my presence was a
stumbling-block to his plans, asked me to go to his elder brother's
to borrow some money from him to pay for six horses which Fernando
had bought in the city. It never entered my thoughts to imagine his
villainy, and I went with a right good will to do his errand. That
night I spoke with Lucinda, and told her what had been arranged between
me and Fernando, telling her to hope that all would turn out well. As
I left her, tears filled her eyes, and we both seemed full of misery
and alarm, tokens, as I now think, of the dark fate that awaited me.
I reached the town to which I was sent, and delivered my letters to
Don Fernando's brother. I was well received, but there seemed no haste
to send me back again, and I was put off with many excuses about the
difficulty of raising the money that Don Fernando needed. In this way I
rested several days, much to my disgust, and it seemed to me impossible
to live apart from Lucinda for so long a time.

'But on the fourth day after I had arrived, there came a man in
search of me with a letter, which, by the handwriting, I knew to be
Lucinda's. I opened it, not without fear, knowing that it must be some
serious matter which would lead her to write to me, seeing she did it
so rarely. I asked the bearer, before I read the letter, who had given
it to him, and how long it had been on the way. He answered that,
passing by chance at midday through a street in my native city, a very
beautiful lady had called to him from a window. "Poor thing," said he,
"her eyes were all bedewed with tears, and she spoke hurriedly, saying:
'Brother, if thou art a good man, as thou seemest to be, I pray thee
take this letter to the person named in the address, and in so doing
thou shalt do me a great service. And that thou mayest not want money
to do it, take what thou shalt find wrapped in that handkerchief."'

'"So saying she threw out of the window a handkerchief in which was
wrapped a hundred _reals_, this ring of gold which I carry here, and
this letter which I have given you. I made signs to her that I would
do what she bade, and as I knew you very well I made up my mind not to
trust any other messenger, but to come myself, and so I have travelled
this journey, which you know is some eighteen leagues, in but sixteen
hours."

'Whilst the kind messenger was telling his story, I remained trembling
with the letter in my hand, until at last I took courage and opened it,
when these words caught my eyes:—

'"The promise Don Fernando made to you to persuade your father to speak
to mine, he has kept after his own fashion. Know, then, that he has
himself asked me for wife, and my father, carried away by his rank
and position, has agreed to his wishes, so that in two days we are to
be privately married. Imagine how I feel, and consider if you should
not come at once. Let me hope that this reaches your hand ere mine be
joined to his who keeps his promised faith so ill."

'Such were the words of her letter, and they caused me at once to set
out on my journey without waiting for the despatch of Don Fernando's
business, for now I knew that it was not a matter of buying horses,
but the pursuit of his own wretched pleasure, that had led to my being
sent to his brother. The rage which I felt for Don Fernando, joined
to the fear I had of losing the jewel I had won by so many years of
patient love, seemed to lend me wings, and I arrived at my native city
as swiftly as though I had flown, just in time to see and speak with
Lucinda. I entered the city secretly, and left my mule at the house
of the honest man who had brought my letter, and went straight to the
little iron gate where I had so often met Lucinda.

'There I found her, and as soon as she saw me she said in deep
distress: "Cardenio, I am attired in wedding garments, and in the hall
there waits for me the traitor, Don Fernando, and my covetous father,
with other witnesses, who shall see my death rather than my wedding. Be
not troubled, dear friend, for if I cannot persuade them to give me my
freedom, I can at least end my life with this dagger."

'I answered her in great distress, saying: "Sweet lady, if thou
carriest a dagger, I also carry a sword to defend thy life, or to kill
myself, should fortune be against us."

'I believe she did not hear all I said, for she was hastily called
away, and I aroused myself from my grief, as best I could, and went
into the house, for I knew well all the entrances and exits. Then,
without being seen, I managed to place myself in a hollow formed by the
window of the great hall, which was covered by two pieces of tapestry
drawn together, whence I could see all that went on in the hall without
any one seeing me.

'The bridegroom entered the hall, wearing his ordinary dress. His
groomsman was a first cousin of Lucinda's, and no one else was in the
room but the servants of the house. In a little while Lucinda came out
of her dressing-room with her mother and two of her maids. My anxiety
gave me no time to note what she wore. I was only able to mark the
colours, which were crimson and white; and I remember the glimmer with
which the jewels and precious stones shone in her head-dress. But all
this was as nothing to the singular beauty of her fair golden hair.

'When they were all stood in the hall, the Priest of the parish
entered, and, taking each by the hand, asked: "Will you, Lady Lucinda,
take the Lord Don Fernando for your lawful husband?" I thrust my
head and neck out of the tapestry to hear what Lucinda answered. The
Priest stood waiting for a long time before she gave it, and then,
when I expected, nay, almost hoped, that she would take out the dagger
to stab herself, or unloose her tongue to speak the truth, or make
some confession of her love for me, I heard her say in a faint and
languishing voice, "I will."

'Then Don Fernando said the same, and, giving her the ring, the knot
was tied. But when the Bridegroom approached to embrace her, she put
her hand to her heart and fell fainting in her mother's arms.

'It remains only for me to tell in what a state I was, when in that
"Yes!" I saw all my hopes at an end. I burned with rage and jealousy.
All the house was in a tumult when Lucinda fainted, and, her mother
unclasping her dress to give her air, found in her bosom a paper, which
Fernando seized and went aside to read by the light of a torch. Whilst
he read it he fell into a chair and covered his face with his hands in
melancholy discontent.

'Seeing every one was in confusion I ventured forth, not caring where I
went, not having even a desire to take vengeance on my enemies. I left
the house, and came to where I had left my mule, which I caused to be
saddled. Then without a word of farewell to any one I rode out of the
city, and never turned my head to look back at it again.

'All night I travelled, and about dawn I came to one of the entrances
to these mountains, through which I wandered three days at random. I
then left my mule, and such things as I had, and took to living in
these wilds. My most ordinary dwelling is in the hollow of a cork-tree,
which is large enough to shelter this wretched body. The goatherds who
live among these mountains give me food out of charity. They tell me,
when they meet me in my wits, that at other times I rush out at them
and seize with violence the food they would offer me in kindness.

'I know that I do a thousand mad things, but without Lucinda I shall
never recover my reason, and I feel certain that my misery can only be
ended by death.'




               [Illustration: THE DISCOVERY OF DOROTHEA]




                              CHAPTER XIX

                 The Story of Dorothea, who loved Don
                               Fernando


As soon as Cardenio had finished his melancholy story, the Curate was
about to offer him some consolation, when he was stopped by hearing a
mournful voice calling out: 'Oh that I could find an end to this life
of misery! Alas, how much more agreeable to me is the company of these
rocks and thickets than the society of faithless man! Would that I had
any one to advise me in difficulty, to comfort me in distress, or to
avenge my wrongs!'

This was overheard by the Curate and all who were with him, and
thinking that the person who spoke must be hard by, they went to
search, and had not gone twenty paces when they saw behind a large rock
a boy sitting under an ash-tree. He wore a peasant's dress, but as he
was bending down to wash his feet in the brook, his head was turned
from them. They approached softly and without speaking, while his whole
attention was employed in bathing his legs in the stream. They wondered
at the whiteness and beauty of his feet, that did not seem formed to
tread the furrows, or follow the cattle or the plough, as his dress
seemed to suggest. The Curate, who was ahead of the rest, made signs
to them to crouch down, or hide themselves behind a rock. This done,
they all gazed at the beautiful youth, who was clad in a grey jacket,
and wore breeches and hose of the same cloth, with a grey hunting-cap
on his head. Having washed his delicate feet, he wiped them with a
handkerchief which he took out of his cap, and in doing so he raised
his head, showing to those who were looking at him a face of such
exquisite beauty that Cardenio murmured: 'Since this is not Lucinda, it
can be no earthly but some celestial being.'

The youth took off his cap, and, shaking his head, a wealth of hair,
that Apollo might have envied, fell down upon his shoulders, and
discovered to them all that the peasant was not only a woman, but
one of the most delicate and handsome women they had ever seen. Even
Cardenio had to admit to himself that only Lucinda could rival her in
beauty. Her golden locks fell down in such length and quantity that
they not only covered her shoulders, but concealed everything except
her feet, and the bystanders more than ever desired to know who this
mysterious beauty might be. Some one advanced, and at the noise the
beauteous phantasy raised her head, and thrust aside her locks with
both hands, to see what it was that had startled her. No sooner did she
perceive them than she started up, and, without staying to put on her
shoes or tie up her hair, seized her bundle, and took to flight full
of alarm, but she had not run six yards when her delicate feet, unable
to bear the roughness of the stones, failed her, and she fell to the
ground.

They all ran to her assistance, and the Curate, who was first, said:
'Stay, Madam, whosoever you are; those you see here have no desire to
harm you, and there is therefore no necessity whatever for flight.'

To this she made no reply, being ashamed and confused, but the Curate,
taking her hand, continued in a kindly manner: 'Madam, it can be no
slight cause that has hidden your beauty in such an unworthy disguise,
and brought you to this lonely place where we have found you. Let us at
least offer you our advice and counsel in your distress, for no sorrow
can be so great that kind words may not be of service. Therefore,
Madam, tell us something of your good or evil fortune, that we may help
you in your troubles as best we can.'

At first, while the Curate spoke, the disguised damsel stood rapt in
attention, and gaped and gazed at them all as if she were some stupid
villager, who did not understand what was said; but finding that the
Curate understood something of her secret, she sighed deeply, and
said: 'Since these mountains cannot conceal me, and my poor hair
betrays my secret, it would be vain for me to pretend things which you
could not be expected to believe. Therefore I thank you all, gentlemen,
for your kindness and courtesy, and I will tell you something of my
misfortunes, not to win your pity, but that you may know why it is I
wander here alone and in this strange disguise.'

All this was said in such a sweet voice, and in so sensible a manner,
that they again assured her of their wish to serve her, and begged that
she would tell them her story.

To this she replied by putting on her shoes and binding up her hair,
and seating herself upon a rock in the midst of her three hearers.
Then, brushing away a few tears from her eyes, she began in a clear
voice the story of her life.

'In the Province of Andalusia there is a certain town from which a
great Duke takes his name, which makes him one of our Grandees, as they
are called in Spain. He has two sons. The elder is heir to his estates,
the younger is heir to I know not what, unless it be his father's evil
qualities. To this nobleman my parents are vassals, of humble and low
degree, but still so rich that if nature had gifted them with birth
equal to their wealth, I should have been nobly born, nor should I
now have suffered these strange misfortunes. They are but farmers and
plain people, and what they mostly prized was their daughter, whom they
thought to be the best treasure they had. As they had no other child,
they were almost too affectionate and indulgent, and I was their spoilt
child. And as I was the mistress of their affection, so also was I
mistress of all their goods. I kept the reckoning of their oil-mills,
their wine-presses, their cattle and sheep, their beehives—in a word,
of all that a rich farmer like my father could possess. I engaged and
dismissed the servants, and was the stewardess of the estate. The spare
hours that were left from the management of the farm I spent with the
needle, the lace cushion, and the distaff, or else I would read some
good book or practise upon my harp.

'This was the life that I led in my father's house. And though I seldom
went abroad except to church, yet it seems I had attracted the eyes of
the Duke's younger son, Don Fernando, for so he was called.'

No sooner did she mention the name of Don Fernando than Cardenio's face
changed colour, and the Curate and Barber noticing it, feared that
he would burst out into one of his mad fits. But he did nothing but
tremble and remain silent, and the girl continued her story.

'No sooner, then, had Don Fernando seen me than he was smitten with
love for me, and from that moment I had no peace. I could not sleep for
his serenades. I had numerous letters from him, full of declarations
of love, and at last at his earnest entreaty we had many meetings.
But though he talked much of love, yet I knew that his father would
not allow him to marry the daughter of one of his own vassals, and
my parents both assured me that the Duke would never consent to our
marriage.

'One evening Don Fernando gave me a beautiful ring, and promised that
he would always be true to me, and from that moment I felt that I was
betrothed to him, and that he really intended, in spite of the Duke's
opposition, to make me his wife. For some days I lived in the greatest
joy, and Don Fernando came constantly to see me, but after a while his
visits grew less frequent, and at last ceased altogether, and I heard
that he had gone on a visit to another city.

'I waited in hopes of receiving a letter from him, but none came. Ah,
how sad and bitter those days and hours were to me, when I first began
to doubt and even to disbelieve in my lover's faith! I had to keep
watch on my tears, and wear a happy face for fear my parents should
find out the reason of my unhappiness. All this time of doubt, however,
came to an end at an instant. For at last it was announced in the town
that Don Fernando had married, in the city where he was visiting, a
damsel of exceeding beauty and of very noble birth called Lucinda, and
there were many strange tales told of their wedding.'

Cardenio, hearing the name of Lucinda, did nothing but shrug his
shoulders, bow his head, and shed bitter tears. But yet, for all that,
Dorothea, for such was the maiden's name, did not interrupt the thread
of her story, but continued.

