Don Quixote

Cervantes, Miguel
(Translator: John Ormsby)

Published: 1615
Categorie(s): Fiction, Humorous
Source: http://en.wikisource.org

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About Cervantes:
Don Miguel de Cervantes y Saavedra ( September 29, 1547 –
April 23, 1616) was a Spanish novelist, poet, and playwright.
Cervantes was one of the most important and influential per-
sons in literature and the leading figure associated with the
cultural fluorescence of sixteenth century Spain (the Siglo de
Oro). His novel, Don Quixote, is considered as a founding clas-
sic of Western literature and regularly figures among the best
novels ever written; it has been translated into more than sixty-
five languages, while editions continue regularly to be printed,
and critical discussion of the work has unabatedly persisted
since the 18th century. He has been dubbed el Príncipe de los
Ingenios (the Prince of Wits). Cervantes, born in Alcalá de Hen-
ares, was the fourth of seven children in a family whose origins
may have been of the minor gentry. The family moved from
town to town, and little is known of Cervantes's early years.
Cervantes made his literary début in 1568. By 1570 he had en-
listed as a soldier in a Spanish infantry regiment and continued
his military life until 1575, when he was captured by barbary
pirates on his return home. He was ransomed by his parents
and the Trinitarians and returned to his family in Madrid. In
1585, Cervantes published a pastoral novel, La Galatea. Be-
cause of financial problems, Cervantes worked as a purveyor
for the Spanish Armada, and later as a tax collector. In 1597
discrepancies in his accounts of three years previous landed
him in the Crown Jail of Seville. In 1605 he was in Valladolid,
just when the immediate success of the first part of his Don
Quixote, published in Madrid, signaled his return to the liter-
ary world. In 1607, he settled in Madrid, where he lived and
worked until his death. During the last nine years of his life,
Cervantes solidified his reputation as a writer; he published
the Exemplary Novels (Novelas ejemplares) in 1613, the Jour-
ney to Parnassus (Viaje del Parnaso) in 1614, and in 1615, the
Ocho comedias y ocho entremeses and the second part of Don
Quixote. Carlos Fuentes noted that, "Cervantes leaves open the
pages of a book where the reader knows himself to be written.
" Source: Wikipedia

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Part 1

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TO THE DUKE OF BEJAR, MARQUIS OF GIBRALEON,
COUNT OF BENALCAZAR AND BANARES, VICECOUNT
OF THE PUEBLA DE ALCOCER, MASTER OF THE TOWNS
OF CAPILLA, CURIEL AND BURGUILLOS
In belief of the good reception and honours that Your Excel-
lency bestows on all sort of books, as prince so inclined to fa-
vor good arts, chiefly those who by their nobleness do not sub-
mit to the service and bribery of the vulgar, I have determined
bringing to light The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of la
Mancha, in shelter of Your Excellency's glamorous name, to
whom, with the obeisance I owe to such grandeur, I pray to re-
ceive it agreeably under his protection, so that in this shadow,
though deprived of that precious ornament of elegance and
erudition that clothe the works composed in the houses of
those who know, it dares appear with assurance in the judg-
ment of some who, trespassing the bounds of their own ignor-
ance, use to condemn with more rigour and less justice the
writings of others. It is my earnest hope that Your Excellency's
good counsel in regard to my honourable purpose, will not dis-
dain the littleness of so humble a service.
Miguel de Cervantes

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The Author's Preface
Idle reader: thou mayest believe me without any oath that I
would this book, as it is the child of my brain, were the fairest,
gayest, and cleverest that could be imagined. But I could not
counteract Nature's law that everything shall beget its like;
and what, then, could this sterile, illtilled wit of mine beget but
the story of a dry, shrivelled, whimsical offspring, full of
thoughts of all sorts and such as never came into any other
imagination—just what might be begotten in a prison, where
every misery is lodged and every doleful sound makes its
dwelling? Tranquillity, a cheerful retreat, pleasant fields,
bright skies, murmuring brooks, peace of mind, these are the
things that go far to make even the most barren muses fertile,
and bring into the world births that fill it with wonder and de-
light. Sometimes when a father has an ugly, loutish son, the
love he bears him so blindfolds his eyes that he does not see
his defects, or, rather, takes them for gifts and charms of mind
and body, and talks of them to his friends as wit and grace. I,
however—for though I pass for the father, I am but the step-
father to "Don Quixote"—have no desire to go with the current
of custom, or to implore thee, dearest reader, almost with tears
in my eyes, as others do, to pardon or excuse the defects thou
wilt perceive in this child of mine. Thou art neither its kinsman
nor its friend, thy soul is thine own and thy will as free as any
man's, whate'er he be, thou art in thine own house and master
of it as much as the king of his taxes and thou knowest the
common saying, "Under my cloak I kill the king;" all which ex-
empts and frees thee from every consideration and obligation,
and thou canst say what thou wilt of the story without fear of
being abused for any ill or rewarded for any good thou mayest
say of it.
My wish would be simply to present it to thee plain and un-
adorned, without any embellishment of preface or uncountable
muster of customary sonnets, epigrams, and eulogies, such as
are commonly put at the beginning of books. For I can tell
thee, though composing it cost me some labour, I found none
greater than the making of this Preface thou art now reading.
Many times did I take up my pen to write it, and many did I lay
it down again, not knowing what to write. One of these times,

6
as I was pondering with the paper before me, a pen in my ear,
my elbow on the desk, and my cheek in my hand, thinking of
what I should say, there came in unexpectedly a certain lively,
clever friend of mine, who, seeing me so deep in thought,
asked the reason; to which I, making no mystery of it,
answered that I was thinking of the Preface I had to make for
the story of "Don Quixote," which so troubled me that I had a
mind not to make any at all, nor even publish the achievements
of so noble a knight.
"For, how could you expect me not to feel uneasy about what
that ancient lawgiver they call the Public will say when it sees
me, after slumbering so many years in the silence of oblivion,
coming out now with all my years upon my back, and with a
book as dry as a rush, devoid of invention, meagre in style,
poor in thoughts, wholly wanting in learning and wisdom,
without quotations in the margin or annotations at the end,
after the fashion of other books I see, which, though all fables
and profanity, are so full of maxims from Aristotle, and Plato,
and the whole herd of philosophers, that they fill the readers
with amazement and convince them that the authors are men
of learning, erudition, and eloquence. And then, when they
quote the Holy Scriptures!—anyone would say they are St. Tho-
mases or other doctors of the Church, observing as they do a
decorum so ingenious that in one sentence they describe a dis-
tracted lover and in the next deliver a devout little sermon that
it is a pleasure and a treat to hear and read. Of all this there
will be nothing in my book, for I have nothing to quote in the
margin or to note at the end, and still less do I know what au-
thors I follow in it, to place them at the beginning, as all do,
under the letters A, B, C, beginning with Aristotle and ending
with Xenophon, or Zoilus, or Zeuxis, though one was a slander-
er and the other a painter. Also my book must do without son-
nets at the beginning, at least sonnets whose authors are
dukes, marquises, counts, bishops, ladies, or famous poets.
Though if I were to ask two or three obliging friends, I know
they would give me them, and such as the productions of those
that have the highest reputation in our Spain could not equal.
"In short, my friend," I continued, "I am determined that Sen-
or Don Quixote shall remain buried in the archives of his own
La Mancha until Heaven provide some one to garnish him with

7
all those things he stands in need of; because I find myself,
through my shallowness and want of learning, unequal to sup-
plying them, and because I am by nature shy and careless
about hunting for authors to say what I myself can say without
them. Hence the cogitation and abstraction you found me in,
and reason enough, what you have heard from me."
Hearing this, my friend, giving himself a slap on the forehead
and breaking into a hearty laugh, exclaimed, "Before God,
Brother, now am I disabused of an error in which I have been
living all this long time I have known you, all through which I
have taken you to be shrewd and sensible in all you do; but
now I see you are as far from that as the heaven is from the
earth. It is possible that things of so little moment and so easy
to set right can occupy and perplex a ripe wit like yours, fit to
break through and crush far greater obstacles? By my faith,
this comes, not of any want of ability, but of too much indol-
ence and too little knowledge of life. Do you want to know if I
am telling the truth? Well, then, attend to me, and you will see
how, in the opening and shutting of an eye, I sweep away all
your difficulties, and supply all those deficiencies which you
say check and discourage you from bringing before the world
the story of your famous Don Quixote, the light and mirror of
all knight-errantry."
"Say on," said I, listening to his talk; "how do you propose to
make up for my diffidence, and reduce to order this chaos of
perplexity I am in?"
To which he made answer, "Your first difficulty about the
sonnets, epigrams, or complimentary verses which you want
for the beginning, and which ought to be by persons of import-
ance and rank, can be removed if you yourself take a little
trouble to make them; you can afterwards baptise them, and
put any name you like to them, fathering them on Prester John
of the Indies or the Emperor of Trebizond, who, to my know-
ledge, were said to have been famous poets: and even if they
were not, and any pedants or bachelors should attack you and
question the fact, never care two maravedis for that, for even if
they prove a lie against you they cannot cut off the hand you
wrote it with.
"As to references in the margin to the books and authors
from whom you take the aphorisms and sayings you put into

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your story, it is only contriving to fit in nicely any sentences or
scraps of Latin you may happen to have by heart, or at any rate
that will not give you much trouble to look up; so as, when you
speak of freedom and captivity, to insert
Non bene pro toto libertas venditur auro;
and then refer in the margin to Horace, or whoever said it;
or, if you allude to the power of death, to come in with—
Pallida mors Aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, Regum-
que turres.
"If it be friendship and the love God bids us bear to our en-
emy, go at once to the Holy Scriptures, which you can do with
a very small amount of research, and quote no less than the
words of God himself: Ego autem dico vobis: diligite inimicos
vestros. If you speak of evil thoughts, turn to the Gospel: De
corde exeunt cogitationes malae. If of the fickleness of friends,
there is Cato, who will give you his distich:
Donec eris felix multos numerabis amicos, Tempora si fuerint
nubila, solus eris.
"With these and such like bits of Latin they will take you for a
grammarian at all events, and that now-a-days is no small hon-
our and profit.
"With regard to adding annotations at the end of the book,
you may safely do it in this way. If you mention any giant in
your book contrive that it shall be the giant Goliath, and with
this alone, which will cost you almost nothing, you have a
grand note, for you can put—The giant Golias or Goliath was a
Philistine whom the shepherd David slew by a mighty stone-
cast in the Terebinth valley, as is related in the Book of
Kings—in the chapter where you find it written.
"Next, to prove yourself a man of erudition in polite literat-
ure and cosmography, manage that the river Tagus shall be
named in your story, and there you are at once with another
famous annotation, setting forth—The river Tagus was so
called after a King of Spain: it has its source in such and such a
place and falls into the ocean, kissing the walls of the famous
city of Lisbon, and it is a common belief that it has golden
sands, etc. If you should have anything to do with robbers, I
will give you the story of Cacus, for I have it by heart; if with
loose women, there is the Bishop of Mondonedo, who will give
you the loan of Lamia, Laida, and Flora, any reference to whom

9
will bring you great credit; if with hard-hearted ones, Ovid will
furnish you with Medea; if with witches or enchantresses,
Homer has Calypso, and Virgil Circe; if with valiant captains,
Julius Caesar himself will lend you himself in his own 'Com-
mentaries,' and Plutarch will give you a thousand Alexanders.
If you should deal with love, with two ounces you may know of
Tuscan you can go to Leon the Hebrew, who will supply you to
your heart's content; or if you should not care to go to foreign
countries you have at home Fonseca's 'Of the Love of God,' in
which is condensed all that you or the most imaginative mind
can want on the subject. In short, all you have to do is to man-
age to quote these names, or refer to these stories I have men-
tioned, and leave it to me to insert the annotations and quota-
tions, and I swear by all that's good to fill your margins and use
up four sheets at the end of the book.
"Now let us come to those references to authors which other
books have, and you want for yours. The remedy for this is very
simple: You have only to look out for some book that quotes
them all, from A to Z as you say yourself, and then insert the
very same alphabet in your book, and though the imposition
may be plain to see, because you have so little need to borrow
from them, that is no matter; there will probably be some
simple enough to believe that you have made use of them all in
this plain, artless story of yours. At any rate, if it answers no
other purpose, this long catalogue of authors will serve to give
a surprising look of authority to your book. Besides, no one will
trouble himself to verify whether you have followed them or
whether you have not, being no way concerned in it; especially
as, if I mistake not, this book of yours has no need of any one of
those things you say it wants, for it is, from beginning to end,
an attack upon the books of chivalry, of which Aristotle never
dreamt, nor St. Basil said a word, nor Cicero had any know-
ledge; nor do the niceties of truth nor the observations of as-
trology come within the range of its fanciful vagaries; nor have
geometrical measurements or refutations of the arguments
used in rhetoric anything to do with it; nor does it mean to
preach to anybody, mixing up things human and divine, a sort
of motley in which no Christian understanding should dress it-
self. It has only to avail itself of truth to nature in its composi-
tion, and the more perfect the imitation the better the work

10
will be. And as this piece of yours aims at nothing more than to
destroy the authority and influence which books of chivalry
have in the world and with the public, there is no need for you
to go a-begging for aphorisms from philosophers, precepts
from Holy Scripture, fables from poets, speeches from orators,
or miracles from saints; but merely to take care that your style
and diction run musically, pleasantly, and plainly, with clear,
proper, and well-placed words, setting forth your purpose to
the best of your power, and putting your ideas intelligibly,
without confusion or obscurity. Strive, too, that in reading your
story the melancholy may be moved to laughter, and the merry
made merrier still; that the simple shall not be wearied, that
the judicious shall admire the invention, that the grave shall
not despise it, nor the wise fail to praise it. Finally, keep your
aim fixed on the destruction of that ill-founded edifice of the
books of chivalry, hated by some and praised by many more;
for if you succeed in this you will have achieved no small
success."
In profound silence I listened to what my friend said, and his
observations made such an impression on me that, without at-
tempting to question them, I admitted their soundness, and out
of them I determined to make this Preface; wherein, gentle
reader, thou wilt perceive my friend's good sense, my good for-
tune in finding such an adviser in such a time of need, and
what thou hast gained in receiving, without addition or altera-
tion, the story of the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, who is
held by all the inhabitants of the district of the Campo de Mon-
tiel to have been the chastest lover and the bravest knight that
has for many years been seen in that neighbourhood. I have no
desire to magnify the service I render thee in making thee ac-
quainted with so renowned and honoured a knight, but I do de-
sire thy thanks for the acquaintance thou wilt make with the
famous Sancho Panza, his squire, in whom, to my thinking, I
have given thee condensed all the squirely drolleries that are
scattered through the swarm of the vain books of chivalry. And
so—may God give thee health, and not forget me. Vale.

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Chapter 1
Which treats of the character and pursuits of the famous
gentleman Don Quixote de la Mancha
In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire
to call to mind, there lived not long since one of those gentle-
men that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean
hack, and a greyhound for coursing. An olla of rather more
beef than mutton, a salad on most nights, scraps on Saturdays,
lentils on Fridays, and a pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made
away with three-quarters of his income. The rest of it went in a
doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches and shoes to match
for holidays, while on week-days he made a brave figure in his
best homespun. He had in his house a housekeeper past forty,
a niece under twenty, and a lad for the field and market-place,
who used to saddle the hack as well as handle the bill-hook.
The age of this gentleman of ours was bordering on fifty; he
was of a hardy habit, spare, gaunt-featured, a very early riser
and a great sportsman. They will have it his surname was Quix-
ada or Quesada (for here there is some difference of opinion
among the authors who write on the subject), although from
reasonable conjectures it seems plain that he was called Quex-
ana. This, however, is of but little importance to our tale; it will
be enough not to stray a hair's breadth from the truth in the
telling of it.
You must know, then, that the above-named gentleman
whenever he was at leisure (which was mostly all the year
round) gave himself up to reading books of chivalry with such
ardour and avidity that he almost entirely neglected the pur-
suit of his field-sports, and even the management of his prop-
erty; and to such a pitch did his eagerness and infatuation go
that he sold many an acre of tillageland to buy books of chiv-
alry to read, and brought home as many of them as he could
get. But of all there were none he liked so well as those of the

12
famous Feliciano de Silva's composition, for their lucidity of
style and complicated conceits were as pearls in his sight, par-
ticularly when in his reading he came upon courtships and car-
tels, where he often found passages like "the reason of the un-
reason with which my reason is afflicted so weakens my reason
that with reason I murmur at your beauty;" or again, "the high
heavens, that of your divinity divinely fortify you with the stars,
render you deserving of the desert your greatness deserves."
Over conceits of this sort the poor gentleman lost his wits, and
used to lie awake striving to understand them and worm the
meaning out of them; what Aristotle himself could not have
made out or extracted had he come to life again for that spe-
cial purpose. He was not at all easy about the wounds which
Don Belianis gave and took, because it seemed to him that,
great as were the surgeons who had cured him, he must have
had his face and body covered all over with seams and scars.
He commended, however, the author's way of ending his book
with the promise of that interminable adventure, and many a
time was he tempted to take up his pen and finish it properly
as is there proposed, which no doubt he would have done, and
made a successful piece of work of it too, had not greater and
more absorbing thoughts prevented him.
Many an argument did he have with the curate of his village
(a learned man, and a graduate of Siguenza) as to which had
been the better knight, Palmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul.
Master Nicholas, the village barber, however, used to say that
neither of them came up to the Knight of Phoebus, and that if
there was any that could compare with him it was Don Galaor,
the brother of Amadis of Gaul, because he had a spirit that was
equal to every occasion, and was no finikin knight, nor lach-
rymose like his brother, while in the matter of valour he was
not a whit behind him. In short, he became so absorbed in his
books that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise, and his
days from dawn to dark, poring over them; and what with little
sleep and much reading his brains got so dry that he lost his
wits. His fancy grew full of what he used to read about in his
books, enchantments, quarrels, battles, challenges, wounds,
wooings, loves, agonies, and all sorts of impossible nonsense;
and it so possessed his mind that the whole fabric of invention
and fancy he read of was true, that to him no history in the

13
world had more reality in it. He used to say the Cid Ruy Diaz
was a very good knight, but that he was not to be compared
with the Knight of the Burning Sword who with one back-
stroke cut in half two fierce and monstrous giants. He thought
more of Bernardo del Carpio because at Roncesvalles he slew
Roland in spite of enchantments, availing himself of the artifice
of Hercules when he strangled Antaeus the son of Terra in his
arms. He approved highly of the giant Morgante, because, al-
though of the giant breed which is always arrogant and ill-con-
ditioned, he alone was affable and well-bred. But above all he
admired Reinaldos of Montalban, especially when he saw him
sallying forth from his castle and robbing everyone he met, and
when beyond the seas he stole that image of Mahomet which,
as his history says, was entirely of gold. To have a bout of kick-
ing at that traitor of a Ganelon he would have given his house-
keeper, and his niece into the bargain.
In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strangest
notion that ever madman in this world hit upon, and that was
that he fancied it was right and requisite, as well for the sup-
port of his own honour as for the service of his country, that he
should make a knight-errant of himself, roaming the world over
in full armour and on horseback in quest of adventures, and
putting in practice himself all that he had read of as being the
usual practices of knights-errant; righting every kind of wrong,
and exposing himself to peril and danger from which, in the is-
sue, he was to reap eternal renown and fame. Already the poor
man saw himself crowned by the might of his arm Emperor of
Trebizond at least; and so, led away by the intense enjoyment
he found in these pleasant fancies, he set himself forthwith to
put his scheme into execution.
The first thing he did was to clean up some armour that had
belonged to his great-grandfather, and had been for ages lying
forgotten in a corner eaten with rust and covered with mildew.
He scoured and polished it as best he could, but he perceived
one great defect in it, that it had no closed helmet, nothing but
a simple morion. This deficiency, however, his ingenuity sup-
plied, for he contrived a kind of half-helmet of pasteboard
which, fitted on to the morion, looked like a whole one. It is
true that, in order to see if it was strong and fit to stand a cut,
he drew his sword and gave it a couple of slashes, the first of

14
which undid in an instant what had taken him a week to do.
The ease with which he had knocked it to pieces disconcerted
him somewhat, and to guard against that danger he set to
work again, fixing bars of iron on the inside until he was satis-
fied with its strength; and then, not caring to try any more ex-
periments with it, he passed it and adopted it as a helmet of
the most perfect construction.
He next proceeded to inspect his hack, which, with more
quartos than a real and more blemishes than the steed of
Gonela, that "tantum pellis et ossa fuit," surpassed in his eyes
the Bucephalus of Alexander or the Babieca of the Cid. Four
days were spent in thinking what name to give him, because
(as he said to himself) it was not right that a horse belonging to
a knight so famous, and one with such merits of his own,
should be without some distinctive name, and he strove to ad-
apt it so as to indicate what he had been before belonging to a
knight-errant, and what he then was; for it was only reasonable
that, his master taking a new character, he should take a new
name, and that it should be a distinguished and full-sounding
one, befitting the new order and calling he was about to follow.
And so, after having composed, struck out, rejected, added to,
unmade, and remade a multitude of names out of his memory
and fancy, he decided upon calling him Rocinante, a name, to
his thinking, lofty, sonorous, and significant of his condition as
a hack before he became what he now was, the first and fore-
most of all the hacks in the world.
Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he was
anxious to get one for himself, and he was eight days more
pondering over this point, till at last he made up his mind to
call himself "Don Quixote," whence, as has been already said,
the authors of this veracious history have inferred that his
name must have been beyond a doubt Quixada, and not
Quesada as others would have it. Recollecting, however, that
the valiant Amadis was not content to call himself curtly
Amadis and nothing more, but added the name of his kingdom
and country to make it famous, and called himself Amadis of
Gaul, he, like a good knight, resolved to add on the name of
his, and to style himself Don Quixote of La Mancha, whereby,
he considered, he described accurately his origin and country,
and did honour to it in taking his surname from it.

15
 So then, his armour being furbished, his morion turned into a
helmet, his hack christened, and he himself confirmed, he
came to the conclusion that nothing more was needed now but
to look out for a lady to be in love with; for a knight-errant
without love was like a tree without leaves or fruit, or a body
without a soul. As he said to himself, "If, for my sins, or by my
good fortune, I come across some giant hereabouts, a common
occurrence with knights-errant, and overthrow him in one on-
slaught, or cleave him asunder to the waist, or, in short, van-
quish and subdue him, will it not be well to have some one I
may send him to as a present, that he may come in and fall on
his knees before my sweet lady, and in a humble, submissive
voice say, 'I am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of
Malindrania, vanquished in single combat by the never suffi-
ciently extolled knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, who has
commanded me to present myself before your Grace, that your
Highness dispose of me at your pleasure'?" Oh, how our good
gentleman enjoyed the delivery of this speech, especially when
he had thought of some one to call his Lady! There was, so the
story goes, in a village near his own a very good-looking farm-
girl with whom he had been at one time in love, though, so far
as is known, she never knew it nor gave a thought to the mat-
ter. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her he thought
fit to confer the title of Lady of his Thoughts; and after some
search for a name which should not be out of harmony with her
own, and should suggest and indicate that of a princess and
great lady, he decided upon calling her Dulcinea del
Toboso—she being of El Toboso—a name, to his mind, musical,
uncommon, and significant, like all those he had already be-
stowed upon himself and the things belonging to him.

16
Chapter 2
Which treats of the first sally the ingenious Don Quixote
made from home
These preliminaries settled, he did not care to put off any
longer the execution of his design, urged on to it by the
thought of all the world was losing by his delay, seeing what
wrongs he intended to right, grievances to redress, injustices
to repair, abuses to remove, and duties to discharge. So,
without giving notice of his intention to anyone, and without
anybody seeing him, one morning before the dawning of the
day (which was one of the hottest of the month of July) he
donned his suit of armour, mounted Rocinante with his
patched-up helmet on, braced his buckler, took his lance, and
by the back door of the yard sallied forth upon the plain in the
highest contentment and satisfaction at seeing with what ease
he had made a beginning with his grand purpose. But scarcely
did he find himself upon the open plain, when a terrible
thought struck him, one all but enough to make him abandon
the enterprise at the very outset. It occurred to him that he
had not been dubbed a knight, and that according to the law of
chivalry he neither could nor ought to bear arms against any
knight; and that even if he had been, still he ought, as a novice
knight, to wear white armour, without a device upon the shield
until by his prowess he had earned one. These reflections made
him waver in his purpose, but his craze being stronger than
any reasoning, he made up his mind to have himself dubbed a
knight by the first one he came across, following the example
of others in the same case, as he had read in the books that
brought him to this pass. As for white armour, he resolved, on
the first opportunity, to scour his until it was whiter than an er-
mine; and so comforting himself he pursued his way, taking
that which his horse chose, for in this he believed lay the es-
sence of adventures.

17
 Thus setting out, our new-fledged adventurer paced along,
talking to himself and saying, "Who knows but that in time to
come, when the veracious history of my famous deeds is made
known, the sage who writes it, when he has to set forth my
first sally in the early morning, will do it after this fashion?
'Scarce had the rubicund Apollo spread o'er the face of the
broad spacious earth the golden threads of his bright hair,
scarce had the little birds of painted plumage attuned their
notes to hail with dulcet and mellifluous harmony the coming
of the rosy Dawn, that, deserting the soft couch of her jealous
spouse, was appearing to mortals at the gates and balconies of
the Manchegan horizon, when the renowned knight Don Quix-
ote of La Mancha, quitting the lazy down, mounted his celeb-
rated steed Rocinante and began to traverse the ancient and
famous Campo de Montiel;'" which in fact he was actually tra-
versing. "Happy the age, happy the time," he continued, "in
which shall be made known my deeds of fame, worthy to be
moulded in brass, carved in marble, limned in pictures, for a
memorial for ever. And thou, O sage magician, whoever thou
art, to whom it shall fall to be the chronicler of this wondrous
history, forget not, I entreat thee, my good Rocinante, the con-
stant companion of my ways and wanderings." Presently he
broke out again, as if he were love-stricken in earnest, "O Prin-
cess Dulcinea, lady of this captive heart, a grievous wrong hast
thou done me to drive me forth with scorn, and with inexorable
obduracy banish me from the presence of thy beauty. O lady,
deign to hold in remembrance this heart, thy vassal, that thus
in anguish pines for love of thee."
So he went on stringing together these and other absurdities,
all in the style of those his books had taught him, imitating
their language as well as he could; and all the while he rode so
slowly and the sun mounted so rapidly and with such fervour
that it was enough to melt his brains if he had any. Nearly all
day he travelled without anything remarkable happening to
him, at which he was in despair, for he was anxious to en-
counter some one at once upon whom to try the might of his
strong arm.
Writers there are who say the first adventure he met with
was that of Puerto Lapice; others say it was that of the wind-
mills; but what I have ascertained on this point, and what I

18
have found written in the annals of La Mancha, is that he was
on the road all day, and towards nightfall his hack and he
found themselves dead tired and hungry, when, looking all
around to see if he could discover any castle or shepherd's
shanty where he might refresh himself and relieve his sore
wants, he perceived not far out of his road an inn, which was
as welcome as a star guiding him to the portals, if not the
palaces, of his redemption; and quickening his pace he reached
it just as night was setting in. At the door were standing two
young women, girls of the district as they call them, on their
way to Seville with some carriers who had chanced to halt that
night at the inn; and as, happen what might to our adventurer,
everything he saw or imaged seemed to him to be and to hap-
pen after the fashion of what he read of, the moment he saw
the inn he pictured it to himself as a castle with its four turrets
and pinnacles of shining silver, not forgetting the drawbridge
and moat and all the belongings usually ascribed to castles of
the sort. To this inn, which to him seemed a castle, he ad-
vanced, and at a short distance from it he checked Rocinante,
hoping that some dwarf would show himself upon the battle-
ments, and by sound of trumpet give notice that a knight was
approaching the castle. But seeing that they were slow about
it, and that Rocinante was in a hurry to reach the stable, he
made for the inn door, and perceived the two gay damsels who
were standing there, and who seemed to him to be two fair
maidens or lovely ladies taking their ease at the castle gate.
At this moment it so happened that a swineherd who was go-
ing through the stubbles collecting a drove of pigs (for, without
any apology, that is what they are called) gave a blast of his
horn to bring them together, and forthwith it seemed to Don
Quixote to be what he was expecting, the signal of some dwarf
announcing his arrival; and so with prodigious satisfaction he
rode up to the inn and to the ladies, who, seeing a man of this
sort approaching in full armour and with lance and buckler,
were turning in dismay into the inn, when Don Quixote, guess-
ing their fear by their flight, raising his pasteboard visor, dis-
closed his dry dusty visage, and with courteous bearing and
gentle voice addressed them, "Your ladyships need not fly or
fear any rudeness, for that it belongs not to the order of
knighthood which I profess to offer to anyone, much less to

19
highborn maidens as your appearance proclaims you to be."
The girls were looking at him and straining their eyes to make
out the features which the clumsy visor obscured, but when
they heard themselves called maidens, a thing so much out of
their line, they could not restrain their laughter, which made
Don Quixote wax indignant, and say, "Modesty becomes the
fair, and moreover laughter that has little cause is great silli-
ness; this, however, I say not to pain or anger you, for my de-
sire is none other than to serve you."
The incomprehensible language and the unpromising looks of
our cavalier only increased the ladies' laughter, and that in-
creased his irritation, and matters might have gone farther if at
that moment the landlord had not come out, who, being a very
fat man, was a very peaceful one. He, seeing this grotesque fig-
ure clad in armour that did not match any more than his
saddle, bridle, lance, buckler, or corselet, was not at all indis-
posed to join the damsels in their manifestations of amuse-
ment; but, in truth, standing in awe of such a complicated arm-
ament, he thought it best to speak him fairly, so he said, "Sen-
or Caballero, if your worship wants lodging, bating the bed (for
there is not one in the inn) there is plenty of everything else
here." Don Quixote, observing the respectful bearing of the Al-
caide of the fortress (for so innkeeper and inn seemed in his
eyes), made answer, "Sir Castellan, for me anything will suf-
fice, for
'My armour is my only wear, My only rest the fray.'"
The host fancied he called him Castellan because he took him
for a "worthy of Castile," though he was in fact an Andalusian,
and one from the strand of San Lucar, as crafty a thief as Ca-
cus and as full of tricks as a student or a page. "In that case,"
said he,
"'Your bed is on the flinty rock, Your sleep to watch alway;'
and if so, you may dismount and safely reckon upon any
quantity of sleeplessness under this roof for a twelvemonth,
not to say for a single night." So saying, he advanced to hold
the stirrup for Don Quixote, who got down with great difficulty
and exertion (for he had not broken his fast all day), and then
charged the host to take great care of his horse, as he was the
best bit of flesh that ever ate bread in this world. The landlord
eyed him over but did not find him as good as Don Quixote

20
said, nor even half as good; and putting him up in the stable,
he returned to see what might be wanted by his guest, whom
the damsels, who had by this time made their peace with him,
were now relieving of his armour. They had taken off his
breastplate and backpiece, but they neither knew nor saw how
to open his gorget or remove his make-shift helmet, for he had
fastened it with green ribbons, which, as there was no untying
the knots, required to be cut. This, however, he would not by
any means consent to, so he remained all the evening with his
helmet on, the drollest and oddest figure that can be imagined;
and while they were removing his armour, taking the baggages
who were about it for ladies of high degree belonging to the
castle, he said to them with great sprightliness:
"Oh, never, surely, was there knight So served by hand of
dame, As served was he, Don Quixote hight, When from his
town he came; With maidens waiting on himself, Princesses on
his hack—
or Rocinante, for that, ladies mine, is my horse's name, and
Don Quixote of La Mancha is my own; for though I had no in-
tention of declaring myself until my achievements in your ser-
vice and honour had made me known, the necessity of adapting
that old ballad of Lancelot to the present occasion has given
you the knowledge of my name altogether prematurely. A time,
however, will come for your ladyships to command and me to
obey, and then the might of my arm will show my desire to
serve you."
The girls, who were not used to hearing rhetoric of this sort,
had nothing to say in reply; they only asked him if he wanted
anything to eat. "I would gladly eat a bit of something," said
Don Quixote, "for I feel it would come very seasonably." The
day happened to be a Friday, and in the whole inn there was
nothing but some pieces of the fish they call in Castile
"abadejo," in Andalusia "bacallao," and in some places "cura-
dillo," and in others "troutlet;" so they asked him if he thought
he could eat troutlet, for there was no other fish to give him. "If
there be troutlets enough," said Don Quixote, "they will be the
same thing as a trout; for it is all one to me whether I am given
eight reals in small change or a piece of eight; moreover, it
may be that these troutlets are like veal, which is better than
beef, or kid, which is better than goat. But whatever it be let it

21
come quickly, for the burden and pressure of arms cannot be
borne without support to the inside." They laid a table for him
at the door of the inn for the sake of the air, and the host
brought him a portion of ill-soaked and worse cooked stockfish,
and a piece of bread as black and mouldy as his own armour;
but a laughable sight it was to see him eating, for having his
helmet on and the beaver up, he could not with his own hands
put anything into his mouth unless some one else placed it
there, and this service one of the ladies rendered him. But to
give him anything to drink was impossible, or would have been
so had not the landlord bored a reed, and putting one end in
his mouth poured the wine into him through the other; all
which he bore with patience rather than sever the ribbons of
his helmet.
While this was going on there came up to the inn a sowgeld-
er, who, as he approached, sounded his reed pipe four or five
times, and thereby completely convinced Don Quixote that he
was in some famous castle, and that they were regaling him
with music, and that the stockfish was trout, the bread the
whitest, the wenches ladies, and the landlord the castellan of
the castle; and consequently he held that his enterprise and
sally had been to some purpose. But still it distressed him to
think he had not been dubbed a knight, for it was plain to him
he could not lawfully engage in any adventure without receiv-
ing the order of knighthood.