'When this doleful news reached my ears, I was inflamed with rage
and fury. I ordered one of my father's shepherds to attend me, and
without saying a word to my parents, I packed up some dresses and some
money and jewels, and set off on foot for the city where Don Fernando
had gone, that I might get from him at least some explanation of his
wickedness. In two days and a half I arrived at my journey's end, and
the first person I asked told me the whole story of Don Fernando's
wedding. He told me that at the time of the wedding, after Lucinda had
uttered her consent to be Fernando's wife, she had fainted, and there
fell from her bosom a letter written in her own hand, in which she
said that she could not be the wife of Don Fernando, because she was
betrothed to Cardenio, a gentleman of that city. The letter went on to
say that she intended to kill herself at the end of the ceremony, and
upon her was found a dagger, which seemed to bear out what she said.
Don Fernando seeing this, and thinking that Lucinda had mocked him,
would have stabbed her with the dagger had her parents not prevented
him. After this, I was told, Don Fernando fled, and I learned that this
Cardenio had been present at the wedding, and, hearing her words, had
vanished from the city in despair, leaving a letter behind, declaring
the wrongs Lucinda had done to him. The whole city were talking of
these terrible things, and they talked the more when it was known that
Lucinda was missing from her father's house, and that her parents
had almost lost their reason in their distress. When I heard all
these things I made up my mind I would find Don Fernando, married or
unmarried. But before I left the city on my search, I was told there
was a proclamation made by the public crier, offering a large reward
for any one who should bring me back to my parents. Fearing that this
might tempt the shepherd to betray my whereabouts, I made my escape
from the city, and in this disguise came to the Brown Mountains, where
I have lived for some months with an old Goatherd, and I help him to
tend his goats. Here I have managed to pass as a peasant lad until
my hair betrayed me to you gentlemen as what I am, a distressed and
unfortunate maiden. This is indeed the true story of my tragedy, for
which consolation is in vain, and relief, I fear me, impossible.'




                              CHAPTER XX

           Of the pleasant Plan they carried out to persuade
                Don Quixote not to continue his Penance


When the unfortunate Dorothea had finished her story, she remained
silent, her face flushed with sorrow; and as the Priest was about to
comfort her, Cardenio took her by the hand and said: 'Lady, thou art
the beautiful Dorothea, daughter unto rich Cleonardo.'

Dorothea was amazed when she heard her father's name spoken by a
person of such wretched appearance as Cardenio, and answered: 'Who art
thou, friend, that knowest so well my father's name? For, unless I am
mistaken, I did not once name him throughout all my story.'

'I am,' said Cardenio, 'the unlucky one to whom Lucinda was betrothed;
and I, too, had thought that I was without hope of comfort. But now
I hear that Lucinda will not marry Fernando because she is mine, and
Fernando cannot marry Lucinda because he is yours, it seems to me that
there is yet some consolation for both of us. And I vow, on the faith
of a gentleman, not to forsake you until I see you in the possession of
Don Fernando.'

        [Illustration: THE MEETING OF DOROTHEA & DON QUIXOTE]

The Curate now told them both the nature of his errand, and begged that
they would join him in his travels, and stay as long as they pleased at
his village. By this time they heard the voice of Sancho Panza, who,
not finding them where he had left them, was calling out as loudly as
he might.

They went to meet him, and asked for Don Quixote. Sancho told them that
he had found him almost naked to his shirt, lean and yellow, half dead
with hunger, and sighing for the Lady Dulcinea; and although he had
told him that she commanded him to journey to Toboso, yet he declared
that he had made up his mind not to appear before her until he had done
feats worthy of her great beauty.

The Curate now returned and told Dorothea of their plan, and she at
once offered to act the part of the distressed damsel, for she had a
lady's dress in the bundle which she carried.

'The sooner, then, we set about our work the better,' said the Barber.

Dorothea retired to put on her robe of a fine rich woollen cloth, a
short mantle of another green stuff, and a collar and many rich jewels
which she took from a little casket. With these things she adorned
herself so gorgeously that she appeared to be a Princess at least. When
Sancho saw her he was amazed, and asked the Curate with great eagerness
to tell him who the lady was, and what she was doing in these out of
the way places.

'This beautiful lady, brother Sancho,' replied the Curate, 'is the
heiress in direct line of the mighty Kingdom of Micomicon, who has come
in search of thy Master, to ask of him a boon, which is to avenge her
of a wrong done by a wicked Giant. And, owing to the great fame of thy
Master which has spread through all lands, this beautiful Princess has
come to find him out.'

'A happy searcher and a happy finding,' cried Sancho; 'my Master shall
soon slay the great lubber of a Giant, unless he turn out to be a
phantom, for he has no power over those things. And when this is done,
my Lord shall marry the Princess, whose name, by the bye, you have not
yet told me, and by this means shall he become an Emperor, and have
Islands to give away.'

'Her name,' replied the Curate, 'is the Princess Micomicona, and as to
your Master's marriage, I will do what I can to help.'

Sancho was quite satisfied with these answers, and, when Dorothea had
mounted the mule, he guided them towards the spot where Don Quixote was
to be found. And as they went along, the Barber told Sancho he must in
no way pretend to know who he was, for if he did, Don Quixote would
never leave the mountains and would never become an Emperor. The Curate
and Cardenio remained behind, promising to join them again on the first
opportunity.

Having travelled about three-quarters of a league, they found Don
Quixote clothed, though still unarmed, sitting amidst the rocks. No
sooner did Sancho tell Dorothea that this was his Master than she
whipped up her palfrey, closely followed by the well-bearded Barber,
who jumped from his mule, and ran to help his lady alight.

Quickly dismounting, she threw herself on her knees before Don Quixote,
and refusing his efforts to raise her, spoke as follows: 'Never will I
rise from this position, most valiant and invincible Knight, until you
grant me a boon which will not only add to your honour and renown, but
also assist the most injured and unfortunate damsel that ever the sun
beheld. And if the valour of your mighty arm be equal to what I have
heard of your immortal fame, you can indeed render aid to a miserable
being who comes from a far-distant land to seek your help.'

'Beauteous lady,' replied Don Quixote, 'I will not answer one word, nor
hear a jot of your affairs, until you rise from the ground.'

'I will not rise, my Lord,' answered the unfortunate maiden, 'until I
have obtained from you the boon I beg.'

'Dear Lady,' replied Don Quixote, 'it is granted, so that it be not
anything that touches my duty to my King, my country, or the chosen
Queen of my heart.'

'Your kindness shall in no way affect them,' replied Dorothea.

At this moment Sancho came up and whispered softly in his Master's ear:
'Sir, you may very well grant the request she asketh, for it is a mere
nothing; it is only to kill a monstrous Giant, and she that demands it
is the Princess Micomicona, Queen of the great Kingdom of Micomicon in
Ethiopia.'

'Let her be what she will,' said Don Quixote, 'I will do my duty
towards her.' And then turning to the damsel, he said: 'Rise, most
beautiful Lady, for I grant you any boon you shall please to ask of me.'

'Why, then,' said Dorothea, 'what I ask of you is, that you will at
once come away with me to the place where I shall guide you, and that
you promise me not to undertake any new adventure, until you have
revenged me on a traitor who has driven me out of my Kingdom.'

'I grant your request,' said Don Quixote, 'and therefore, Lady, you may
cast away from this day forward all the melancholy that troubles you,
for this mighty arm shall restore you to your Kingdom.'

The distressed damsel strove with much ado to kiss his hand, but Don
Quixote, who was a most courteous Knight, would not permit it, and,
making her arise, treated her with the greatest respect.

He now commanded Sancho to saddle Rozinante and help him to arm
himself, and this done the Knight was ready to depart. The Barber, who
had been kneeling all the while, had great difficulty to stop laughing
aloud at all this, and his beard was in danger of falling off. He
was glad to get up and help his Lady to mount the mule, and when Don
Quixote was mounted, and the Barber himself had got upon his beast,
they were ready to start. As for Sancho, who trudged along on foot,
he could not help grieving for the loss of his Dapple; but he bore it
all with patience, for now he saw his Master on the way to marry a
Princess, and so become at least King of Micomicon, though it grieved
him to think that that country was peopled by blackamoors, and that
when he became a ruler his vassals would all be black.

While this was going on, the Curate and Cardenio had not been idle.
For the Curate was a cunning plotter, and had hit on a bright idea. He
took from his pocket a pair of scissors, and cut off Cardenio's rugged
beard and trimmed his hair very cleverly. And when he had thrown his
riding-cloak over Cardenio's shoulders, he was so unlike what he was
before, that he would not have known himself in a looking-glass. This
finished, they went out to meet Don Quixote and the others.

When they came towards them, the Curate looked earnestly at the Knight
for some time, and then ran towards him with open arms, saying: 'In
a good hour is this meeting with my worthy countryman, the mirror of
Knighthood, Don Quixote of the Mancha, the Champion of the distressed.'

Don Quixote did not at first know him, but when he remembered the
Curate he wanted to alight, saying: 'It is not seemly, reverend Sir,
that I should ride whilst you travel on foot.'

But the Curate would not allow him to dismount and give him his horse,
but suggested that he might ride behind the lady's Squire on his mule.

'I did not think of that, good Master Curate,' said Don Quixote; 'but I
know my Lady the Princess will for my sake order her Squire to lend you
the use of his saddle.'

'That I will,' said the Princess; 'and I know my Squire is the last man
to grudge a share of his beast to this reverend Father.'

'That is most certain,' said the Barber, and got off his steed at once.

The Curate now mounted, but the misfortune was that when the Barber
tried to get up behind, the mule, which was a hired one, lifted up her
legs and kicked out with such fury that she knocked Mr. Nicholas to the
ground, and, as he rolled over, his beard fell off and lay upon the
earth. Don Quixote, seeing that huge mass of beard torn from the jaw
without blood, and lying at a distance from the Squire's face, said:
'This, I vow, is one of the greatest miracles I ever saw in my life.
The beard is taken off as clean by the heel of the mule as if it had
been done by the hand of a barber.'

The Curate, seeing the risk they ran of their plan being found out,
came to where Master Nicholas was lying, and with one jerk clapped it
on again, muttering as he did so some Latin words, which he said were a
charm for fixing on beards.

By this means, to Don Quixote's amazement, the Squire was cured again,
and he asked the Curate to tell him this charm, which, he said, since
it could heal a wound of this kind, must be good for even more
dangerous injuries.

The Curate agreed to tell him the secret some other day, and, having
mounted the mule, the party rode slowly away towards the Inn.




           [Illustration: SANCHO PANZA RECOVERS HIS DAPPLE]




                              CHAPTER XXI

                       Of the Journey to the Inn


The Curate rode first on the mule, and with him rode Don Quixote and
the Princess. The others, Cardenio, the Barber, and Sancho Panza,
followed on foot.

And as they rode, Don Quixote said to the damsel: 'Madam, let me
entreat your Highness to lead the way that most pleaseth you.'

Before she could answer, the Curate said: 'Towards what Kingdoms would
you travel? Are you for your native land of Micomicon?'

She, who knew very well what to answer, being no babe, replied: 'Yes,
Sir, my way lies towards that Kingdom.'

'If it be so,' said the Curate, 'you must pass through the village
where I dwell, and from thence your Ladyship must take the road to
Carthagena, where you may embark. And, if you have a prosperous
journey, you may come within the space of nine years to the Lake Meona,
I mean Meolidas, which stands on this side of your Highness's Kingdom
some hundred days' journey or more.'

'You are mistaken, good Sir,' said she, 'for it is not yet fully two
years since I left there, and, though I never had fair weather, I
have arrived in time to see what I so longed for, the presence of the
renowned Don Quixote of the Mancha, whose glory was known to me as soon
as my foot touched the shores of Spain.'

'No more,' cried Don Quixote. 'I cannot abide to hear myself praised,
for I am a sworn enemy to flattery. And though I know what you speak is
but truth, yet it offends mine ears. And I can tell you this, at least,
that whether I have valour or not, I will use it in your service,
even to the loss of my life. But let me know, Master Curate, what has
brought you here?'

'You must know, then,' replied the Curate, 'that Master Nicholas, the
Barber, and myself travelled towards Seville to recover certain sums of
money which a kinsman of mine in the Indies had sent me. And passing
yesterday through this way we were set upon by four robbers, who took
everything that we had. And it is said about here, that those who
robbed us were certain galley slaves, who they say were set at liberty,
almost on this very spot, by a man so valiant that in spite of the
guard he released them all. And doubtless he must be out of his wits,
or else he must be as great a knave as they, to loose the wolf among
the sheep, and rebel against his King by taking from the galleys their
lawful prey.'

Sancho had told the Curate of the adventure with the galley slaves, and
the Curate spoke of it to see what Don Quixote would say. The Knight,
however, durst not confess his part in the adventure, but rode on,
changing colour at every word the Curate spoke.

When the Curate had finished, Sancho burst out: 'By my father, Master
Curate, he that did that deed was my Master, and that not for want of
warning, for I told him beforehand that it was a sin to deliver them,
and that they were great rogues who had been sent to the galleys to
punish them for their crimes.'

'You bottlehead!' replied Don Quixote. 'It is not the duty of Knights
Errant to examine whether the afflicted, enslaved, and oppressed whom
they meet by the way are in sorrow for their own default; they must
relieve them because they are needy and in distress, looking at their
sorrow and not at their crimes. And if any but the holy Master Curate
shall find fault with me on this account, I will tell him that he knows
nought of Knighthood, and that he lies in his throat, and this I will
make him know by the power of my sword.'

Dorothea, who was discreet enough to see they were carrying the jest
too far, now said: 'Remember, Sir Knight, the boon you promised me,
never to engage in any other adventure, be it ever so urgent, until
you have seen me righted. And had Master Curate known that it was the
mighty arm of Don Quixote that freed the galley slaves, I feel sure he
would have bit his tongue through ere he spoke words which might cause
you anger.'

'That I dare swear,' said the Curate.

'Madam,' replied Don Quixote, 'I will hold my peace and keep my anger
to myself, and will ride on peaceably and quietly until I have done
the thing I promised. Tell me, therefore, without delay, what are your
troubles and on whom am I to take revenge.'

To this Dorothea replied: 'Willingly will I do what you ask, so you
will give me your attention.'

At this Cardenio and the Barber drew near to hear the witty Dorothea
tell her tale, and Sancho, who was as much deceived as his Master, was
the most eager of all to listen.

She, after settling herself in her saddle, began with a lively air
to speak as follows: 'In the first place, I would have you know,
gentlemen, that my name is ——' Here she stopped a moment, for she had
forgotten what name the Curate had given her.