22
Chapter 3
Wherein is related the droll way in which Don Quixote
had himself dubbed a knight
Harassed by this reflection, he made haste with his scanty
pothouse supper, and having finished it called the landlord,
and shutting himself into the stable with him, fell on his knees
before him, saying, "From this spot I rise not, valiant knight,
until your courtesy grants me the boon I seek, one that will re-
dound to your praise and the benefit of the human race." The
landlord, seeing his guest at his feet and hearing a speech of
this kind, stood staring at him in bewilderment, not knowing
what to do or say, and entreating him to rise, but all to no pur-
pose until he had agreed to grant the boon demanded of him. "I
looked for no less, my lord, from your High Magnificence,"
replied Don Quixote, "and I have to tell you that the boon I
have asked and your liberality has granted is that you shall dub
me knight to-morrow morning, and that to-night I shall watch
my arms in the chapel of this your castle; thus tomorrow, as I
have said, will be accomplished what I so much desire, en-
abling me lawfully to roam through all the four quarters of the
world seeking adventures on behalf of those in distress, as is
the duty of chivalry and of knights-errant like myself, whose
ambition is directed to such deeds."
The landlord, who, as has been mentioned, was something of
a wag, and had already some suspicion of his guest's want of
wits, was quite convinced of it on hearing talk of this kind from
him, and to make sport for the night he determined to fall in
with his humour. So he told him he was quite right in pursuing
the object he had in view, and that such a motive was natural
and becoming in cavaliers as distinguished as he seemed and
his gallant bearing showed him to be; and that he himself in his
younger days had followed the same honourable calling, roam-
ing in quest of adventures in various parts of the world, among

23
others the Curing-grounds of Malaga, the Isles of Riaran, the
Precinct of Seville, the Little Market of Segovia, the Olivera of
Valencia, the Rondilla of Granada, the Strand of San Lucar, the
Colt of Cordova, the Taverns of Toledo, and divers other quar-
ters, where he had proved the nimbleness of his feet and the
lightness of his fingers, doing many wrongs, cheating many
widows, ruining maids and swindling minors, and, in short,
bringing himself under the notice of almost every tribunal and
court of justice in Spain; until at last he had retired to this
castle of his, where he was living upon his property and upon
that of others; and where he received all knights-errant of
whatever rank or condition they might be, all for the great love
he bore them and that they might share their substance with
him in return for his benevolence. He told him, moreover, that
in this castle of his there was no chapel in which he could
watch his armour, as it had been pulled down in order to be re-
built, but that in a case of necessity it might, he knew, be
watched anywhere, and he might watch it that night in a court-
yard of the castle, and in the morning, God willing, the requis-
ite ceremonies might be performed so as to have him dubbed a
knight, and so thoroughly dubbed that nobody could be more
so. He asked if he had any money with him, to which Don Quix-
ote replied that he had not a farthing, as in the histories of
knights-errant he had never read of any of them carrying any.
On this point the landlord told him he was mistaken; for,
though not recorded in the histories, because in the author's
opinion there was no need to mention anything so obvious and
necessary as money and clean shirts, it was not to be supposed
therefore that they did not carry them, and he might regard it
as certain and established that all knights-errant (about whom
there were so many full and unimpeachable books) carried
well-furnished purses in case of emergency, and likewise car-
ried shirts and a little box of ointment to cure the wounds they
received. For in those plains and deserts where they engaged
in combat and came out wounded, it was not always that there
was some one to cure them, unless indeed they had for a friend
some sage magician to succour them at once by fetching
through the air upon a cloud some damsel or dwarf with a vial
of water of such virtue that by tasting one drop of it they were
cured of their hurts and wounds in an instant and left as sound

24
as if they had not received any damage whatever. But in case
this should not occur, the knights of old took care to see that
their squires were provided with money and other requisites,
such as lint and ointments for healing purposes; and when it
happened that knights had no squires (which was rarely and
seldom the case) they themselves carried everything in
cunning saddle-bags that were hardly seen on the horse's
croup, as if it were something else of more importance, be-
cause, unless for some such reason, carrying saddle-bags was
not very favourably regarded among knights-errant. He there-
fore advised him (and, as his godson so soon to be, he might
even command him) never from that time forth to travel
without money and the usual requirements, and he would find
the advantage of them when he least expected it.
Don Quixote promised to follow his advice scrupulously, and
it was arranged forthwith that he should watch his armour in a
large yard at one side of the inn; so, collecting it all together,
Don Quixote placed it on a trough that stood by the side of a
well, and bracing his buckler on his arm he grasped his lance
and began with a stately air to march up and down in front of
the trough, and as he began his march night began to fall.
The landlord told all the people who were in the inn about
the craze of his guest, the watching of the armour, and the
dubbing ceremony he contemplated. Full of wonder at so
strange a form of madness, they flocked to see it from a dis-
tance, and observed with what composure he sometimes paced
up and down, or sometimes, leaning on his lance, gazed on his
armour without taking his eyes off it for ever so long; and as
the night closed in with a light from the moon so brilliant that
it might vie with his that lent it, everything the novice knight
did was plainly seen by all.
Meanwhile one of the carriers who were in the inn thought
fit to water his team, and it was necessary to remove Don
Quixote's armour as it lay on the trough; but he seeing the oth-
er approach hailed him in a loud voice, "O thou, whoever thou
art, rash knight that comest to lay hands on the armour of the
most valorous errant that ever girt on sword, have a care what
thou dost; touch it not unless thou wouldst lay down thy life as
the penalty of thy rashness." The carrier gave no heed to these
words (and he would have done better to heed them if he had

25
been heedful of his health), but seizing it by the straps flung
the armour some distance from him. Seeing this, Don Quixote
raised his eyes to heaven, and fixing his thoughts, apparently,
upon his lady Dulcinea, exclaimed, "Aid me, lady mine, in this
the first encounter that presents itself to this breast which
thou holdest in subjection; let not thy favour and protection fail
me in this first jeopardy;" and, with these words and others to
the same purpose, dropping his buckler he lifted his lance with
both hands and with it smote such a blow on the carrier's head
that he stretched him on the ground, so stunned that had he
followed it up with a second there would have been no need of
a surgeon to cure him. This done, he picked up his armour and
returned to his beat with the same serenity as before.
Shortly after this, another, not knowing what had happened
(for the carrier still lay senseless), came with the same object
of giving water to his mules, and was proceeding to remove the
armour in order to clear the trough, when Don Quixote,
without uttering a word or imploring aid from anyone, once
more dropped his buckler and once more lifted his lance, and
without actually breaking the second carrier's head into pieces,
made more than three of it, for he laid it open in four. At the
noise all the people of the inn ran to the spot, and among them
the landlord. Seeing this, Don Quixote braced his buckler on
his arm, and with his hand on his sword exclaimed, "O Lady of
Beauty, strength and support of my faint heart, it is time for
thee to turn the eyes of thy greatness on this thy captive knight
on the brink of so mighty an adventure." By this he felt himself
so inspired that he would not have flinched if all the carriers in
the world had assailed him. The comrades of the wounded per-
ceiving the plight they were in began from a distance to
shower stones on Don Quixote, who screened himself as best
he could with his buckler, not daring to quit the trough and
leave his armour unprotected. The landlord shouted to them to
leave him alone, for he had already told them that he was mad,
and as a madman he would not be accountable even if he killed
them all. Still louder shouted Don Quixote, calling them knaves
and traitors, and the lord of the castle, who allowed knights-er-
rant to be treated in this fashion, a villain and a low-born
knight whom, had he received the order of knighthood, he
would call to account for his treachery. "But of you," he cried,

26
"base and vile rabble, I make no account; fling, strike, come on,
do all ye can against me, ye shall see what the reward of your
folly and insolence will be." This he uttered with so much spirit
and boldness that he filled his assailants with a terrible fear,
and as much for this reason as at the persuasion of the land-
lord they left off stoning him, and he allowed them to carry off
the wounded, and with the same calmness and composure as
before resumed the watch over his armour.
But these freaks of his guest were not much to the liking of
the landlord, so he determined to cut matters short and confer
upon him at once the unlucky order of knighthood before any
further misadventure could occur; so, going up to him, he apo-
logised for the rudeness which, without his knowledge, had
been offered to him by these low people, who, however, had
been well punished for their audacity. As he had already told
him, he said, there was no chapel in the castle, nor was it
needed for what remained to be done, for, as he understood
the ceremonial of the order, the whole point of being dubbed a
knight lay in the accolade and in the slap on the shoulder, and
that could be administered in the middle of a field; and that he
had now done all that was needful as to watching the armour,
for all requirements were satisfied by a watch of two hours
only, while he had been more than four about it. Don Quixote
believed it all, and told him he stood there ready to obey him,
and to make an end of it with as much despatch as possible;
for, if he were again attacked, and felt himself to be dubbed
knight, he would not, he thought, leave a soul alive in the
castle, except such as out of respect he might spare at his
bidding.
Thus warned and menaced, the castellan forthwith brought
out a book in which he used to enter the straw and barley he
served out to the carriers, and, with a lad carrying a candle-
end, and the two damsels already mentioned, he returned to
where Don Quixote stood, and bade him kneel down. Then,
reading from his account-book as if he were repeating some
devout prayer, in the middle of his delivery he raised his hand
and gave him a sturdy blow on the neck, and then, with his
own sword, a smart slap on the shoulder, all the while mutter-
ing between his teeth as if he was saying his prayers. Having
done this, he directed one of the ladies to gird on his sword,

27
which she did with great self-possession and gravity, and not a
little was required to prevent a burst of laughter at each stage
of the ceremony; but what they had already seen of the novice
knight's prowess kept their laughter within bounds. On girding
him with the sword the worthy lady said to him, "May God
make your worship a very fortunate knight, and grant you suc-
cess in battle." Don Quixote asked her name in order that he
might from that time forward know to whom he was beholden
for the favour he had received, as he meant to confer upon her
some portion of the honour he acquired by the might of his
arm. She answered with great humility that she was called La
Tolosa, and that she was the daughter of a cobbler of Toledo
who lived in the stalls of Sanchobienaya, and that wherever
she might be she would serve and esteem him as her lord. Don
Quixote said in reply that she would do him a favour if thence-
forward she assumed the "Don" and called herself Dona Tolosa.
She promised she would, and then the other buckled on his
spur, and with her followed almost the same conversation as
with the lady of the sword. He asked her name, and she said it
was La Molinera, and that she was the daughter of a respect-
able miller of Antequera; and of her likewise Don Quixote re-
quested that she would adopt the "Don" and call herself Dona
Molinera, making offers to her further services and favours.
Having thus, with hot haste and speed, brought to a conclu-
sion these never-till-now-seen ceremonies, Don Quixote was on
thorns until he saw himself on horseback sallying forth in quest
of adventures; and saddling Rocinante at once he mounted,
and embracing his host, as he returned thanks for his kindness
in knighting him, he addressed him in language so extraordin-
ary that it is impossible to convey an idea of it or report it. The
landlord, to get him out of the inn, replied with no less rhetoric
though with shorter words, and without calling upon him to
pay the reckoning let him go with a Godspeed.

28
Chapter 4
Of what happened to our knight when he left the inn
Day was dawning when Don Quixote quitted the inn, so
happy, so gay, so exhilarated at finding himself now dubbed a
knight, that his joy was like to burst his horse-girths. However,
recalling the advice of his host as to the requisites he ought to
carry with him, especially that referring to money and shirts,
he determined to go home and provide himself with all, and
also with a squire, for he reckoned upon securing a farm-la-
bourer, a neighbour of his, a poor man with a family, but very
well qualified for the office of squire to a knight. With this ob-
ject he turned his horse's head towards his village, and Rocin-
ante, thus reminded of his old quarters, stepped out so briskly
that he hardly seemed to tread the earth.
He had not gone far, when out of a thicket on his right there
seemed to come feeble cries as of some one in distress, and the
instant he heard them he exclaimed, "Thanks be to heaven for
the favour it accords me, that it so soon offers me an opportun-
ity of fulfilling the obligation I have undertaken, and gathering
the fruit of my ambition. These cries, no doubt, come from
some man or woman in want of help, and needing my aid and
protection;" and wheeling, he turned Rocinante in the direction
whence the cries seemed to proceed. He had gone but a few
paces into the wood, when he saw a mare tied to an oak, and
tied to another, and stripped from the waist upwards, a youth
of about fifteen years of age, from whom the cries came. Nor
were they without cause, for a lusty farmer was flogging him
with a belt and following up every blow with scoldings and
commands, repeating, "Your mouth shut and your eyes open!"
while the youth made answer, "I won't do it again, master
mine; by God's passion I won't do it again, and I'll take more
care of the flock another time."

29
 Seeing what was going on, Don Quixote said in an angry
voice, "Discourteous knight, it ill becomes you to assail one
who cannot defend himself; mount your steed and take your
lance" (for there was a lance leaning against the oak to which
the mare was tied), "and I will make you know that you are be-
having as a coward." The farmer, seeing before him this figure
in full armour brandishing a lance over his head, gave himself
up for dead, and made answer meekly, "Sir Knight, this youth
that I am chastising is my servant, employed by me to watch a
flock of sheep that I have hard by, and he is so careless that I
lose one every day, and when I punish him for his carelessness
and knavery he says I do it out of niggardliness, to escape pay-
ing him the wages I owe him, and before God, and on my soul,
he lies."
"Lies before me, base clown!" said Don Quixote. "By the sun
that shines on us I have a mind to run you through with this
lance. Pay him at once without another word; if not, by the God
that rules us I will make an end of you, and annihilate you on
the spot; release him instantly."
The farmer hung his head, and without a word untied his ser-
vant, of whom Don Quixote asked how much his master owed
him.
He replied, nine months at seven reals a month. Don Quixote
added it up, found that it came to sixty-three reals, and told the
farmer to pay it down immediately, if he did not want to die for
it.
The trembling clown replied that as he lived and by the oath
he had sworn (though he had not sworn any) it was not so
much; for there were to be taken into account and deducted
three pairs of shoes he had given him, and a real for two blood-
lettings when he was sick.
"All that is very well," said Don Quixote; "but let the shoes
and the blood-lettings stand as a setoff against the blows you
have given him without any cause; for if he spoiled the leather
of the shoes you paid for, you have damaged that of his body,
and if the barber took blood from him when he was sick, you
have drawn it when he was sound; so on that score he owes
you nothing."

30
 "The difficulty is, Sir Knight, that I have no money here; let
Andres come home with me, and I will pay him all, real by
real."
"I go with him!" said the youth. "Nay, God forbid! No, senor,
not for the world; for once alone with me, he would ray me like
a Saint Bartholomew."
"He will do nothing of the kind," said Don Quixote; "I have
only to command, and he will obey me; and as he has sworn to
me by the order of knighthood which he has received, I leave
him free, and I guarantee the payment."
"Consider what you are saying, senor," said the youth; "this
master of mine is not a knight, nor has he received any order
of knighthood; for he is Juan Haldudo the Rich, of Quintanar."
"That matters little," replied Don Quixote; "there may be Hal-
dudos knights; moreover, everyone is the son of his works."
"That is true," said Andres; "but this master of mine—of what
works is he the son, when he refuses me the wages of my
sweat and labour?"
"I do not refuse, brother Andres," said the farmer, "be good
enough to come along with me, and I swear by all the orders of
knighthood there are in the world to pay you as I have agreed,
real by real, and perfumed."
"For the perfumery I excuse you," said Don Quixote; "give it
to him in reals, and I shall be satisfied; and see that you do as
you have sworn; if not, by the same oath I swear to come back
and hunt you out and punish you; and I shall find you though
you should lie closer than a lizard. And if you desire to know
who it is lays this command upon you, that you be more firmly
bound to obey it, know that I am the valorous Don Quixote of
La Mancha, the undoer of wrongs and injustices; and so, God
be with you, and keep in mind what you have promised and
sworn under those penalties that have been already declared
to you."
So saying, he gave Rocinante the spur and was soon out of
reach. The farmer followed him with his eyes, and when he saw
that he had cleared the wood and was no longer in sight, he
turned to his boy Andres, and said, "Come here, my son, I want
to pay you what I owe you, as that undoer of wrongs has com-
manded me."

31
 "My oath on it," said Andres, "your worship will be well ad-
vised to obey the command of that good knight—may he live a
thousand years—for, as he is a valiant and just judge, by
Roque, if you do not pay me, he will come back and do as he
said."
"My oath on it, too," said the farmer; "but as I have a strong
affection for you, I want to add to the debt in order to add to
the payment;" and seizing him by the arm, he tied him up
again, and gave him such a flogging that he left him for dead.
"Now, Master Andres," said the farmer, "call on the undoer
of wrongs; you will find he won't undo that, though I am not
sure that I have quite done with you, for I have a good mind to
flay you alive." But at last he untied him, and gave him leave to
go look for his judge in order to put the sentence pronounced
into execution.
Andres went off rather down in the mouth, swearing he
would go to look for the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha and
tell him exactly what had happened, and that all would have to
be repaid him sevenfold; but for all that, he went off weeping,
while his master stood laughing.
Thus did the valiant Don Quixote right that wrong, and, thor-
oughly satisfied with what had taken place, as he considered
he had made a very happy and noble beginning with his knight-
hood, he took the road towards his village in perfect self-con-
tent, saying in a low voice, "Well mayest thou this day call thy-
self fortunate above all on earth, O Dulcinea del Toboso, fairest
of the fair! since it has fallen to thy lot to hold subject and sub-
missive to thy full will and pleasure a knight so renowned as is
and will be Don Quixote of La Mancha, who, as all the world
knows, yesterday received the order of knighthood, and hath
to-day righted the greatest wrong and grievance that ever in-
justice conceived and cruelty perpetrated: who hath to-day
plucked the rod from the hand of yonder ruthless oppressor so
wantonly lashing that tender child."
He now came to a road branching in four directions, and im-
mediately he was reminded of those cross-roads where
knights-errant used to stop to consider which road they should
take. In imitation of them he halted for a while, and after hav-
ing deeply considered it, he gave Rocinante his head, submit-
ting his own will to that of his hack, who followed out his first

32
intention, which was to make straight for his own stable. After
he had gone about two miles Don Quixote perceived a large
party of people, who, as afterwards appeared, were some
Toledo traders, on their way to buy silk at Murcia. There were
six of them coming along under their sunshades, with four ser-
vants mounted, and three muleteers on foot. Scarcely had Don
Quixote descried them when the fancy possessed him that this
must be some new adventure; and to help him to imitate as far
as he could those passages he had read of in his books, here
seemed to come one made on purpose, which he resolved to at-
tempt. So with a lofty bearing and determination he fixed him-
self firmly in his stirrups, got his lance ready, brought his buck-
ler before his breast, and planting himself in the middle of the
road, stood waiting the approach of these knights-errant, for
such he now considered and held them to be; and when they
had come near enough to see and hear, he exclaimed with a
haughty gesture, "All the world stand, unless all the world con-
fess that in all the world there is no maiden fairer than the Em-
press of La Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso."
The traders halted at the sound of this language and the
sight of the strange figure that uttered it, and from both figure
and language at once guessed the craze of their owner; they
wished, however, to learn quietly what was the object of this
confession that was demanded of them, and one of them, who
was rather fond of a joke and was very sharp-witted, said to
him, "Sir Knight, we do not know who this good lady is that you
speak of; show her to us, for, if she be of such beauty as you
suggest, with all our hearts and without any pressure we will
confess the truth that is on your part required of us."
"If I were to show her to you," replied Don Quixote, "what
merit would you have in confessing a truth so manifest? The
essential point is that without seeing her you must believe,
confess, affirm, swear, and defend it; else ye have to do with
me in battle, ill-conditioned, arrogant rabble that ye are; and
come ye on, one by one as the order of knighthood requires, or
all together as is the custom and vile usage of your breed, here
do I bide and await you relying on the justice of the cause I
maintain."
"Sir Knight," replied the trader, "I entreat your worship in
the name of this present company of princes, that, to save us

33
from charging our consciences with the confession of a thing
we have never seen or heard of, and one moreover so much to
the prejudice of the Empresses and Queens of the Alcarria and
Estremadura, your worship will be pleased to show us some
portrait of this lady, though it be no bigger than a grain of
wheat; for by the thread one gets at the ball, and in this way
we shall be satisfied and easy, and you will be content and
pleased; nay, I believe we are already so far agreed with you
that even though her portrait should show her blind of one eye,
and distilling vermilion and sulphur from the other, we would
nevertheless, to gratify your worship, say all in her favour that
you desire."
"She distils nothing of the kind, vile rabble," said Don Quix-
ote, burning with rage, "nothing of the kind, I say, only amber-
gris and civet in cotton; nor is she one-eyed or humpbacked,
but straighter than a Guadarrama spindle: but ye must pay for
the blasphemy ye have uttered against beauty like that of my
lady."
And so saying, he charged with levelled lance against the one
who had spoken, with such fury and fierceness that, if luck had
not contrived that Rocinante should stumble midway and come
down, it would have gone hard with the rash trader. Down
went Rocinante, and over went his master, rolling along the
ground for some distance; and when he tried to rise he was un-
able, so encumbered was he with lance, buckler, spurs, helmet,
and the weight of his old armour; and all the while he was
struggling to get up he kept saying, "Fly not, cowards and
caitiffs! stay, for not by my fault, but my horse's, am I
stretched here."
One of the muleteers in attendance, who could not have had
much good nature in him, hearing the poor prostrate man blus-
tering in this style, was unable to refrain from giving him an
answer on his ribs; and coming up to him he seized his lance,
and having broken it in pieces, with one of them he began so to
belabour our Don Quixote that, notwithstanding and in spite of
his armour, he milled him like a measure of wheat. His masters
called out not to lay on so hard and to leave him alone, but the
muleteers blood was up, and he did not care to drop the game
until he had vented the rest of his wrath, and gathering up the
remaining fragments of the lance he finished with a discharge

34
upon the unhappy victim, who all through the storm of sticks
that rained on him never ceased threatening heaven, and
earth, and the brigands, for such they seemed to him. At last
the muleteer was tired, and the traders continued their jour-
ney, taking with them matter for talk about the poor fellow
who had been cudgelled. He when he found himself alone
made another effort to rise; but if he was unable when whole
and sound, how was he to rise after having been thrashed and
well-nigh knocked to pieces? And yet he esteemed himself for-
tunate, as it seemed to him that this was a regular knight-
errant's mishap, and entirely, he considered, the fault of his
horse. However, battered in body as he was, to rise was bey-
ond his power.

35
Chapter 5
In which the narrative of our knight's mishap is
continued
Finding, then, that, in fact he could not move, he thought
himself of having recourse to his usual remedy, which was to
think of some passage in his books, and his craze brought to
his mind that about Baldwin and the Marquis of Mantua, when
Carloto left him wounded on the mountain side, a story known
by heart by the children, not forgotten by the young men, and
lauded and even believed by the old folk; and for all that not a
whit truer than the miracles of Mahomet. This seemed to him
to fit exactly the case in which he found himself, so, making a
show of severe suffering, he began to roll on the ground and
with feeble breath repeat the very words which the wounded
knight of the wood is said to have uttered:
Where art thou, lady mine, that thou My sorrow dost not rue?
Thou canst not know it, lady mine, Or else thou art untrue.
And so he went on with the ballad as far as the lines:
O noble Marquis of Mantua, My Uncle and liege lord!
As chance would have it, when he had got to this line there
happened to come by a peasant from his own village, a neigh-
bour of his, who had been with a load of wheat to the mill, and
he, seeing the man stretched there, came up to him and asked
him who he was and what was the matter with him that he
complained so dolefully.
Don Quixote was firmly persuaded that this was the Marquis
of Mantua, his uncle, so the only answer he made was to go on
with his ballad, in which he told the tale of his misfortune, and
of the loves of the Emperor's son and his wife all exactly as the
ballad sings it.
The peasant stood amazed at hearing such nonsense, and re-
lieving him of the visor, already battered to pieces by blows, he
wiped his face, which was covered with dust, and as soon as he

36
had done so he recognised him and said, "Senor Quixada" (for
so he appears to have been called when he was in his senses
and had not yet changed from a quiet country gentleman into a
knight-errant), "who has brought your worship to this pass?"
But to all questions the other only went on with his ballad.
Seeing this, the good man removed as well as he could his
breastplate and backpiece to see if he had any wound, but he
could perceive no blood nor any mark whatever. He then con-
trived to raise him from the ground, and with no little difficulty
hoisted him upon his ass, which seemed to him to be the easi-
est mount for him; and collecting the arms, even to the splin-
ters of the lance, he tied them on Rocinante, and leading him
by the bridle and the ass by the halter he took the road for the
village, very sad to hear what absurd stuff Don Quixote was
talking.
Nor was Don Quixote less so, for what with blows and
bruises he could not sit upright on the ass, and from time to
time he sent up sighs to heaven, so that once more he drove
the peasant to ask what ailed him. And it could have been only
the devil himself that put into his head tales to match his own
adventures, for now, forgetting Baldwin, he bethought himself
of the Moor Abindarraez, when the Alcaide of Antequera,
Rodrigo de Narvaez, took him prisoner and carried him away
to his castle; so that when the peasant again asked him how he
was and what ailed him, he gave him for reply the same words
and phrases that the captive Abindarraez gave to Rodrigo de
Narvaez, just as he had read the story in the "Diana" of Jorge
de Montemayor where it is written, applying it to his own case
so aptly that the peasant went along cursing his fate that he
had to listen to such a lot of nonsense; from which, however,
he came to the conclusion that his neighbour was mad, and so
made all haste to reach the village to escape the wearisome-
ness of this harangue of Don Quixote's; who, at the end of it,
said, "Senor Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, your worship must know
that this fair Xarifa I have mentioned is now the lovely Dul-
cinea del Toboso, for whom I have done, am doing, and will do
the most famous deeds of chivalry that in this world have been
seen, are to be seen, or ever shall be seen."
To this the peasant answered, "Senor—sinner that I
am!—cannot your worship see that I am not Don Rodrigo de

37
Narvaez nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Pedro Alonso your
neighbour, and that your worship is neither Baldwin nor Abin-
darraez, but the worthy gentleman Senor Quixada?"
"I know who I am," replied Don Quixote, "and I know that I
may be not only those I have named, but all the Twelve Peers
of France and even all the Nine Worthies, since my achieve-
ments surpass all that they have done all together and each of
them on his own account."
With this talk and more of the same kind they reached the
village just as night was beginning to fall, but the peasant
waited until it was a little later that the belaboured gentleman
might not be seen riding in such a miserable trim. When it was
what seemed to him the proper time he entered the village and
went to Don Quixote's house, which he found all in confusion,
and there were the curate and the village barber, who were
great friends of Don Quixote, and his housekeeper was saying
to them in a loud voice, "What does your worship think can
have befallen my master, Senor Licentiate Pero Perez?" for so
the curate was called; "it is three days now since anything has
been seen of him, or the hack, or the buckler, lance, or armour.
Miserable me! I am certain of it, and it is as true as that I was
born to die, that these accursed books of chivalry he has, and
has got into the way of reading so constantly, have upset his
reason; for now I remember having often heard him saying to
himself that he would turn knight-errant and go all over the
world in quest of adventures. To the devil and Barabbas with
such books, that have brought to ruin in this way the finest un-
derstanding there was in all La Mancha!"
The niece said the same, and, more: "You must know, Master
Nicholas"—for that was the name of the barber—"it was often
my uncle's way to stay two days and nights together poring
over these unholy books of misventures, after which he would
fling the book away and snatch up his sword and fall to slash-
ing the walls; and when he was tired out he would say he had
killed four giants like four towers; and the sweat that flowed
from him when he was weary he said was the blood of the
wounds he had received in battle; and then he would drink a
great jug of cold water and become calm and quiet, saying that
this water was a most precious potion which the sage Esquife,
a great magician and friend of his, had brought him. But I take

38
all the blame upon myself for never having told your worships
of my uncle's vagaries, that you might put a stop to them be-
fore things had come to this pass, and burn all these accursed
books—for he has a great number—that richly deserve to be
burned like heretics."
"So say I too," said the curate, "and by my faith to-morrow
shall not pass without public judgment upon them, and may
they be condemned to the flames lest they lead those that read
to behave as my good friend seems to have behaved."
All this the peasant heard, and from it he understood at last
what was the matter with his neighbour, so he began calling
aloud, "Open, your worships, to Senor Baldwin and to Senor
the Marquis of Mantua, who comes badly wounded, and to Sen-
or Abindarraez, the Moor, whom the valiant Rodrigo de Nar-
vaez, the Alcaide of Antequera, brings captive."
At these words they all hurried out, and when they recog-
nised their friend, master, and uncle, who had not yet dismoun-
ted from the ass because he could not, they ran to embrace
him.
"Hold!" said he, "for I am badly wounded through my horse's
fault; carry me to bed, and if possible send for the wise Ur-
ganda to cure and see to my wounds."
"See there! plague on it!" cried the housekeeper at this: "did
not my heart tell the truth as to which foot my master went
lame of? To bed with your worship at once, and we will con-
trive to cure you here without fetching that Hurgada. A curse I
say once more, and a hundred times more, on those books of
chivalry that have brought your worship to such a pass."
They carried him to bed at once, and after searching for his
wounds could find none, but he said they were all bruises from
having had a severe fall with his horse Rocinante when in com-
bat with ten giants, the biggest and the boldest to be found on
earth.
"So, so!" said the curate, "are there giants in the dance? By
the sign of the Cross I will burn them to-morrow before the day
over."
They put a host of questions to Don Quixote, but his only an-
swer to all was—give him something to eat, and leave him to
sleep, for that was what he needed most. They did so, and the
curate questioned the peasant at great length as to how he had

39
found Don Quixote. He told him, and the nonsense he had
talked when found and on the way home, all which made the li-
centiate the more eager to do what he did the next day, which
was to summon his friend the barber, Master Nicholas, and go
with him to Don Quixote's house.

40
Chapter 6
Of the diverting and important scrutiny which the curate
and the barber made in the library of our ingenious
gentleman
He was still sleeping; so the curate asked the niece for the
keys of the room where the books, the authors of all the mis-
chief, were, and right willingly she gave them. They all went in,
the housekeeper with them, and found more than a hundred
volumes of big books very well bound, and some other small
ones. The moment the housekeeper saw them she turned about
and ran out of the room, and came back immediately with a
saucer of holy water and a sprinkler, saying, "Here, your wor-
ship, senor licentiate, sprinkle this room; don't leave any magi-
cian of the many there are in these books to bewitch us in re-
venge for our design of banishing them from the world."
The simplicity of the housekeeper made the licentiate laugh,
and he directed the barber to give him the books one by one to
see what they were about, as there might be some to be found
among them that did not deserve the penalty of fire.
"No," said the niece, "there is no reason for showing mercy
to any of them; they have every one of them done mischief; bet-
ter fling them out of the window into the court and make a pile
of them and set fire to them; or else carry them into the yard,
and there a bonfire can be made without the smoke giving any
annoyance." The housekeeper said the same, so eager were
they both for the slaughter of those innocents, but the curate
would not agree to it without first reading at any rate the titles.
The first that Master Nicholas put into his hand was "The
four books of Amadis of Gaul." "This seems a mysterious
thing," said the curate, "for, as I have heard say, this was the
first book of chivalry printed in Spain, and from this all the oth-
ers derive their birth and origin; so it seems to me that we

41
ought inexorably to condemn it to the flames as the founder of
so vile a sect."
"Nay, sir," said the barber, "I too, have heard say that this is
the best of all the books of this kind that have been written,
and so, as something singular in its line, it ought to be
pardoned."
"True," said the curate; "and for that reason let its life be
spared for the present. Let us see that other which is next to
it."
"It is," said the barber, "the 'Sergas de Esplandian,' the law-
ful son of Amadis of Gaul."
"Then verily," said the curate, "the merit of the father must
not be put down to the account of the son. Take it, mistress
housekeeper; open the window and fling it into the yard and
lay the foundation of the pile for the bonfire we are to make."
The housekeeper obeyed with great satisfaction, and the
worthy "Esplandian" went flying into the yard to await with all
patience the fire that was in store for him.
"Proceed," said the curate.
"This that comes next," said the barber, "is 'Amadis of
Greece,' and, indeed, I believe all those on this side are of the
same Amadis lineage."
"Then to the yard with the whole of them," said the curate;
"for to have the burning of Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the
shepherd Darinel and his eclogues, and the bedevilled and in-
volved discourses of his author, I would burn with them the
father who begot me if he were going about in the guise of a
knight-errant."
"I am of the same mind," said the barber.
"And so am I," added the niece.
"In that case," said the housekeeper, "here, into the yard
with them!"
They were handed to her, and as there were many of them,
she spared herself the staircase, and flung them down out of
the window.
"Who is that tub there?" said the curate.
"This," said the barber, "is 'Don Olivante de Laura.'"
"The author of that book," said the curate, "was the same
that wrote 'The Garden of Flowers,' and truly there is no decid-
ing which of the two books is the more truthful, or, to put it

42
better, the less lying; all I can say is, send this one into the
yard for a swaggering fool."
"This that follows is 'Florismarte of Hircania,'" said the
barber.
"Senor Florismarte here?" said the curate; "then by my faith
he must take up his quarters in the yard, in spite of his marvel-
lous birth and visionary adventures, for the stiffness and dry-
ness of his style deserve nothing else; into the yard with him
and the other, mistress housekeeper."
"With all my heart, senor," said she, and executed the order
with great delight.
"This," said the barber, "is The Knight Platir.'"
"An old book that," said the curate, "but I find no reason for
clemency in it; send it after the others without appeal;" which
was done.
Another book was opened, and they saw it was entitled, "The
Knight of the Cross."
"For the sake of the holy name this book has," said the cur-
ate, "its ignorance might be excused; but then, they say, 'be-
hind the cross there's the devil; to the fire with it."
Taking down another book, the barber said, "This is 'The Mir-
ror of Chivalry.'"
"I know his worship," said the curate; "that is where Senor
Reinaldos of Montalvan figures with his friends and comrades,
greater thieves than Cacus, and the Twelve Peers of France
with the veracious historian Turpin; however, I am not for con-
demning them to more than perpetual banishment, because, at
any rate, they have some share in the invention of the famous
Matteo Boiardo, whence too the Christian poet Ludovico Ari-
osto wove his web, to whom, if I find him here, and speaking
any language but his own, I shall show no respect whatever;
but if he speaks his own tongue I will put him upon my head."
"Well, I have him in Italian," said the barber, "but I do not un-
derstand him."
"Nor would it be well that you should understand him," said
the curate, "and on that score we might have excused the Cap-
tain if he had not brought him into Spain and turned him into
Castilian. He robbed him of a great deal of his natural force,
and so do all those who try to turn books written in verse into
another language, for, with all the pains they take and all the

43
cleverness they show, they never can reach the level of the ori-
ginals as they were first produced. In short, I say that this
book, and all that may be found treating of those French af-
fairs, should be thrown into or deposited in some dry well, until
after more consideration it is settled what is to be done with
them; excepting always one 'Bernardo del Carpio' that is going
about, and another called 'Roncesvalles;' for these, if they
come into my hands, shall pass at once into those of the house-
keeper, and from hers into the fire without any reprieve."
To all this the barber gave his assent, and looked upon it as
right and proper, being persuaded that the curate was so
staunch to the Faith and loyal to the Truth that he would not
for the world say anything opposed to them. Opening another
book he saw it was "Palmerin de Oliva," and beside it was an-
other called "Palmerin of England," seeing which the licentiate
said, "Let the Olive be made firewood of at once and burned
until no ashes even are left; and let that Palm of England be
kept and preserved as a thing that stands alone, and let such
another case be made for it as that which Alexander found
among the spoils of Darius and set aside for the safe keeping of
the works of the poet Homer. This book, gossip, is of authority
for two reasons, first because it is very good, and secondly be-
cause it is said to have been written by a wise and witty king of
Portugal. All the adventures at the Castle of Miraguarda are
excellent and of admirable contrivance, and the language is
polished and clear, studying and observing the style befitting
the speaker with propriety and judgment. So then, provided it
seems good to you, Master Nicholas, I say let this and 'Amadis
of Gaul' be remitted the penalty of fire, and as for all the rest,
let them perish without further question or query."
"Nay, gossip," said the barber, "for this that I have here is
the famous 'Don Belianis.'"
"Well," said the curate, "that and the second, third, and
fourth parts all stand in need of a little rhubarb to purge their
excess of bile, and they must be cleared of all that stuff about
the Castle of Fame and other greater affectations, to which end
let them be allowed the over-seas term, and, according as they
mend, so shall mercy or justice be meted out to them; and in
the mean time, gossip, do you keep them in your house and let
no one read them."

44
 "With all my heart," said the barber; and not caring to tire
himself with reading more books of chivalry, he told the house-
keeper to take all the big ones and throw them into the yard. It
was not said to one dull or deaf, but to one who enjoyed burn-
ing them more than weaving the broadest and finest web that
could be; and seizing about eight at a time, she flung them out
of the window.
In carrying so many together she let one fall at the feet of the
barber, who took it up, curious to know whose it was, and
found it said, "History of the Famous Knight, Tirante el
Blanco."
"God bless me!" said the curate with a shout, "'Tirante el
Blanco' here! Hand it over, gossip, for in it I reckon I have
found a treasury of enjoyment and a mine of recreation. Here
is Don Kyrieleison of Montalvan, a valiant knight, and his
brother Thomas of Montalvan, and the knight Fonseca, with
the battle the bold Tirante fought with the mastiff, and the wit-
ticisms of the damsel Placerdemivida, and the loves and wiles
of the widow Reposada, and the empress in love with the
squire Hipolito—in truth, gossip, by right of its style it is the
best book in the world. Here knights eat and sleep, and die in
their beds, and make their wills before dying, and a great deal
more of which there is nothing in all the other books. Never-
theless, I say he who wrote it, for deliberately composing such
fooleries, deserves to be sent to the galleys for life. Take it
home with you and read it, and you will see that what I have
said is true."
"As you will," said the barber; "but what are we to do with
these little books that are left?"
"These must be, not chivalry, but poetry," said the curate;
and opening one he saw it was the "Diana" of Jorge de Mon-
temayor, and, supposing all the others to be of the same sort,
"these," he said, "do not deserve to be burned like the others,
for they neither do nor can do the mischief the books of chiv-
alry have done, being books of entertainment that can hurt no
one."
"Ah, senor!" said the niece, "your worship had better order
these to be burned as well as the others; for it would be no
wonder if, after being cured of his chivalry disorder, my uncle,
by reading these, took a fancy to turn shepherd and range the

45
woods and fields singing and piping; or, what would be still
worse, to turn poet, which they say is an incurable and infec-
tious malady."
"The damsel is right," said the curate, "and it will be well to
put this stumbling-block and temptation out of our friend's
way. To begin, then, with the 'Diana' of Montemayor. I am of
opinion it should not be burned, but that it should be cleared of
all that about the sage Felicia and the magic water, and of al-
most all the longer pieces of verse: let it keep, and welcome, its
prose and the honour of being the first of books of the kind."
"This that comes next," said the barber, "is the 'Diana,' en-
titled the 'Second Part, by the Salamancan,' and this other has
the same title, and its author is Gil Polo."
"As for that of the Salamancan," replied the curate, "let it go
to swell the number of the condemned in the yard, and let Gil
Polo's be preserved as if it came from Apollo himself: but get
on, gossip, and make haste, for it is growing late."
"This book," said the barber, opening another, "is the ten
books of the 'Fortune of Love,' written by Antonio de Lofraso, a
Sardinian poet."
"By the orders I have received," said the curate, "since Apollo
has been Apollo, and the Muses have been Muses, and poets
have been poets, so droll and absurd a book as this has never
been written, and in its way it is the best and the most singular
of all of this species that have as yet appeared, and he who has
not read it may be sure he has never read what is delightful.
Give it here, gossip, for I make more account of having found it
than if they had given me a cassock of Florence stuff."
He put it aside with extreme satisfaction, and the barber
went on, "These that come next are 'The Shepherd of Iberia,'
'Nymphs of Henares,' and 'The Enlightenment of Jealousy.'"
"Then all we have to do," said the curate, "is to hand them
over to the secular arm of the housekeeper, and ask me not
why, or we shall never have done."
"This next is the 'Pastor de Filida.'"
"No Pastor that," said the curate, "but a highly polished
courtier; let it be preserved as a precious jewel."
"This large one here," said the barber, "is called 'The Treas-
ury of various Poems.'"

46
 "If there were not so many of them," said the curate, "they
would be more relished: this book must be weeded and
cleansed of certain vulgarities which it has with its excel-
lences; let it be preserved because the author is a friend of
mine, and out of respect for other more heroic and loftier
works that he has written."
"This," continued the barber, "is the 'Cancionero' of Lopez de
Maldonado."
"The author of that book, too," said the curate, "is a great
friend of mine, and his verses from his own mouth are the ad-
miration of all who hear them, for such is the sweetness of his
voice that he enchants when he chants them: it gives rather
too much of its eclogues, but what is good was never yet plenti-
ful: let it be kept with those that have been set apart. But what
book is that next it?"
"The 'Galatea' of Miguel de Cervantes," said the barber.
"That Cervantes has been for many years a great friend of
mine, and to my knowledge he has had more experience in re-
verses than in verses. His book has some good invention in it, it
presents us with something but brings nothing to a conclusion:
we must wait for the Second Part it promises: perhaps with
amendment it may succeed in winning the full measure of
grace that is now denied it; and in the mean time do you, senor
gossip, keep it shut up in your own quarters."
"Very good," said the barber; "and here come three together,
the 'Araucana' of Don Alonso de Ercilla, the 'Austriada' of Juan
Rufo, Justice of Cordova, and the 'Montserrate' of Christobal de
Virues, the Valencian poet."
"These three books," said the curate, "are the best that have
been written in Castilian in heroic verse, and they may com-
pare with the most famous of Italy; let them be preserved as
the richest treasures of poetry that Spain possesses."
The curate was tired and would not look into any more
books, and so he decided that, "contents uncertified," all the
rest should be burned; but just then the barber held open one,
called "The Tears of Angelica."
"I should have shed tears myself," said the curate when he
heard the title, "had I ordered that book to be burned, for its
author was one of the famous poets of the world, not to say of

47
Spain, and was very happy in the translation of some of Ovid's
fables."

48
Chapter 7
Of the second sally of our worthy knight Don Quixote of
la Mancha
At this instant Don Quixote began shouting out, "Here, here,
valiant knights! here is need for you to put forth the might of
your strong arms, for they of the Court are gaining the mastery
in the tourney!" Called away by this noise and outcry, they pro-
ceeded no farther with the scrutiny of the remaining books,
and so it is thought that "The Carolea," "The Lion of Spain,"
and "The Deeds of the Emperor," written by Don Luis de Avila,
went to the fire unseen and unheard; for no doubt they were
among those that remained, and perhaps if the curate had seen
them they would not have undergone so severe a sentence.
When they reached Don Quixote he was already out of bed,
and was still shouting and raving, and slashing and cutting all
round, as wide awake as if he had never slept.
They closed with him and by force got him back to bed, and
when he had become a little calm, addressing the curate, he
said to him, "Of a truth, Senor Archbishop Turpin, it is a great
disgrace for us who call ourselves the Twelve Peers, so care-
lessly to allow the knights of the Court to gain the victory in
this tourney, we the adventurers having carried off the honour
on the three former days."
"Hush, gossip," said the curate; "please God, the luck may
turn, and what is lost to-day may be won to-morrow; for the
present let your worship have a care of your health, for it
seems to me that you are over-fatigued, if not badly wounded."
"Wounded no," said Don Quixote, "but bruised and battered
no doubt, for that bastard Don Roland has cudgelled me with
the trunk of an oak tree, and all for envy, because he sees that
I alone rival him in his achievements. But I should not call my-
self Reinaldos of Montalvan did he not pay me for it in spite of
all his enchantments as soon as I rise from this bed. For the

49
present let them bring me something to eat, for that, I feel, is
what will be more to my purpose, and leave it to me to avenge
myself."
They did as he wished; they gave him something to eat, and
once more he fell asleep, leaving them marvelling at his
madness.
That night the housekeeper burned to ashes all the books
that were in the yard and in the whole house; and some must
have been consumed that deserved preservation in everlasting
archives, but their fate and the laziness of the examiner did not
permit it, and so in them was verified the proverb that the in-
nocent suffer for the guilty.
One of the remedies which the curate and the barber imme-
diately applied to their friend's disorder was to wall up and
plaster the room where the books were, so that when he got up
he should not find them (possibly the cause being removed the
effect might cease), and they might say that a magician had
carried them off, room and all; and this was done with all des-
patch. Two days later Don Quixote got up, and the first thing
he did was to go and look at his books, and not finding the
room where he had left it, he wandered from side to side look-
ing for it. He came to the place where the door used to be, and
tried it with his hands, and turned and twisted his eyes in
every direction without saying a word; but after a good while
he asked his housekeeper whereabouts was the room that held
his books.
The housekeeper, who had been already well instructed in
what she was to answer, said, "What room or what nothing is it
that your worship is looking for? There are neither room nor
books in this house now, for the devil himself has carried all
away."
"It was not the devil," said the niece, "but a magician who
came on a cloud one night after the day your worship left this,
and dismounting from a serpent that he rode he entered the
room, and what he did there I know not, but after a little while
he made off, flying through the roof, and left the house full of
smoke; and when we went to see what he had done we saw
neither book nor room: but we remember very well, the house-
keeper and I, that on leaving, the old villain said in a loud voice
that, for a private grudge he owed the owner of the books and

50
the room, he had done mischief in that house that would be
discovered by-and-by: he said too that his name was the Sage
Munaton."
"He must have said Friston," said Don Quixote.
"I don't know whether he called himself Friston or Friton,"
said the housekeeper, "I only know that his name ended with
'ton.'"
"So it does," said Don Quixote, "and he is a sage magician, a
great enemy of mine, who has a spite against me because he
knows by his arts and lore that in process of time I am to en-
gage in single combat with a knight whom he befriends and
that I am to conquer, and he will be unable to prevent it; and
for this reason he endeavours to do me all the ill turns that he
can; but I promise him it will be hard for him to oppose or
avoid what is decreed by Heaven."
"Who doubts that?" said the niece; "but, uncle, who mixes
you up in these quarrels? Would it not be better to remain at
peace in your own house instead of roaming the world looking
for better bread than ever came of wheat, never reflecting that
many go for wool and come back shorn?"
"Oh, niece of mine," replied Don Quixote, "how much astray
art thou in thy reckoning: ere they shear me I shall have
plucked away and stripped off the beards of all who dare to
touch only the tip of a hair of mine."
The two were unwilling to make any further answer, as they
saw that his anger was kindling.
In short, then, he remained at home fifteen days very quietly
without showing any signs of a desire to take up with his
former delusions, and during this time he held lively discus-
sions with his two gossips, the curate and the barber, on the
point he maintained, that knights-errant were what the world
stood most in need of, and that in him was to be accomplished
the revival of knight-errantry. The curate sometimes contra-
dicted him, sometimes agreed with him, for if he had not ob-
served this precaution he would have been unable to bring him
to reason.
Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a farm labourer, a
neighbour of his, an honest man (if indeed that title can be giv-
en to him who is poor), but with very little wit in his pate. In a
word, he so talked him over, and with such persuasions and

51
promises, that the poor clown made up his mind to sally forth
with him and serve him as esquire. Don Quixote, among other
things, told him he ought to be ready to go with him gladly, be-
cause any moment an adventure might occur that might win an
island in the twinkling of an eye and leave him governor of it.
On these and the like promises Sancho Panza (for so the la-
bourer was called) left wife and children, and engaged himself
as esquire to his neighbour.
Don Quixote next set about getting some money; and selling
one thing and pawning another, and making a bad bargain in
every case, he got together a fair sum. He provided himself
with a buckler, which he begged as a loan from a friend, and,
restoring his battered helmet as best he could, he warned his
squire Sancho of the day and hour he meant to set out, that he
might provide himself with what he thought most needful.
Above all, he charged him to take alforjas with him. The other
said he would, and that he meant to take also a very good ass
he had, as he was not much given to going on foot. About the
ass, Don Quixote hesitated a little, trying whether he could call
to mind any knight-errant taking with him an esquire mounted
on ass-back, but no instance occurred to his memory. For all
that, however, he determined to take him, intending to furnish
him with a more honourable mount when a chance of it presen-
ted itself, by appropriating the horse of the first discourteous
knight he encountered. Himself he provided with shirts and
such other things as he could, according to the advice the host
had given him; all which being done, without taking leave, San-
cho Panza of his wife and children, or Don Quixote of his
housekeeper and niece, they sallied forth unseen by anybody
from the village one night, and made such good way in the
course of it that by daylight they held themselves safe from dis-
covery, even should search be made for them.
Sancho rode on his ass like a patriarch, with his alforjas and
bota, and longing to see himself soon governor of the island his
master had promised him. Don Quixote decided upon taking
the same route and road he had taken on his first journey, that
over the Campo de Montiel, which he travelled with less dis-
comfort than on the last occasion, for, as it was early morning
and the rays of the sun fell on them obliquely, the heat did not
distress them.

52
 And now said Sancho Panza to his master, "Your worship will
take care, Senor Knight-errant, not to forget about the island
you have promised me, for be it ever so big I'll be equal to gov-
erning it."
To which Don Quixote replied, "Thou must know, friend San-
cho Panza, that it was a practice very much in vogue with the
knights-errant of old to make their squires governors of the is-
lands or kingdoms they won, and I am determined that there
shall be no failure on my part in so liberal a custom; on the
contrary, I mean to improve upon it, for they sometimes, and
perhaps most frequently, waited until their squires were old,
and then when they had had enough of service and hard days
and worse nights, they gave them some title or other, of count,
or at the most marquis, of some valley or province more or
less; but if thou livest and I live, it may well be that before six
days are over, I may have won some kingdom that has others
dependent upon it, which will be just the thing to enable thee
to be crowned king of one of them. Nor needst thou count this
wonderful, for things and chances fall to the lot of such knights
in ways so unexampled and unexpected that I might easily give
thee even more than I promise thee."
"In that case," said Sancho Panza, "if I should become a king
by one of those miracles your worship speaks of, even Juana
Gutierrez, my old woman, would come to be queen and my chil-
dren infantes."
"Well, who doubts it?" said Don Quixote.
"I doubt it," replied Sancho Panza, "because for my part I am
persuaded that though God should shower down kingdoms
upon earth, not one of them would fit the head of Mari Gutier-
rez. Let me tell you, senor, she is not worth two maravedis for
a queen; countess will fit her better, and that only with God's
help."
"Leave it to God, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "for he will
give her what suits her best; but do not undervalue thyself so
much as to come to be content with anything less than being
governor of a province."
"I will not, senor," answered Sancho, "specially as I have a
man of such quality for a master in your worship, who will
know how to give me all that will be suitable for me and that I
can bear."

53
Chapter 8
Of the good fortune which the valiant Don Quixote had in
the terrible and undreamt-of adventure of the windmills,
with other occurrences worthy to be fitly recorded
At this point they came in sight of thirty forty windmills that
there are on plain, and as soon as Don Quixote saw them he
said to his squire, "Fortune is arranging matters for us better
than we could have shaped our desires ourselves, for look
there, friend Sancho Panza, where thirty or more monstrous gi-
ants present themselves, all of whom I mean to engage in
battle and slay, and with whose spoils we shall begin to make
our fortunes; for this is righteous warfare, and it is God's good
service to sweep so evil a breed from off the face of the earth."
"What giants?" said Sancho Panza.
"Those thou seest there," answered his master, "with the
long arms, and some have them nearly two leagues long."
"Look, your worship," said Sancho; "what we see there are
not giants but windmills, and what seem to be their arms are
the sails that turned by the wind make the millstone go."
"It is easy to see," replied Don Quixote, "that thou art not
used to this business of adventures; those are giants; and if
thou art afraid, away with thee out of this and betake thyself to
prayer while I engage them in fierce and unequal combat."
So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rocinante, heedless
of the cries his squire Sancho sent after him, warning him that
most certainly they were windmills and not giants he was go-
ing to attack. He, however, was so positive they were giants
that he neither heard the cries of Sancho, nor perceived, near
as he was, what they were, but made at them shouting, "Fly
not, cowards and vile beings, for a single knight attacks you."
A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great sails
began to move, seeing which Don Quixote exclaimed, "Though

54
ye flourish more arms than the giant Briareus, ye have to reck-
on with me."
So saying, and commending himself with all his heart to his
lady Dulcinea, imploring her to support him in such a peril,
with lance in rest and covered by his buckler, he charged at
Rocinante's fullest gallop and fell upon the first mill that stood
in front of him; but as he drove his lance-point into the sail the
wind whirled it round with such force that it shivered the lance
to pieces, sweeping with it horse and rider, who went rolling
over on the plain, in a sorry condition. Sancho hastened to his
assistance as fast as his ass could go, and when he came up
found him unable to move, with such a shock had Rocinante
fallen with him.
"God bless me!" said Sancho, "did I not tell your worship to
mind what you were about, for they were only windmills? and
no one could have made any mistake about it but one who had
something of the same kind in his head."
"Hush, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "the fortunes of
war more than any other are liable to frequent fluctuations;
and moreover I think, and it is the truth, that that same sage
Friston who carried off my study and books, has turned these
giants into mills in order to rob me of the glory of vanquishing
them, such is the enmity he bears me; but in the end his
wicked arts will avail but little against my good sword."
"God order it as he may," said Sancho Panza, and helping
him to rise got him up again on Rocinante, whose shoulder was
half out; and then, discussing the late adventure, they followed
the road to Puerto Lapice, for there, said Don Quixote, they
could not fail to find adventures in abundance and variety, as it
was a great thoroughfare. For all that, he was much grieved at
the loss of his lance, and saying so to his squire, he added, "I
remember having read how a Spanish knight, Diego Perez de
Vargas by name, having broken his sword in battle, tore from
an oak a ponderous bough or branch, and with it did such
things that day, and pounded so many Moors, that he got the
surname of Machuca, and he and his descendants from that
day forth were called Vargas y Machuca. I mention this be-
cause from the first oak I see I mean to rend such another
branch, large and stout like that, with which I am determined
and resolved to do such deeds that thou mayest deem thyself

55
very fortunate in being found worthy to come and see them,
and be an eyewitness of things that will with difficulty be
believed."
"Be that as God will," said Sancho, "I believe it all as your
worship says it; but straighten yourself a little, for you seem all
on one side, may be from the shaking of the fall."
"That is the truth," said Don Quixote, "and if I make no com-
plaint of the pain it is because knights-errant are not permitted
to complain of any wound, even though their bowels be coming
out through it."
"If so," said Sancho, "I have nothing to say; but God knows I
would rather your worship complained when anything ailed
you. For my part, I confess I must complain however small the
ache may be; unless this rule about not complaining extends to
the squires of knights-errant also."
Don Quixote could not help laughing at his squire's simpli-
city, and he assured him he might complain whenever and
however he chose, just as he liked, for, so far, he had never
read of anything to the contrary in the order of knighthood.
Sancho bade him remember it was dinner-time, to which his
master answered that he wanted nothing himself just then, but
that he might eat when he had a mind. With this permission
Sancho settled himself as comfortably as he could on his beast,
and taking out of the alforjas what he had stowed away in
them, he jogged along behind his master munching deliber-
ately, and from time to time taking a pull at the bota with a rel-
ish that the thirstiest tapster in Malaga might have envied; and
while he went on in this way, gulping down draught after
draught, he never gave a thought to any of the promises his
master had made him, nor did he rate it as hardship but rather
as recreation going in quest of adventures, however dangerous
they might be. Finally they passed the night among some trees,
from one of which Don Quixote plucked a dry branch to serve
him after a fashion as a lance, and fixed on it the head he had
removed from the broken one. All that night Don Quixote lay
awake thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in order to conform to
what he had read in his books, how many a night in the forests
and deserts knights used to lie sleepless supported by the
memory of their mistresses. Not so did Sancho Panza spend it,
for having his stomach full of something stronger than chicory

56
water he made but one sleep of it, and, if his master had not
called him, neither the rays of the sun beating on his face nor
all the cheery notes of the birds welcoming the approach of
day would have had power to waken him. On getting up he
tried the bota and found it somewhat less full than the night
before, which grieved his heart because they did not seem to
be on the way to remedy the deficiency readily. Don Quixote
did not care to break his fast, for, as has been already said, he
confined himself to savoury recollections for nourishment.
They returned to the road they had set out with, leading to
Puerto Lapice, and at three in the afternoon they came in sight
of it. "Here, brother Sancho Panza," said Don Quixote when he
saw it, "we may plunge our hands up to the elbows in what
they call adventures; but observe, even shouldst thou see me in
the greatest danger in the world, thou must not put a hand to
thy sword in my defence, unless indeed thou perceivest that
those who assail me are rabble or base folk; for in that case
thou mayest very properly aid me; but if they be knights it is on
no account permitted or allowed thee by the laws of knight-
hood to help me until thou hast been dubbed a knight."
"Most certainly, senor," replied Sancho, "your worship shall
be fully obeyed in this matter; all the more as of myself I am
peaceful and no friend to mixing in strife and quarrels: it is
true that as regards the defence of my own person I shall not
give much heed to those laws, for laws human and divine allow
each one to defend himself against any assailant whatever."
"That I grant," said Don Quixote, "but in this matter of aiding
me against knights thou must put a restraint upon thy natural
impetuosity."
"I will do so, I promise you," answered Sancho, "and will
keep this precept as carefully as Sunday."
While they were thus talking there appeared on the road two
friars of the order of St. Benedict, mounted on two dromedar-
ies, for not less tall were the two mules they rode on. They
wore travelling spectacles and carried sunshades; and behind
them came a coach attended by four or five persons on horse-
back and two muleteers on foot. In the coach there was, as af-
terwards appeared, a Biscay lady on her way to Seville, where
her husband was about to take passage for the Indies with an
appointment of high honour. The friars, though going the same