He, seeing her trouble, said quickly: 'It is no wonder, great Lady,
that you hesitate to tell your misfortunes. Great sufferers often lose
their memory, so that they even forget their own names, as seems to
have happened to your Ladyship, who has forgotten that she is called
the Princess Micomicona, heiress of the great Kingdom of Micomicon.'

'True,' said the damsel, 'but let me proceed. The King, my father, was
called Tinacrio the Sage, and was learned in the magic art. By this
he discovered that my mother, the Queen Xaramilla, would die before
him, and that I should soon afterwards be left an orphan. This did
not trouble him so much as the knowledge that a certain Giant, called
Pandafilando of the Sour Face, Lord of a great Island near our border,
when he should hear that I was an orphan, would pass over with a mighty
force into my Kingdom and take it from me. My father warned me that
when this came to pass I should not stay to defend myself, and so cause
the slaughter of my people, but should at once set out for Spain, where
I should meet with a Knight whose fame would then extend through all
that Kingdom. His name, he said, should be Don Quixote, and he would be
tall of stature, have a withered face, and on his right side, a little
under his left shoulder, he should have a tawny spot with certain hairs
like bristles.'

On hearing this, Don Quixote said: 'Hold my horse, son Sancho, and help
me to strip, for I would know if I am the Knight of whom the sage King
spoke.'

'There is no need,' said Sancho, 'for I know that your Worship has such
a mark near your backbone.'

'It is enough,' said Dorothea, 'for among friends we must not be too
particular, and whether it is on your shoulder or your backbone is of
no importance. And, indeed, no sooner did I land in Osuna than I heard
of Don Quixote's fame, and felt sure that he was the man.'

'But how did you land in Osuna, Madam,' asked Don Quixote, 'seeing that
it is not a sea town?'

'Sir,' said the Curate, 'the Princess would say that she landed at
Malaga, and that Osuna was the first place wherein she heard tidings of
your Worship.'

'That is so,' said Dorothea; 'and now nothing remains but to guide you
to Pandafilando of the Sour Face, that I may see you slay him, and once
again enter into my Kingdom. For all must succeed as the wise Tinacrio,
my father, has foretold, and if the Knight of the prophecy, when he
has killed the Giant, so desires, then it will be my lot to become his
wife, and he will at once possess both me and my Kingdom.'

'What thinkest thou of this, friend Sancho? Did I not tell thee this
would come about? Here we have a Kingdom to command and a Queen to
marry.'

When Sancho heard all this he jumped for joy, and running to Dorothea
stopped her mule, and asking her very humbly to give him her hand to
kiss, he kneeled down as a sign that he accepted her as his Queen and
Lady.

All around could scarcely hide their laughter at the Knight's madness
and the Squire's simplicity, and when Dorothea promised Sancho to make
him a great lord, and Sancho gave her thanks, it roused their mirth
anew.

'Madam,' continued Don Quixote, who appeared to be full of thought, 'I
repeat all I have said, and make my vow anew, and when I have cut off
the head of Pandafilando I will put you in peaceable possession of your
Kingdom, but since my memory and will are captive to another, it is not
possible for me to marry.'

So disgusted was Sancho with what he heard that he cried out in a
great rage: 'Surely, Sir Don Quixote, your Worship is not in your right
senses. Is it possible your Worship can refuse to marry a Princess like
this? A poor chance have I of getting a Countship if your Worship goes
on like this, searching for mushrooms at the bottom of the sea. Is my
Lady Dulcinea more beautiful? She cannot hold a candle to her. Marry
her! Marry at once, and when you are King make me a Governor.'

Don Quixote, who heard such evil things spoken of his Lady Dulcinea,
could not bear them any longer, and therefore, lifting up his lance,
without speaking a word to Sancho, gave him two blows that brought him
to the earth, and if Dorothea had not called to the Knight to spare
him, without doubt he would have taken his Squire's life.

'Think you, miserable villain,' cried Don Quixote, 'that it is to be
all sinning on thy side and pardoning on mine? Say, scoffer with the
viper's tongue, who dost thou think hath gained this Kingdom and cut
off the head of this Giant and made thee Marquis—for all this I take
to be a thing as good as completed—unless it be the worth and valour
of Dulcinea using my arm as her instrument? She fights in my person,
and I live and breathe in her. From her I hold my life and being. O
villain, how ungrateful art thou that seest thyself raised from the
dust of the earth to be a nobleman, and speakest evil of her who gives
thee such honours!'

Sancho was not too much hurt to hear what his Master said. He jumped
up nimbly and ran behind Dorothea's palfrey, and from there said to
his Master: 'Tell me, your Worship, if you are not going to marry this
great Princess, how this Kingdom will become yours, and how you can
do me any favours. Pray marry this Queen now we have her here. I say
nothing against Lady Dulcinea's beauty, for I have never seen her.'

'How, thou wicked traitor, thou hast not seen her!' cried Don Quixote.
'Didst thou not but now bring me a message from her?'

'I mean,' replied Sancho, 'not seen her for long enough to judge of her
beauty, though, from what I did see, she appeared very lovely.'

'Ah!' said Don Quixote, 'then I do excuse thee, but have a care what
thou sayest, for, remember, the pitcher may go once too often to the
well.'

'No more of this,' said Dorothea. 'Run, Sancho, kiss your Master's
hand, and ask his pardon. Henceforth speak no evil of the Lady
Dulcinea, and trust that fortune may find you an estate where you may
live like a Prince.'

Sancho went up hanging his head and asked his Lord's hand, which he
gave him with a grave air, and, after he had kissed it, the Knight gave
him his blessing, and no more was said about it.

While this was passing, they saw coming along the road on which they
were a man riding upon an Ass, and when he drew near he seemed to be a
gipsy. But Sancho Panza, whenever he met with any asses, followed them
with his eyes and his heart, and he had hardly caught sight of the man
when he knew him to be the escaped robber, Gines of Passamonte, and the
Ass to be none other than his beloved Dapple.

Gines had disguised himself as a gipsy, but Sancho knew him, and called
out in a loud voice: 'Ah! thief Gines, give up my jewel, let go my
life, give up mine Ass, give up the comfort of my home. Fly, scoundrel!
Begone, thief! Give back what is none of thine.'

He need not have used so many words, for Gines leaped off at the first
and raced away from them all as fast as his legs could carry him.

Sancho then ran up to Dapple, and, embracing him, cried: 'How hast thou
been cared for, my darling and treasure, Dapple of mine eyes, my sweet
companion?' With this he stroked and kissed him as if he had been a
human being. But the Ass held his peace, and allowed Sancho to kiss and
cherish him without answering a word.




   [Illustration: SANCHO'S STORY OF HIS VISIT TO THE LADY DULCINEA]




                             CHAPTER XXII

             The Story Sancho Panza told his Master of his
                      Visit to the Lady Dulcinea


When the rest came up they all congratulated Sancho on finding his
ass, and Don Quixote promised that he would still give him the three
ass-colts, for which Sancho thanked him heartily.

While the Knight and his Squire rode on ahead, the Curate said to
Cardenio: 'Is it not marvellous to see the strange way in which this
good gentleman believes all these inventions, and this only because
they wear the style and fashion of the follies he is so fond of
reading?'

'It is so,' said Cardenio, 'and indeed, if he were a character in a
story-book no one would believe in him.'

'There is another thing, too,' said the Curate, 'that apart from his
folly about Knighthood, no one would esteem him to be other than a man
of excellent judgment.'

Don Quixote at the same time was saying to Sancho: 'Friend Sancho, let
us bury all injuries, and tell me when, how, and where didst thou find
Dulcinea. What was she doing? What saidst thou to her? What answer
made she? How did she look when she read my letter? Who copied it for
thee? Tell me all, without adding to it or lying, for I would know
everything.'

'Master,' replied Sancho, 'if I must speak the truth, nobody copied out
the letter, for I carried no letter at all.'

'Thou sayest true,' said Don Quixote, 'for I found the pocket-book,
wherein it was written, two days after thy departure, and I did expect
that thou wouldst return for it.'

'I had done so,' said Sancho, 'if I had not carried it in my memory
when you read it to me, so that I could say it to a parish clerk, who
copied it out of my head, word for word, so exactly that he said that
in all the days of his life he had never read such a pretty letter.'

'And hast thou it still by heart, Sancho?' asked Don Quixote.

'No, Sir, for after I gave it, seeing that it was to be of no more
use, I let myself forget it. If I remember, it began, _Scrubby Queen,
Sovereign Lady_, and the ending—_yours till death, the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance_—but between these things I put in three hundred
_hearts_, and _loves_, and _dear eyes_.'

'All this I like to hear, therefore say on,' said Don Quixote. 'Thou
didst arrive; and what was the Queen of Beauty doing then? I daresay
thou foundest her threading pearls or embroidering some curious device
with golden threads for this her captive Knight.'

'No, that I did not,' said Sancho, 'but winnowing two bushels of wheat
in the yard of her house.'

'Why, then,' said Don Quixote, 'thou mayest reckon that each grain of
wheat was a pearl, seeing they were touched by her hands. But tell me,
when thou didst deliver my letter, did she kiss it? Did she use any
ceremony worthy of such a letter? Or what did she?'

'When I went to give it to her,' said Sancho, 'she was all in a bustle
with a good lot of wheat in her sieve, and said to me: "Lay down that
letter there on the sack, for I cannot read it until I have winnowed
all that is here."'

'O discreet Lady!' said Don Quixote; 'she must have done that, so that
she might read and enjoy it at leisure. Go on, then, Sancho, and tell
all she said about me, and what thou saidst to her.'

'She asked me nothing,' replied the Squire, 'but I told her the state
which I left you in for her sake, doing penance all naked from the
girdle up among these rocks like a brute beast, and I told her how you
slept on the ground and never combed your beard, but spent your time
weeping and cursing your fortune.'

'There thou saidst ill,' said Don Quixote, 'for I do not curse my
fortune, but rather bless it, seeing that it hath made me worthy to
merit the love of so beautiful a lady as Dulcinea of Toboso. But tell
me, after she had sifted her corn and sent it to the mill, did she then
read my letter?'

'The letter,' replied Sancho, 'she did never read, for she said she
could neither read nor write, and therefore she tore it into small
pieces, and would allow no one to read it lest the whole village might
know her secrets. Lastly, she told me that I was to say to your Worship
that she kissed your hands, and that she had a greater desire to see
you than to write to you. Therefore she begged, as you loved her, that
you should quit these bushes and brambles, and leave off these mad
pranks, and set out for Toboso, for she had a great longing to see
your Worship. She laughed a good deal when I told her they called your
Worship the Knight of the Rueful Countenance. I asked her whether the
beaten Biscayan came there. She said yes, and that he was a very good
fellow. I asked also after the galley slaves; but she told me that she
had seen none of them as yet.'

'All goes well, then,' said Don Quixote; 'but tell me, what jewel did
she bestow on thee at thy departure for reward of the tidings thou
hadst brought? For it is a usual and ancient custom among Knights
Errant and their Ladies to give to their Squires, damsels, or dwarfs
who bring good tidings, some rich jewel as a reward for their welcome
news.'

'It may well be,' replied Sancho; 'and I think it was a most excellent
custom, but I doubt if it exists nowadays, for it would seem to be the
manner of our age only to give a piece of bread and cheese; for this
was all that my Lady Dulcinea bestowed on me when I took my leave, and,
by the way, the cheese was made of sheep's milk.'

'She is marvellous liberal,' said the Knight; 'and if she gave thee
not a jewel of gold, it was doubtless because she had none then about
her. But that will be put right some day. Knowest thou, Sancho, at what
I am astonished? It is at thy sudden return, for it seems to me thou
wast gone and hast come back again in the air, for thou hast been away
but a little more than three days, although Toboso is more than thirty
leagues from hence. Therefore I do believe that the wise Enchanter,
who takes care of my affairs and is my friend, must have helped thee
to travel without thy being aware of it. For there are sages that take
up a Knight Errant sleeping in his bed, and, without knowing how or
in what manner, he awakes the next day more than a thousand leagues
from the place where he fell asleep. For otherwise Knights Errant
could not help one another in perils as they do now. For it may be
that one is fighting in the mountains of Armenia with some dragon or
fierce serpent, and is at the point of death, and, just when he least
expects it, he sees on a cloud, or in a chariot of fire, some other
Knight, his friend, who a little before was in England, who helps him
and delivers him from danger. And all this is done by the craft and
wisdom of those sage Enchanters who take care of valorous Knights.
But, leaving all this apart, what dost thou think I should do about my
Lady's commands to go and see her?'

'Tell me, good your Worship,' replied Sancho, 'do you intend to journey
to Toboso and lose so rich and noble a prize as this Princess? Peace!
take my advice and marry her in the first village that hath a parish
priest, or let the Curate do it, for he is here, and remember the old
saying, "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush."'

'Look you, Sancho,' said his Master, 'if you counsel me to marry, to
the end that I may be King when I have slain the Giant and be able to
give you an Island, know that I can do that without marrying, for I
will make it a condition that upon conquering this monster they shall
give me a portion of the Kingdom, although I marry not the Princess,
and this I will bestow upon thee.'

'Let it be so, then,' said Sancho. 'And trouble not your mind, I pray
you, to go and see the Lady Dulcinea at this moment, but go away and
kill the Giant and let us finish off this job, for I believe it will
prove of great honour and greater profit.'

'I believe, Sancho,' said Don Quixote, 'that thou art in the right, and
I will follow thy advice in going first with the Princess rather than
visiting Dulcinea.'

At this moment Master Nicholas the Barber called out to them to stay
awhile, for they wished to halt and drink at a small spring hard by.
Don Quixote stopped, to Sancho's very great content, as he was already
tired of telling so many lies, and feared that his Master would entrap
him in his own words. For although he knew that Dulcinea was a peasant
lass of Toboso, yet he had never seen her in all his life.