57
road, were not in her company; but the moment Don Quixote
perceived them he said to his squire, "Either I am mistaken, or
this is going to be the most famous adventure that has ever
been seen, for those black bodies we see there must be, and
doubtless are, magicians who are carrying off some stolen prin-
cess in that coach, and with all my might I must undo this
wrong."
"This will be worse than the windmills," said Sancho. "Look,
senor; those are friars of St. Benedict, and the coach plainly
belongs to some travellers: I tell you to mind well what you are
about and don't let the devil mislead you."
"I have told thee already, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that
on the subject of adventures thou knowest little. What I say is
the truth, as thou shalt see presently."
So saying, he advanced and posted himself in the middle of
the road along which the friars were coming, and as soon as he
thought they had come near enough to hear what he said, he
cried aloud, "Devilish and unnatural beings, release instantly
the highborn princesses whom you are carrying off by force in
this coach, else prepare to meet a speedy death as the just
punishment of your evil deeds."
The friars drew rein and stood wondering at the appearance
of Don Quixote as well as at his words, to which they replied,
"Senor Caballero, we are not devilish or unnatural, but two
brothers of St. Benedict following our road, nor do we know
whether or not there are any captive princesses coming in this
coach."
"No soft words with me, for I know you, lying rabble," said
Don Quixote, and without waiting for a reply he spurred Rocin-
ante and with levelled lance charged the first friar with such
fury and determination, that, if the friar had not flung himself
off the mule, he would have brought him to the ground against
his will, and sore wounded, if not killed outright. The second
brother, seeing how his comrade was treated, drove his heels
into his castle of a mule and made off across the country faster
than the wind.
Sancho Panza, when he saw the friar on the ground, dis-
mounting briskly from his ass, rushed towards him and began
to strip off his gown. At that instant the friars muleteers came
up and asked what he was stripping him for. Sancho answered

58
them that this fell to him lawfully as spoil of the battle which
his lord Don Quixote had won. The muleteers, who had no idea
of a joke and did not understand all this about battles and
spoils, seeing that Don Quixote was some distance off talking
to the travellers in the coach, fell upon Sancho, knocked him
down, and leaving hardly a hair in his beard, belaboured him
with kicks and left him stretched breathless and senseless on
the ground; and without any more delay helped the friar to
mount, who, trembling, terrified, and pale, as soon as he found
himself in the saddle, spurred after his companion, who was
standing at a distance looking on, watching the result of the
onslaught; then, not caring to wait for the end of the affair just
begun, they pursued their journey making more crosses than if
they had the devil after them.
Don Quixote was, as has been said, speaking to the lady in
the coach: "Your beauty, lady mine," said he, "may now dispose
of your person as may be most in accordance with your pleas-
ure, for the pride of your ravishers lies prostrate on the ground
through this strong arm of mine; and lest you should be pining
to know the name of your deliverer, know that I am called Don
Quixote of La Mancha, knight-errant and adventurer, and cap-
tive to the peerless and beautiful lady Dulcinea del Toboso: and
in return for the service you have received of me I ask no more
than that you should return to El Toboso, and on my behalf
present yourself before that lady and tell her what I have done
to set you free."
One of the squires in attendance upon the coach, a Biscayan,
was listening to all Don Quixote was saying, and, perceiving
that he would not allow the coach to go on, but was saying it
must return at once to El Toboso, he made at him, and seizing
his lance addressed him in bad Castilian and worse Biscayan
after his fashion, "Begone, caballero, and ill go with thee; by
the God that made me, unless thou quittest coach, slayest thee
as art here a Biscayan."
Don Quixote understood him quite well, and answered him
very quietly, "If thou wert a knight, as thou art none, I should
have already chastised thy folly and rashness, miserable
creature." To which the Biscayan returned, "I no gentleman!—I
swear to God thou liest as I am Christian: if thou droppest
lance and drawest sword, soon shalt thou see thou art carrying

59
water to the cat: Biscayan on land, hidalgo at sea, hidalgo at
the devil, and look, if thou sayest otherwise thou liest."
"'"You will see presently," said Agrajes,'" replied Don Quix-
ote; and throwing his lance on the ground he drew his sword,
braced his buckler on his arm, and attacked the Biscayan, bent
upon taking his life.
The Biscayan, when he saw him coming on, though he
wished to dismount from his mule, in which, being one of those
sorry ones let out for hire, he had no confidence, had no choice
but to draw his sword; it was lucky for him, however, that he
was near the coach, from which he was able to snatch a cush-
ion that served him for a shield; and they went at one another
as if they had been two mortal enemies. The others strove to
make peace between them, but could not, for the Biscayan de-
clared in his disjointed phrase that if they did not let him finish
his battle he would kill his mistress and everyone that strove to
prevent him. The lady in the coach, amazed and terrified at
what she saw, ordered the coachman to draw aside a little, and
set herself to watch this severe struggle, in the course of which
the Biscayan smote Don Quixote a mighty stroke on the
shoulder over the top of his buckler, which, given to one
without armour, would have cleft him to the waist. Don Quix-
ote, feeling the weight of this prodigious blow, cried aloud, say-
ing, "O lady of my soul, Dulcinea, flower of beauty, come to the
aid of this your knight, who, in fulfilling his obligations to your
beauty, finds himself in this extreme peril." To say this, to lift
his sword, to shelter himself well behind his buckler, and to as-
sail the Biscayan was the work of an instant, determined as he
was to venture all upon a single blow. The Biscayan, seeing
him come on in this way, was convinced of his courage by his
spirited bearing, and resolved to follow his example, so he
waited for him keeping well under cover of his cushion, being
unable to execute any sort of manoeuvre with his mule, which,
dead tired and never meant for this kind of game, could not stir
a step.
On, then, as aforesaid, came Don Quixote against the wary
Biscayan, with uplifted sword and a firm intention of splitting
him in half, while on his side the Biscayan waited for him
sword in hand, and under the protection of his cushion; and all
present stood trembling, waiting in suspense the result of

60
blows such as threatened to fall, and the lady in the coach and
the rest of her following were making a thousand vows and of-
ferings to all the images and shrines of Spain, that God might
deliver her squire and all of them from this great peril in which
they found themselves. But it spoils all, that at this point and
crisis the author of the history leaves this battle impending,
giving as excuse that he could find nothing more written about
these achievements of Don Quixote than what has been already
set forth. It is true the second author of this work was unwill-
ing to believe that a history so curious could have been allowed
to fall under the sentence of oblivion, or that the wits of La
Mancha could have been so undiscerning as not to preserve in
their archives or registries some documents referring to this
famous knight; and this being his persuasion, he did not des-
pair of finding the conclusion of this pleasant history, which,
heaven favouring him, he did find in a way that shall be related
in the Second Part.

61
Chapter 9
In which is concluded and finished the terrific battle
between the gallant Biscayan and the valiant Manchegan
In the First Part of this history we left the valiant Biscayan
and the renowned Don Quixote with drawn swords uplifted,
ready to deliver two such furious slashing blows that if they
had fallen full and fair they would at least have split and cleft
them asunder from top to toe and laid them open like a
pomegranate; and at this so critical point the delightful history
came to a stop and stood cut short without any intimation from
the author where what was missing was to be found.
This distressed me greatly, because the pleasure derived
from having read such a small portion turned to vexation at the
thought of the poor chance that presented itself of finding the
large part that, so it seemed to me, was missing of such an in-
teresting tale. It appeared to me to be a thing impossible and
contrary to all precedent that so good a knight should have
been without some sage to undertake the task of writing his
marvellous achievements; a thing that was never wanting to
any of those knights-errant who, they say, went after adven-
tures; for every one of them had one or two sages as if made on
purpose, who not only recorded their deeds but described their
most trifling thoughts and follies, however secret they might
be; and such a good knight could not have been so unfortunate
as not to have what Platir and others like him had in abund-
ance. And so I could not bring myself to believe that such a gal-
lant tale had been left maimed and mutilated, and I laid the
blame on Time, the devourer and destroyer of all things, that
had either concealed or consumed it.
On the other hand, it struck me that, inasmuch as among his
books there had been found such modern ones as "The Enlight-
enment of Jealousy" and the "Nymphs and Shepherds of Hen-
ares," his story must likewise be modern, and that though it

62
might not be written, it might exist in the memory of the
people of his village and of those in the neighbourhood. This
reflection kept me perplexed and longing to know really and
truly the whole life and wondrous deeds of our famous Span-
iard, Don Quixote of La Mancha, light and mirror of
Manchegan chivalry, and the first that in our age and in these
so evil days devoted himself to the labour and exercise of the
arms of knight-errantry, righting wrongs, succouring widows,
and protecting damsels of that sort that used to ride about,
whip in hand, on their palfreys, with all their virginity about
them, from mountain to mountain and valley to valley—for, if it
were not for some ruffian, or boor with a hood and hatchet, or
monstrous giant, that forced them, there were in days of yore
damsels that at the end of eighty years, in all which time they
had never slept a day under a roof, went to their graves as
much maids as the mothers that bore them. I say, then, that in
these and other respects our gallant Don Quixote is worthy of
everlasting and notable praise, nor should it be withheld even
from me for the labour and pains spent in searching for the
conclusion of this delightful history; though I know well that if
Heaven, chance and good fortune had not helped me, the
world would have remained deprived of an entertainment and
pleasure that for a couple of hours or so may well occupy him
who shall read it attentively. The discovery of it occurred in
this way.
One day, as I was in the Alcana of Toledo, a boy came up to
sell some pamphlets and old papers to a silk mercer, and, as I
am fond of reading even the very scraps of paper in the streets,
led by this natural bent of mine I took up one of the pamphlets
the boy had for sale, and saw that it was in characters which I
recognised as Arabic, and as I was unable to read them though
I could recognise them, I looked about to see if there were any
Spanish-speaking Morisco at hand to read them for me; nor
was there any great difficulty in finding such an interpreter,
for even had I sought one for an older and better language I
should have found him. In short, chance provided me with one,
who when I told him what I wanted and put the book into his
hands, opened it in the middle and after reading a little in it
began to laugh. I asked him what he was laughing at, and he
replied that it was at something the book had written in the

63
margin by way of a note. I bade him tell it to me; and he still
laughing said, "In the margin, as I told you, this is written:
'This Dulcinea del Toboso so often mentioned in this history,
had, they say, the best hand of any woman in all La Mancha for
salting pigs.'"
When I heard Dulcinea del Toboso named, I was struck with
surprise and amazement, for it occurred to me at once that
these pamphlets contained the history of Don Quixote. With
this idea I pressed him to read the beginning, and doing so,
turning the Arabic offhand into Castilian, he told me it meant,
"History of Don Quixote of La Mancha, written by Cide Hamete
Benengeli, an Arab historian." It required great caution to hide
the joy I felt when the title of the book reached my ears, and
snatching it from the silk mercer, I bought all the papers and
pamphlets from the boy for half a real; and if he had had his
wits about him and had known how eager I was for them, he
might have safely calculated on making more than six reals by
the bargain. I withdrew at once with the Morisco into the
cloister of the cathedral, and begged him to turn all these
pamphlets that related to Don Quixote into the Castilian
tongue, without omitting or adding anything to them, offering
him whatever payment he pleased. He was satisfied with two
arrobas of raisins and two bushels of wheat, and promised to
translate them faithfully and with all despatch; but to make the
matter easier, and not to let such a precious find out of my
hands, I took him to my house, where in little more than a
month and a half he translated the whole just as it is set down
here.
In the first pamphlet the battle between Don Quixote and the
Biscayan was drawn to the very life, they planted in the same
attitude as the history describes, their swords raised, and the
one protected by his buckler, the other by his cushion, and the
Biscayan's mule so true to nature that it could be seen to be a
hired one a bowshot off. The Biscayan had an inscription under
his feet which said, "Don Sancho de Azpeitia," which no doubt
must have been his name; and at the feet of Rocinante was an-
other that said, "Don Quixote." Rocinante was marvellously
portrayed, so long and thin, so lank and lean, with so much
backbone and so far gone in consumption, that he showed
plainly with what judgment and propriety the name of

64
Rocinante had been bestowed upon him. Near him was Sancho
Panza holding the halter of his ass, at whose feet was another
label that said, "Sancho Zancas," and according to the picture,
he must have had a big belly, a short body, and long shanks,
for which reason, no doubt, the names of Panza and Zancas
were given him, for by these two surnames the history several
times calls him. Some other trifling particulars might be men-
tioned, but they are all of slight importance and have nothing
to do with the true relation of the history; and no history can
be bad so long as it is true.
If against the present one any objection be raised on the
score of its truth, it can only be that its author was an Arab, as
lying is a very common propensity with those of that nation;
though, as they are such enemies of ours, it is conceivable that
there were omissions rather than additions made in the course
of it. And this is my own opinion; for, where he could and
should give freedom to his pen in praise of so worthy a knight,
he seems to me deliberately to pass it over in silence; which is
ill done and worse contrived, for it is the business and duty of
historians to be exact, truthful, and wholly free from passion,
and neither interest nor fear, hatred nor love, should make
them swerve from the path of truth, whose mother is history,
rival of time, storehouse of deeds, witness for the past, ex-
ample and counsel for the present, and warning for the future.
In this I know will be found all that can be desired in the pleas-
antest, and if it be wanting in any good quality, I maintain it is
the fault of its hound of an author and not the fault of the sub-
ject. To be brief, its Second Part, according to the translation,
began in this way:
With trenchant swords upraised and poised on high, it
seemed as though the two valiant and wrathful combatants
stood threatening heaven, and earth, and hell, with such resol-
ution and determination did they bear themselves. The fiery
Biscayan was the first to strike a blow, which was delivered
with such force and fury that had not the sword turned in its
course, that single stroke would have sufficed to put an end to
the bitter struggle and to all the adventures of our knight; but
that good fortune which reserved him for greater things,
turned aside the sword of his adversary, so that although it
smote him upon the left shoulder, it did him no more harm

65
than to strip all that side of its armour, carrying away a great
part of his helmet with half of his ear, all which with fearful ru-
in fell to the ground, leaving him in a sorry plight.
Good God! Who is there that could properly describe the
rage that filled the heart of our Manchegan when he saw him-
self dealt with in this fashion? All that can be said is, it was
such that he again raised himself in his stirrups, and, grasping
his sword more firmly with both hands, he came down on the
Biscayan with such fury, smiting him full over the cushion and
over the head, that—even so good a shield proving useless—as
if a mountain had fallen on him, he began to bleed from nose,
mouth, and ears, reeling as if about to fall backwards from his
mule, as no doubt he would have done had he not flung his
arms about its neck; at the same time, however, he slipped his
feet out of the stirrups and then unclasped his arms, and the
mule, taking fright at the terrible blow, made off across the
plain, and with a few plunges flung its master to the ground.
Don Quixote stood looking on very calmly, and, when he saw
him fall, leaped from his horse and with great briskness ran to
him, and, presenting the point of his sword to his eyes, bade
him surrender, or he would cut his head off. The Biscayan was
so bewildered that he was unable to answer a word, and it
would have gone hard with him, so blind was Don Quixote, had
not the ladies in the coach, who had hitherto been watching
the combat in great terror, hastened to where he stood and im-
plored him with earnest entreaties to grant them the great
grace and favour of sparing their squire's life; to which Don
Quixote replied with much gravity and dignity, "In truth, fair
ladies, I am well content to do what ye ask of me; but it must
be on one condition and understanding, which is that this
knight promise me to go to the village of El Toboso, and on my
behalf present himself before the peerless lady Dulcinea, that
she deal with him as shall be most pleasing to her."
The terrified and disconsolate ladies, without discussing Don
Quixote's demand or asking who Dulcinea might be, promised
that their squire should do all that had been commanded.
"Then, on the faith of that promise," said Don Quixote, "I
shall do him no further harm, though he well deserves it of
me."

66
Chapter 10
Of the pleasant discourse that passed between Don Quix-
ote and his squire Sancho Panza
Now by this time Sancho had risen, rather the worse for the
handling of the friars' muleteers, and stood watching the battle
of his master, Don Quixote, and praying to God in his heart
that it might be his will to grant him the victory, and that he
might thereby win some island to make him governor of, as he
had promised. Seeing, therefore, that the struggle was now
over, and that his master was returning to mount Rocinante, he
approached to hold the stirrup for him, and, before he could
mount, he went on his knees before him, and taking his hand,
kissed it saying, "May it please your worship, Senor Don Quix-
ote, to give me the government of that island which has been
won in this hard fight, for be it ever so big I feel myself in suffi-
cient force to be able to govern it as much and as well as any-
one in the world who has ever governed islands."
To which Don Quixote replied, "Thou must take notice, broth-
er Sancho, that this adventure and those like it are not adven-
tures of islands, but of cross-roads, in which nothing is got ex-
cept a broken head or an ear the less: have patience, for ad-
ventures will present themselves from which I may make you,
not only a governor, but something more."
Sancho gave him many thanks, and again kissing his hand
and the skirt of his hauberk, helped him to mount Rocinante,
and mounting his ass himself, proceeded to follow his master,
who at a brisk pace, without taking leave, or saying anything
further to the ladies belonging to the coach, turned into a wood
that was hard by. Sancho followed him at his ass's best trot,
but Rocinante stepped out so that, seeing himself left behind,
he was forced to call to his master to wait for him. Don Quixote
did so, reining in Rocinante until his weary squire came up,
who on reaching him said, "It seems to me, senor, it would be

67
prudent in us to go and take refuge in some church, for, seeing
how mauled he with whom you fought has been left, it will be
no wonder if they give information of the affair to the Holy
Brotherhood and arrest us, and, faith, if they do, before we
come out of gaol we shall have to sweat for it."
"Peace," said Don Quixote; "where hast thou ever seen or
heard that a knight-errant has been arraigned before a court of
justice, however many homicides he may have committed?"
"I know nothing about omecils," answered Sancho, "nor in
my life have had anything to do with one; I only know that the
Holy Brotherhood looks after those who fight in the fields, and
in that other matter I do not meddle."
"Then thou needst have no uneasiness, my friend," said Don
Quixote, "for I will deliver thee out of the hands of the
Chaldeans, much more out of those of the Brotherhood. But tell
me, as thou livest, hast thou seen a more valiant knight than I
in all the known world; hast thou read in history of any who
has or had higher mettle in attack, more spirit in maintaining
it, more dexterity in wounding or skill in overthrowing?"
"The truth is," answered Sancho, "that I have never read any
history, for I can neither read nor write, but what I will venture
to bet is that a more daring master than your worship I have
never served in all the days of my life, and God grant that this
daring be not paid for where I have said; what I beg of your
worship is to dress your wound, for a great deal of blood flows
from that ear, and I have here some lint and a little white oint-
ment in the alforjas."
"All that might be well dispensed with," said Don Quixote, "if
I had remembered to make a vial of the balsam of Fierabras,
for time and medicine are saved by one single drop."
"What vial and what balsam is that?" said Sancho Panza.
"It is a balsam," answered Don Quixote, "the receipt of which
I have in my memory, with which one need have no fear of
death, or dread dying of any wound; and so when I make it and
give it to thee thou hast nothing to do when in some battle thou
seest they have cut me in half through the middle of the
body—as is wont to happen frequently,—but neatly and with
great nicety, ere the blood congeal, to place that portion of the
body which shall have fallen to the ground upon the other half
which remains in the saddle, taking care to fit it on evenly and

68
exactly. Then thou shalt give me to drink but two drops of the
balsam I have mentioned, and thou shalt see me become
sounder than an apple."
"If that be so," said Panza, "I renounce henceforth the gov-
ernment of the promised island, and desire nothing more in
payment of my many and faithful services than that your wor-
ship give me the receipt of this supreme liquor, for I am per-
suaded it will be worth more than two reals an ounce any-
where, and I want no more to pass the rest of my life in ease
and honour; but it remains to be told if it costs much to make
it."
"With less than three reals, six quarts of it may be made,"
said Don Quixote.
"Sinner that I am!" said Sancho, "then why does your wor-
ship put off making it and teaching it to me?"
"Peace, friend," answered Don Quixote; "greater secrets I
mean to teach thee and greater favours to bestow upon thee;
and for the present let us see to the dressing, for my ear pains
me more than I could wish."
Sancho took out some lint and ointment from the alforjas; but
when Don Quixote came to see his helmet shattered, he was
like to lose his senses, and clapping his hand upon his sword
and raising his eyes to heaven, be said, "I swear by the Creator
of all things and the four Gospels in their fullest extent, to do
as the great Marquis of Mantua did when he swore to avenge
the death of his nephew Baldwin (and that was not to eat bread
from a table-cloth, nor embrace his wife, and other points
which, though I cannot now call them to mind, I here grant as
expressed) until I take complete vengeance upon him who has
committed such an offence against me."
Hearing this, Sancho said to him, "Your worship should bear
in mind, Senor Don Quixote, that if the knight has done what
was commanded him in going to present himself before my
lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he will have done all that he was
bound to do, and does not deserve further punishment unless
he commits some new offence."
"Thou hast said well and hit the point," answered Don Quix-
ote; and so I recall the oath in so far as relates to taking fresh
vengeance on him, but I make and confirm it anew to lead the
life I have said until such time as I take by force from some

69
knight another helmet such as this and as good; and think not,
Sancho, that I am raising smoke with straw in doing so, for I
have one to imitate in the matter, since the very same thing to
a hair happened in the case of Mambrino's helmet, which cost
Sacripante so dear."
"Senor," replied Sancho, "let your worship send all such
oaths to the devil, for they are very pernicious to salvation and
prejudicial to the conscience; just tell me now, if for several
days to come we fall in with no man armed with a helmet, what
are we to do? Is the oath to be observed in spite of all the in-
convenience and discomfort it will be to sleep in your clothes,
and not to sleep in a house, and a thousand other mortifica-
tions contained in the oath of that old fool the Marquis of Man-
tua, which your worship is now wanting to revive? Let your
worship observe that there are no men in armour travelling on
any of these roads, nothing but carriers and carters, who not
only do not wear helmets, but perhaps never heard tell of them
all their lives."
"Thou art wrong there," said Don Quixote, "for we shall not
have been above two hours among these cross-roads before we
see more men in armour than came to Albraca to win the fair
Angelica."
"Enough," said Sancho; "so be it then, and God grant us suc-
cess, and that the time for winning that island which is costing
me so dear may soon come, and then let me die."
"I have already told thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "not to
give thyself any uneasiness on that score; for if an island
should fail, there is the kingdom of Denmark, or of Sobradisa,
which will fit thee as a ring fits the finger, and all the more
that, being on terra firma, thou wilt all the better enjoy thyself.
But let us leave that to its own time; see if thou hast anything
for us to eat in those alforjas, because we must presently go in
quest of some castle where we may lodge to-night and make
the balsam I told thee of, for I swear to thee by God, this ear is
giving me great pain."
"I have here an onion and a little cheese and a few scraps of
bread," said Sancho, "but they are not victuals fit for a valiant
knight like your worship."
"How little thou knowest about it," answered Don Quixote; "I
would have thee to know, Sancho, that it is the glory of

70
knights-errant to go without eating for a month, and even
when they do eat, that it should be of what comes first to hand;
and this would have been clear to thee hadst thou read as
many histories as I have, for, though they are very many,
among them all I have found no mention made of knights-er-
rant eating, unless by accident or at some sumptuous banquets
prepared for them, and the rest of the time they passed in dalli-
ance. And though it is plain they could not do without eating
and performing all the other natural functions, because, in
fact, they were men like ourselves, it is plain too that, wander-
ing as they did the most part of their lives through woods and
wilds and without a cook, their most usual fare would be rustic
viands such as those thou now offer me; so that, friend Sancho,
let not that distress thee which pleases me, and do not seek to
make a new world or pervert knight-errantry."
"Pardon me, your worship," said Sancho, "for, as I cannot
read or write, as I said just now, I neither know nor compre-
hend the rules of the profession of chivalry: henceforward I will
stock the alforjas with every kind of dry fruit for your worship,
as you are a knight; and for myself, as I am not one, I will fur-
nish them with poultry and other things more substantial."
"I do not say, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that it is imper-
ative on knights-errant not to eat anything else but the fruits
thou speakest of; only that their more usual diet must be those,
and certain herbs they found in the fields which they knew and
I know too."
"A good thing it is," answered Sancho, "to know those herbs,
for to my thinking it will be needful some day to put that know-
ledge into practice."
And here taking out what he said he had brought, the pair
made their repast peaceably and sociably. But anxious to find
quarters for the night, they with all despatch made an end of
their poor dry fare, mounted at once, and made haste to reach
some habitation before night set in; but daylight and the hope
of succeeding in their object failed them close by the huts of
some goatherds, so they determined to pass the night there,
and it was as much to Sancho's discontent not to have reached
a house, as it was to his master's satisfaction to sleep under
the open heaven, for he fancied that each time this happened

71
to him he performed an act of ownership that helped to prove
his chivalry.

72
Chapter 11
Of what befell Don Quixote with certain goatherds
He was cordially welcomed by the goatherds, and Sancho,
having as best he could put up Rocinante and the ass, drew to-
wards the fragrance that came from some pieces of salted goat
simmering in a pot on the fire; and though he would have liked
at once to try if they were ready to be transferred from the pot
to the stomach, he refrained from doing so as the goatherds re-
moved them from the fire, and laying sheepskins on the
ground, quickly spread their rude table, and with signs of
hearty good-will invited them both to share what they had.
Round the skins six of the men belonging to the fold seated
themselves, having first with rough politeness pressed Don
Quixote to take a seat upon a trough which they placed for him
upside down. Don Quixote seated himself, and Sancho re-
mained standing to serve the cup, which was made of horn.
Seeing him standing, his master said to him:
"That thou mayest see, Sancho, the good that knight-errantry
contains in itself, and how those who fill any office in it are on
the high road to be speedily honoured and esteemed by the
world, I desire that thou seat thyself here at my side and in the
company of these worthy people, and that thou be one with me
who am thy master and natural lord, and that thou eat from my
plate and drink from whatever I drink from; for the same may
be said of knight-errantry as of love, that it levels all."
"Great thanks," said Sancho, "but I may tell your worship
that provided I have enough to eat, I can eat it as well, or bet-
ter, standing, and by myself, than seated alongside of an em-
peror. And indeed, if the truth is to be told, what I eat in my
corner without form or fuss has much more relish for me, even
though it be bread and onions, than the turkeys of those other
tables where I am forced to chew slowly, drink little, wipe my
mouth every minute, and cannot sneeze or cough if I want or

73
do other things that are the privileges of liberty and solitude.
So, senor, as for these honours which your worship would put
upon me as a servant and follower of knight-errantry, exchange
them for other things which may be of more use and advantage
to me; for these, though I fully acknowledge them as received,
I renounce from this moment to the end of the world."
"For all that," said Don Quixote, "thou must seat thyself, be-
cause him who humbleth himself God exalteth;" and seizing
him by the arm he forced him to sit down beside himself.
The goatherds did not understand this jargon about squires
and knights-errant, and all they did was to eat in silence and
stare at their guests, who with great elegance and appetite
were stowing away pieces as big as one's fist. The course of
meat finished, they spread upon the sheepskins a great heap of
parched acorns, and with them they put down a half cheese
harder than if it had been made of mortar. All this while the
horn was not idle, for it went round so constantly, now full,
now empty, like the bucket of a water-wheel, that it soon
drained one of the two wine-skins that were in sight. When Don
Quixote had quite appeased his appetite he took up a handful
of the acorns, and contemplating them attentively delivered
himself somewhat in this fashion:
"Happy the age, happy the time, to which the ancients gave
the name of golden, not because in that fortunate age the gold
so coveted in this our iron one was gained without toil, but be-
cause they that lived in it knew not the two words "mine" and
"thine"! In that blessed age all things were in common; to win
the daily food no labour was required of any save to stretch
forth his hand and gather it from the sturdy oaks that stood
generously inviting him with their sweet ripe fruit. The clear
streams and running brooks yielded their savoury limpid wa-
ters in noble abundance. The busy and sagacious bees fixed
their republic in the clefts of the rocks and hollows of the
trees, offering without usance the plenteous produce of their
fragrant toil to every hand. The mighty cork trees, unenforced
save of their own courtesy, shed the broad light bark that
served at first to roof the houses supported by rude stakes, a
protection against the inclemency of heaven alone. Then all
was peace, all friendship, all concord; as yet the dull share of
the crooked plough had not dared to rend and pierce the

74
tender bowels of our first mother that without compulsion yiel-
ded from every portion of her broad fertile bosom all that could
satisfy, sustain, and delight the children that then possessed
her. Then was it that the innocent and fair young shepherdess
roamed from vale to vale and hill to hill, with flowing locks,
and no more garments than were needful modestly to cover
what modesty seeks and ever sought to hide. Nor were their
ornaments like those in use to-day, set off by Tyrian purple,
and silk tortured in endless fashions, but the wreathed leaves
of the green dock and ivy, wherewith they went as bravely and
becomingly decked as our Court dames with all the rare and
far-fetched artifices that idle curiosity has taught them. Then
the love-thoughts of the heart clothed themselves simply and
naturally as the heart conceived them, nor sought to commend
themselves by forced and rambling verbiage. Fraud, deceit, or
malice had then not yet mingled with truth and sincerity.
Justice held her ground, undisturbed and unassailed by the ef-
forts of favour and of interest, that now so much impair, per-
vert, and beset her. Arbitrary law had not yet established itself
in the mind of the judge, for then there was no cause to judge
and no one to be judged. Maidens and modesty, as I have said,
wandered at will alone and unattended, without fear of insult
from lawlessness or libertine assault, and if they were undone
it was of their own will and pleasure. But now in this hateful
age of ours not one is safe, not though some new labyrinth like
that of Crete conceal and surround her; even there the pesti-
lence of gallantry will make its way to them through chinks or
on the air by the zeal of its accursed importunity, and, despite
of all seclusion, lead them to ruin. In defence of these, as time
advanced and wickedness increased, the order of knights-er-
rant was instituted, to defend maidens, to protect widows and
to succour the orphans and the needy. To this order I belong,
brother goatherds, to whom I return thanks for the hospitality
and kindly welcome ye offer me and my squire; for though by
natural law all living are bound to show favour to knights-er-
rant, yet, seeing that without knowing this obligation ye have
welcomed and feasted me, it is right that with all the good-will
in my power I should thank you for yours."
All this long harangue (which might very well have been
spared) our knight delivered because the acorns they gave him

75
reminded him of the golden age; and the whim seized him to
address all this unnecessary argument to the goatherds, who
listened to him gaping in amazement without saying a word in
reply. Sancho likewise held his peace and ate acorns, and paid
repeated visits to the second wine-skin, which they had hung
up on a cork tree to keep the wine cool.
Don Quixote was longer in talking than the supper in finish-
ing, at the end of which one of the goatherds said, "That your
worship, senor knight-errant, may say with more truth that we
show you hospitality with ready good-will, we will give you
amusement and pleasure by making one of our comrades sing:
he will be here before long, and he is a very intelligent youth
and deep in love, and what is more he can read and write and
play on the rebeck to perfection."
The goatherd had hardly done speaking, when the notes of
the rebeck reached their ears; and shortly after, the player
came up, a very good-looking young man of about two-and-
twenty. His comrades asked him if he had supped, and on his
replying that he had, he who had already made the offer said to
him:
"In that case, Antonio, thou mayest as well do us the pleasure
of singing a little, that the gentleman, our guest, may see that
even in the mountains and woods there are musicians: we have
told him of thy accomplishments, and we want thee to show
them and prove that we say true; so, as thou livest, pray sit
down and sing that ballad about thy love that thy uncle the
prebendary made thee, and that was so much liked in the
town."
"With all my heart," said the young man, and without waiting
for more pressing he seated himself on the trunk of a felled
oak, and tuning his rebeck, presently began to sing to these
words.
{verse
ANTONIO'S BALLAD
Thou dost love me well, Olalla;
Well I know it, even though
Love's mute tongues, thine eyes, have never
By their glances told me so.
For I know my love thou knowest,
Therefore thine to claim I dare:

76
Once it ceases to be secret,
Love need never feel despair.
True it is, Olalla, sometimes
Thou hast all too plainly shown
That thy heart is brass in hardness,
And thy snowy bosom stone.
Yet for all that, in thy coyness,
And thy fickle fits between,
Hope is there—at least the border
Of her garment may be seen.
Lures to faith are they, those glimpses,
And to faith in thee I hold;
Kindness cannot make it stronger,
Coldness cannot make it cold.
If it be that love is gentle,
In thy gentleness I see
Something holding out assurance
To the hope of winning thee.
If it be that in devotion
Lies a power hearts to move,
That which every day I show thee,
Helpful to my suit should prove.
Many a time thou must have noticed—
If to notice thou dost care—
How I go about on Monday
Dressed in all my Sunday wear.
Love's eyes love to look on brightness;
Love loves what is gaily drest;
Sunday, Monday, all I care is
Thou shouldst see me in my best.
No account I make of dances,
Or of strains that pleased thee so,
Keeping thee awake from midnight
Till the cocks began to crow;
Or of how I roundly swore it
That there's none so fair as thou;
True it is, but as I said it,
By the girls I'm hated now.
For Teresa of the hillside
At my praise of thee was sore;

77
 Said, "You think you love an angel;
It's a monkey you adore;
"Caught by all her glittering trinkets,
And her borrowed braids of hair,
And a host of made-up beauties
That would Love himself ensnare."
'T was a lie, and so I told her,
And her cousin at the word
Gave me his defiance for it;
And what followed thou hast heard.
Mine is no high-flown affection,
Mine no passion par amours—
As they call it—what I offer
Is an honest love, and pure.
Cunning cords the holy Church has,
Cords of softest silk they be;
Put thy neck beneath the yoke, dear;
Mine will follow, thou wilt see.
Else—and once for all I swear it
By the saint of most renown—
If I ever quit the mountains,
'T will be in a friar's gown.
{verse
Here the goatherd brought his song to an end, and though
Don Quixote entreated him to sing more, Sancho had no mind
that way, being more inclined for sleep than for listening to
songs; so said he to his master, "Your worship will do well to
settle at once where you mean to pass the night, for the labour
these good men are at all day does not allow them to spend the
night in singing."
"I understand thee, Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "I perceive
clearly that those visits to the wine-skin demand compensation
in sleep rather than in music."
"It's sweet to us all, blessed be God," said Sancho.
"I do not deny it," replied Don Quixote; "but settle thyself
where thou wilt; those of my calling are more becomingly em-
ployed in watching than in sleeping; still it would be as well if
thou wert to dress this ear for me again, for it is giving me
more pain than it need."

78
 Sancho did as he bade him, but one of the goatherds, seeing
the wound, told him not to be uneasy, as he would apply a rem-
edy with which it would be soon healed; and gathering some
leaves of rosemary, of which there was a great quantity there,
he chewed them and mixed them with a little salt, and applying
them to the ear he secured them firmly with a bandage, assur-
ing him that no other treatment would be required, and so it
proved.

79
Chapter 12
Of what a goatherd related to those with Don Quixote
Just then another young man, one of those who fetched their
provisions from the village, came up and said, "Do you know
what is going on in the village, comrades?"
"How could we know it?" replied one of them.
"Well, then, you must know," continued the young man, "this
morning that famous student-shepherd called Chrysostom died,
and it is rumoured that he died of love for that devil of a village
girl the daughter of Guillermo the Rich, she that wanders
about the wolds here in the dress of a shepherdess."
"You mean Marcela?" said one.
"Her I mean," answered the goatherd; "and the best of it is,
he has directed in his will that he is to be buried in the fields
like a Moor, and at the foot of the rock where the Cork-tree
spring is, because, as the story goes (and they say he himself
said so), that was the place where he first saw her. And he has
also left other directions which the clergy of the village say
should not and must not be obeyed because they savour of pa-
ganism. To all which his great friend Ambrosio the student, he
who, like him, also went dressed as a shepherd, replies that
everything must be done without any omission according to the
directions left by Chrysostom, and about this the village is all
in commotion; however, report says that, after all, what Am-
brosio and all the shepherds his friends desire will be done,
and to-morrow they are coming to bury him with great cere-
mony where I said. I am sure it will be something worth seeing;
at least I will not fail to go and see it even if I knew I should
not return to the village tomorrow."
"We will do the same," answered the goatherds, "and cast
lots to see who must stay to mind the goats of all."
"Thou sayest well, Pedro," said one, "though there will be no
need of taking that trouble, for I will stay behind for all; and

80
don't suppose it is virtue or want of curiosity in me; it is that
the splinter that ran into my foot the other day will not let me
walk."
"For all that, we thank thee," answered Pedro.
Don Quixote asked Pedro to tell him who the dead man was
and who the shepherdess, to which Pedro replied that all he
knew was that the dead man was a wealthy gentleman belong-
ing to a village in those mountains, who had been a student at
Salamanca for many years, at the end of which he returned to
his village with the reputation of being very learned and deeply
read. "Above all, they said, he was learned in the science of the
stars and of what went on yonder in the heavens and the sun
and the moon, for he told us of the cris of the sun and moon to
exact time."
"Eclipse it is called, friend, not cris, the darkening of those
two luminaries," said Don Quixote; but Pedro, not troubling
himself with trifles, went on with his story, saying, "Also he
foretold when the year was going to be one of abundance or
estility."
"Sterility, you mean," said Don Quixote.
"Sterility or estility," answered Pedro, "it is all the same in
the end. And I can tell you that by this his father and friends
who believed him grew very rich because they did as he ad-
vised them, bidding them 'sow barley this year, not wheat; this
year you may sow pulse and not barley; the next there will be a
full oil crop, and the three following not a drop will be got.'"
"That science is called astrology," said Don Quixote.
"I do not know what it is called," replied Pedro, "but I know
that he knew all this and more besides. But, to make an end,
not many months had passed after he returned from Sala-
manca, when one day he appeared dressed as a shepherd with
his crook and sheepskin, having put off the long gown he wore
as a scholar; and at the same time his great friend, Ambrosio
by name, who had been his companion in his studies, took to
the shepherd's dress with him. I forgot to say that Chrysostom,
who is dead, was a great man for writing verses, so much so
that he made carols for Christmas Eve, and plays for Corpus
Christi, which the young men of our village acted, and all said
they were excellent. When the villagers saw the two scholars
so unexpectedly appearing in shepherd's dress, they were lost

81
in wonder, and could not guess what had led them to make so
extraordinary a change. About this time the father of our
Chrysostom died, and he was left heir to a large amount of
property in chattels as well as in land, no small number of
cattle and sheep, and a large sum of money, of all of which the
young man was left dissolute owner, and indeed he was de-
serving of it all, for he was a very good comrade, and kind-
hearted, and a friend of worthy folk, and had a countenance
like a benediction. Presently it came to be known that he had
changed his dress with no other object than to wander about
these wastes after that shepherdess Marcela our lad men-
tioned a while ago, with whom the deceased Chrysostom had
fallen in love. And I must tell you now, for it is well you should
know it, who this girl is; perhaps, and even without any per-
haps, you will not have heard anything like it all the days of
your life, though you should live more years than sarna."
"Say Sarra," said Don Quixote, unable to endure the
goatherd's confusion of words.
"The sarna lives long enough," answered Pedro; "and if, sen-
or, you must go finding fault with words at every step, we shall
not make an end of it this twelvemonth."
"Pardon me, friend," said Don Quixote; "but, as there is such
a difference between sarna and Sarra, I told you of it; however,
you have answered very rightly, for sarna lives longer than
Sarra: so continue your story, and I will not object any more to
anything."
"I say then, my dear sir," said the goatherd, "that in our vil-
lage there was a farmer even richer than the father of Chryso-
stom, who was named Guillermo, and upon whom God be-
stowed, over and above great wealth, a daughter at whose
birth her mother died, the most respected woman there was in
this neighbourhood; I fancy I can see her now with that coun-
tenance which had the sun on one side and the moon on the
other; and moreover active, and kind to the poor, for which I
trust that at the present moment her soul is in bliss with God in
the other world. Her husband Guillermo died of grief at the
death of so good a wife, leaving his daughter Marcela, a child
and rich, to the care of an uncle of hers, a priest and prebend-
ary in our village. The girl grew up with such beauty that it re-
minded us of her mother's, which was very great, and yet it

82
was thought that the daughter's would exceed it; and so when
she reached the age of fourteen to fifteen years nobody beheld
her but blessed God that had made her so beautiful, and the
greater number were in love with her past redemption. Her
uncle kept her in great seclusion and retirement, but for all
that the fame of her great beauty spread so that, as well for it
as for her great wealth, her uncle was asked, solicited, and im-
portuned, to give her in marriage not only by those of our town
but of those many leagues round, and by the persons of highest
quality in them. But he, being a good Christian man, though he
desired to give her in marriage at once, seeing her to be old
enough, was unwilling to do so without her consent, not that
he had any eye to the gain and profit which the custody of the
girl's property brought him while he put off her marriage; and,
faith, this was said in praise of the good priest in more than
one set in the town. For I would have you know, Sir Errant,
that in these little villages everything is talked about and
everything is carped at, and rest assured, as I am, that the
priest must be over and above good who forces his parishion-
ers to speak well of him, especially in villages."
"That is the truth," said Don Quixote; "but go on, for the
story is very good, and you, good Pedro, tell it with very good
grace."
"May that of the Lord not be wanting to me," said Pedro;
"that is the one to have. To proceed; you must know that
though the uncle put before his niece and described to her the
qualities of each one in particular of the many who had asked
her in marriage, begging her to marry and make a choice ac-
cording to her own taste, she never gave any other answer
than that she had no desire to marry just yet, and that being so
young she did not think herself fit to bear the burden of matri-
mony. At these, to all appearance, reasonable excuses that she
made, her uncle ceased to urge her, and waited till she was
somewhat more advanced in age and could mate herself to her
own liking. For, said he—and he said quite right—parents are
not to settle children in life against their will. But when one
least looked for it, lo and behold! one day the demure Marcela
makes her appearance turned shepherdess; and, in spite of her
uncle and all those of the town that strove to dissuade her,
took to going a-field with the other shepherd-lasses of the

83
village, and tending her own flock. And so, since she appeared
in public, and her beauty came to be seen openly, I could not
well tell you how many rich youths, gentlemen and peasants,
have adopted the costume of Chrysostom, and go about these
fields making love to her. One of these, as has been already
said, was our deceased friend, of whom they say that he did
not love but adore her. But you must not suppose, because
Marcela chose a life of such liberty and independence, and of
so little or rather no retirement, that she has given any occa-
sion, or even the semblance of one, for disparagement of her
purity and modesty; on the contrary, such and so great is the
vigilance with which she watches over her honour, that of all
those that court and woo her not one has boasted, or can with
truth boast, that she has given him any hope however small of
obtaining his desire. For although she does not avoid or shun
the society and conversation of the shepherds, and treats them
courteously and kindly, should any one of them come to de-
clare his intention to her, though it be one as proper and holy
as that of matrimony, she flings him from her like a catapult.
And with this kind of disposition she does more harm in this
country than if the plague had got into it, for her affability and
her beauty draw on the hearts of those that associate with her
to love her and to court her, but her scorn and her frankness
bring them to the brink of despair; and so they know not what
to say save to proclaim her aloud cruel and hard-hearted, and
other names of the same sort which well describe the nature of
her character; and if you should remain here any time, senor,
you would hear these hills and valleys resounding with the la-
ments of the rejected ones who pursue her. Not far from this
there is a spot where there are a couple of dozen of tall
beeches, and there is not one of them but has carved and writ-
ten on its smooth bark the name of Marcela, and above some a
crown carved on the same tree as though her lover would say
more plainly that Marcela wore and deserved that of all human
beauty. Here one shepherd is sighing, there another is lament-
ing; there love songs are heard, here despairing elegies. One
will pass all the hours of the night seated at the foot of some
oak or rock, and there, without having closed his weeping eyes,
the sun finds him in the morning bemused and bereft of sense;
and another without relief or respite to his sighs, stretched on

84
the burning sand in the full heat of the sultry summer noon-
tide, makes his appeal to the compassionate heavens, and over
one and the other, over these and all, the beautiful Marcela tri-
umphs free and careless. And all of us that know her are wait-
ing to see what her pride will come to, and who is to be the
happy man that will succeed in taming a nature so formidable
and gaining possession of a beauty so supreme. All that I have
told you being such well-established truth, I am persuaded that
what they say of the cause of Chrysostom's death, as our lad
told us, is the same. And so I advise you, senor, fail not to be
present to-morrow at his burial, which will be well worth see-
ing, for Chrysostom had many friends, and it is not half a
league from this place to where he directed he should be
buried."
"I will make a point of it," said Don Quixote, "and I thank you
for the pleasure you have given me by relating so interesting a
tale."
"Oh," said the goatherd, "I do not know even the half of what
has happened to the lovers of Marcela, but perhaps to-morrow
we may fall in with some shepherd on the road who can tell us;
and now it will be well for you to go and sleep under cover, for
the night air may hurt your wound, though with the remedy I
have applied to you there is no fear of an untoward result."
Sancho Panza, who was wishing the goatherd's loquacity at
the devil, on his part begged his master to go into Pedro's hut
to sleep. He did so, and passed all the rest of the night in think-
ing of his lady Dulcinea, in imitation of the lovers of Marcela.
Sancho Panza settled himself between Rocinante and his ass,
and slept, not like a lover who had been discarded, but like a
man who had been soundly kicked.

85
Chapter 13
In which is ended the story of the shepherdess Marcela,
with other incidents
Bit hardly had day begun to show itself through the balconies
of the east, when five of the six goatherds came to rouse Don
Quixote and tell him that if he was still of a mind to go and see
the famous burial of Chrysostom they would bear him com-
pany. Don Quixote, who desired nothing better, rose and
ordered Sancho to saddle and pannel at once, which he did
with all despatch, and with the same they all set out forthwith.
They had not gone a quarter of a league when at the meeting
of two paths they saw coming towards them some six shep-
herds dressed in black sheepskins and with their heads
crowned with garlands of cypress and bitter oleander. Each of
them carried a stout holly staff in his hand, and along with
them there came two men of quality on horseback in handsome
travelling dress, with three servants on foot accompanying
them. Courteous salutations were exchanged on meeting, and
inquiring one of the other which way each party was going,
they learned that all were bound for the scene of the burial, so
they went on all together.
One of those on horseback addressing his companion said to
him, "It seems to me, Senor Vivaldo, that we may reckon as
well spent the delay we shall incur in seeing this remarkable
funeral, for remarkable it cannot but be judging by the strange
things these shepherds have told us, of both the dead shepherd
and homicide shepherdess."
"So I think too," replied Vivaldo, "and I would delay not to
say a day, but four, for the sake of seeing it."
Don Quixote asked them what it was they had heard of Mar-
cela and Chrysostom. The traveller answered that the same
morning they had met these shepherds, and seeing them
dressed in this mournful fashion they had asked them the

86
reason of their appearing in such a guise; which one of them
gave, describing the strange behaviour and beauty of a shep-
herdess called Marcela, and the loves of many who courted
her, together with the death of that Chrysostom to whose buri-
al they were going. In short, he repeated all that Pedro had re-
lated to Don Quixote.
This conversation dropped, and another was commenced by
him who was called Vivaldo asking Don Quixote what was the
reason that led him to go armed in that fashion in a country so
peaceful. To which Don Quixote replied, "The pursuit of my
calling does not allow or permit me to go in any other fashion;
easy life, enjoyment, and repose were invented for soft
courtiers, but toil, unrest, and arms were invented and made
for those alone whom the world calls knights-errant, of whom I,
though unworthy, am the least of all."
The instant they heard this all set him down as mad, and the
better to settle the point and discover what kind of madness
his was, Vivaldo proceeded to ask him what knights-errant
meant.
"Have not your worships," replied Don Quixote, "read the an-
nals and histories of England, in which are recorded the fam-
ous deeds of King Arthur, whom we in our popular Castilian in-
variably call King Artus, with regard to whom it is an ancient
tradition, and commonly received all over that kingdom of
Great Britain, that this king did not die, but was changed by
magic art into a raven, and that in process of time he is to re-
turn to reign and recover his kingdom and sceptre; for which
reason it cannot be proved that from that time to this any Eng-
lishman ever killed a raven? Well, then, in the time of this good
king that famous order of chivalry of the Knights of the Round
Table was instituted, and the amour of Don Lancelot of the
Lake with the Queen Guinevere occurred, precisely as is there
related, the go-between and confidante therein being the
highly honourable dame Quintanona, whence came that ballad
so well known and widely spread in our Spain—
O never surely was there knight
So served by hand of dame,
As served was he Sir Lancelot hight
When he from Britain came—

87
 with all the sweet and delectable course of his achievements
in love and war. Handed down from that time, then, this order
of chivalry went on extending and spreading itself over many
and various parts of the world; and in it, famous and renowned
for their deeds, were the mighty Amadis of Gaul with all his
sons and descendants to the fifth generation, and the valiant
Felixmarte of Hircania, and the never sufficiently praised Tir-
ante el Blanco, and in our own days almost we have seen and
heard and talked with the invincible knight Don Belianis of
Greece. This, then, sirs, is to be a knight-errant, and what I
have spoken of is the order of his chivalry, of which, as I have
already said, I, though a sinner, have made profession, and
what the aforesaid knights professed that same do I profess,
and so I go through these solitudes and wilds seeking adven-
tures, resolved in soul to oppose my arm and person to the
most perilous that fortune may offer me in aid of the weak and
needy."
By these words of his the travellers were able to satisfy
themselves of Don Quixote's being out of his senses and of the
form of madness that overmastered him, at which they felt the
same astonishment that all felt on first becoming acquainted
with it; and Vivaldo, who was a person of great shrewdness
and of a lively temperament, in order to beguile the short jour-
ney which they said was required to reach the mountain, the
scene of the burial, sought to give him an opportunity of going
on with his absurdities. So he said to him, "It seems to me,
Senor Knight-errant, that your worship has made choice of one
of the most austere professions in the world, and I imagine
even that of the Carthusian monks is not so austere."
"As austere it may perhaps be," replied our Don Quixote, "but
so necessary for the world I am very much inclined to doubt.
For, if the truth is to be told, the soldier who executes what his
captain orders does no less than the captain himself who gives
the order. My meaning, is, that churchmen in peace and quiet
pray to Heaven for the welfare of the world, but we soldiers
and knights carry into effect what they pray for, defending it
with the might of our arms and the edge of our swords, not un-
der shelter but in the open air, a target for the intolerable rays
of the sun in summer and the piercing frosts of winter. Thus
are we God's ministers on earth and the arms by which his

88
justice is done therein. And as the business of war and all that
relates and belongs to it cannot be conducted without exceed-
ing great sweat, toil, and exertion, it follows that those who
make it their profession have undoubtedly more labour than
those who in tranquil peace and quiet are engaged in praying
to God to help the weak. I do not mean to say, nor does it enter
into my thoughts, that the knight-errant's calling is as good as
that of the monk in his cell; I would merely infer from what I
endure myself that it is beyond a doubt a more laborious and a
more belaboured one, a hungrier and thirstier, a wretcheder,
raggeder, and lousier; for there is no reason to doubt that the
knights-errant of yore endured much hardship in the course of
their lives. And if some of them by the might of their arms did
rise to be emperors, in faith it cost them dear in the matter of
blood and sweat; and if those who attained to that rank had not
had magicians and sages to help them they would have been
completely baulked in their ambition and disappointed in their
hopes."
"That is my own opinion," replied the traveller; "but one
thing among many others seems to me very wrong in knights-
errant, and that is that when they find themselves about to en-
gage in some mighty and perilous adventure in which there is
manifest danger of losing their lives, they never at the moment
of engaging in it think of commending themselves to God, as is
the duty of every good Christian in like peril; instead of which
they commend themselves to their ladies with as much devo-
tion as if these were their gods, a thing which seems to me to
savour somewhat of heathenism."
"Sir," answered Don Quixote, "that cannot be on any account
omitted, and the knight-errant would be disgraced who acted
otherwise: for it is usual and customary in knight-errantry that
the knight-errant, who on engaging in any great feat of arms
has his lady before him, should turn his eyes towards her softly
and lovingly, as though with them entreating her to favour and
protect him in the hazardous venture he is about to undertake,
and even though no one hear him, he is bound to say certain
words between his teeth, commending himself to her with all
his heart, and of this we have innumerable instances in the his-
tories. Nor is it to be supposed from this that they are to omit

89
commending themselves to God, for there will be time and op-
portunity for doing so while they are engaged in their task."
"For all that," answered the traveller, "I feel some doubt still,
because often I have read how words will arise between two
knights-errant, and from one thing to another it comes about
that their anger kindles and they wheel their horses round and
take a good stretch of field, and then without any more ado at
the top of their speed they come to the charge, and in mid-ca-
reer they are wont to commend themselves to their ladies; and
what commonly comes of the encounter is that one falls over
the haunches of his horse pierced through and through by his
antagonist's lance, and as for the other, it is only by holding on
to the mane of his horse that he can help falling to the ground;
but I know not how the dead man had time to commend him-
self to God in the course of such rapid work as this; it would
have been better if those words which he spent in commending
himself to his lady in the midst of his career had been devoted
to his duty and obligation as a Christian. Moreover, it is my be-
lief that all knights-errant have not ladies to commend them-
selves to, for they are not all in love."
"That is impossible," said Don Quixote: "I say it is impossible
that there could be a knight-errant without a lady, because to
such it is as natural and proper to be in love as to the heavens
to have stars: most certainly no history has been seen in which
there is to be found a knight-errant without an amour, and for
the simple reason that without one he would be held no legit-
imate knight but a bastard, and one who had gained entrance
into the stronghold of the said knighthood, not by the door, but
over the wall like a thief and a robber."
"Nevertheless," said the traveller, "if I remember rightly, I
think I have read that Don Galaor, the brother of the valiant
Amadis of Gaul, never had any special lady to whom he might
commend himself, and yet he was not the less esteemed, and
was a very stout and famous knight."
To which our Don Quixote made answer, "Sir, one solitary
swallow does not make summer; moreover, I know that knight
was in secret very deeply in love; besides which, that way of
falling in love with all that took his fancy was a natural
propensity which he could not control. But, in short, it is very
manifest that he had one alone whom he made mistress of his

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will, to whom he commended himself very frequently and very
secretly, for he prided himself on being a reticent knight."
"Then if it be essential that every knight-errant should be in
love," said the traveller, "it may be fairly supposed that your
worship is so, as you are of the order; and if you do not pride
yourself on being as reticent as Don Galaor, I entreat you as
earnestly as I can, in the name of all this company and in my
own, to inform us of the name, country, rank, and beauty of
your lady, for she will esteem herself fortunate if all the world
knows that she is loved and served by such a knight as your
worship seems to be."
At this Don Quixote heaved a deep sigh and said, "I cannot
say positively whether my sweet enemy is pleased or not that
the world should know I serve her; I can only say in answer to
what has been so courteously asked of me, that her name is
Dulcinea, her country El Toboso, a village of La Mancha, her
rank must be at least that of a princess, since she is my queen
and lady, and her beauty superhuman, since all the impossible
and fanciful attributes of beauty which the poets apply to their
ladies are verified in her; for her hairs are gold, her forehead
Elysian fields, her eyebrows rainbows, her eyes suns, her
cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her neck ala-
baster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her fairness snow,
and what modesty conceals from sight such, I think and ima-
gine, as rational reflection can only extol, not compare."
"We should like to know her lineage, race, and ancestry,"
said Vivaldo.
To which Don Quixote replied, "She is not of the ancient Ro-
man Curtii, Caii, or Scipios, nor of the modern Colonnas or
Orsini, nor of the Moncadas or Requesenes of Catalonia, nor
yet of the Rebellas or Villanovas of Valencia; Palafoxes, Nuzas,
Rocabertis, Corellas, Lunas, Alagones, Urreas, Foces, or Gur-
reas of Aragon; Cerdas, Manriques, Mendozas, or Guzmans of
Castile; Alencastros, Pallas, or Meneses of Portugal; but she is
of those of El Toboso of La Mancha, a lineage that though mod-
ern, may furnish a source of gentle blood for the most illustri-
ous families of the ages that are to come, and this let none dis-
pute with me save on the condition that Zerbino placed at the
foot of the trophy of Orlando's arms, saying,

91
 'These let none move Who dareth not his might with Roland
prove.'"
"Although mine is of the Cachopins of Laredo," said the trav-
eller, "I will not venture to compare it with that of El Toboso of
La Mancha, though, to tell the truth, no such surname has until
now ever reached my ears."
"What!" said Don Quixote, "has that never reached them?"
The rest of the party went along listening with great atten-
tion to the conversation of the pair, and even the very goat-
herds and shepherds perceived how exceedingly out of his wits
our Don Quixote was. Sancho Panza alone thought that what
his master said was the truth, knowing who he was and having
known him from his birth; and all that he felt any difficulty in
believing was that about the fair Dulcinea del Toboso, because
neither any such name nor any such princess had ever come to
his knowledge though he lived so close to El Toboso. They
were going along conversing in this way, when they saw des-
cending a gap between two high mountains some twenty shep-
herds, all clad in sheepskins of black wool, and crowned with
garlands which, as afterwards appeared, were, some of them of
yew, some of cypress. Six of the number were carrying a bier
covered with a great variety of flowers and branches, on seeing
which one of the goatherds said, "Those who come there are
the bearers of Chrysostom's body, and the foot of that moun-
tain is the place where he ordered them to bury him." They
therefore made haste to reach the spot, and did so by the time
those who came had laid the bier upon the ground, and four of
them with sharp pickaxes were digging a grave by the side of a
hard rock. They greeted each other courteously, and then Don
Quixote and those who accompanied him turned to examine
the bier, and on it, covered with flowers, they saw a dead body
in the dress of a shepherd, to all appearance of one thirty years
of age, and showing even in death that in life he had been of
comely features and gallant bearing. Around him on the bier it-
self were laid some books, and several papers open and folded;
and those who were looking on as well as those who were
opening the grave and all the others who were there preserved
a strange silence, until one of those who had borne the body
said to another, "Observe carefully, Ambrosia if this is the

92
place Chrysostom spoke of, since you are anxious that what he
directed in his will should be so strictly complied with."
"This is the place," answered Ambrosia "for in it many a time
did my poor friend tell me the story of his hard fortune. Here it
was, he told me, that he saw for the first time that mortal en-
emy of the human race, and here, too, for the first time he de-
clared to her his passion, as honourable as it was devoted, and
here it was that at last Marcela ended by scorning and reject-
ing him so as to bring the tragedy of his wretched life to a
close; here, in memory of misfortunes so great, he desired to
be laid in the bowels of eternal oblivion." Then turning to Don
Quixote and the travellers he went on to say, "That body, sirs,
on which you are looking with compassionate eyes, was the
abode of a soul on which Heaven bestowed a vast share of its
riches. That is the body of Chrysostom, who was unrivalled in
wit, unequalled in courtesy, unapproached in gentle bearing, a
phoenix in friendship, generous without limit, grave without ar-
rogance, gay without vulgarity, and, in short, first in all that
constitutes goodness and second to none in all that makes up
misfortune. He loved deeply, he was hated; he adored, he was
scorned; he wooed a wild beast, he pleaded with marble, he
pursued the wind, he cried to the wilderness, he served ingrat-
itude, and for reward was made the prey of death in the mid-
course of life, cut short by a shepherdess whom he sought to
immortalise in the memory of man, as these papers which you
see could fully prove, had he not commanded me to consign
them to the fire after having consigned his body to the earth."
"You would deal with them more harshly and cruelly than
their owner himself," said Vivaldo, "for it is neither right nor
proper to do the will of one who enjoins what is wholly unreas-
onable; it would not have been reasonable in Augustus Caesar
had he permitted the directions left by the divine Mantuan in
his will to be carried into effect. So that, Senor Ambrosia while
you consign your friend's body to the earth, you should not
consign his writings to oblivion, for if he gave the order in bit-
terness of heart, it is not right that you should irrationally obey
it. On the contrary, by granting life to those papers, let the
cruelty of Marcela live for ever, to serve as a warning in ages
to come to all men to shun and avoid falling into like danger; or
I and all of us who have come here know already the story of

93
this your love-stricken and heart-broken friend, and we know,
too, your friendship, and the cause of his death, and the direc-
tions he gave at the close of his life; from which sad story may
be gathered how great was the cruelty of Marcela, the love of
Chrysostom, and the loyalty of your friendship, together with
the end awaiting those who pursue rashly the path that insane
passion opens to their eyes. Last night we learned the death of
Chrysostom and that he was to be buried here, and out of curi-
osity and pity we left our direct road and resolved to come and
see with our eyes that which when heard of had so moved our
compassion, and in consideration of that compassion and our
desire to prove it if we might by condolence, we beg of you, ex-
cellent Ambrosia, or at least I on my own account entreat you,
that instead of burning those papers you allow me to carry
away some of them."
And without waiting for the shepherd's answer, he stretched
out his hand and took up some of those that were nearest to
him; seeing which Ambrosio said, "Out of courtesy, senor, I will
grant your request as to those you have taken, but it is idle to
expect me to abstain from burning the remainder."
Vivaldo, who was eager to see what the papers contained,
opened one of them at once, and saw that its title was "Lay of
Despair."
Ambrosio hearing it said, "That is the last paper the unhappy
man wrote; and that you may see, senor, to what an end his
misfortunes brought him, read it so that you may be heard, for
you will have time enough for that while we are waiting for the
grave to be dug."
"I will do so very willingly," said Vivaldo; and as all the
bystanders were equally eager they gathered round him, and
he, reading in a loud voice, found that it ran as follows.