              [Illustration: ANDREW SALUTES DON QUIXOTE]




                             CHAPTER XXIII

              What happened during their further Journey
                            towards the Inn


They all dismounted at the spring, and by this time Cardenio had
dressed himself in the boy's clothes that Dorothea had worn, which,
though by no means good, were better than those he cast off. The Curate
had brought some scanty provisions from the Inn, and they sat down near
the spring to satisfy, as well as they could, the hunger they all felt.

Whilst they took their ease, a young lad passed by, who looked very
earnestly at all those who sat round the spring, and after a moment ran
up to Don Quixote, and embracing his legs, burst into tears, crying:
'Ah, my Lord, do not you know me? Look well upon me. I am the boy
Andrew whom you unloosed from the oak-tree to which I was tied.'

Don Quixote knew him at once, and, taking him by the hand, turned to
those who were present and said: 'That you may see how important it
is to have Knights Errant in the world to set right the wrongs and
injuries which are done by insolent and wicked men, you must know that
a few days ago, as I rode through a wood, I heard piteous screams and
cries as of some person in sore distress. I hastened instantly to the
place, and there I found tied to an oak this boy whom you see here,
and I am glad that he is here, because if I shall not say the truth,
he may check me. He was tied to an oak-tree, stark naked from the
waist upward, and a certain clown, whom I afterwards learned to be his
master, was beating him with a horse's bridle. As soon as I saw him I
asked the master the reason of his cruelty. The Farmer replied that he
was beating him because he was his servant, and that he had been guilty
of carelessness due rather to knavery than stupidity. At which the
lad said, "Sir, he beats me only because I ask him for my wages." The
Farmer answered with many excuses, which I heard but did not believe. I
made him at once untie the boy, and forced him to swear me an oath that
he would take him home with him and pay him every _real_ upon the nail.
Is not all this true, son Andrew? Answer, nor hesitate in anything.
Tell these gentlemen what passed, that they may learn how necessary it
is to have Knights Errant up and down the highways.'

'All that your Worship says is very true,' replied the lad;' but the
end of the business was very contrary to what you imagine.'

'How contrary?' asked Don Quixote. 'Did not the clown pay thee, then?'

'He not only did not pay me,' answered the boy, 'but as soon as you
had passed out of the wood, and we were alone again, he tied me to
the same tree and gave me afresh so many blows that I had like to be
flayed alive. And at each blow he uttered some jest to make a mock of
your Lordship, and if I had not felt so much pain, I could have found
it in my heart to have laughed very merrily. In fact, he left me in
such a wretched plight that I have been in hospital ever since. And
you are at fault in all this, for if you had ridden on your way, and
not come meddling in other folk's affairs, perhaps my master would
have contented himself with giving me a dozen blows or so, and would
presently have let me loose and paid me my wages. But, because you
abused him so harshly, his anger was aroused, and as he could not
revenge himself on you, as soon as he was alone he let loose the storm
of his wrath upon me, in such a manner that I fear I shall never be a
man again as long as I live.'

'The mischief was,' said Don Quixote, 'in my going away, for I should
not have departed until I had seen thee paid. For I might well have
known that no churl will keep his word if he finds that it does not
suit him to keep it. But yet, Andrew, thou dost remember how I swore
that if he paid thee not, I would return and seek him out, and find
him though he should hide himself in the belly of a whale.'

'That is true,' replied Andrew, 'but it is all of no use.'

'Thou shalt see whether it is of use or no presently,' said Don
Quixote, and so saying he got up hastily and commanded Sancho to bridle
Rozinante, who was feeding whilst they did eat.

Dorothea asked him what it was he meant to do. He answered that he
meant to go in search of the Farmer and punish him for his bad conduct,
and make him pay Andrew to the last farthing, in spite of all the
churls in the world. To which she answered, entreating him to remember
that he could not deal with any other adventure, according to his
promise, until he had finished hers; and as he knew this better than
any one else, he must restrain his anger until he returned from her
Kingdom.

'That is true,' answered Don Quixote; 'and Andrew must have patience
until my return, for I once more vow and promise anew never to rest
until he be satisfied and paid.'

'I do not believe these vows,' said Andrew; 'I would rather just now
have as much money as would help me on my way to Seville than all the
revenge in the world. Give me something to eat, and let me go, and may
all Knights Errant be as erring to themselves as they have been with
me.'

Sancho took out of his bag a piece of bread and cheese, and, giving it
to the lad, said: 'Take it, brother Andrew, for each of us has a share
in your misfortune.'

'What share have you in it?' asked Andrew.

'This piece of bread and cheese which I give thee,' said Sancho, 'for
no one knows whether I shall have need of it again or not. For you must
know, my friend, that we Squires to Knights Errant suffer great hunger
and ill-luck, and many things which are better felt than told.'

Andrew laid hold of his bread and cheese, and, seeing that no one gave
him anything else, bowed his head and went on his way. And as he went
he turned to Don Quixote and said: 'I pray you, Sir Knight Errant, if
you meet me again, although you should see me being cut to pieces, do
not come to my aid, but leave me to my ill fate. For it cannot be so
great but that greater will result from your help, and may you and all
the Knights Errant that ever were born in the world keep your paths
away from mine.'

Don Quixote started up to chastise him, but he set off running so fast
that no one tried to pursue him. The Knight was greatly ashamed at
Andrew's story, and the others had much ado not to laugh outright, and
so put him to utter confusion.

When they had finished their dinner, they saddled and went to horse
once more, and travelled all that day and the next without any
adventure of note, until they arrived at the Inn, which was the dread
and terror of Sancho Panza, and though he would rather not have entered
it, yet he could not avoid doing so. The Innkeeper, the Hostess,
her daughter, and Maritornes, seeing Don Quixote and Sancho return,
went out to meet them with tokens of great love and joy. The Knight
returned their compliments with grave courtesy, and bade them prepare a
better bed than they gave him the last time.

'Sir,' said the Hostess, 'if you would pay us better than the last
time, we would give you one fit for a Prince.'

Don Quixote answered that he would, and they prepared a reasonable good
bed for him in the same room where he lay before. Then he went off to
bed at once, because he was tired and weary, both in body and mind.

He had scarcely locked himself in, when the Hostess ran at the Barber,
seizing him by the beard, and cried: 'By my troth, but my tail shall no
longer be used for a beard, for the comb which used to be kept in the
tail gets tossed about the floor, and it is a shame.'

But the Barber would not give it up for all her tugging, until the
Curate told him to let her have it, for there was no longer any need
of a disguise, as the Barber might now appear in his own shape, and
tell Don Quixote that after he had been robbed by the galley slaves he
had fled for refuge to that Inn. As for the Princess's Squire, if the
Knight should ask after him, they could say he had been sent on before
to her Kingdom, to announce to her subjects that she was returning,
bringing with her one who should give them all their freedom. On this
the Barber gave up the tail to the landlady, together with the other
things they had borrowed.

All the people of the Inn were struck with Dorothea's beauty and the
comeliness of the shepherd Cardenio. The Curate made them get ready a
dinner of the best the Inn could produce, and the Innkeeper, in hope
of better payment, prepared them very speedily a good dinner. All this
was done whilst Don Quixote slept, and they agreed not to wake him, for
they thought it would do him more good to sleep than to eat.




          [Illustration: DON QUIXOTE'S EXTRAORDINARY BATTLE]




                             CHAPTER XXIV

             Of the extraordinary Battle which Don Quixote
                 waged with what he took to be a Giant


Don Quixote was still asleep when the dinner was served, and during
dinner—the Innkeeper, his wife, his daughter, and Maritornes being
there, as well as all the travellers—they talked of Don Quixote's
strange craze, and of the state in which they had found him. The
Hostess told them of what had happened between him and the Carrier, and
glancing round to see if Sancho were present, and not seeing him, she
told them the story of his being tossed in the blanket, to the no small
entertainment of all the company.

The Curate told him it was the books of Knighthood that Don Quixote had
read that had turned his head.

'I know not how that can be,' said the Innkeeper, 'for to my thinking
there is no finer reading in the world; and when it is harvest-time,
the reapers here often collect during the midday heat, and one who can
read takes one of these books in hand, while some thirty of us get
round him, and sit listening with so much delight that I could find it
in my heart to be hearing such stories day and night.'

'And I think well of them, too,' said the Hostess, 'for when the
reading is going on, you are so full of it that you forget to scold me,
and I have a good time of it.'

'Ah,' said her daughter, 'I too listen, and though I like not the
fights which please my father, yet the lamentations which the Knights
make when they are away from their Ladies make me weep for pity, and I
enjoy that.'

'We have need here,' said the Curate, 'of our friends, the old woman
and the Niece. Beware, my good Host, of these books, and take care that
they carry you not on the road they have taken Don Quixote.'

'Not so,' said the Innkeeper, 'I shall not be such a fool as to turn
Knight Errant; for I see well enough that it is not the fashion now to
do as they used to do in the times when these famous Knights roamed
about the world. All that is of no use nowadays.'

Sancho came in in the midst of this, and was amazed to hear them say
that Knights Errant now were of no use, and that books of Knighthood
were full of follies and lies, and he made up his mind to see the end
of this voyage of his Master, and if that did not turn out as happily
as he expected, to return home to his wife and children and to his
former labours.

At this moment a noise came from the room where Don Quixote was lying,
and Sancho went hastily to see if his Master wanted anything.

In a few moments he returned, rushing wildly back, and shouting at the
top of his voice: 'Come, good Sirs, quickly, and help my Master, who is
engaged in one of the most terrible battles my eyes have ever seen.
I swear he has given the Giant, the enemy of my Lady, the Princess
Micomicona, such a cut, that he has sliced his head clean off like a
turnip.'

'What sayest thou, friend?' said the Curate. 'Art thou in thy wits,
Sancho? How can it be as you say, when the Giant is at least two
thousand leagues from here?'

By this time they heard a marvellous great noise within the chamber,
and Don Quixote shouting out: 'Hold, thief, scoundrel, rogue! now I
have thee, and thy scimitar shall not avail thee!'

And it seemed as if he were striking a number of mighty blows on the
walls.

'Do not stand there listening,' cried Sancho, 'but go in and part the
fray, or aid my Master. Though I think it will not now be necessary,
for doubtless the Giant is dead by now, and giving an account of the
ill life he led; for I saw his blood was all about the house and his
head cut off, which is as big as a great wine-bag.'

'May I be hewed in pieces,' cried the Innkeeper on hearing this, 'if
Don Quixote has not been slashing at one of the skins of red wine that
are standing filled at his bed head, and the wine that is spilt must be
what this fellow takes for blood.'

So saying he ran into the room, and the rest followed him, and found
Don Quixote in the strangest guise imaginable. He was in his shirt,
which did not reach to his knees. His legs were very long and lean,
covered with hair, and not over clean. On his head he wore a greasy
red nightcap which belonged to the Innkeeper. Round his left arm he had
folded the blanket from off his bed, at which Sancho gazed angrily, for
he owed that blanket a grudge. In his right hand he gripped his naked
sword, with which he laid round about him with many a thwack, shouting
out as if indeed he was at battle with some terrible Giant. The best
sport of all was that his eyes were not open, for he was indeed asleep,
and dreaming that he was fighting a Giant. For his imagination was
so full of the adventure in front of him that he dreamed that he had
already arrived at Micomicon, and was there in combat with his enemy;
and he had given so many blows to the wine-bags, supposing them to be
the Giant, that the whole chamber flowed with wine.

When the Innkeeper saw this, he flew into such a rage that he set upon
Don Quixote with his clenched fist, and began to pummel him, so that if
Cardenio and the Curate had not pulled him off, he would have finished
the battle of the Giant altogether. In spite of this, the poor Knight
did not awake until the Barber got a great kettleful of cold water from
the well, and threw it right over him, when Don Quixote woke up, but
even then did not understand where he was.

As for Sancho, he went up and down the floor, searching for the
Giant's head, and seeing he could not find it, said: 'Now I know that
everything I see in this house is enchanted, for this head is not to be
seen here, though I myself saw it cut off with my own eyes, and the
blood running from the body as from a fountain.'

'What blood or what fountain dost thou cackle of here?' cried the
Innkeeper. 'Thou thief! dost thou not see that the blood and the
fountain is no other thing but the wine-bags which are ripped open, and
the red wine which swims up and down the room?'

'I know nothing but this,' replied Sancho, 'that if I cannot find the
Giant's head, my Earldom will dissolve like salt cast into water.' For
indeed Sancho awake was worse than his Master asleep, so greatly had
his Master's promises turned his brain.

The Innkeeper was at his wits' end at seeing the stupidity of the
Squire and the mischief done by his Master, but he determined that they
should not as before go away without paying; that Knighthood should be
no excuse for this, and he would make them pay for the very patches in
the wine-skins that had been ruined.

All this time the Curate was holding Don Quixote's hands, who,
believing that he had finished the adventure and was in the presence of
the Princess Micomicona herself, fell on his knees before the Curate,
and said: 'Your Highness, exalted and beautiful Lady, may live from
henceforth secure from any danger that this wretched Giant might have
done to you; and I am also freed this day from the promise I made to
you, seeing that I have, with the assistance of her through whose
favour I live and breathe, so happily completed my labour.'

'Did I not say so?' cried Sancho, hearing his Master. 'I was not
drunk. My Master has salted the Giant down this time, and my Earldom is
secure.'

Who could help laughing at the follies of the two, Master and man? All
of them laughed except the Innkeeper, who burst out into fits of anger
ten times worse than before.

At length the Barber, Cardenio, and the Curate managed, not without
much ado, to get Don Quixote to bed again, and presently left him
sleeping, with every sign of being worn out. They let him sleep, and
went out to comfort Sancho Panza, whose grief was great at not finding
the Giant's head. But they had more to do to pacify the Innkeeper, who
was almost out of his wits at the sudden death of his wine-skins.