94
Chapter 14
Wherein are inserted the despairing verses of the dead
shepherd, together with other incidents not looked for
{verse
THE LAY OF CHRYSOSTOM
Since thou dost in thy cruelty desire
The ruthless rigour of thy tyranny
From tongue to tongue, from land to land proclaimed,
The very Hell will I constrain to lend
This stricken breast of mine deep notes of woe
To serve my need of fitting utterance.
And as I strive to body forth the tale
Of all I suffer, all that thou hast done,
Forth shall the dread voice roll, and bear along
Shreds from my vitals torn for greater pain.
Then listen, not to dulcet harmony,
But to a discord wrung by mad despair
Out of this bosom's depths of bitterness,
To ease my heart and plant a sting in thine.
The lion's roar, the fierce wolf's savage howl,
The horrid hissing of the scaly snake,
The awesome cries of monsters yet unnamed,
The crow's ill-boding croak, the hollow moan
Of wild winds wrestling with the restless sea,
The wrathful bellow of the vanquished bull,
The plaintive sobbing of the widowed dove,
The envied owl's sad note, the wail of woe
That rises from the dreary choir of Hell,
Comming led in one sound, confusing sense,
Let all these come to aid my soul's complaint,
For pain like mine demands new modes of song.
No echoes of that discord shall be heard
Where Father Tagus rolls, or on the banks

95
Of olive-bordered Betis; to the rocks
Or in deep caverns shall my plaint be told,
And by a lifeless tongue in living words;
Or in dark valleys or on lonely shores,
Where neither foot of man nor sunbeam falls;
Or in among the poison-breathing swarms
Of monsters nourished by the sluggish Nile.
For, though it be to solitudes remote
The hoarse vague echoes of my sorrows sound
Thy matchless cruelty, my dismal fate
Shall carry them to all the spacious world.
Disdain hath power to kill, and patience dies
Slain by suspicion, be it false or true;
And deadly is the force of jealousy;
Long absence makes of life a dreary void;
No hope of happiness can give repose
To him that ever fears to be forgot;
And death, inevitable, waits in hall.
But I, by some strange miracle, live on
A prey to absence, jealousy, disdain;
Racked by suspicion as by certainty;
Forgotten, left to feed my flame alone.
And while I suffer thus, there comes no ray
Of hope to gladden me athwart the gloom;
Nor do I look for it in my despair;
But rather clinging to a cureless woe,
All hope do I abjure for evermore.
Can there be hope where fear is? Were it well,
When far more certain are the grounds of fear?
Ought I to shut mine eyes to jealousy,
If through a thousand heart-wounds it appears?
Who would not give free access to distrust,
Seeing disdain unveiled, and—bitter change!—
All his suspicions turned to certainties,
And the fair truth transformed into a lie?
Oh, thou fierce tyrant of the realms of love,
Oh, Jealousy! put chains upon these hands,
And bind me with thy strongest cord, Disdain.
But, woe is me! triumphant over all,
My sufferings drown the memory of you.

96
And now I die, and since there is no hope
Of happiness for me in life or death,
Still to my fantasy I'll fondly cling.
I'll say that he is wise who loveth well,
And that the soul most free is that most bound
In thraldom to the ancient tyrant Love.
I'll say that she who is mine enemy
In that fair body hath as fair a mind,
And that her coldness is but my desert,
And that by virtue of the pain he sends
Love rules his kingdom with a gentle sway.
Thus, self-deluding, and in bondage sore,
And wearing out the wretched shred of life
To which I am reduced by her disdain,
I'll give this soul and body to the winds,
All hopeless of a crown of bliss in store.
Thou whose injustice hath supplied the cause
That makes me quit the weary life I loathe,
As by this wounded bosom thou canst see
How willingly thy victim I become,
Let not my death, if haply worth a tear,
Cloud the clear heaven that dwells in thy bright eyes;
I would not have thee expiate in aught
The crime of having made my heart thy prey;
But rather let thy laughter gaily ring
And prove my death to be thy festival.
Fool that I am to bid thee! well I know
Thy glory gains by my untimely end.
And now it is the time; from Hell's abyss
Come thirsting Tantalus, come Sisyphus
Heaving the cruel stone, come Tityus
With vulture, and with wheel Ixion come,
And come the sisters of the ceaseless toil;
And all into this breast transfer their pains,
And (if such tribute to despair be due)
Chant in their deepest tones a doleful dirge
Over a corse unworthy of a shroud.
Let the three-headed guardian of the gate,
And all the monstrous progeny of hell,
The doleful concert join: a lover dead

97
 Methinks can have no fitter obsequies.
Lay of despair, grieve not when thou art gone
Forth from this sorrowing heart: my misery
Brings fortune to the cause that gave thee birth;
Then banish sadness even in the tomb.
{verse
The "Lay of Chrysostom" met with the approbation of the
listeners, though the reader said it did not seem to him to
agree with what he had heard of Marcela's reserve and propri-
ety, for Chrysostom complained in it of jealousy, suspicion, and
absence, all to the prejudice of the good name and fame of
Marcela; to which Ambrosio replied as one who knew well his
friend's most secret thoughts, "Senor, to remove that doubt I
should tell you that when the unhappy man wrote this lay he
was away from Marcela, from whom he had voluntarily separ-
ated himself, to try if absence would act with him as it is wont;
and as everything distresses and every fear haunts the ban-
ished lover, so imaginary jealousies and suspicions, dreaded as
if they were true, tormented Chrysostom; and thus the truth of
what report declares of the virtue of Marcela remains un-
shaken, and with her envy itself should not and cannot find any
fault save that of being cruel, somewhat haughty, and very
scornful."
"That is true," said Vivaldo; and as he was about to read an-
other paper of those he had preserved from the fire, he was
stopped by a marvellous vision (for such it seemed) that unex-
pectedly presented itself to their eyes; for on the summit of the
rock where they were digging the grave there appeared the
shepherdess Marcela, so beautiful that her beauty exceeded its
reputation. Those who had never till then beheld her gazed
upon her in wonder and silence, and those who were accus-
tomed to see her were not less amazed than those who had
never seen her before. But the instant Ambrosio saw her he ad-
dressed her, with manifest indignation:
"Art thou come, by chance, cruel basilisk of these mountains,
to see if in thy presence blood will flow from the wounds of this
wretched being thy cruelty has robbed of life; or is it to exult
over the cruel work of thy humours that thou art come; or like
another pitiless Nero to look down from that height upon the
ruin of his Rome in embers; or in thy arrogance to trample on

98
this ill-fated corpse, as the ungrateful daughter trampled on
her father Tarquin's? Tell us quickly for what thou art come, or
what it is thou wouldst have, for, as I know the thoughts of
Chrysostom never failed to obey thee in life, I will make all
these who call themselves his friends obey thee, though he be
dead."
"I come not, Ambrosia for any of the purposes thou hast
named," replied Marcela, "but to defend myself and to prove
how unreasonable are all those who blame me for their sorrow
and for Chrysostom's death; and therefore I ask all of you that
are here to give me your attention, for will not take much time
or many words to bring the truth home to persons of sense.
Heaven has made me, so you say, beautiful, and so much so
that in spite of yourselves my beauty leads you to love me; and
for the love you show me you say, and even urge, that I am
bound to love you. By that natural understanding which God
has given me I know that everything beautiful attracts love, but
I cannot see how, by reason of being loved, that which is loved
for its beauty is bound to love that which loves it; besides, it
may happen that the lover of that which is beautiful may be
ugly, and ugliness being detestable, it is very absurd to say, "I
love thee because thou art beautiful, thou must love me though
I be ugly." But supposing the beauty equal on both sides, it
does not follow that the inclinations must be therefore alike,
for it is not every beauty that excites love, some but pleasing
the eye without winning the affection; and if every sort of
beauty excited love and won the heart, the will would wander
vaguely to and fro unable to make choice of any; for as there is
an infinity of beautiful objects there must be an infinity of in-
clinations, and true love, I have heard it said, is indivisible, and
must be voluntary and not compelled. If this be so, as I believe
it to be, why do you desire me to bend my will by force, for no
other reason but that you say you love me? Nay—tell me—had
Heaven made me ugly, as it has made me beautiful, could I
with justice complain of you for not loving me? Moreover, you
must remember that the beauty I possess was no choice of
mine, for, be it what it may, Heaven of its bounty gave it me
without my asking or choosing it; and as the viper, though it
kills with it, does not deserve to be blamed for the poison it
carries, as it is a gift of nature, neither do I deserve reproach

99
for being beautiful; for beauty in a modest woman is like fire at
a distance or a sharp sword; the one does not burn, the other
does not cut, those who do not come too near. Honour and vir-
tue are the ornaments of the mind, without which the body,
though it be so, has no right to pass for beautiful; but if mod-
esty is one of the virtues that specially lend a grace and charm
to mind and body, why should she who is loved for her beauty
part with it to gratify one who for his pleasure alone strives
with all his might and energy to rob her of it? I was born free,
and that I might live in freedom I chose the solitude of the
fields; in the trees of the mountains I find society, the clear wa-
ters of the brooks are my mirrors, and to the trees and waters I
make known my thoughts and charms. I am a fire afar off, a
sword laid aside. Those whom I have inspired with love by let-
ting them see me, I have by words undeceived, and if their
longings live on hope—and I have given none to Chrysostom or
to any other—it cannot justly be said that the death of any is
my doing, for it was rather his own obstinacy than my cruelty
that killed him; and if it be made a charge against me that his
wishes were honourable, and that therefore I was bound to
yield to them, I answer that when on this very spot where now
his grave is made he declared to me his purity of purpose, I
told him that mine was to live in perpetual solitude, and that
the earth alone should enjoy the fruits of my retirement and
the spoils of my beauty; and if, after this open avowal, he chose
to persist against hope and steer against the wind, what won-
der is it that he should sink in the depths of his infatuation? If I
had encouraged him, I should be false; if I had gratified him, I
should have acted against my own better resolution and pur-
pose. He was persistent in spite of warning, he despaired
without being hated. Bethink you now if it be reasonable that
his suffering should be laid to my charge. Let him who has
been deceived complain, let him give way to despair whose en-
couraged hopes have proved vain, let him flatter himself whom
I shall entice, let him boast whom I shall receive; but let not
him call me cruel or homicide to whom I make no promise,
upon whom I practise no deception, whom I neither entice nor
receive. It has not been so far the will of Heaven that I should
love by fate, and to expect me to love by choice is idle. Let this
general declaration serve for each of my suitors on his own

100
account, and let it be understood from this time forth that if
anyone dies for me it is not of jealousy or misery he dies, for
she who loves no one can give no cause for jealousy to any, and
candour is not to be confounded with scorn. Let him who calls
me wild beast and basilisk, leave me alone as something nox-
ious and evil; let him who calls me ungrateful, withhold his ser-
vice; who calls me wayward, seek not my acquaintance; who
calls me cruel, pursue me not; for this wild beast, this basilisk,
this ungrateful, cruel, wayward being has no kind of desire to
seek, serve, know, or follow them. If Chrysostom's impatience
and violent passion killed him, why should my modest beha-
viour and circumspection be blamed? If I preserve my purity in
the society of the trees, why should he who would have me pre-
serve it among men, seek to rob me of it? I have, as you know,
wealth of my own, and I covet not that of others; my taste is for
freedom, and I have no relish for constraint; I neither love nor
hate anyone; I do not deceive this one or court that, or trifle
with one or play with another. The modest converse of the
shepherd girls of these hamlets and the care of my goats are
my recreations; my desires are bounded by these mountains,
and if they ever wander hence it is to contemplate the beauty
of the heavens, steps by which the soul travels to its primeval
abode."
With these words, and not waiting to hear a reply, she turned
and passed into the thickest part of a wood that was hard by,
leaving all who were there lost in admiration as much of her
good sense as of her beauty. Some—those wounded by the ir-
resistible shafts launched by her bright eyes—made as though
they would follow her, heedless of the frank declaration they
had heard; seeing which, and deeming this a fitting occasion
for the exercise of his chivalry in aid of distressed damsels,
Don Quixote, laying his hand on the hilt of his sword, ex-
claimed in a loud and distinct voice:
"Let no one, whatever his rank or condition, dare to follow
the beautiful Marcela, under pain of incurring my fierce indig-
nation. She has shown by clear and satisfactory arguments that
little or no fault is to be found with her for the death of Chryso-
stom, and also how far she is from yielding to the wishes of any
of her lovers, for which reason, instead of being followed and
persecuted, she should in justice be honoured and esteemed by

101
all the good people of the world, for she shows that she is the
only woman in it that holds to such a virtuous resolution."
Whether it was because of the threats of Don Quixote, or be-
cause Ambrosio told them to fulfil their duty to their good
friend, none of the shepherds moved or stirred from the spot
until, having finished the grave and burned Chrysostom's pa-
pers, they laid his body in it, not without many tears from those
who stood by. They closed the grave with a heavy stone until a
slab was ready which Ambrosio said he meant to have pre-
pared, with an epitaph which was to be to this effect:
{verse
Beneath the stone before your eyes
The body of a lover lies;
In life he was a shepherd swain,
In death a victim to disdain.
Ungrateful, cruel, coy, and fair,
Was she that drove him to despair,
And Love hath made her his ally
For spreading wide his tyranny.
{verse
They then strewed upon the grave a profusion of flowers and
branches, and all expressing their condolence with his friend
ambrosio, took their Vivaldo and his companion did the same;
and Don Quixote bade farewell to his hosts and to the travel-
lers, who pressed him to come with them to Seville, as being
such a convenient place for finding adventures, for they
presented themselves in every street and round every corner
oftener than anywhere else. Don Quixote thanked them for
their advice and for the disposition they showed to do him a fa-
vour, and said that for the present he would not, and must not
go to Seville until he had cleared all these mountains of high-
waymen and robbers, of whom report said they were full. See-
ing his good intention, the travellers were unwilling to press
him further, and once more bidding him farewell, they left him
and pursued their journey, in the course of which they did not
fail to discuss the story of Marcela and Chrysostom as well as
the madness of Don Quixote. He, on his part, resolved to go in
quest of the shepherdess Marcela, and make offer to her of all
the service he could render her; but things did not fall out with

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him as he expected, according to what is related in the course
of this veracious history, of which the Second Part ends here.

103
Chapter 15
In which is related the unfortunate adventure that Don
Quixote fell in with when he fell out with certain heart-
less Yanguesans
The sage Cide Hamete Benengeli relates that as soon as Don
Quixote took leave of his hosts and all who had been present at
the burial of Chrysostom, he and his squire passed into the
same wood which they had seen the shepherdess Marcela
enter, and after having wandered for more than two hours in
all directions in search of her without finding her, they came to
a halt in a glade covered with tender grass, beside which ran a
pleasant cool stream that invited and compelled them to pass
there the hours of the noontide heat, which by this time was
beginning to come on oppressively. Don Quixote and Sancho
dismounted, and turning Rocinante and the ass loose to feed
on the grass that was there in abundance, they ransacked the
alforjas, and without any ceremony very peacefully and soci-
ably master and man made their repast on what they found in
them.
Sancho had not thought it worth while to hobble Rocinante,
feeling sure, from what he knew of his staidness and freedom
from incontinence, that all the mares in the Cordova pastures
would not lead him into an impropriety. Chance, however, and
the devil, who is not always asleep, so ordained it that feeding
in this valley there was a drove of Galician ponies belonging to
certain Yanguesan carriers, whose way it is to take their mid-
day rest with their teams in places and spots where grass and
water abound; and that where Don Quixote chanced to be
suited the Yanguesans' purpose very well. It so happened,
then, that Rocinante took a fancy to disport himself with their
ladyships the ponies, and abandoning his usual gait and de-
meanour as he scented them, he, without asking leave of his
master, got up a briskish little trot and hastened to make

104
known his wishes to them; they, however, it seemed, preferred
their pasture to him, and received him with their heels and
teeth to such effect that they soon broke his girths and left him
naked without a saddle to cover him; but what must have been
worse to him was that the carriers, seeing the violence he was
offering to their mares, came running up armed with stakes,
and so belaboured him that they brought him sorely battered
to the ground.
By this time Don Quixote and Sancho, who had witnessed the
drubbing of Rocinante, came up panting, and said Don Quixote
to Sancho:
"So far as I can see, friend Sancho, these are not knights but
base folk of low birth: I mention it because thou canst lawfully
aid me in taking due vengeance for the insult offered to Rocin-
ante before our eyes."
"What the devil vengeance can we take," answered Sancho,
"if they are more than twenty, and we no more than two, or, in-
deed, perhaps not more than one and a half?"
"I count for a hundred," replied Don Quixote, and without
more words he drew his sword and attacked the Yanguesans
and excited and impelled by the example of his master, Sancho
did the same; and to begin with, Don Quixote delivered a slash
at one of them that laid open the leather jerkin he wore, to-
gether with a great portion of his shoulder. The Yanguesans,
seeing themselves assaulted by only two men while they were
so many, betook themselves to their stakes, and driving the
two into the middle they began to lay on with great zeal and
energy; in fact, at the second blow they brought Sancho to the
ground, and Don Quixote fared the same way, all his skill and
high mettle availing him nothing, and fate willed it that he
should fall at the feet of Rocinante, who had not yet risen;
whereby it may be seen how furiously stakes can pound in
angry boorish hands.
Then, seeing the mischief they had done, the Yanguesans
with all the haste they could loaded their team and pursued
their journey, leaving the two adventurers a sorry sight and in
sorrier mood.
Sancho was the first to come to, and finding himself close to
his master he called to him in a weak and doleful voice, "Senor
Don Quixote, ah, Senor Don Quixote!"

105
 "What wouldst thou, brother Sancho?" answered Don Quix-
ote in the same feeble suffering tone as Sancho.
"I would like, if it were possible," answered Sancho Panza,
"your worship to give me a couple of sups of that potion of the
fiery Blas, if it be that you have any to hand there; perhaps it
will serve for broken bones as well as for wounds."
"If I only had it here, wretch that I am, what more should we
want?" said Don Quixote; "but I swear to thee, Sancho Panza,
on the faith of a knight-errant, ere two days are over, unless
fortune orders otherwise, I mean to have it in my possession,
or my hand will have lost its cunning."
"But in how many does your worship think we shall have the
use of our feet?" answered Sancho Panza.
"For myself I must say I cannot guess how many," said the
battered knight Don Quixote; "but I take all the blame upon
myself, for I had no business to put hand to sword against men
who where not dubbed knights like myself, and so I believe
that in punishment for having transgressed the laws of chivalry
the God of battles has permitted this chastisement to be admin-
istered to me; for which reason, brother Sancho, it is well thou
shouldst receive a hint on the matter which I am now about to
mention to thee, for it is of much importance to the welfare of
both of us. It is at when thou shalt see rabble of this sort offer-
ing us insult thou art not to wait till I draw sword against them,
for I shall not do so at all; but do thou draw sword and chastise
them to thy heart's content, and if any knights come to their
aid and defence I will take care to defend thee and assail them
with all my might; and thou hast already seen by a thousand
signs and proofs what the might of this strong arm of mine is
equal to"—so uplifted had the poor gentleman become through
the victory over the stout Biscayan.
But Sancho did not so fully approve of his master's admoni-
tion as to let it pass without saying in reply, "Senor, I am a man
of peace, meek and quiet, and I can put up with any affront be-
cause I have a wife and children to support and bring up; so let
it be likewise a hint to your worship, as it cannot be a mandate,
that on no account will I draw sword either against clown or
against knight, and that here before God I forgive the insults
that have been offered me, whether they have been, are, or

106
shall be offered me by high or low, rich or poor, noble or com-
moner, not excepting any rank or condition whatsoever."
To all which his master said in reply, "I wish I had breath
enough to speak somewhat easily, and that the pain I feel on
this side would abate so as to let me explain to thee, Panza, the
mistake thou makest. Come now, sinner, suppose the wind of
fortune, hitherto so adverse, should turn in our favour, filling
the sails of our desires so that safely and without impediment
we put into port in some one of those islands I have promised
thee, how would it be with thee if on winning it I made thee
lord of it? Why, thou wilt make it well-nigh impossible through
not being a knight nor having any desire to be one, nor pos-
sessing the courage nor the will to avenge insults or defend thy
lordship; for thou must know that in newly conquered king-
doms and provinces the minds of the inhabitants are never so
quiet nor so well disposed to the new lord that there is no fear
of their making some move to change matters once more, and
try, as they say, what chance may do for them; so it is essential
that the new possessor should have good sense to enable him
to govern, and valour to attack and defend himself, whatever
may befall him."
"In what has now befallen us," answered Sancho, "I'd have
been well pleased to have that good sense and that valour your
worship speaks of, but I swear on the faith of a poor man I am
more fit for plasters than for arguments. See if your worship
can get up, and let us help Rocinante, though he does not de-
serve it, for he was the main cause of all this thrashing. I never
thought it of Rocinante, for I took him to be a virtuous person
and as quiet as myself. After all, they say right that it takes a
long time to come to know people, and that there is nothing
sure in this life. Who would have said that, after such mighty
slashes as your worship gave that unlucky knight-errant, there
was coming, travelling post and at the very heels of them, such
a great storm of sticks as has fallen upon our shoulders?"
"And yet thine, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "ought to be
used to such squalls; but mine, reared in soft cloth and fine lin-
en, it is plain they must feel more keenly the pain of this mis-
hap, and if it were not that I imagine—why do I say ima-
gine?—know of a certainty that all these annoyances are very

107
necessary accompaniments of the calling of arms, I would lay
me down here to die of pure vexation."
To this the squire replied, "Senor, as these mishaps are what
one reaps of chivalry, tell me if they happen very often, or if
they have their own fixed times for coming to pass; because it
seems to me that after two harvests we shall be no good for the
third, unless God in his infinite mercy helps us."
"Know, friend Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "that the life
of knights-errant is subject to a thousand dangers and re-
verses, and neither more nor less is it within immediate possib-
ility for knights-errant to become kings and emperors, as ex-
perience has shown in the case of many different knights with
whose histories I am thoroughly acquainted; and I could tell
thee now, if the pain would let me, of some who simply by
might of arm have risen to the high stations I have mentioned;
and those same, both before and after, experienced divers mis-
fortunes and miseries; for the valiant Amadis of Gaul found
himself in the power of his mortal enemy Arcalaus the magi-
cian, who, it is positively asserted, holding him captive, gave
him more than two hundred lashes with the reins of his horse
while tied to one of the pillars of a court; and moreover there is
a certain recondite author of no small authority who says that
the Knight of Phoebus, being caught in a certain pitfall, which
opened under his feet in a certain castle, on falling found him-
self bound hand and foot in a deep pit underground, where
they administered to him one of those things they call clysters,
of sand and snow-water, that well-nigh finished him; and if he
had not been succoured in that sore extremity by a sage, a
great friend of his, it would have gone very hard with the poor
knight; so I may well suffer in company with such worthy folk,
for greater were the indignities which they had to suffer than
those which we suffer. For I would have thee know, Sancho,
that wounds caused by any instruments which happen by
chance to be in hand inflict no indignity, and this is laid down
in the law of the duel in express words: if, for instance, the
cobbler strikes another with the last which he has in his hand,
though it be in fact a piece of wood, it cannot be said for that
reason that he whom he struck with it has been cudgelled. I
say this lest thou shouldst imagine that because we have been
drubbed in this affray we have therefore suffered any indignity;

108
for the arms those men carried, with which they pounded us,
were nothing more than their stakes, and not one of them, so
far as I remember, carried rapier, sword, or dagger."
"They gave me no time to see that much," answered Sancho,
"for hardly had I laid hand on my tizona when they signed the
cross on my shoulders with their sticks in such style that they
took the sight out of my eyes and the strength out of my feet,
stretching me where I now lie, and where thinking of whether
all those stake-strokes were an indignity or not gives me no un-
easiness, which the pain of the blows does, for they will remain
as deeply impressed on my memory as on my shoulders."
"For all that let me tell thee, brother Panza," said Don Quix-
ote, "that there is no recollection which time does not put an
end to, and no pain which death does not remove."
"And what greater misfortune can there be," replied Panza,
"than the one that waits for time to put an end to it and death
to remove it? If our mishap were one of those that are cured
with a couple of plasters, it would not be so bad; but I am be-
ginning to think that all the plasters in a hospital almost won't
be enough to put us right."
"No more of that: pluck strength out of weakness, Sancho, as
I mean to do," returned Don Quixote, "and let us see how Ro-
cinante is, for it seems to me that not the least share of this
mishap has fallen to the lot of the poor beast."
"There is nothing wonderful in that," replied Sancho, "since
he is a knight-errant too; what I wonder at is that my beast
should have come off scot-free where we come out scotched."
"Fortune always leaves a door open in adversity in order to
bring relief to it," said Don Quixote; "I say so because this little
beast may now supply the want of Rocinante, carrying me
hence to some castle where I may be cured of my wounds. And
moreover I shall not hold it any dishonour to be so mounted,
for I remember having read how the good old Silenus, the tutor
and instructor of the gay god of laughter, when he entered the
city of the hundred gates, went very contentedly mounted on a
handsome ass."
"It may be true that he went mounted as your worship says,"
answered Sancho, "but there is a great difference between go-
ing mounted and going slung like a sack of manure."

109
 To which Don Quixote replied, "Wounds received in battle
confer honour instead of taking it away; and so, friend Panza,
say no more, but, as I told thee before, get up as well as thou
canst and put me on top of thy beast in whatever fashion
pleases thee best, and let us go hence ere night come on and
surprise us in these wilds."
"And yet I have heard your worship say," observed Panza,
"that it is very meet for knights-errant to sleep in wastes and
deserts, and that they esteem it very good fortune."
"That is," said Don Quixote, "when they cannot help it, or
when they are in love; and so true is this that there have been
knights who have remained two years on rocks, in sunshine
and shade and all the inclemencies of heaven, without their
ladies knowing anything of it; and one of these was Amadis,
when, under the name of Beltenebros, he took up his abode on
the Pena Pobre for—I know not if it was eight years or eight
months, for I am not very sure of the reckoning; at any rate he
stayed there doing penance for I know not what pique the Prin-
cess Oriana had against him; but no more of this now, Sancho,
and make haste before a mishap like Rocinante's befalls the
ass."
"The very devil would be in it in that case," said Sancho; and
letting off thirty "ohs," and sixty sighs, and a hundred and
twenty maledictions and execrations on whomsoever it was
that had brought him there, he raised himself, stopping half-
way bent like a Turkish bow without power to bring himself up-
right, but with all his pains he saddled his ass, who too had
gone astray somewhat, yielding to the excessive licence of the
day; he next raised up Rocinante, and as for him, had he pos-
sessed a tongue to complain with, most assuredly neither San-
cho nor his master would have been behind him.
To be brief, Sancho fixed Don Quixote on the ass and secured
Rocinante with a leading rein, and taking the ass by the halter,
he proceeded more or less in the direction in which it seemed
to him the high road might be; and, as chance was conducting
their affairs for them from good to better, he had not gone a
short league when the road came in sight, and on it he per-
ceived an inn, which to his annoyance and to the delight of Don
Quixote must needs be a castle. Sancho insisted that it was an
inn, and his master that it was not one, but a castle, and the

110
dispute lasted so long that before the point was settled they
had time to reach it, and into it Sancho entered with all his
team without any further controversy.

111
Chapter 16
Of what happened to the ingenious gentleman in the inn
which he took to be a castle
The innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote slung across the ass,
asked Sancho what was amiss with him. Sancho answered that
it was nothing, only that he had fallen down from a rock and
had his ribs a little bruised. The innkeeper had a wife whose
disposition was not such as those of her calling commonly
have, for she was by nature kind-hearted and felt for the suffer-
ings of her neighbours, so she at once set about tending Don
Quixote, and made her young daughter, a very comely girl,
help her in taking care of her guest. There was besides in the
inn, as servant, an Asturian lass with a broad face, flat poll,
and snub nose, blind of one eye and not very sound in the oth-
er. The elegance of her shape, to be sure, made up for all her
defects; she did not measure seven palms from head to foot,
and her shoulders, which overweighted her somewhat, made
her contemplate the ground more than she liked. This graceful
lass, then, helped the young girl, and the two made up a very
bad bed for Don Quixote in a garret that showed evident signs
of having formerly served for many years as a straw-loft, in
which there was also quartered a carrier whose bed was
placed a little beyond our Don Quixote's, and, though only
made of the pack-saddles and cloths of his mules, had much
the advantage of it, as Don Quixote's consisted simply of four
rough boards on two not very even trestles, a mattress, that for
thinness might have passed for a quilt, full of pellets which,
were they not seen through the rents to be wool, would to the
touch have seemed pebbles in hardness, two sheets made of
buckler leather, and a coverlet the threads of which anyone
that chose might have counted without missing one in the
reckoning.

112
 On this accursed bed Don Quixote stretched himself, and the
hostess and her daughter soon covered him with plasters from
top to toe, while Maritornes—for that was the name of the As-
turian—held the light for them, and while plastering him, the
hostess, observing how full of wheals Don Quixote was in some
places, remarked that this had more the look of blows than of a
fall.
It was not blows, Sancho said, but that the rock had many
points and projections, and that each of them had left its mark.
"Pray, senora," he added, "manage to save some tow, as there
will be no want of some one to use it, for my loins too are
rather sore."
"Then you must have fallen too," said the hostess.
"I did not fall," said Sancho Panza, "but from the shock I got
at seeing my master fall, my body aches so that I feel as if I
had had a thousand thwacks."
"That may well be," said the young girl, "for it has many a
time happened to me to dream that I was falling down from a
tower and never coming to the ground, and when I awoke from
the dream to find myself as weak and shaken as if I had really
fallen."
"There is the point, senora," replied Sancho Panza, "that I
without dreaming at all, but being more awake than I am now,
find myself with scarcely less wheals than my master, Don
Quixote."
"How is the gentleman called?" asked Maritornes the
Asturian.
"Don Quixote of La Mancha," answered Sancho Panza, "and
he is a knight-adventurer, and one of the best and stoutest that
have been seen in the world this long time past."
"What is a knight-adventurer?" said the lass.
"Are you so new in the world as not to know?" answered San-
cho Panza. "Well, then, you must know, sister, that a knight-ad-
venturer is a thing that in two words is seen drubbed and em-
peror, that is to-day the most miserable and needy being in the
world, and to-morrow will have two or three crowns of king-
doms to give his squire."
"Then how is it," said the hostess, "that belonging to so good
a master as this, you have not, to judge by appearances, even
so much as a county?"