His wife, too, was running up and down, scolding and crying out: 'Alas,
the unlucky hour when this Knight Errant came to my house! Would that
mine eyes had never seen him, for he has cost me dear. The last time he
was here he went away scot free for his supper, bed, straw, and barley
for himself, his man, his horse, and his ass, because he said he was
a Knight Errant. Then for his sake the other gentlemen came and took
away my good tail, and have returned it damaged, and now he breaks
my wine-skins and spills the wine. I wish I may see as much of his
blood spilt.' And backed up by Maritornes, the good Innkeeper's wife
continued her lamentations with great fury.

At length the Curate quelled the storm, promising to satisfy them for
the wine and the skins, and also for the damage to the tail, about
which there was so much fuss. Dorothea comforted Sancho, telling him
that as soon as ever it was made certain that his Master had slain the
Giant, and placed her safely in her Kingdom, she would give him the
best Earldom she had.

With this he was consoled, and told her that he himself had seen the
Giant's head cut off, and that it had a beard which reached down to his
girdle, and that if the beard could not now be found it was because the
affairs of this house were all guided by enchantment, as he knew to his
cost by what had happened to himself in his last visit.

Dorothea replied that she was of the same opinion, and bade him be of
good cheer, since all would be well ended to his heart's desire.




           [Illustration: OF THE RARE ADVENTURES AT THE INN]




                              CHAPTER XXV

              Which treats of other rare Adventures which
                          happened at the Inn


Later in the day the Innkeeper, who was standing at the door, cried
out: 'Here is a fine troop of guests coming. If they stop here, we may
sing and rejoice.'

'Who are they?' asked Cardenio.

'Four men on horseback,' answered the Innkeeper, 'with lances and
targets, and all with black masks on their faces. With them comes a
woman dressed in white, on a side-saddle, and her face also masked, and
two lackeys that run with them on foot.'

'Are they near?' asked the Curate.

'So near,' replied the Innkeeper, 'that they are now arriving.'

Hearing this, Dorothea veiled her face, and Cardenio went into Don
Quixote's room; and they had hardly time to do this when the whole
party, of whom the Innkeeper had spoken, entered the Inn. The four
who were on horseback were of comely and gallant bearing, and, having
dismounted, went to help down the Lady on the side-saddle; and one of
them, taking her in his arms, placed her upon a chair that stood at
the door of the room into which Cardenio had entered. All this while
neither she nor they took off their masks, or said a word, only the
Lady, as she sank into the chair, breathed a deep sigh, and let fall
her arms as one who was sick and faint. The lackeys led away the horses
to the stable.

The Curate, seeing and noting all this, and curious to know who they
were that came to the Inn in such strange attire and keeping so close a
silence, went after one of the lackeys, and asked of him what he wanted
to learn.

'Faith, Sir, I cannot tell you who these are, but they seem to be
persons of good quality, especially he who went to help the Lady
dismount. The rest obey him in all things.'

'And the Lady—who is she?' asked the Curate.

'I cannot tell you that neither,' replied the lackey, 'for I have not
once seen her face during all the journey, though I have often heard
her groan and utter deep sighs.'

'And have you heard the name of any of them?' asked the Curate.

'Not I, indeed,' replied the man; 'they travel in silence, and nothing
is heard but the sighs and sobs of the poor Lady, and it is our firm
belief that, wherever she is going, she is going against her will.'

'May be it is so,' said the Curate, and he returned to the Inn.

Dorothea, who heard the disguised Lady sigh so mournfully, moved by
pity, drew near to her and asked: 'What ails you, good Madam, for I
offer you my service and good-will, and would help you as much as lies
in my power?'

To this the unhappy Lady made no reply; and though Dorothea again spoke
kindly to her, yet she sat silent and spoke not a word.

At length the masked gentleman came across and said to Dorothea: 'Lady,
do not trouble yourself to offer anything to that woman; she is of a
most ungrateful nature, and not wont to return any courtesy.'

'I have never spoken,' said the silent Lady, 'since I am too unhappy to
do so, and am almost drowned in my misfortunes.'

Cardenio overheard these words very clearly and distinctly, for he was
close to her who uttered them, the door of Don Quixote's room being the
only thing that separated them, and he cried aloud: 'What is this I
hear? What voice is this that hath touched mine ear?'

The Lady, moved with a sudden passion, turned her head at these cries,
and as she could not see who uttered them, she rose to her feet and
would have entered the room, but the gentleman stopped her and would
not let her move a step.

This sudden movement loosened the mask, which fell from her face,
discovering her marvellous beauty. But her countenance was wan and
pale, and she turned her eyes from place to place as one distracted,
which caused Dorothea and the rest to behold her with a vast pity.

The gentleman held her fast by the shoulders, and was so busied that he
could not hold up his own mask, which fell from his face, and, as it
did so, Dorothea looked up and discovered that it was her lover, Don
Fernando.

Scarce had she known him than, breathing out a long and most pitiful
'Alas!' from the bottom of her heart, she fell backward in a swoon.
And if the Barber had not been by good chance at hand, she would have
fallen on the ground with all the weight of her body.

The Curate removed the veil from her face, and cast water thereon, and
Don Fernando, as soon as he looked upon her, turned as pale as death.
Cardenio, who had heard the moan which Dorothea uttered, as she fell
fainting on the floor, came out of the room, and saw Don Fernando
holding his beloved Lucinda.

All of them held their peace and beheld one another; Dorothea looking
on Don Fernando, Don Fernando on Cardenio, Cardenio on Lucinda, and
Lucinda on Cardenio, all stood dumb and amazed, as folk that knew not
what had befallen them.

Lucinda was the first to break the silence. 'Leave me, Don Fernando,'
she cried, 'for the sake of what is due to yourself. Let me cleave to
the wall whose ivy I am, to his support from whom neither your threats
nor your promises could part me.'

By this time Dorothea had come to herself, and seeing that Don Fernando
did not release Lucinda, she arose, and casting herself at his feet,
shed a flood of crystal tears as she thus addressed him: 'If the sun
of Lucinda's beauty hath not blinded thine eyes, know that she who
is kneeling at thy feet is the hapless and miserable Dorothea. I am
that lowly country girl to whom thou didst promise marriage. Know, my
dear Lord, that the matchless love I bear thee may make amends for the
beauty and nobility of her for whom thou dost abandon me. Thou canst
not be the beautiful Lucinda's, because thou art mine; nor she thine,
for she belongs to Cardenio. And all this being so, as in truth it is,
and seeing that thou art as good as thou art noble, wherefore put off
making me once more happy again? Do not vex the declining years of
my parents, who have ever been loyal vassals to thine. For remember,
whether thou wilt or no, thou must ever remain my promised husband.'

These and many other reasons did the grieved Dorothea use, with so
much feeling and so many tears, that all who were present, even those
who had come with Don Fernando, could not help from giving her their
sympathy.

As for Don Fernando, he stood gazing fixedly at Dorothea for some
time, and at last, overwhelmed with remorse and admiration, he took her
to his arms, saying: 'Thou hast vanquished, O beautiful Dorothea. Thou
hast vanquished!'

At the same moment, Cardenio, who had stood close to Don Fernando,
started forward to catch the fainting Lucinda, who threw both her arms
around his neck, crying: 'Thou, and thou only, art my Lord and Master.'

Thus were the true lovers all united, and the good Curate, the Barber,
and even Sancho Panza joined in their tears, delighted that so much
joy had taken the place of so much misery. As for Sancho, he excused
himself afterwards for his tears, saying he wept only because he saw
that Dorothea was not the Queen of Micomicona as he had imagined, from
whom he hoped to have received such mighty gifts and favours.

Each in turn told his or her story, and Don Fernando gave an account of
all that had befallen him in the city, after he had found the scroll
that Lucinda had written in which she declared her love for Cardenio.

And it appeared that, the day after the interruption of the wedding,
Lucinda had secretly departed from her father's house, and had fled no
one knew whither; but within a few months Don Fernando had learned that
she was in a certain convent, intending to remain there all the days
of her life, if she could not pass them with Cardenio. As soon as he
had learned that, choosing three gentlemen to aid him, he went to the
place where she was. One day he surprised her walking with one of the
nuns in the cloisters, and carried her off without giving her a chance
to resist. From there they brought her to a certain village, where
they disguised themselves, and so rode on until they came to the Inn.
But Lucinda, after she was in his power, did nothing but weep and sigh
without speaking a word.

Thus in silence and tears had they reached this Inn, which to him and
all of them would always remain the most beautiful place in the world,
since it had seen the end of so many troubles, and brought him back to
his own true love.




            [Illustration: DON QUIXOTE ADDRESSING DOROTHEA]




                             CHAPTER XXVI

                Wherein is continued the History of the
                      famous Princess Micomicona


Sancho gave ear to what he heard with no small grief of mind, seeing
that all hopes of his Earldom vanished away like smoke, and the fair
Princess Micomicona was turned into Dorothea, whilst his Master was
sound asleep, careless of all that happened. Dorothea could not believe
that the happiness she enjoyed was not a dream. Cardenio and Lucinda
were of a similar mind, and Don Fernando was truly thankful that he was
free from the dangerous path he had taken, which must have ended in
loss of all honour and credit.

In a word, all were contented and happy. The Curate, like a man of
sense, congratulated every one on his good fortune; but she that kept
greatest Jubilee and joy was the Hostess, because Cardenio and the
Curate had promised to pay all the damages done by Don Quixote.

Only Sancho, as has been said, was unhappy and sorrowful. And thus he
went with a melancholy face to his Master, who was then just awaking,
and said: 'Your Worship, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, may well
sleep on as long as you please, without troubling yourself to kill any
Giant, or restore to the Princess her Kingdom, for all that is done and
finished already.'

'That I well believe,' replied Don Quixote, 'for I have had the most
monstrous and terrible battle with that Giant that ever I had all the
days of my life; and yet with one back stroke, swish, I tumbled his
head to the ground, and his blood gushed forth, so that streams of it
ran along the earth as if it had been water.'

'As if it had been red wine, your Worship might have said,' replied
Sancho, 'for I would have you know, if you do not know already, that
the dead Giant is no other than a ruined wine-bag, and the blood
six-and-twenty gallons of red wine.'

'What sayest thou, madman?' cried Don Quixote. 'Art thou in thy right
wits?'

'Get up, Sir,' said Sancho, 'and you shall see yourself the fine piece
of work you have done, and what we have to pay. You shall behold the
Queen turned into a private Lady, called Dorothea, with many other
things that may well astonish you.'

'I should marvel at nothing,' replied Don Quixote, 'for if thou
rememberest right, I told thee, the other time that we were here, how
all that happened here was done by enchantment, and it would be no
wonder if it were the same now.'

'I should believe it all,' replied Sancho, 'if my tossing in the
blanket had been a thing of that sort. Only it was not so, but very
real and certain. And I saw the Innkeeper, who is here to this day,
hold one end of the blanket and toss me up to the sky with very good
grace and strength, and as much mirth as muscle. And where it comes to
knowing persons, I hold, though I may be a simpleton and a sinner, that
there is no enchantment, but only bruising and bad luck.'

'Well,' cried Don Quixote, 'time will show; but give me my clothes, for
I would see these wonders that thou speakest of for myself.'

Sancho gave him his clothes, and, whilst he was making him ready, the
Curate told Don Fernando and the rest, of Don Quixote's mad pranks, and
the plan he had used to get him away from the Brown Mountains, where he
imagined he was exiled through the disdain of his Lady.

The Curate told them further, that since the good fortune of the Lady
Dorothea prevented them carrying out their scheme, they must invent
some other way of taking him home to his village.

Cardenio offered to continue the adventure, and let Lucinda take
Dorothea's part.

'No,' cried Don Fernando. 'It shall not be so, for I will have
Dorothea herself carry out her plan, and if the good Knight's home is
not far from here, I shall be very glad to help in his cure.'

'It is not more than two days' journey,' said the Curate.

'Even if it were more,' replied Don Fernando, 'I should be happy to
make the journey in so good a cause.'

At this moment Don Quixote sallied out, completely armed with
Mambrino's helmet, which had a great hole in it, on his head, his
shield on his arm, and leaning on his lance. His grotesque appearance
amazed Don Fernando and his companions very much, who wondered at his
gaunt face so withered and yellow, the strangeness of his arms, and his
grave manner of proceeding.

All stood silent to see what he would do, whilst the Knight, casting
his eyes on the beautiful Dorothea, with great gravity and calmness
spoke as follows: 'I am informed, beautiful Lady, by this my Squire,
that your greatness has come to an end, and your condition is
destroyed. For, instead of being a Queen and a mighty Princess, you
are now become a private damsel. If this has been done by the special
order of that sage magician, the King your Father, because he dreaded
that I could not give you all necessary help, I say that he does not
know half his art, and has never understood the histories of knightly
adventures. For if he had read them with the attention that I have, he
would have found how many Knights of less fame than myself have ended
far more desperate adventures than this, for it is no great matter to
kill a Giant, be he ever so proud. For in truth it is not so many hours
since I myself fought with one; but I will be silent, lest they tell me
I lie. Time, the detecter of all things, will disclose it when we least
expect.'

'Thou foughtest with two wine-bags, not with a Giant,' cried the
Innkeeper.

Don Fernando told him to be silent and not to interrupt Don Quixote,
who continued his speech thus: 'In fine, I say, high and disinherited
Lady, do not trouble if your Father has made this change in you, for
there is no peril so great on earth but my sword shall open a way
through it, and by overthrowing your enemies' head to the ground I
shall set your crown on your own head within a few days.'