113
 "It is too soon yet," answered Sancho, "for we have only been
a month going in quest of adventures, and so far we have met
with nothing that can be called one, for it will happen that
when one thing is looked for another thing is found; however, if
my master Don Quixote gets well of this wound, or fall, and I
am left none the worse of it, I would not change my hopes for
the best title in Spain."
To all this conversation Don Quixote was listening very at-
tentively, and sitting up in bed as well as he could, and taking
the hostess by the hand he said to her, "Believe me, fair lady,
you may call yourself fortunate in having in this castle of yours
sheltered my person, which is such that if I do not myself
praise it, it is because of what is commonly said, that self-
praise debaseth; but my squire will inform you who I am. I only
tell you that I shall preserve for ever inscribed on my memory
the service you have rendered me in order to tender you my
gratitude while life shall last me; and would to Heaven love
held me not so enthralled and subject to its laws and to the
eyes of that fair ingrate whom I name between my teeth, but
that those of this lovely damsel might be the masters of my
liberty."
The hostess, her daughter, and the worthy Maritornes
listened in bewilderment to the words of the knight-errant; for
they understood about as much of them as if he had been talk-
ing Greek, though they could perceive they were all meant for
expressions of good-will and blandishments; and not being ac-
customed to this kind of language, they stared at him and
wondered to themselves, for he seemed to them a man of a dif-
ferent sort from those they were used to, and thanking him in
pothouse phrase for his civility they left him, while the Asturian
gave her attention to Sancho, who needed it no less than his
master.
The carrier had made an arrangement with her for recre-
ation that night, and she had given him her word that when the
guests were quiet and the family asleep she would come in
search of him and meet his wishes unreservedly. And it is said
of this good lass that she never made promises of the kind
without fulfilling them, even though she made them in a forest
and without any witness present, for she plumed herself
greatly on being a lady and held it no disgrace to be in such an

114
employment as servant in an inn, because, she said, misfor-
tunes and ill-luck had brought her to that position. The hard,
narrow, wretched, rickety bed of Don Quixote stood first in the
middle of this star-lit stable, and close beside it Sancho made
his, which merely consisted of a rush mat and a blanket that
looked as if it was of threadbare canvas rather than of wool.
Next to these two beds was that of the carrier, made up, as has
been said, of the pack-saddles and all the trappings of the two
best mules he had, though there were twelve of them, sleek,
plump, and in prime condition, for he was one of the rich carri-
ers of Arevalo, according to the author of this history, who par-
ticularly mentions this carrier because he knew him very well,
and they even say was in some degree a relation of his; besides
which Cide Hamete Benengeli was a historian of great re-
search and accuracy in all things, as is very evident since he
would not pass over in silence those that have been already
mentioned, however trifling and insignificant they might be, an
example that might be followed by those grave historians who
relate transactions so curtly and briefly that we hardly get a
taste of them, all the substance of the work being left in the
inkstand from carelessness, perverseness, or ignorance. A
thousand blessings on the author of "Tablante de Ricamonte"
and that of the other book in which the deeds of the Conde To-
millas are recounted; with what minuteness they describe
everything!
To proceed, then: after having paid a visit to his team and
given them their second feed, the carrier stretched himself on
his pack-saddles and lay waiting for his conscientious Marit-
ornes. Sancho was by this time plastered and had lain down,
and though he strove to sleep the pain of his ribs would not let
him, while Don Quixote with the pain of his had his eyes as
wide open as a hare's.
The inn was all in silence, and in the whole of it there was no
light except that given by a lantern that hung burning in the
middle of the gateway. This strange stillness, and the thoughts,
always present to our knight's mind, of the incidents described
at every turn in the books that were the cause of his misfor-
tune, conjured up to his imagination as extraordinary a delu-
sion as can well be conceived, which was that he fancied him-
self to have reached a famous castle (for, as has been said, all

115
the inns he lodged in were castles to his eyes), and that the
daughter of the innkeeper was daughter of the lord of the
castle, and that she, won by his high-bred bearing, had fallen
in love with him, and had promised to come to his bed for a
while that night without the knowledge of her parents; and
holding all this fantasy that he had constructed as solid fact, he
began to feel uneasy and to consider the perilous risk which
his virtue was about to encounter, and he resolved in his heart
to commit no treason to his lady Dulcinea del Toboso, even
though the queen Guinevere herself and the dame Quintanona
should present themselves before him.
While he was taken up with these vagaries, then, the time
and the hour—an unlucky one for him—arrived for the Asturian
to come, who in her smock, with bare feet and her hair
gathered into a fustian coif, with noiseless and cautious steps
entered the chamber where the three were quartered, in quest
of the carrier; but scarcely had she gained the door when Don
Quixote perceived her, and sitting up in his bed in spite of his
plasters and the pain of his ribs, he stretched out his arms to
receive his beauteous damsel. The Asturian, who went all
doubled up and in silence with her hands before her feeling for
her lover, encountered the arms of Don Quixote, who grasped
her tightly by the wrist, and drawing her towards him, while
she dared not utter a word, made her sit down on the bed. He
then felt her smock, and although it was of sackcloth it ap-
peared to him to be of the finest and softest silk: on her wrists
she wore some glass beads, but to him they had the sheen of
precious Orient pearls: her hair, which in some measure re-
sembled a horse's mane, he rated as threads of the brightest
gold of Araby, whose refulgence dimmed the sun himself: her
breath, which no doubt smelt of yesterday's stale salad,
seemed to him to diffuse a sweet aromatic fragrance from her
mouth; and, in short, he drew her portrait in his imagination
with the same features and in the same style as that which he
had seen in his books of the other princesses who, smitten by
love, came with all the adornments that are here set down, to
see the sorely wounded knight; and so great was the poor
gentleman's blindness that neither touch, nor smell, nor any-
thing else about the good lass that would have made any but a
carrier vomit, were enough to undeceive him; on the contrary,

116
he was persuaded he had the goddess of beauty in his arms,
and holding her firmly in his grasp he went on to say in low,
tender voice:
"Would that found myself, lovely and exalted lady, in a posi-
tion to repay such a favour as that which you, by the sight of
your great beauty, have granted me; but fortune, which is nev-
er weary of persecuting the good, has chosen to place me upon
this bed, where I lie so bruised and broken that though my in-
clination would gladly comply with yours it is impossible; be-
sides, to this impossibility another yet greater is to be added,
which is the faith that I have pledged to the peerless Dulcinea
del Toboso, sole lady of my most secret thoughts; and were it
not that this stood in the way I should not be so insensible a
knight as to miss the happy opportunity which your great good-
ness has offered me."
Maritornes was fretting and sweating at finding herself held
so fast by Don Quixote, and not understanding or heeding the
words he addressed to her, she strove without speaking to free
herself. The worthy carrier, whose unholy thoughts kept him
awake, was aware of his doxy the moment she entered the
door, and was listening attentively to all Don Quixote said; and
jealous that the Asturian should have broken her word with
him for another, drew nearer to Don Quixote's bed and stood
still to see what would come of this talk which he could not un-
derstand; but when he perceived the wench struggling to get
free and Don Quixote striving to hold her, not relishing the joke
he raised his arm and delivered such a terrible cuff on the lank
jaws of the amorous knight that he bathed all his mouth in
blood, and not content with this he mounted on his ribs and
with his feet tramped all over them at a pace rather smarter
than a trot. The bed which was somewhat crazy and not very
firm on its feet, unable to support the additional weight of the
carrier, came to the ground, and at the mighty crash of this the
innkeeper awoke and at once concluded that it must be some
brawl of Maritornes', because after calling loudly to her he got
no answer. With this suspicion he got up, and lighting a lamp
hastened to the quarter where he had heard the disturbance.
The wench, seeing that her master was coming and knowing
that his temper was terrible, frightened and panic-stricken

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made for the bed of Sancho Panza, who still slept, and crouch-
ing upon it made a ball of herself.
The innkeeper came in exclaiming, "Where art thou, strum-
pet? Of course this is some of thy work." At this Sancho awoke,
and feeling this mass almost on top of him fancied he had the
nightmare and began to distribute fisticuffs all round, of which
a certain share fell upon Maritornes, who, irritated by the pain
and flinging modesty aside, paid back so many in return to
Sancho that she woke him up in spite of himself. He then, find-
ing himself so handled, by whom he knew not, raising himself
up as well as he could, grappled with Maritornes, and he and
she between them began the bitterest and drollest scrimmage
in the world. The carrier, however, perceiving by the light of
the innkeeper candle how it fared with his ladylove, quitting
Don Quixote, ran to bring her the help she needed; and the
innkeeper did the same but with a different intention, for his
was to chastise the lass, as he believed that beyond a doubt
she alone was the cause of all the harmony. And so, as the say-
ing is, cat to rat, rat to rope, rope to stick, the carrier pounded
Sancho, Sancho the lass, she him, and the innkeeper her, and
all worked away so briskly that they did not give themselves a
moment's rest; and the best of it was that the innkeeper's lamp
went out, and as they were left in the dark they all laid on one
upon the other in a mass so unmercifully that there was not a
sound spot left where a hand could light.
It so happened that there was lodging that night in the inn a
caudrillero of what they call the Old Holy Brotherhood of
Toledo, who, also hearing the extraordinary noise of the con-
flict, seized his staff and the tin case with his warrants, and
made his way in the dark into the room crying: "Hold! in the
name of the Jurisdiction! Hold! in the name of the Holy
Brotherhood!"
The first that he came upon was the pummelled Don Quixote,
who lay stretched senseless on his back upon his broken-down
bed, and, his hand falling on the beard as he felt about, he con-
tinued to cry, "Help for the Jurisdiction!" but perceiving that he
whom he had laid hold of did not move or stir, he concluded
that he was dead and that those in the room were his murder-
ers, and with this suspicion he raised his voice still higher, call-
ing out, "Shut the inn gate; see that no one goes out; they have

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killed a man here!" This cry startled them all, and each
dropped the contest at the point at which the voice reached
him. The innkeeper retreated to his room, the carrier to his
pack-saddles, the lass to her crib; the unlucky Don Quixote and
Sancho alone were unable to move from where they were. The
cuadrillero on this let go Don Quixote's beard, and went out to
look for a light to search for and apprehend the culprits; but
not finding one, as the innkeeper had purposely extinguished
the lantern on retreating to his room, he was compelled to
have recourse to the hearth, where after much time and
trouble he lit another lamp.

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Chapter 17
In which are contained the innumerable troubles which
the brave Don Quixote and his good squire Sancho Panza
endured in the inn, which to his misfortune he took to be
a castle
By this time Don Quixote had recovered from his swoon; and
in the same tone of voice in which he had called to his squire
the day before when he lay stretched "in the vale of the
stakes," he began calling to him now, "Sancho, my friend, art
thou asleep? sleepest thou, friend Sancho?"
"How can I sleep, curses on it!" returned Sancho disconten-
tedly and bitterly, "when it is plain that all the devils have been
at me this night?"
"Thou mayest well believe that," answered Don Quixote, "be-
cause, either I know little, or this castle is enchanted, for thou
must know-but this that I am now about to tell thee thou must
swear to keep secret until after my death."
"I swear it," answered Sancho.
"I say so," continued Don Quixote, "because I hate taking
away anyone's good name."
"I say," replied Sancho, "that I swear to hold my tongue
about it till the end of your worship's days, and God grant I
may be able to let it out tomorrow."
"Do I do thee such injuries, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "that
thou wouldst see me dead so soon?"
"It is not for that," replied Sancho, "but because I hate keep-
ing things long, and I don't want them to grow rotten with me
from over-keeping."
"At any rate," said Don Quixote, "I have more confidence in
thy affection and good nature; and so I would have thee know
that this night there befell me one of the strangest adventures
that I could describe, and to relate it to thee briefly thou must
know that a little while ago the daughter of the lord of this

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castle came to me, and that she is the most elegant and beauti-
ful damsel that could be found in the wide world. What I could
tell thee of the charms of her person! of her lively wit! of other
secret matters which, to preserve the fealty I owe to my lady
Dulcinea del Toboso, I shall pass over unnoticed and in silence!
I will only tell thee that, either fate being envious of so great a
boon placed in my hands by good fortune, or perhaps (and this
is more probable) this castle being, as I have already said, en-
chanted, at the time when I was engaged in the sweetest and
most amorous discourse with her, there came, without my see-
ing or knowing whence it came, a hand attached to some arm
of some huge giant, that planted such a cuff on my jaws that I
have them all bathed in blood, and then pummelled me in such
a way that I am in a worse plight than yesterday when the car-
riers, on account of Rocinante's misbehaviour, inflicted on us
the injury thou knowest of; whence conjecture that there must
be some enchanted Moor guarding the treasure of this
damsel's beauty, and that it is not for me."
"Not for me either," said Sancho, "for more than four hun-
dred Moors have so thrashed me that the drubbing of the
stakes was cakes and fancy-bread to it. But tell me, senor,
what do you call this excellent and rare adventure that has left
us as we are left now? Though your worship was not so badly
off, having in your arms that incomparable beauty you spoke
of; but I, what did I have, except the heaviest whacks I think I
had in all my life? Unlucky me and the mother that bore me!
for I am not a knight-errant and never expect to be one, and of
all the mishaps, the greater part falls to my share."
"Then thou hast been thrashed too?" said Don Quixote.
"Didn't I say so? worse luck to my line!" said Sancho.
"Be not distressed, friend," said Don Quixote, "for I will now
make the precious balsam with which we shall cure ourselves
in the twinkling of an eye."
By this time the cuadrillero had succeeded in lighting the
lamp, and came in to see the man that he thought had been
killed; and as Sancho caught sight of him at the door, seeing
him coming in his shirt, with a cloth on his head, and a lamp in
his hand, and a very forbidding countenance, he said to his
master, "Senor, can it be that this is the enchanted Moor

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coming back to give us more castigation if there be anything
still left in the ink-bottle?"
"It cannot be the Moor," answered Don Quixote, "for those
under enchantment do not let themselves be seen by anyone."
"If they don't let themselves be seen, they let themselves be
felt," said Sancho; "if not, let my shoulders speak to the point."
"Mine could speak too," said Don Quixote, "but that is not a
sufficient reason for believing that what we see is the en-
chanted Moor."
The officer came up, and finding them engaged in such a
peaceful conversation, stood amazed; though Don Quixote, to
be sure, still lay on his back unable to move from pure pum-
melling and plasters. The officer turned to him and said, "Well,
how goes it, good man?"
"I would speak more politely if I were you," replied Don Quix-
ote; "is it the way of this country to address knights-errant in
that style, you booby?"
The cuadrillero finding himself so disrespectfully treated by
such a sorry-looking individual, lost his temper, and raising the
lamp full of oil, smote Don Quixote such a blow with it on the
head that he gave him a badly broken pate; then, all being in
darkness, he went out, and Sancho Panza said, "That is cer-
tainly the enchanted Moor, Senor, and he keeps the treasure
for others, and for us only the cuffs and lamp-whacks."
"That is the truth," answered Don Quixote, "and there is no
use in troubling oneself about these matters of enchantment or
being angry or vexed at them, for as they are invisible and vis-
ionary we shall find no one on whom to avenge ourselves, do
what we may; rise, Sancho, if thou canst, and call the alcaide
of this fortress, and get him to give me a little oil, wine, salt,
and rosemary to make the salutiferous balsam, for indeed I be-
lieve I have great need of it now, because I am losing much
blood from the wound that phantom gave me."
Sancho got up with pain enough in his bones, and went after
the innkeeper in the dark, and meeting the officer, who was
looking to see what had become of his enemy, he said to him,
"Senor, whoever you are, do us the favour and kindness to give
us a little rosemary, oil, salt, and wine, for it is wanted to cure
one of the best knights-errant on earth, who lies on yonder bed

122
wounded by the hands of the enchanted Moor that is in this
inn."
When the officer heard him talk in this way, he took him for a
man out of his senses, and as day was now beginning to break,
he opened the inn gate, and calling the host, he told him what
this good man wanted. The host furnished him with what he re-
quired, and Sancho brought it to Don Quixote, who, with his
hand to his head, was bewailing the pain of the blow of the
lamp, which had done him no more harm than raising a couple
of rather large lumps, and what he fancied blood was only the
sweat that flowed from him in his sufferings during the late
storm. To be brief, he took the materials, of which he made a
compound, mixing them all and boiling them a good while until
it seemed to him they had come to perfection. He then asked
for some vial to pour it into, and as there was not one in the
inn, he decided on putting it into a tin oil-bottle or flask of
which the host made him a free gift; and over the flask he re-
peated more than eighty paternosters and as many more ave-
marias, salves, and credos, accompanying each word with a
cross by way of benediction, at all which there were present
Sancho, the innkeeper, and the cuadrillero; for the carrier was
now peacefully engaged in attending to the comfort of his
mules.
This being accomplished, he felt anxious to make trial him-
self, on the spot, of the virtue of this precious balsam, as he
considered it, and so he drank near a quart of what could not
be put into the flask and remained in the pigskin in which it
had been boiled; but scarcely had he done drinking when he
began to vomit in such a way that nothing was left in his stom-
ach, and with the pangs and spasms of vomiting he broke into
a profuse sweat, on account of which he bade them cover him
up and leave him alone. They did so, and he lay sleeping more
than three hours, at the end of which he awoke and felt very
great bodily relief and so much ease from his bruises that he
thought himself quite cured, and verily believed he had hit
upon the balsam of Fierabras; and that with this remedy he
might thenceforward, without any fear, face any kind of de-
struction, battle, or combat, however perilous it might be.
Sancho Panza, who also regarded the amendment of his mas-
ter as miraculous, begged him to give him what was left in the

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pigskin, which was no small quantity. Don Quixote consented,
and he, taking it with both hands, in good faith and with a bet-
ter will, gulped down and drained off very little less than his
master. But the fact is, that the stomach of poor Sancho was of
necessity not so delicate as that of his master, and so, before
vomiting, he was seized with such gripings and retchings, and
such sweats and faintness, that verily and truly be believed his
last hour had come, and finding himself so racked and tormen-
ted he cursed the balsam and the thief that had given it to him.
Don Quixote seeing him in this state said, "It is my belief,
Sancho, that this mischief comes of thy not being dubbed a
knight, for I am persuaded this liquor cannot be good for those
who are not so."
"If your worship knew that," returned Sancho—"woe betide
me and all my kindred!—why did you let me taste it?"
At this moment the draught took effect, and the poor squire
began to discharge both ways at such a rate that the rush mat
on which he had thrown himself and the canvas blanket he had
covering him were fit for nothing afterwards. He sweated and
perspired with such paroxysms and convulsions that not only
he himself but all present thought his end had come. This tem-
pest and tribulation lasted about two hours, at the end of
which he was left, not like his master, but so weak and ex-
hausted that he could not stand. Don Quixote, however, who,
as has been said, felt himself relieved and well, was eager to
take his departure at once in quest of adventures, as it seemed
to him that all the time he loitered there was a fraud upon the
world and those in it who stood in need of his help and protec-
tion, all the more when he had the security and confidence his
balsam afforded him; and so, urged by this impulse, he saddled
Rocinante himself and put the pack-saddle on his squire's
beast, whom likewise he helped to dress and mount the ass;
after which he mounted his horse and turning to a corner of
the inn he laid hold of a pike that stood there, to serve him by
way of a lance. All that were in the inn, who were more than
twenty persons, stood watching him; the innkeeper's daughter
was likewise observing him, and he too never took his eyes off
her, and from time to time fetched a sigh that he seemed to
pluck up from the depths of his bowels; but they all thought it

124
must be from the pain he felt in his ribs; at any rate they who
had seen him plastered the night before thought so.
As soon as they were both mounted, at the gate of the inn, he
called to the host and said in a very grave and measured voice,
"Many and great are the favours, Senor Alcaide, that I have re-
ceived in this castle of yours, and I remain under the deepest
obligation to be grateful to you for them all the days of my life;
if I can repay them in avenging you of any arrogant foe who
may have wronged you, know that my calling is no other than
to aid the weak, to avenge those who suffer wrong, and to
chastise perfidy. Search your memory, and if you find anything
of this kind you need only tell me of it, and I promise you by
the order of knighthood which I have received to procure you
satisfaction and reparation to the utmost of your desire."
The innkeeper replied to him with equal calmness, "Sir
Knight, I do not want your worship to avenge me of any wrong,
because when any is done me I can take what vengeance
seems good to me; the only thing I want is that you pay me the
score that you have run up in the inn last night, as well for the
straw and barley for your two beasts, as for supper and beds."
"Then this is an inn?" said Don Quixote.
"And a very respectable one," said the innkeeper.
"I have been under a mistake all this time," answered Don
Quixote, "for in truth I thought it was a castle, and not a bad
one; but since it appears that it is not a castle but an inn, all
that can be done now is that you should excuse the payment,
for I cannot contravene the rule of knights-errant, of whom I
know as a fact (and up to the present I have read nothing to
the contrary) that they never paid for lodging or anything else
in the inn where they might be; for any hospitality that might
be offered them is their due by law and right in return for the
insufferable toil they endure in seeking adventures by night
and by day, in summer and in winter, on foot and on horse-
back, in hunger and thirst, cold and heat, exposed to all the in-
clemencies of heaven and all the hardships of earth."
"I have little to do with that," replied the innkeeper; "pay me
what you owe me, and let us have no more talk of chivalry, for
all I care about is to get my money."
"You are a stupid, scurvy innkeeper," said Don Quixote, and
putting spurs to Rocinante and bringing his pike to the slope

125
he rode out of the inn before anyone could stop him, and
pushed on some distance without looking to see if his squire
was following him.
The innkeeper when he saw him go without paying him ran
to get payment of Sancho, who said that as his master would
not pay neither would he, because, being as he was squire to a
knight-errant, the same rule and reason held good for him as
for his master with regard to not paying anything in inns and
hostelries. At this the innkeeper waxed very wroth, and
threatened if he did not pay to compel him in a way that he
would not like. To which Sancho made answer that by the law
of chivalry his master had received he would not pay a rap,
though it cost him his life; for the excellent and ancient usage
of knights-errant was not going to be violated by him, nor
should the squires of such as were yet to come into the world
ever complain of him or reproach him with breaking so just a
privilege.
The ill-luck of the unfortunate Sancho so ordered it that
among the company in the inn there were four woolcarders
from Segovia, three needle-makers from the Colt of Cordova,
and two lodgers from the Fair of Seville, lively fellows, tender-
hearted, fond of a joke, and playful, who, almost as if instigated
and moved by a common impulse, made up to Sancho and dis-
mounted him from his ass, while one of them went in for the
blanket of the host's bed; but on flinging him into it they looked
up, and seeing that the ceiling was somewhat lower what they
required for their work, they decided upon going out into the
yard, which was bounded by the sky, and there, putting Sancho
in the middle of the blanket, they began to raise him high, mak-
ing sport with him as they would with a dog at Shrovetide.
The cries of the poor blanketed wretch were so loud that
they reached the ears of his master, who, halting to listen at-
tentively, was persuaded that some new adventure was com-
ing, until he clearly perceived that it was his squire who
uttered them. Wheeling about he came up to the inn with a la-
borious gallop, and finding it shut went round it to see if he
could find some way of getting in; but as soon as he came to
the wall of the yard, which was not very high, he discovered
the game that was being played with his squire. He saw him
rising and falling in the air with such grace and nimbleness

126
that, had his rage allowed him, it is my belief he would have
laughed. He tried to climb from his horse on to the top of the
wall, but he was so bruised and battered that he could not even
dismount; and so from the back of his horse he began to utter
such maledictions and objurgations against those who were
blanketing Sancho as it would be impossible to write down ac-
curately: they, however, did not stay their laughter or their
work for this, nor did the flying Sancho cease his lamentations,
mingled now with threats, now with entreaties but all to little
purpose, or none at all, until from pure weariness they left off.
They then brought him his ass, and mounting him on top of it
they put his jacket round him; and the compassionate Marit-
ornes, seeing him so exhausted, thought fit to refresh him with
a jug of water, and that it might be all the cooler she fetched it
from the well. Sancho took it, and as he was raising it to his
mouth he was stopped by the cries of his master exclaiming,
"Sancho, my son, drink not water; drink it not, my son, for it
will kill thee; see, here I have the blessed balsam (and he held
up the flask of liquor), and with drinking two drops of it thou
wilt certainly be restored."
At these words Sancho turned his eyes asquint, and in a still
louder voice said, "Can it be your worship has forgotten that I
am not a knight, or do you want me to end by vomiting up what
bowels I have left after last night? Keep your liquor in the
name of all the devils, and leave me to myself!" and at one and
the same instant he left off talking and began drinking; but as
at the first sup he perceived it was water he did not care to go
on with it, and begged Maritornes to fetch him some wine,
which she did with right good will, and paid for it with her own
money; for indeed they say of her that, though she was in that
line of life, there was some faint and distant resemblance to a
Christian about her. When Sancho had done drinking he dug
his heels into his ass, and the gate of the inn being thrown
open he passed out very well pleased at having paid nothing
and carried his point, though it had been at the expense of his
usual sureties, his shoulders. It is true that the innkeeper de-
tained his alforjas in payment of what was owing to him, but
Sancho took his departure in such a flurry that he never
missed them. The innkeeper, as soon as he saw him off, wanted
to bar the gate close, but the blanketers would not agree to it,

127
for they were fellows who would not have cared two farthings
for Don Quixote, even had he been really one of the knights-er-
rant of the Round Table.

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Chapter 18
In which is related the discourse Sancho Panza held with
his master, Don Quixote, and other adventures worth
relating
Sancho reached his master so limp and faint that he could
not urge on his beast. When Don Quixote saw the state he was
in he said, "I have now come to the conclusion, good Sancho,
that this castle or inn is beyond a doubt enchanted, because
those who have so atrociously diverted themselves with thee,
what can they be but phantoms or beings of another world?
and I hold this confirmed by having noticed that when I was by
the wall of the yard witnessing the acts of thy sad tragedy, it
was out of my power to mount upon it, nor could I even dis-
mount from Rocinante, because they no doubt had me en-
chanted; for I swear to thee by the faith of what I am that if I
had been able to climb up or dismount, I would have avenged
thee in such a way that those braggart thieves would have re-
membered their freak for ever, even though in so doing I knew
that I contravened the laws of chivalry, which, as I have often
told thee, do not permit a knight to lay hands on him who is not
one, save in case of urgent and great necessity in defence of
his own life and person."
"I would have avenged myself too if I could," said Sancho,
"whether I had been dubbed knight or not, but I could not;
though for my part I am persuaded those who amused them-
selves with me were not phantoms or enchanted men, as your
worship says, but men of flesh and bone like ourselves; and
they all had their names, for I heard them name them when
they were tossing me, and one was called Pedro Martinez, and
another Tenorio Hernandez, and the innkeeper, I heard, was
called Juan Palomeque the Left-handed; so that, senor, your
not being able to leap over the wall of the yard or dismount
from your horse came of something else besides enchantments;

129
and what I make out clearly from all this is, that these adven-
tures we go seeking will in the end lead us into such misadven-
tures that we shall not know which is our right foot; and that
the best and wisest thing, according to my small wits, would be
for us to return home, now that it is harvest-time, and attend to
our business, and give over wandering from Zeca to Mecca and
from pail to bucket, as the saying is."
"How little thou knowest about chivalry, Sancho," replied
Don Quixote; "hold thy peace and have patience; the day will
come when thou shalt see with thine own eyes what an honour-
able thing it is to wander in the pursuit of this calling; nay, tell
me, what greater pleasure can there be in the world, or what
delight can equal that of winning a battle, and triumphing over
one's enemy? None, beyond all doubt."
"Very likely," answered Sancho, "though I do not know it; all
I know is that since we have been knights-errant, or since your
worship has been one (for I have no right to reckon myself one
of so honourable a number) we have never won any battle ex-
cept the one with the Biscayan, and even out of that your wor-
ship came with half an ear and half a helmet the less; and from
that till now it has been all cudgellings and more cudgellings,
cuffs and more cuffs, I getting the blanketing over and above,
and falling in with enchanted persons on whom I cannot
avenge myself so as to know what the delight, as your worship
calls it, of conquering an enemy is like."
"That is what vexes me, and what ought to vex thee, Sancho,"
replied Don Quixote; "but henceforward I will endeavour to
have at hand some sword made by such craft that no kind of
enchantments can take effect upon him who carries it, and it is
even possible that fortune may procure for me that which be-
longed to Amadis when he was called 'The Knight of the Burn-
ing Sword,' which was one of the best swords that ever knight
in the world possessed, for, besides having the said virtue, it
cut like a razor, and there was no armour, however strong and
enchanted it might be, that could resist it."
"Such is my luck," said Sancho, "that even if that happened
and your worship found some such sword, it would, like the
balsam, turn out serviceable and good for dubbed knights only,
and as for the squires, they might sup sorrow."