Don Quixote said no more, but waited for the Princess's answer. She
knowing Don Fernando's wish that she should continue to carry out
their plan, answered with a good grace and pleasant manner, saying:
'Whosoever informed you, valorous Knight of the Rueful Countenance,
that I have altered and transformed my being, hath not told you the
truth, for I am the very same to-day as I was yesterday. True it is
that my fortunes have somewhat changed, and given me more than I
hoped for or could wish for, but for all that I have not ceased to be
what I was before, and I still hope to have the aid of your valorous
and invincible arm. Therefore, good my Lord, restore to my Father
his honour, and believe him to be both wise and sagacious, for by
his magic he has found me a remedy for all my misfortunes. For I
believe that had it not been for you, I should never have attained the
happiness I now enjoy, and that I speak the truth these good gentlemen
will bear witness. All that is now wanted is that to-morrow morning we
set out on our journey. As for the conclusion of the good success I
hourly expect, that I leave to the valour of your invincible arm.'

Thus spoke the witty Dorothea, and Don Quixote, having heard her,
turned to Sancho with an air of great indignation, and said: 'Now, I
say unto thee, Sancho, thou art the veriest little rascal in all Spain.
Tell me, thief and vagabond, didst thou not tell me that this Princess
was turned into a damsel, and that she was called Dorothea? And that
the head that I slashed from a Giant's shoulders, was a wine-skin, with
a thousand other follies, that threw me into the greatest confusion I
was ever in in my life? I vow,' he continued, looking up to the heavens
and crashing his teeth together, 'I vow that I am about to make such a
havoc of thee, as shall beat some wit into the pates of all the lying
Squires that shall hereafter ever serve Knights Errant in this world.'

'I pray you have patience, good my Lord,' answered Sancho, 'for it
may well befall me to be deceived touching the change of the Lady and
Princess Micomicona. But in what touches the Giant's head, or at least
the cutting of the wine-bags, and that the blood was but red wine,
I am not deceived, I swear. For the bags lie wounded there at your
own bed-head, and the red wine hath made a lake in your room: and all
this you will know, when his honour the Landlord asks you to pay the
damages.'

'I tell thee, Sancho, thou art a blockhead,' said Don Quixote. 'Pardon
me, we have had enough of it.'

'Enough, indeed,' said Don Fernando, 'and let me entreat you to say
no more of it. Seeing my Lady the Princess says she will go away
to-morrow, as it is too late to depart to-day, let us agree to spend
this evening in pleasant discourse, and to-morrow we will attend the
worthy Knight, Don Quixote, and be eye-witnesses of the valorous feats
of arms he shall do in carrying out this adventure.'

It was now time for supper, and they all sat down at a long table, for
there was not a square or round one in the whole house. And they gave
the principal end to Don Quixote, though he did all he could to refuse
it; but when he had taken it, he commanded that the Lady Micomicona
should sit at his elbow, as he was her champion. The others being
placed in due order, they all enjoyed a pleasant supper, listening to
the wise, strange discourse that Don Quixote held upon his favourite
subject of knightly adventures.




                             CHAPTER XXVII

             Of the strange Enchantment of the Unfortunate
                                Knight


After supper it appeared that there were not sufficient rooms in
the house for all the company, so the ladies retired to the best
apartments, whilst the gentlemen sought rest where they could get
it with the least discomfort. Sancho Panza found a bed on his Ass's
harness, where he was soon fast asleep, and Don Quixote satisfied his
sense of duty by arming himself, mounting Rozinante, and riding round
the Inn, that he might act as sentinel of this imaginary Castle.

In a short time all the Inn was drowned in a deep silence. Only the
Innkeeper's daughter and Maritornes were not asleep, but knowing very
well Don Quixote's humour, and that he was armed on horseback outside
the Inn keeping guard, the two agreed to play him some trick, or at
least to pass a little time listening to his nonsense.

            [Illustration: THE ENCHANTMENT OF DON QUIXOTE]

It so happened that there was not any window in all the Inn which
looked out into the fields, but only a hole in the barn, out of which
they were used to throw the straw. To this hole came the two damsels,
and saw Don Quixote mounted and leaning on his lance, breathing
forth ever and anon such doleful and deep sighs, that it seemed as if
each one of them would tear his very soul. They noted besides how he
said in a soft and amorous voice: 'O my Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, the
perfection of all beauty, the sum-total of discretion, the treasury
of grace, the storehouse of virtue, the ideal of all that is worthy,
modest, or delightful in all the world! What might thy Ladyship be
doing at this present? Art thou perhaps thinking of thy captive Knight
who most readily exposeth himself to so many dangers for thy sake? Give
me tidings of her, O thou Moon! Mayhap thou dost now look down upon her
pacing some gallery of her sumptuous palace, or leaning against some
balcony thinking what glory she shall give me for my pains, what quiet
to my cares, what life to my death, and what reward for my services.
And thou, O Sun, who art even now busy saddling thy horses to set off
betimes and go forth and see my Lady, I beseech thee when thou seest
her to salute her on my behalf, but take care that thou dost not kiss
her on her face lest thou provokest my jealousy.'

So far the Knight had proceeded when the Innkeeper's daughter began to
call him softly to her, saying: 'Sir Knight, approach a little way, if
you please.'

At this signal Don Quixote turned his head and saw by the light of the
moon, which shined then very clearly, that they beckoned him from the
hole in the barn, which he imagined to be a fair window full of iron
bars gilded in costly fashion with gold, fit for so rich a Castle as
he imagined that Inn to be. In a moment he believed, in his strange
fancy, that the beautiful damsel, daughter to the Lord of the Castle,
conquered by love of him, was come to have speech with him.

In this fancy, and because he would not show himself discourteous and
ungrateful, he turned Rozinante about and came over to the hole, and
then, having beheld the two damsels, he said: 'I take pity on you,
beautiful Lady, that you have fixed your love where it is not possible
to find another's in return. Nor must you blame this miserable Knight
Errant, whom love hath wholly disabled from paying his addresses to any
other than to her who at first sight became the Lady of his choice.
Pardon me, therefore, good Lady, and retire yourself to your room, and
be pleased to say no more to me, that I may not appear ungrateful to
you. And if, of the love you bear me, you can find me any other way
wherein I may serve you, demand it boldly, for I swear to pleasure you
in this, even though my task be to bring you a lock of Medusa's hairs,
which are all of snakes, or to capture the beams of the sun in a phial
of glass.'

'My Lady needs none of these things, Sir Knight,' answered Maritornes.

'What doth she then want, discreet dame?' asked Don Quixote.

'Only one of your fair hands,' said Maritornes, 'that she may fulfil
the desire that brought her to this window with so great danger to
herself, that if her Lord and Father knew of it, the least he would do
would be to slice off her ear.'

'He had best beware of what he does,' answered Don Quixote, 'unless he
would make the most disastrous end that ever father made in this world,
for having laid violent hands on the delicate limbs of his amorous
daughter.'

Maritornes had no doubt but that Don Quixote would give up his hand as
he was requested, and, having made up her mind what she would do, she
went down into the stable, and fetched out Sancho Panza's Ass's halter.
With this she returned again as quickly as possible, and came to the
hole just as Don Quixote had set his feet upon Rozinante's saddle that
he might the better reach the barred windows at which he thought the
lovesick damsel was standing.

And as he stretched forth his hand to her he cried: 'Hold, Lady, this
hand, or, as I may better say, this scourge of evildoers. Hold, I say,
this hand, which no other woman ever touched before, not even she
herself who holds entire possession of my whole body. Nor do I give
it to you to the end that you should kiss it, but that you may behold
the strength of the sinews, the knitting of the muscles, the large and
swelling veins, whereby you may learn how mighty is the force of that
arm to which such a hand is knit.'

'We shall see that presently,' said Maritornes.

And then, making a running knot in the halter, she cast it on the wrist
of his hand, and, coming down from the hole, she tied the other end of
the halter very fast to the bolt of the hay-loft door.

Don Quixote, feeling the roughness of the halter about his wrist,
said: 'It seems that you rather rasp than clasp my hand, but yet I pray
you not to handle it so roughly, seeing it is in no fault for what you
suffer from my inclinations. Remember that those who love well do not
take so cruel revenge on those who love elsewhere.'

But nobody gave ear to those words of Don Quixote. For, as soon as
Maritornes had tied him fast, she and the other, almost bursting with
laughter, ran away and left him fastened in such a manner that it was
not possible for him to loose himself. He was standing, as has been
said, on Rozinante's saddle, with his whole arm thrust within the hole,
and fastened to the bolt of the door, and was in great fear that if
Rozinante budged never so little on either side he should fall and hang
by the arm. Therefore he durst not make the least movement, though he
might have expected, from Rozinante's patience and mild spirit, that if
he were allowed, he would stand without stirring for a whole century.

In fine, Don Quixote, finding that he was tied up and that the ladies
were gone, began at once to imagine that all this had been done by way
of enchantment, as the time before when he and Sancho had suffered such
strange adventures. Then he was wroth with himself for his want of
judgment and discretion in venturing to enter the Castle a second time,
seeing that he had come off so badly the first. For it was a maxim with
the Knights Errant, that when they had attempted an adventure and had
not come well out of it, it was a token that it was not reserved for
them but for some other.

Yet for all this he drew forward his arm to see if he might deliver
himself, but he was so well bound that all his efforts proved vain. It
is true that he drew his arm cautiously, lest Rozinante should stir,
and though he longed to get into the seat of his saddle again, yet he
could do no other but stand upright or wrench off his arm. Many times
did he wish for the sword of Amadis against which no enchantment had
power. Then he fell to cursing his stars, or again called upon the Lady
Dulcinea to remember him anew. Now he would call on his good Squire
Sancho Panza, who, buried in sleep, stretched out upon his pack-saddle,
heard him not, and then he called in vain on the Sage Urganda to
release him.

Finally, the morning found him so full of despair and confusion, that
he roared like a bull, for he had no hope that daylight would bring him
any cure, as he fully believed his enchantment would prove everlasting.
This belief was strengthened inasmuch as Rozinante had not budged ever
so little, and he came to the conclusion that both he and his horse
should abide in that state without eating, drinking, or sleeping, until
either the evil influences of the stars were passed, or some great
Enchanter had disenchanted him.

In this he was deceived, for scarce did day begin to peep than there
arrived four horsemen at the Inn door, with firelocks on their
saddle-bows, who were officers of the Holy Brotherhood. They called out
at the Inn door, which was still shut, giving loud knocks, which, being
heard by Don Quixote from the place where he stood sentinel, he cried
out in a loud and arrogant voice: 'Knights or Squires, or whatsoever
else ye be, you are not to knock any more at the gates of this Castle,
seeing that at such an hour as this either those who are within are
sleeping, or else are not wont to open their fortress until Phœbus hath
spread his beams over the earth. Therefore stand back and wait until it
be clear day, and then we will see whether it be just or no, that they
should open their gates unto you.'

'What Castle or Fortress is this,' cried one of them, 'that we should
observe these ceremonies? If thou beest the Innkeeper, command that the
door be opened, for we are travellers that will tarry no longer than to
bait our horses and away, for we ride post-haste.'

'Doth it seem to you, gentlemen,' said Don Quixote, 'that I look like
an Innkeeper?'

'I know not what thou lookest like,' answered the other, 'but well I
know that thou speakest madly in calling this Inn a Castle.'

'It is a Castle,' replied Don Quixote, 'and one of the best in this
Province, and it hath people in it who have had a sceptre in hand and a
Crown on their head.'

'They be some company of strolling players, then,' replied the man,
laughing, 'for no others hold sceptres or wear crowns in such a paltry
Inn as this is.'

'Thou knowest but little of the world,' answered Don Quixote, 'seeing
thou art ignorant of the chances that are wont to happen in Knight
Errantry.'

The man's companions wearied of this discourse, and turned again to
knock with great fury at the door, and this time they not only waked
the Innkeeper but also all the guests, and the former arose to demand
their pleasure.

In the meantime it happened that one of the horses on which they rode
came sniffing round Rozinante, who stood melancholy and sad, with his
ears down, bearing up his outstretched Master. But being after all an
animal of a friendly disposition to his own kind, he could not refrain
from turning round to sniff at him who came towards him.

Scarce had he moved one step, when Don Quixote's two feet, which were
close together, slipped, and, sliding from the saddle, the Knight would
have fallen to the ground had he not remained hanging by the arm. This
caused him so much pain that he felt that his wrist was being cut
off or his arm torn away. For he hung so near to the ground that he
touched it with the tips of his toes; and this increased his misery,
for, feeling the little that was wanted to set his feet wholly on the
ground, he struggled all he could to reach it, deceived by the hope
that he could indeed touch it if he only stretched himself a little
further.




                  [Illustration: THE DISPUTED POMMEL]




                            CHAPTER XXVIII

             Wherein is continued the wonderful Adventures
                              at the Inn


While Don Quixote hung suspended between heaven and earth, his outcries
were so terrible that the Innkeeper ran to the door, and opened it
hastily and in great fright, to see who it was that roared so loud.

Maritornes, whom the cries had also awakened, guessing what it was, ran
to the hay-loft, and, unseen by any one, loosed the halter that held
up Don Quixote, and he fell at once to the ground in the sight of the
Innkeeper and the four travellers, who, coming up to him, asked him
what ailed him.

He, without any answer slipped the halter from his wrist, and, rising
to his feet, leaped on Rozinante, braced on his shield, couched his
lance, and, wheeling round the field, rode back at a hard-gallop,
crying out: 'Whosoever shall dare to say that I have been with just
title enchanted, if my Lady, the Princess Micomicona, will give me
leave to do it, I say that he lies, and I challenge him to single
combat.'

The travellers were amazed at his words, but the Host told them that
they must not mind him, for he was out of his wits.

When Don Quixote saw that none of the four travellers made any account
of him or answered his challenge, he was ready to burst with wrath
and fury; and could he have found that a Knight Errant might lawfully
accept and undertake another enterprise, having plighted his word and
faith not to attempt any until he had finished that which he had first
promised, he would have fallen upon them all, and made them give him an
answer in spite of themselves.

Those in the Inn were now fully aroused, and had come with the
Innkeeper to see the new arrivals. Whilst they were talking to the
four travellers, in the big room where they had supped, they heard a
noise outside, the cause of which was that some dishonest guests, who
had stayed there that night, seeing all the people busy to know the
cause of the four horsemen coming, had thought to escape scot free
without paying their reckoning. But the Innkeeper, who attended his own
affairs with more diligence than other men's, stopped them going out
and demanded his money, upbraiding their dishonest conduct with such
words, that they returned him an answer with their fists; and this they
did so roundly that the poor Innkeeper was compelled to cry for help.

His wife and his daughter, seeing Don Quixote standing by, cried out to
him: 'Help, Sir Knight! help my poor father, whom two wicked men are
thrashing like a bundle of corn.'

To this Don Quixote answered leisurely and with great gravity:
'Beautiful damsel, your prayer cannot at the present time be granted,
for I am not permitted to engage in any new adventure until I have
finished the one I have promised to carry through. And all that I can
now do in your service is what I now say to you. Run unto your father
and bid him continue and maintain his battle manfully until I demand
leave of the Princess Micomicona to help him out of his distress. For
if she will give me leave, you may make sure that he will be delivered.'

'As I am a sinner,' cried Maritornes, who was standing by, 'before you
get that leave you speak of my Master will be in the other world.'

'Permit me but to get the leave I speak of,' replied Don Quixote, 'and
it matters not whether he be in the other world or no. For I would
bring him back again in spite of the other world itself, or at least, I
will take such a revenge on those that sent him there that you shall be
well content.'

Without saying more he went in and fell on his knees before Dorothea,
demanding her in knightly and courtly phrases that she would give him
leave to go and aid the Constable of the Castle who was then plunged in
deep distress.

The Princess granted him leave very willingly, and instantly buckling
on his shield, and laying hands on his sword, he ran to the Inn door
where the two guests were still fighting with the Innkeeper. But as
soon as he arrived he stopped and stood still, although Maritornes
and the Hostess asked him twice or thrice the cause of his delay in
assisting their master and husband.

'I delay,' said Don Quixote, 'because it is not permitted me to lay
hands to my sword against Squire-like men who are not dubbed Knights.
But call me here my Squire Sancho, for this defence and revenge belong
to him as his duty.'

All this took place outside the Inn door, where fists and blows were
given and taken much to the Innkeeper's cost, and to the rage and grief
of Maritornes and the Hostess and her daughter, who were like to run
mad on seeing Don Quixote's cowardice and the mischief their master,
husband, and father was enduring.

However, though the laws of Knighthood hindered Don Quixote from
fighting, he soon persuaded the guests, by his wise reproofs of their
conduct, to leave the Innkeeper alone, and pay him what was owing by
them; and all would have been at peace in the Inn if another traveller
had not arrived there at this moment. This was none other than the
Barber from whom Don Quixote took away the helmet of Mambrino, and
Sancho Panza the harness or furniture of the ass, whereof he made an
exchange of his own. And while the Barber was leading his beast to
the stable, he caught sight of Sancho Panza mending some part of the
pack-saddle, or pannel, as it was called.

As soon as he had eyed him he knew him, and at once set upon Sancho,
saying: 'Ah, Sir thief, here I have you! Give up my basin and my
pannel, with all the trappings you stole from me.'

Sancho, finding himself attacked so suddenly, laying fast hold of the
pannel with one hand, with the other gave the Barber such a buffet that
he bathed his teeth in blood. But for all that the Barber held fast his
grip of the pannel, and cried out so loud that all within the house
came to the noise and scuffle.

'Help, here, in the name of the King and justice,' shouted the Barber.
'For this thief and robber by the highways goeth about to kill me
because I seek to get back my own goods.'

'Thou liest,' cried Sancho, 'for I am not a robber of the highways. And
my Lord Don Quixote won these spoils in a fair battle.'

By this time Don Quixote himself had come to the spot, not a little
proud to see how his Squire defended himself and attacked his enemy,
and he took him from that moment to be a man of valour, and resolved in
his own mind to dub him Knight on the first occasion that should offer,
because he thought that the order of Knighthood would be well bestowed
on him.

'Sirs,' said the puzzled and angry Barber, 'this pannel is as
certainly mine, and I know it as well as if I had bred it, and there is
my ass in the stable who will not let me lie; so do but try it on him,
and if it fit him not to a hair, I am willing to be called infamous.
And I can say more, that on the very day on which they took my pannel
from me, they robbed me likewise of a new brazen basin which had never
been used, and cost me a crown.'

Here Don Quixote could no longer contain himself from speaking, and,
thrusting himself between the two, to part them asunder, he caused the
pannel to be placed publicly upon the ground until the dispute should
be decided, and said: 'To the end that you may understand the clear
mistake which this good Squire labours under, see how he calls that a
basin, which was, and is, and always shall be, the helmet of Mambrino,
which I took from him by force in fair battle, and made myself lord
thereof in a lawful and warlike manner. In regard to the pannel I
meddle not; but I can say that my Squire Sancho asked leave of me to
take away the trappings of this vanquished coward's horse, that he
might adorn his own withal. I gave him leave to do it, and he took
them. As for these being turned from a horse's furniture to an ass's
pannel, I can give no other reason than the common one in affairs of
Knighthood, that this is done by enchantment. And to confirm the truth
of all I say, run, friend Sancho, speedily, and bring me out the helmet
which this good fellow declares to be a basin.'

'By my faith, Sir,' said Sancho, 'if we have no better proof of our
story than what you say, the helmet of Mambrino is as arrant a basin as
this fellow's trappings are a pack-saddle.'

'Do what I command,' replied Don Quixote, 'for I cannot believe that
all things in this Castle are governed by enchantment.'

Sancho went for the basin and brought it, and as soon as Don Quixote
saw it, he took it in his hands and said: 'See, Sirs, with what face
can this impudent Squire declare that this is a basin, and not the
helmet that I have mentioned. I swear to you by the order of Knighthood
which I profess, that this is the very same helmet which I won from
him, without having added or taken anything from it.'

'There is no doubt of that,' said Sancho, 'for, since the time my
Lord won it until now, he never fought but one battle with it, when
he delivered the unlucky chained men. And but for his basin, I mean
helmet, he had not escaped so free as he did, so thick a shower of
stones rained all the time of that battle.'




                 [Illustration: DON QUIXOTE ARRESTED]




                             CHAPTER XXIX

             Wherein is finally decided the Dispute about
                   Mambrino's Helmet and the Pannel


'Good Sirs,' cried the Barber, 'what do you think of those who will
contend that this is not a basin but a helmet?'

'He that shall say the contrary,' said Don Quixote, 'I will make him
know that he lies, if he be a Knight; and if he be but a Squire, that
he lies and lies again a thousand times.'

The Barber Nicholas, Don Quixote's friend, who was then with the rest,
had a mind to carry the jest further, and make them all laugh, so,
speaking to the other Barber, he said: 'Sir Barber, or whoever you are,
know that I am also of your profession, and have held a certificate
for more than twenty years, and I know all the instruments of a
Barber's art well. Moreover, in my youth I was a soldier, and I know
what a helmet is like, and a morion, and a casque, and other kinds of
soldiers' arms. And therefore I say, always subject to better opinion,
that this good piece which is laid here before us, and which this good
Knight holds in his hand, not only is not a Barber's basin, but is as
far from being one as white is from black. It is a helmet, though, as I
think, not a complete helmet.'

'No, truly,' said Don Quixote, 'for it wants the half, namely the lower
part and the visor.'

'That is true,' said the Curate, who understood his friend's intention.
And Cardenio, Fernando, and his companions fell in with this design.

'Lord a' mercy!' cried the poor Barber, half beside himself. 'Is
it possible that so many honourable men should say that this is no
basin but a helmet? It is a thing to strike with amazement a whole
University, be they never so wise. Enough; if this basin is a helmet,
then must the pack-saddle be a horse's trappings.'

'To me it looks like a pack-saddle,' said Don Quixote, 'but I have
already said I do not meddle with that matter.'

'Whether it be a pannel or not,' said the Curate, 'it is but for Don
Quixote to say, for in these matters of Knighthood, all these gentlemen
and myself bow to his knowledge.'

'Sirs,' said Don Quixote, 'so many and strange are the things that
have befallen me in this Castle these two times I have lodged here,
that it would be rash in me to pronounce a judgment in the matter. To
those who say this is a basin and no helmet I have made my answer, but
whether this be a pannel or the furniture of a horse I will leave it to
others to decide.'

To those who knew Don Quixote's madness this was a matter of much
laughter and good sport, but to the four travellers who had arrived
that morning, and who were officers of justice, and soldiers of the
Holy Brotherhood, it seemed the greatest folly in the world.

But he that was most of all beside himself with wrath was the Barber,
whose basin they had transformed before his face into the helmet of
Mambrino, and whose pannel, he felt sure, would now be turned into the
rich furniture and equipage of a great horse.

Those who were in the secret laughed heartily to see Don Fernando go up
and down taking the opinion of this man and that, whispering in their
ear that they might give their verdict to him in secret.

And after he had gone round to all those who knew Don Quixote, he said
to the Barber in a loud voice: 'The truth is, good fellow, that I grow
weary of asking so many opinions, for I no sooner ask what I want to
know than they answer me that it is mere madness to say that this is
the pannel of an ass, but rather is it the furniture of a horse, yes
and of a chief horse of service.'

'May I never go to heaven,' said the poor distracted Barber, 'if you be
not all deceived! It is a pannel and no horse's trappings. But the law
takes it from me, and so farewell to it.'

The Barber's simplicity caused no less laughter than the follies of Don
Quixote, who said: 'There is now no more to be done than for every one
to take his own.'

But at that moment one of the four officers of justice, who had
listened to the dispute, full of anger to hear such nonsense seriously
spoken, cried out: 'If this be not a planned jest, I cannot understand
why men of such intelligence as all these seem to be, should dare to
say that this is not a basin nor this a pannel. For indeed it is as
very a pannel as my father is my father, and he that hath said or will
say anything else must be drunk.'

'Thou liest like a clownish knave,' said Don Quixote. And lifting up
his lance, which he always held in his hand, he aimed such a blow at
the trooper's pate, that if he had not avoided it, it would have thrown
him to the ground.

The lance was broken into splinters by the fall of the blow, and the
other troopers, seeing their comrade so misused, cried out for help
in the name of the Holy Brotherhood. The Innkeeper, whose duty it was
to help all officers of justice, ran for his sword, and stood by to
help them. The Barber laid hold of his pannel, and Sancho Panza did
the same. Don Quixote set hand to his sword and attacked the troopers,
and Cardenio and Don Fernando took his part. The Curate cried out,
the Hostess shrieked, the daughter screamed, Maritornes howled, while
Dorothea and Lucinda stood frightened and amazed. The Barber battered
Sancho, and Sancho pounded him back again, while Don Fernando got one
of the troopers at his feet, and belaboured him soundly. The Innkeeper
cried aloud for help for the Holy Brotherhood, and all the Inn seemed
full of wails, cries, screeches, confusion, fears, terrors, disasters,
slashes, buffets, cudgellings, kicks, and the shedding of blood.

In the midst of this chaos, Don Quixote began to imagine that he was
plunged up to the ears in the battle of the King Agramante, and he
cried aloud in a voice that thundered through the Inn, 'Hold all your
hands, put up your swords, and keep the peace, if you wish to continue
alive.'

That great and monstrous voice made them all stand still; on which he
continued: 'Did I not tell you, Sirs, that this Castle was enchanted,
and that some legion of magicians did inhabit it? Note how the discord
of King Agramante's Camp is among us, so that we all of us fight, and
none know for what. Come, therefore, Master Curate, and make you peace
and atonement between us, for I swear that it is a great wrong and pity
that so many noblemen as we are here should be slain for so slight
causes.'

The Barber was well content that this should be so, by reason that both
his beard and his pannel had been torn to pieces, and Sancho was at
once obedient to his Master's voice, as became a dutiful servant. As
for the troopers, when they learned Don Fernando's rank and position,
they were quieted, but they retired from the brawl grumbling, and by
no means satisfied with the turn things had taken.

Now it happened that one of these officers—the very one who was so
buffeted by Don Fernando—had with him a warrant to take into custody
one Don Quixote, who was charged with setting free certain galley
slaves. As soon as he remembered this, he must needs try whether the
description of Don Quixote tallied with the person before him.

He took from his bosom a scroll of parchment, and reading it very
leisurely, for he was no great scholar, at every other word he stared
at Don Quixote, and compared the marks of his warrant with those in the
Knight's face, and found that without doubt he was the man that was
wanted.

No sooner had he made up his mind about this than, holding the warrant
in his left hand, he laid hold of Don Quixote's collar with his right
so strongly that he could hardly breathe, and cried aloud: 'Aid for the
Holy Brotherhood. And that you may see that I am in good earnest, read
that warrant, wherein you shall find that this robber of the highways
is to be taken into custody.'

The Curate took the warrant, and saw that what the trooper said was
true, and that the marks described Don Quixote very nearly.

As for the Knight, when he found himself abused by so base a rascal—as
he considered him—his anger was roused to its height, and he caught
the trooper by the throat with both hands, in such a way that if he
had not been speedily rescued by his companions, he would have given
up his life there and then, before Don Quixote would have released his
hold.

The Innkeeper was forced to assist his fellow-officer, and his wife,
seeing her husband engaged anew in battle, raised a fresh cry, which
was caught up by her daughter and Maritornes, who called for help from
all the company.

Sancho, seeing all that passed, called out: 'By my faith, all that my
Master hath said of the enchantments of this Castle is true, for it is
not possible for a man to live quietly in it for an hour together.'

Don Fernando soon parted the trooper and Don Quixote, but the officers
did not cease to demand their prisoner, and called on the others to
help them to bind him and deliver him up to their pleasure, for so the
service of the King and the Holy Brotherhood required, in whose name
they demanded help in arresting this robber and brigand of the public
paths and highways.

Don Quixote laughed to hear them speak so idly, and said with great
calmness: 'Come hither, filthy and baseborn crew. Dare you call the
loosing of the enchained, the freeing of prisoners, the assisting of
the wretched, the raising of such as are fallen, the giving to those
in want,—dare you, I say, call these things robbing on the highway?
O infamous brood, how little do you know of the virtue which lies
in Knight Errantry! We give you to understand the sin and error in
which you lie, in not adoring the very shadow, much more the actual
presence of a Knight Errant. Come hither, I say, and tell me who was
the blockhead who signed a warrant of arrest against such a Knight as
I am? Who was he, that knows not that Knights Errant are free from all
tribunals; their sword is their law, their valour their court, and
their own will and pleasure their statutes? I say again, What madman
was he that knows not the privileges that belong to a Knight Errant,
from the day he is dubbed a Knight and devotes himself to a Knightly
calling? What Knight Errant did ever pay tax or custom? What tailor
ever had of him money for a suit of clothes? What Constable ever lodged
him in his Castle, and made him pay his shot? What King hath not placed
him at his own table? And, finally, what Knight Errant was there ever,
is, or shall be in the world, who hath not the courage himself alone to
give four hundred cudgellings to four hundred officers if they stand in
his way?'

Whilst Don Quixote raved in this way, the Curate was trying to persuade
the troopers that Don Quixote was out of his wits, and that even if
they did arrest him they would have to release him afterwards, as he
was a madman.

'Indeed,' said the Curate, 'you must not take him, nor do I believe
that he will let himself be taken.'

The officers were with difficulty persuaded to this view, but they had
seen enough of Don Quixote to convince them of his madness, and in the
end they agreed that it was better the Curate should endeavour, as he
proposed, to take him to his home, than that they should arrest him at
the risk of their lives.

The dispute between Sancho and the Barber was now easily settled, for
there was very little left of the pannel for Sancho to keep; and the
Curate, without Don Quixote knowing anything of it, gave the Barber
eight _reals_ for the price of his basin, so that they should hear
nothing further of the dispute of Mambrino's helmet.




        [Illustration: THE MANNER OF DON QUIXOTE'S RETURN HOME]




                              CHAPTER XXX

              In which is finished the notable Adventures
                          of our good Knight


The Curate and Don Fernando now took the Innkeeper aside and settled
all his claims against Don Quixote, for he had sworn that neither
Rozinante nor Sancho's Ass should stir from the Inn until he was paid
to the last farthing. As for Don Quixote, as soon as he found himself
free from all the quarrels by which he had been surrounded, he held it
high time to begin his voyage and bring to an end the great adventure
unto which he was called and chosen.

Therefore, having made up his mind to depart, he went and cast himself
upon his knees before Dorothea and said: 'I cannot but think, high and
worthy Lady, that our abode in this Castle is nothing profitable, and
may turn out to our disadvantage. For who knows but that your enemy
the Giant hath learned by spies or other secret means how I intend to
come and destroy him, and he may by now have fortified himself in some
impregnable Castle or Fortress, against the strength of which even the
force of mine invincible arm will be of little use. Therefore, dear
Lady, let us by our diligence hinder his plans, and let us depart to
the place where fortune calls us.'

Don Quixote said no more but awaited the answer of the beautiful
Princess, who, with a lordly air and in a style not unworthy of Don
Quixote himself, replied as follows: 'I thank you, Sir Knight, for the
desire you show to assist me in this my great need, and I trust your
desires and mine may succeed, that I may show you that there are some
thankful women on earth. As for my departure, let it be as you wish,
for I have no other will than that which is yours. Therefore dispose of
me at your own pleasure, for she that hath once given the defence of
her person unto you, and hath put into your hand the recovery of her
estate, ought not to seek to do any other thing but that which your
wisdom shall suggest.'

'Let our departure, then,' said Don Quixote, 'be immediate. Saddle me
Rozinante, Sancho, and get ready your Ass and the Queen's palfrey, and
let us take leave of the Constable and these other lords and depart
instantly.'

Sancho, who was present at all this, stood wagging his head from side
to side, and said: 'O my Lord, my Lord, how much more knavery is there
in the little village than is talked of!'

'What can be noised abroad in any village or in any of the cities of
the world to my discredit, villain?' asked his Master angrily.

'If you are angry,' said Sancho, 'I will hold my tongue and omit to say
that which by the duty of a good Squire, and an honest servant, I am
bound to tell you.'

'Say what thou wilt,' said Don Quixote, and he waited to hear what his
Squire had to say.

'What I mean,' continued Sancho, 'and what I hold for most sure and
certain is, that this Lady, who calls herself Queen of the great
Kingdom of Micomicona, is no more a Queen than my mother. For if she
were what she says, she would not at every corner be billing and cooing
with one that is in this good company.'

Dorothea blushed at Sancho's words, for it was true indeed that her
lover Don Fernando had sometimes on the sly gathered from her lips the
reward of his affections. She was neither able nor willing to answer
Sancho a word, but let him go on with his speech, which he did as
follows:—

'This I say, good my Lord, to this end, that if after we have travelled
highways and byways and endured bad nights and worse days, he that is
in this Inn,' and Sancho looked knowingly at Don Fernando, 'shall marry
our Princess and get the fruits of your labours, there is no need to
hasten, methinks, to saddle Rozinante or harness Dapple, or make ready
the palfrey seeing it would be better that we stayed still and looked
after our dinner.'

You may imagine how great was the fury that inflamed Don Quixote when
he heard his Squire speak so rudely. It was so great that, with a
shaking voice, a faltering tongue, and the fire sparking out of his
eyes, he said: 'O villainous peasant, rash, unmannerly, ignorant, rude,
foul-mouthed backbiter and slanderer! Darest thou utter such words
in my presence and in that of these noble Ladies? Hast thou dared to
entertain such rash and stupid fancies in thy muddled imagination?
Out of my sight, monster of nature, storehouse of untruth, armoury of
falsehood, sink of roguery, inventor of villainy, publisher of ravings,
enemy of the respect due to Royal persons. Away, villain, and never
more appear before me on pain of my wrath.'

So saying, he bent his brows and glared around on every side as he
struck a mighty blow upon the ground with his right foot. And at these
words and furious gestures, poor Sancho was so greatly frightened, that
he could have wished in that instant that the earth opening under his
feet would swallow him up.

But the witty Dorothea, who now understood Don Quixote's humour
perfectly, to appease his anger spoke to him thus: 'Be not offended,
good Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, at the idle words your good
Squire hath spoken. For perhaps he hath not said them without some
ground, and we cannot suspect from a man of his good understanding that
he would knowingly slander or accuse any one falsely. And therefore
we must believe that without doubt, as you have yourself said, Sir
Knight, in this Castle all things are subject to enchantment, and it
might well happen that Sancho may have been deceived by some wicked
illusion.'

'I vow,' cried Don Quixote, 'that your Highness has hit the truth, and
that some evil vision appeared to this sinner, my man Sancho, that made
him see things that he could not have seen unless by enchantment. For
I also know very well, that the great goodness and simplicity of the
poor wretch is such, that he knows not how to invent a lie on anybody
living.'

'It is even so,' said Don Fernando; 'and therefore, good Sir Don
Quixote, you must pardon him and take him once more to the bosom of
your grace.'

Don Quixote answered that he did willingly pardon him; and Sancho,
kneeling down on his knees, humbly asked his Lord's hand, which he
gave to him. And after he had permitted him to kiss it, he gave him
his blessing, saying: 'Now thou shalt finally know, Sancho, that which
I have told thee many times, how that all things in this Castle come
about by means of enchantment.'

And this Sancho was ready to believe of everything except the tossing
they had given him in the blanket, for he well knew that he had been
tossed by persons of flesh and blood and bone, and not by visionary and
unreal phantoms and shadows, as his Master was always telling him.

Two days passed, when it seemed to all the noble company at the Inn
that it was time to depart, and they considered how, without putting
Dorothea and Don Fernando to the pain of turning back with Don Quixote
to his village, the Curate and the Barber could carry him home as they
desired, and leave him cured of his folly in his own home.

This was the plan they decided on. They made a bargain with a wagoner,
who chanced to pass by that way with a team of oxen, to carry him in
the following manner:—

They made a thing like a cage of timber, so big that Don Quixote might
sit or lie in it at his ease, and presently Don Fernando, Cardenio,
their companions, and the Innkeeper did all, by Master Curate's
directions, cover their faces and disguise themselves as well as they
could, so that they might seem to Don Quixote to be different persons
to any he had seen in the Castle. This being done, they entered
silently into the place where he slept, reposing after his recent
battles. They went up to him as he was sleeping peacefully, not fearing
any such accident, and, laying hold of him forcibly, they tied his
hands and feet very strongly, so that when he started out of his sleep
he could not move, nor do anything else but stare and wonder at the
strange faces that he saw before him.

And immediately he fell into the idea, which his wild imagination had
at once suggested to him, that all these strange figures were spirits
and phantoms of that enchanted Castle, and he believed that he himself
was without doubt enchanted, seeing that he could neither move nor
defend himself.

All happened as the Curate who plotted the jest expected; and after
they had brought him to the cage, they shut him within, and afterwards
nailed the bars thereof so well that they could not easily be broken.
Sancho all this time looked on in wonder to see what would happen to
his Master.

Then the phantoms mounted him upon their shoulders, and as he was
carried out of his chamber door the Barber called out in as terrible a
voice as he could muster: 'O Knight of the Rueful Countenance, be not
grieved at thine imprisonment, for so it must be that thine adventures
be more speedily ended. And thou, O most noble and obedient Squire that
ever had sword at girdle, beard on a face, or dent in a nose, let it
not dismay thee to see carried away thus the flower of all Knighthood.
For I assure thee that all thy wages shall be paid to thee, if thou
wilt follow in the steps of this valorous and enchanted Knight. And as
I am not allowed to say more, farewell!'

Don Quixote listened attentively to all this prophecy, and said: 'O
thou, whatsoever thou beest, I desire thee to request in my name
that I may not perish in this prison before my work is ended. And as
concerns my Squire Sancho Panza, I trust in his goodness that he will
not abandon me in good or bad fortune. For, though it should fall out
through his or my hard lot that I shall not be able to bestow on him an
Island, as I have promised, his wages cannot be lost to him, for in my
Will, which is made already, I have set down what he is to have for his
many good services.'

Sancho Panza bowed his head with great reverence when he heard this,
and kissed both his Master's hands, which were bound tightly together.
Then the phantoms lifted up the cage and hoisted it on to the wagon
that was drawn by the team of oxen.

After bidding farewell to all their friends, the procession started.
First went the cart guided by the carter, then the troopers, then
followed Sancho upon his Ass leading Rozinante by the bridle, and last
of all the Curate and the Barber, riding their mighty mules, with masks
on their faces.

Don Quixote sat with his hands tied and his legs stretched out, leaning
against a bar of the cage, with such a silence and such patience
that he seemed rather to be a statue than a man. And thus at an
Alderman-like pace, such as suited the slow steps of the heavy oxen,
they journeyed home.

At the end of two days they arrived at Don Quixote's village, into
which they entered about noon. This was on a Sunday, when all the
people were in the market-place, through the midst of which Don
Quixote's cart passed. All drew near to see what was in it, and when
they knew their neighbour they were greatly astounded. A little boy ran
home before, to tell the old woman and the Niece that their Lord and
Uncle was returned. It would have moved one to pity to have heard the
cries and lamentations the two good women made, and the curses they
poured out against all Books of Knighthood, when they saw Don Quixote
enter the gates of his own house again in so strange a carriage.

Sancho Panza's wife, when she heard of his return, ran forward to meet
her husband, and the first question she asked was whether the Ass were
in health or no.

Sancho answered that he was come in better health than his master.

'Tell me, then,' cried his wife, 'what profit hast thou reaped by this
Squireship? What petticoat hast thou brought me home? What shoes for
the little boys?'

'I bring none of these things, good wife,' replied Sancho, 'though I
bring things better thought of and of greater moment.'

'I am glad of that,' said his wife, 'for I should like to see them,
to the end that my heart may be cheered, which hath been swollen and
sorrowful for so long, all the time of thine absence.'

'Thou shalt see them at home,' said Sancho, 'therefore rest satisfied.
For when we travel once again to seek adventures, thou shalt see me
shortly afterwards an Earl or Governor of an Island, one of the best in
the world.'

'I pray that it may be so,' replied his wife; 'but what means that
Island, for I understand not the word?'

'Honey is not made for the ass's mouth,' said Sancho, 'but thou shalt
know all in good time. Do not busy thyself, Joan, to know all things
in a sudden. It is enough that I will tell thee all the truth, and
therefore close thy mouth. I will only say this much unto thee as yet,
that there is nothing in the world so pleasant as for an honest man to
be the Squire of a Knight that seeks adventures.'

                   *       *       *       *       *

Now, if I were to tell you that Don Quixote got quite well and lived
quietly at home after all these adventures, and never went abroad
again, I should tell you what is not true. For some day, and I hope at
no great distance of time, you may read what the great Cervantes has
written, not only of the adventures of which I have told you the story,
but of the second part of Don Quixote's adventures, some of which are
even more wonderful than the first. There you will learn how Sancho
Panza became at last Governor of an Island for a short space, and may
read of the great wisdom and shrewdness with which he ruled.

All these good things will be yours to read some day, as they have
been mine and are every one's. For, like all the really great stories
of the world, this of Don Quixote belongs to no nation or people, but
is the property of each and all of us, given us freely to enjoy it how
and where we will. And from the humour and wisdom of such books we may
become brighter and better ourselves. So that when I wish that you
may be able to love and honour all such books, and to read this one
as Cervantes wrote it, and with the care it deserves to be read, it
is the best wish I can give you. And, indeed, to wish you the gift of
understanding it, is the same thing as wishing you a happy life.





End of Project Gutenberg's Don Qvixote of the Mancha, by Judge Parry