130
 "Fear not that, Sancho," said Don Quixote: "Heaven will deal
better by thee."
Thus talking, Don Quixote and his squire were going along,
when, on the road they were following, Don Quixote perceived
approaching them a large and thick cloud of dust, on seeing
which he turned to Sancho and said:
"This is the day, Sancho, on which will be seen the boon my
fortune is reserving for me; this, I say, is the day on which as
much as on any other shall be displayed the might of my arm,
and on which I shall do deeds that shall remain written in the
book of fame for all ages to come. Seest thou that cloud of dust
which rises yonder? Well, then, all that is churned up by a vast
army composed of various and countless nations that comes
marching there."
"According to that there must be two," said Sancho, "for on
this opposite side also there rises just such another cloud of
dust."
Don Quixote turned to look and found that it was true, and
rejoicing exceedingly, he concluded that they were two armies
about to engage and encounter in the midst of that broad plain;
for at all times and seasons his fancy was full of the battles, en-
chantments, adventures, crazy feats, loves, and defiances that
are recorded in the books of chivalry, and everything he said,
thought, or did had reference to such things. Now the cloud of
dust he had seen was raised by two great droves of sheep com-
ing along the same road in opposite directions, which, because
of the dust, did not become visible until they drew near, but
Don Quixote asserted so positively that they were armies that
Sancho was led to believe it and say, "Well, and what are we to
do, senor?"
"What?" said Don Quixote: "give aid and assistance to the
weak and those who need it; and thou must know, Sancho, that
this which comes opposite to us is conducted and led by the
mighty emperor Alifanfaron, lord of the great isle of Tra-
pobana; this other that marches behind me is that of his enemy
the king of the Garamantas, Pentapolin of the Bare Arm, for he
always goes into battle with his right arm bare."
"But why are these two lords such enemies?"
"They are at enmity," replied Don Quixote, "because this Ali-
fanfaron is a furious pagan and is in love with the daughter of

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Pentapolin, who is a very beautiful and moreover gracious
lady, and a Christian, and her father is unwilling to bestow her
upon the pagan king unless he first abandons the religion of
his false prophet Mahomet, and adopts his own."
"By my beard," said Sancho, "but Pentapolin does quite right,
and I will help him as much as I can."
"In that thou wilt do what is thy duty, Sancho," said Don
Quixote; "for to engage in battles of this sort it is not requisite
to be a dubbed knight."
"That I can well understand," answered Sancho; "but where
shall we put this ass where we may be sure to find him after
the fray is over? for I believe it has not been the custom so far
to go into battle on a beast of this kind."
"That is true," said Don Quixote, "and what you had best do
with him is to leave him to take his chance whether he be lost
or not, for the horses we shall have when we come out victors
will be so many that even Rocinante will run a risk of being
changed for another. But attend to me and observe, for I wish
to give thee some account of the chief knights who accompany
these two armies; and that thou mayest the better see and
mark, let us withdraw to that hillock which rises yonder,
whence both armies may be seen."
They did so, and placed themselves on a rising ground from
which the two droves that Don Quixote made armies of might
have been plainly seen if the clouds of dust they raised had not
obscured them and blinded the sight; nevertheless, seeing in
his imagination what he did not see and what did not exist, he
began thus in a loud voice:
"That knight whom thou seest yonder in yellow armour, who
bears upon his shield a lion crowned crouching at the feet of a
damsel, is the valiant Laurcalco, lord of the Silver Bridge; that
one in armour with flowers of gold, who bears on his shield
three crowns argent on an azure field, is the dreaded Mico-
colembo, grand duke of Quirocia; that other of gigantic frame,
on his right hand, is the ever dauntless Brandabarbaran de Bo-
liche, lord of the three Arabias, who for armour wears that ser-
pent skin, and has for shield a gate which, according to tradi-
tion, is one of those of the temple that Samson brought to the
ground when by his death he revenged himself upon his en-
emies. But turn thine eyes to the other side, and thou shalt see

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in front and in the van of this other army the ever victorious
and never vanquished Timonel of Carcajona, prince of New Bis-
cay, who comes in armour with arms quartered azure, vert,
white, and yellow, and bears on his shield a cat or on a field
tawny with a motto which says Miau, which is the beginning of
the name of his lady, who according to report is the peerless
Miaulina, daughter of the duke Alfeniquen of the Algarve; the
other, who burdens and presses the loins of that powerful char-
ger and bears arms white as snow and a shield blank and
without any device, is a novice knight, a Frenchman by birth,
Pierres Papin by name, lord of the baronies of Utrique; that
other, who with iron-shod heels strikes the flanks of that
nimble parti-coloured zebra, and for arms bears azure vair, is
the mighty duke of Nerbia, Espartafilardo del Bosque, who
bears for device on his shield an asparagus plant with a motto
in Castilian that says, Rastrea mi suerte." And so he went on
naming a number of knights of one squadron or the other out
of his imagination, and to all he assigned off-hand their arms,
colours, devices, and mottoes, carried away by the illusions of
his unheard-of craze; and without a pause, he continued,
"People of divers nations compose this squadron in front; here
are those that drink of the sweet waters of the famous
Xanthus, those that scour the woody Massilian plains, those
that sift the pure fine gold of Arabia Felix, those that enjoy the
famed cool banks of the crystal Thermodon, those that in many
and various ways divert the streams of the golden Pactolus, the
Numidians, faithless in their promises, the Persians renowned
in archery, the Parthians and the Medes that fight as they fly,
the Arabs that ever shift their dwellings, the Scythians as cruel
as they are fair, the Ethiopians with pierced lips, and an infin-
ity of other nations whose features I recognise and descry,
though I cannot recall their names. In this other squadron
there come those that drink of the crystal streams of the olive-
bearing Betis, those that make smooth their countenances with
the water of the ever rich and golden Tagus, those that rejoice
in the fertilising flow of the divine Genil, those that roam the
Tartesian plains abounding in pasture, those that take their
pleasure in the Elysian meadows of Jerez, the rich Manchegans
crowned with ruddy ears of corn, the wearers of iron, old relics
of the Gothic race, those that bathe in the Pisuerga renowned

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for its gentle current, those that feed their herds along the
spreading pastures of the winding Guadiana famed for its hid-
den course, those that tremble with the cold of the pineclad
Pyrenees or the dazzling snows of the lofty Apennine; in a
word, as many as all Europe includes and contains."
Good God! what a number of countries and nations he
named! giving to each its proper attributes with marvellous
readiness; brimful and saturated with what he had read in his
lying books! Sancho Panza hung upon his words without speak-
ing, and from time to time turned to try if he could see the
knights and giants his master was describing, and as he could
not make out one of them he said to him:
"Senor, devil take it if there's a sign of any man you talk of,
knight or giant, in the whole thing; maybe it's all enchantment,
like the phantoms last night."
"How canst thou say that!" answered Don Quixote; "dost thou
not hear the neighing of the steeds, the braying of the trum-
pets, the roll of the drums?"
"I hear nothing but a great bleating of ewes and sheep," said
Sancho; which was true, for by this time the two flocks had
come close.
"The fear thou art in, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "prevents
thee from seeing or hearing correctly, for one of the effects of
fear is to derange the senses and make things appear different
from what they are; if thou art in such fear, withdraw to one
side and leave me to myself, for alone I suffice to bring victory
to that side to which I shall give my aid;" and so saying he gave
Rocinante the spur, and putting the lance in rest, shot down
the slope like a thunderbolt. Sancho shouted after him, crying,
"Come back, Senor Don Quixote; I vow to God they are sheep
and ewes you are charging! Come back! Unlucky the father
that begot me! what madness is this! Look, there is no giant,
nor knight, nor cats, nor arms, nor shields quartered or whole,
nor vair azure or bedevilled. What are you about? Sinner that I
am before God!" But not for all these entreaties did Don Quix-
ote turn back; on the contrary he went on shouting out, "Ho,
knights, ye who follow and fight under the banners of the vali-
ant emperor Pentapolin of the Bare Arm, follow me all; ye shall
see how easily I shall give him his revenge over his enemy Ali-
fanfaron of the Trapobana."

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 So saying, he dashed into the midst of the squadron of ewes,
and began spearing them with as much spirit and intrepidity as
if he were transfixing mortal enemies in earnest. The shep-
herds and drovers accompanying the flock shouted to him to
desist; seeing it was no use, they ungirt their slings and began
to salute his ears with stones as big as one's fist. Don Quixote
gave no heed to the stones, but, letting drive right and left kept
saying:
"Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron? Come before me; I am a
single knight who would fain prove thy prowess hand to hand,
and make thee yield thy life a penalty for the wrong thou dost
to the valiant Pentapolin Garamanta." Here came a sugar-plum
from the brook that struck him on the side and buried a couple
of ribs in his body. Feeling himself so smitten, he imagined
himself slain or badly wounded for certain, and recollecting his
liquor he drew out his flask, and putting it to his mouth began
to pour the contents into his stomach; but ere he had suc-
ceeded in swallowing what seemed to him enough, there came
another almond which struck him on the hand and on the flask
so fairly that it smashed it to pieces, knocking three or four
teeth and grinders out of his mouth in its course, and sorely
crushing two fingers of his hand. Such was the force of the
first blow and of the second, that the poor knight in spite of
himself came down backwards off his horse. The shepherds
came up, and felt sure they had killed him; so in all haste they
collected their flock together, took up the dead beasts, of
which there were more than seven, and made off without wait-
ing to ascertain anything further.
All this time Sancho stood on the hill watching the crazy
feats his master was performing, and tearing his beard and
cursing the hour and the occasion when fortune had made him
acquainted with him. Seeing him, then, brought to the ground,
and that the shepherds had taken themselves off, he ran to him
and found him in very bad case, though not unconscious; and
said he:
"Did I not tell you to come back, Senor Don Quixote; and that
what you were going to attack were not armies but droves of
sheep?"
"That's how that thief of a sage, my enemy, can alter and
falsify things," answered Don Quixote; "thou must know,

135
Sancho, that it is a very easy matter for those of his sort to
make us believe what they choose; and this malignant being
who persecutes me, envious of the glory he knew I was to win
in this battle, has turned the squadrons of the enemy into
droves of sheep. At any rate, do this much, I beg of thee, San-
cho, to undeceive thyself, and see that what I say is true;
mount thy ass and follow them quietly, and thou shalt see that
when they have gone some little distance from this they will re-
turn to their original shape and, ceasing to be sheep, become
men in all respects as I described them to thee at first. But go
not just yet, for I want thy help and assistance; come hither,
and see how many of my teeth and grinders are missing, for I
feel as if there was not one left in my mouth."
Sancho came so close that he almost put his eyes into his
mouth; now just at that moment the balsam had acted on the
stomach of Don Quixote, so, at the very instant when Sancho
came to examine his mouth, he discharged all its contents with
more force than a musket, and full into the beard of the com-
passionate squire.
"Holy Mary!" cried Sancho, "what is this that has happened
me? Clearly this sinner is mortally wounded, as he vomits
blood from the mouth;" but considering the matter a little more
closely he perceived by the colour, taste, and smell, that it was
not blood but the balsam from the flask which he had seen him
drink; and he was taken with such a loathing that his stomach
turned, and he vomited up his inside over his very master, and
both were left in a precious state. Sancho ran to his ass to get
something wherewith to clean himself, and relieve his master,
out of his alforjas; but not finding them, he well-nigh took leave
of his senses, and cursed himself anew, and in his heart re-
solved to quit his master and return home, even though he for-
feited the wages of his service and all hopes of the promised
island.
Don Quixote now rose, and putting his left hand to his mouth
to keep his teeth from falling out altogether, with the other he
laid hold of the bridle of Rocinante, who had never stirred from
his master's side—so loyal and well-behaved was he—and
betook himself to where the squire stood leaning over his ass
with his hand to his cheek, like one in deep dejection. Seeing
him in this mood, looking so sad, Don Quixote said to him:

136
 "Bear in mind, Sancho, that one man is no more than anoth-
er, unless he does more than another; all these tempests that
fall upon us are signs that fair weather is coming shortly, and
that things will go well with us, for it is impossible for good or
evil to last for ever; and hence it follows that the evil having
lasted long, the good must be now nigh at hand; so thou must
not distress thyself at the misfortunes which happen to me,
since thou hast no share in them."
"How have I not?" replied Sancho; "was he whom they
blanketed yesterday perchance any other than my father's son?
and the alforjas that are missing to-day with all my treasures,
did they belong to any other but myself?"
"What! are the alforjas missing, Sancho?" said Don Quixote.
"Yes, they are missing," answered Sancho.
"In that case we have nothing to eat to-day," replied Don
Quixote.
"It would be so," answered Sancho, "if there were none of the
herbs your worship says you know in these meadows, those
with which knights-errant as unlucky as your worship are wont
to supply such-like shortcomings."
"For all that," answered Don Quixote, "I would rather have
just now a quarter of bread, or a loaf and a couple of pilchards'
heads, than all the herbs described by Dioscorides, even with
Doctor Laguna's notes. Nevertheless, Sancho the Good, mount
thy beast and come along with me, for God, who provides for
all things, will not fail us (more especially when we are so act-
ive in his service as we are), since he fails not the midges of
the air, nor the grubs of the earth, nor the tadpoles of the wa-
ter, and is so merciful that he maketh his sun to rise on the
good and on the evil, and sendeth rain on the unjust and on the
just."
"Your worship would make a better preacher than knight-er-
rant," said Sancho.
"Knights-errant knew and ought to know everything, San-
cho," said Don Quixote; "for there were knights-errant in
former times as well qualified to deliver a sermon or discourse
in the middle of an encampment, as if they had graduated in
the University of Paris; whereby we may see that the lance has
never blunted the pen, nor the pen the lance."

137
 "Well, be it as your worship says," replied Sancho; "let us be
off now and find some place of shelter for the night, and God
grant it may be somewhere where there are no blankets, nor
blanketeers, nor phantoms, nor enchanted Moors; for if there
are, may the devil take the whole concern."
"Ask that of God, my son," said Don Quixote; "and do thou
lead on where thou wilt, for this time I leave our lodging to thy
choice; but reach me here thy hand, and feel with thy finger,
and find out how many of my teeth and grinders are missing
from this right side of the upper jaw, for it is there I feel the
pain."
Sancho put in his fingers, and feeling about asked him, "How
many grinders used your worship have on this side?"
"Four," replied Don Quixote, "besides the back-tooth, all
whole and quite sound."
"Mind what you are saying, senor."
"I say four, if not five," answered Don Quixote, "for never in
my life have I had tooth or grinder drawn, nor has any fallen
out or been destroyed by any decay or rheum."
"Well, then," said Sancho, "in this lower side your worship
has no more than two grinders and a half, and in the upper
neither a half nor any at all, for it is all as smooth as the palm
of my hand."
"Luckless that I am!" said Don Quixote, hearing the sad news
his squire gave him; "I had rather they despoiled me of an arm,
so it were not the sword-arm; for I tell thee, Sancho, a mouth
without teeth is like a mill without a millstone, and a tooth is
much more to be prized than a diamond; but we who profess
the austere order of chivalry are liable to all this. Mount,
friend, and lead the way, and I will follow thee at whatever
pace thou wilt."
Sancho did as he bade him, and proceeded in the direction in
which he thought he might find refuge without quitting the
high road, which was there very much frequented. As they
went along, then, at a slow pace—for the pain in Don Quixote's
jaws kept him uneasy and ill-disposed for speed—Sancho
thought it well to amuse and divert him by talk of some kind,
and among the things he said to him was that which will be
told in the following chapter.

138
Chapter 19
Of the shrewd discourse which Sancho held with his mas-
ter, and of the adventure that befell him with a dead
body, together with other notable occurrences
"It seems to me, senor, that all these mishaps that have be-
fallen us of late have been without any doubt a punishment for
the offence committed by your worship against the order of
chivalry in not keeping the oath you made not to eat bread off
a tablecloth or embrace the queen, and all the rest of it that
your worship swore to observe until you had taken that helmet
of Malandrino's, or whatever the Moor is called, for I do not
very well remember."
"Thou art very right, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "but to tell
the truth, it had escaped my memory; and likewise thou mayest
rely upon it that the affair of the blanket happened to thee be-
cause of thy fault in not reminding me of it in time; but I will
make amends, for there are ways of compounding for
everything in the order of chivalry."
"Why! have I taken an oath of some sort, then?" said Sancho.
"It makes no matter that thou hast not taken an oath," said
Don Quixote; "suffice it that I see thou art not quite clear of
complicity; and whether or no, it will not be ill done to provide
ourselves with a remedy."
"In that case," said Sancho, "mind that your worship does not
forget this as you did the oath; perhaps the phantoms may take
it into their heads to amuse themselves once more with me; or
even with your worship if they see you so obstinate."
While engaged in this and other talk, night overtook them on
the road before they had reached or discovered any place of
shelter; and what made it still worse was that they were dying
of hunger, for with the loss of the alforjas they had lost their
entire larder and commissariat; and to complete the misfortune
they met with an adventure which without any invention had

139
really the appearance of one. It so happened that the night
closed in somewhat darkly, but for all that they pushed on,
Sancho feeling sure that as the road was the king's highway
they might reasonably expect to find some inn within a league
or two. Going along, then, in this way, the night dark, the
squire hungry, the master sharp-set, they saw coming towards
them on the road they were travelling a great number of lights
which looked exactly like stars in motion. Sancho was taken
aback at the sight of them, nor did Don Quixote altogether rel-
ish them: the one pulled up his ass by the halter, the other his
hack by the bridle, and they stood still, watching anxiously to
see what all this would turn out to be, and found that the lights
were approaching them, and the nearer they came the greater
they seemed, at which spectacle Sancho began to shake like a
man dosed with mercury, and Don Quixote's hair stood on end;
he, however, plucking up spirit a little, said:
"This, no doubt, Sancho, will be a most mighty and perilous
adventure, in which it will be needful for me to put forth all my
valour and resolution."
"Unlucky me!" answered Sancho; "if this adventure happens
to be one of phantoms, as I am beginning to think it is, where
shall I find the ribs to bear it?"
"Be they phantoms ever so much," said Don Quixote, "I will
not permit them to touch a thread of thy garments; for if they
played tricks with thee the time before, it was because I was
unable to leap the walls of the yard; but now we are on a wide
plain, where I shall be able to wield my sword as I please."
"And if they enchant and cripple you as they did the last
time," said Sancho, "what difference will it make being on the
open plain or not?"
"For all that," replied Don Quixote, "I entreat thee, Sancho,
to keep a good heart, for experience will tell thee what mine
is."
"I will, please God," answered Sancho, and the two retiring
to one side of the road set themselves to observe closely what
all these moving lights might be; and very soon afterwards
they made out some twenty encamisados, all on horseback,
with lighted torches in their hands, the awe-inspiring aspect of
whom completely extinguished the courage of Sancho, who
began to chatter with his teeth like one in the cold fit of an

140
ague; and his heart sank and his teeth chattered still more
when they perceived distinctly that behind them there came a
litter covered over with black and followed by six more moun-
ted figures in mourning down to the very feet of their
mules—for they could perceive plainly they were not horses by
the easy pace at which they went. And as the encamisados
came along they muttered to themselves in a low plaintive
tone. This strange spectacle at such an hour and in such a sol-
itary place was quite enough to strike terror into Sancho's
heart, and even into his master's; and (save in Don Quixote's
case) did so, for all Sancho's resolution had now broken down.
It was just the opposite with his master, whose imagination im-
mediately conjured up all this to him vividly as one of the ad-
ventures of his books.
He took it into his head that the litter was a bier on which
was borne some sorely wounded or slain knight, to avenge
whom was a task reserved for him alone; and without any fur-
ther reasoning he laid his lance in rest, fixed himself firmly in
his saddle, and with gallant spirit and bearing took up his posi-
tion in the middle of the road where the encamisados must of
necessity pass; and as soon as he saw them near at hand he
raised his voice and said:
"Halt, knights, or whosoever ye may be, and render me ac-
count of who ye are, whence ye come, where ye go, what it is
ye carry upon that bier, for, to judge by appearances, either ye
have done some wrong or some wrong has been done to you,
and it is fitting and necessary that I should know, either that I
may chastise you for the evil ye have done, or else that I may
avenge you for the injury that has been inflicted upon you."
"We are in haste," answered one of the encamisados, "and
the inn is far off, and we cannot stop to render you such an ac-
count as you demand;" and spurring his mule he moved on.
Don Quixote was mightily provoked by this answer, and seiz-
ing the mule by the bridle he said, "Halt, and be more man-
nerly, and render an account of what I have asked of you; else,
take my defiance to combat, all of you."
The mule was shy, and was so frightened at her bridle being
seized that rearing up she flung her rider to the ground over
her haunches. An attendant who was on foot, seeing the en-
camisado fall, began to abuse Don Quixote, who now moved to

141
anger, without any more ado, laying his lance in rest charged
one of the men in mourning and brought him badly wounded to
the ground, and as he wheeled round upon the others the agil-
ity with which he attacked and routed them was a sight to see,
for it seemed just as if wings had that instant grown upon Ro-
cinante, so lightly and proudly did he bear himself. The en-
camisados were all timid folk and unarmed, so they speedily
made their escape from the fray and set off at a run across the
plain with their lighted torches, looking exactly like maskers
running on some gala or festival night. The mourners, too, en-
veloped and swathed in their skirts and gowns, were unable to
bestir themselves, and so with entire safety to himself Don
Quixote belaboured them all and drove them off against their
will, for they all thought it was no man but a devil from hell
come to carry away the dead body they had in the litter.
Sancho beheld all this in astonishment at the intrepidity of
his lord, and said to himself, "Clearly this master of mine is as
bold and valiant as he says he is."
A burning torch lay on the ground near the first man whom
the mule had thrown, by the light of which Don Quixote per-
ceived him, and coming up to him he presented the point of the
lance to his face, calling on him to yield himself prisoner, or
else he would kill him; to which the prostrate man replied, "I
am prisoner enough as it is; I cannot stir, for one of my legs is
broken: I entreat you, if you be a Christian gentleman, not to
kill me, which will be committing grave sacrilege, for I am a li-
centiate and I hold first orders."
"Then what the devil brought you here, being a churchman?"
said Don Quixote.
"What, senor?" said the other. "My bad luck."
"Then still worse awaits you," said Don Quixote, "if you do
not satisfy me as to all I asked you at first."
"You shall be soon satisfied," said the licentiate; "you must
know, then, that though just now I said I was a licentiate, I am
only a bachelor, and my name is Alonzo Lopez; I am a native of
Alcobendas, I come from the city of Baeza with eleven others,
priests, the same who fled with the torches, and we are going
to the city of Segovia accompanying a dead body which is in
that litter, and is that of a gentleman who died in Baeza, where

142
he was interred; and now, as I said, we are taking his bones to
their burial-place, which is in Segovia, where he was born."
"And who killed him?" asked Don Quixote.
"God, by means of a malignant fever that took him,"
answered the bachelor.
"In that case," said Don Quixote, "the Lord has relieved me of
the task of avenging his death had any other slain him; but, he
who slew him having slain him, there is nothing for it but to be
silent, and shrug one's shoulders; I should do the same were he
to slay myself; and I would have your reverence know that I am
a knight of La Mancha, Don Quixote by name, and it is my busi-
ness and calling to roam the world righting wrongs and re-
dressing injuries."
"I do not know how that about righting wrongs can be," said
the bachelor, "for from straight you have made me crooked,
leaving me with a broken leg that will never see itself straight
again all the days of its life; and the injury you have redressed
in my case has been to leave me injured in such a way that I
shall remain injured for ever; and the height of misadventure it
was to fall in with you who go in search of adventures."
"Things do not all happen in the same way," answered Don
Quixote; "it all came, Sir Bachelor Alonzo Lopez, of your going,
as you did, by night, dressed in those surplices, with lighted
torches, praying, covered with mourning, so that naturally you
looked like something evil and of the other world; and so I
could not avoid doing my duty in attacking you, and I should
have attacked you even had I known positively that you were
the very devils of hell, for such I certainly believed and took
you to be."
"As my fate has so willed it," said the bachelor, "I entreat
you, sir knight-errant, whose errand has been such an evil one
for me, to help me to get from under this mule that holds one
of my legs caught between the stirrup and the saddle."
"I would have talked on till to-morrow," said Don Quixote;
"how long were you going to wait before telling me of your
distress?"
He at once called to Sancho, who, however, had no mind to
come, as he was just then engaged in unloading a sumpter
mule, well laden with provender, which these worthy gentle-
men had brought with them. Sancho made a bag of his coat,

143
and, getting together as much as he could, and as the bag
would hold, he loaded his beast, and then hastened to obey his
master's call, and helped him to remove the bachelor from un-
der the mule; then putting him on her back he gave him the
torch, and Don Quixote bade him follow the track of his com-
panions, and beg pardon of them on his part for the wrong
which he could not help doing them.
And said Sancho, "If by chance these gentlemen should want
to know who was the hero that served them so, your worship
may tell them that he is the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha,
otherwise called the Knight of the Rueful Countenance."
The bachelor then took his departure.
I forgot to mention that before he did so he said to Don Quix-
ote, "Remember that you stand excommunicated for having
laid violent hands on a holy thing, juxta illud, si quis, suadente
diabolo."
"I do not understand that Latin," answered Don Quixote, "but
I know well I did not lay hands, only this pike; besides, I did not
think I was committing an assault upon priests or things of the
Church, which, like a Catholic and faithful Christian as I am, I
respect and revere, but upon phantoms and spectres of the
other world; but even so, I remember how it fared with Cid Ruy
Diaz when he broke the chair of the ambassador of that king
before his Holiness the Pope, who excommunicated him for the
same; and yet the good Roderick of Vivar bore himself that day
like a very noble and valiant knight."
On hearing this the bachelor took his departure, as has been
said, without making any reply; and Don Quixote asked Sancho
what had induced him to call him the "Knight of the Rueful
Countenance" more then than at any other time.
"I will tell you," answered Sancho; "it was because I have
been looking at you for some time by the light of the torch held
by that unfortunate, and verily your worship has got of late the
most ill-favoured countenance I ever saw: it must be either ow-
ing to the fatigue of this combat, or else to the want of teeth
and grinders."
"It is not that," replied Don Quixote, "but because the sage
whose duty it will be to write the history of my achievements
must have thought it proper that I should take some distinctive
name as all knights of yore did; one being 'He of the Burning

144
Sword,' another 'He of the Unicorn,' this one 'He of the Dam-
sels,' that 'He of the Phoenix,' another 'The Knight of the
Griffin,' and another 'He of the Death,' and by these names and
designations they were known all the world round; and so I say
that the sage aforesaid must have put it into your mouth and
mind just now to call me 'The Knight of the Rueful Counten-
ance,' as I intend to call myself from this day forward; and that
the said name may fit me better, I mean, when the opportunity
offers, to have a very rueful countenance painted on my
shield."
"There is no occasion, senor, for wasting time or money on
making that countenance," said Sancho; "for all that need be
done is for your worship to show your own, face to face, to
those who look at you, and without anything more, either im-
age or shield, they will call you 'Him of the Rueful Counten-
ance' and believe me I am telling you the truth, for I assure
you, senor (and in good part be it said), hunger and the loss of
your grinders have given you such an ill-favoured face that, as
I say, the rueful picture may be very well spared."
Don Quixote laughed at Sancho's pleasantry; nevertheless he
resolved to call himself by that name, and have his shield or
buckler painted as he had devised.
Don Quixote would have looked to see whether the body in
the litter were bones or not, but Sancho would not have it,
saying:
"Senor, you have ended this perilous adventure more safely
for yourself than any of those I have seen: perhaps these
people, though beaten and routed, may bethink themselves
that it is a single man that has beaten them, and feeling sore
and ashamed of it may take heart and come in search of us and
give us trouble enough. The ass is in proper trim, the moun-
tains are near at hand, hunger presses, we have nothing more
to do but make good our retreat, and, as the saying is, the dead
to the grave and the living to the loaf."
And driving his ass before him he begged his master to fol-
low, who, feeling that Sancho was right, did so without reply-
ing; and after proceeding some little distance between two
hills they found themselves in a wide and retired valley, where
they alighted, and Sancho unloaded his beast, and stretched
upon the green grass, with hunger for sauce, they breakfasted,

145
dined, lunched, and supped all at once, satisfying their appet-
ites with more than one store of cold meat which the dead
man's clerical gentlemen (who seldom put themselves on short
allowance) had brought with them on their sumpter mule. But
another piece of ill-luck befell them, which Sancho held the
worst of all, and that was that they had no wine to drink, nor
even water to moisten their lips; and as thirst tormented them,
Sancho, observing that the meadow where they were was full
of green and tender grass, said what will be told in the follow-
ing chapter.

146
Chapter 20
Of the unexampled and unheard-of adventure which was
achieved by the valiant Don Quixote of la Mancha with
less peril than any ever achieved by any famous knight in
the world
"It cannot be, senor, but that this grass is a proof that there
must be hard by some spring or brook to give it moisture, so it
would be well to move a little farther on, that we may find
some place where we may quench this terrible thirst that
plagues us, which beyond a doubt is more distressing than
hunger."
The advice seemed good to Don Quixote, and, he leading Ro-
cinante by the bridle and Sancho the ass by the halter, after he
had packed away upon him the remains of the supper, they ad-
vanced the meadow feeling their way, for the darkness of the
night made it impossible to see anything; but they had not
gone two hundred paces when a loud noise of water, as if fall-
ing from great rocks, struck their ears. The sound cheered
them greatly; but halting to make out by listening from what
quarter it came they heard unseasonably another noise which
spoiled the satisfaction the sound of the water gave them, es-
pecially for Sancho, who was by nature timid and faint-hearted.
They heard, I say, strokes falling with a measured beat, and a
certain rattling of iron and chains that, together with the furi-
ous din of the water, would have struck terror into any heart
but Don Quixote's. The night was, as has been said, dark, and
they had happened to reach a spot in among some tall trees,
whose leaves stirred by a gentle breeze made a low ominous
sound; so that, what with the solitude, the place, the darkness,
the noise of the water, and the rustling of the leaves,
everything inspired awe and dread; more especially as they
perceived that the strokes did not cease, nor the wind lull, nor

147
morning approach; to all which might be added their ignorance
as to where they were.
But Don Quixote, supported by his intrepid heart, leaped on
Rocinante, and bracing his buckler on his arm, brought his
pike to the slope, and said, "Friend Sancho, know that I by
Heaven's will have been born in this our iron age to revive re-
vive in it the age of gold, or the golden as it is called; I am he
for whom perils, mighty achievements, and valiant deeds are
reserved; I am, I say again, he who is to revive the Knights of
the Round Table, the Twelve of France and the Nine Worthies;
and he who is to consign to oblivion the Platirs, the Tablantes,
the Olivantes and Tirantes, the Phoebuses and Belianises, with
the whole herd of famous knights-errant of days gone by, per-
forming in these in which I live such exploits, marvels, and
feats of arms as shall obscure their brightest deeds. Thou dost
mark well, faithful and trusty squire, the gloom of this night, its
strange silence, the dull confused murmur of those trees, the
awful sound of that water in quest of which we came, that
seems as though it were precipitating and dashing itself down
from the lofty mountains of the Moon, and that incessant ham-
mering that wounds and pains our ears; which things all to-
gether and each of itself are enough to instil fear, dread, and
dismay into the breast of Mars himself, much more into one not
used to hazards and adventures of the kind. Well, then, all this
that I put before thee is but an incentive and stimulant to my
spirit, making my heart burst in my bosom through eagerness
to engage in this adventure, arduous as it promises to be;
therefore tighten Rocinante's girths a little, and God be with
thee; wait for me here three days and no more, and if in that
time I come not back, thou canst return to our village, and
thence, to do me a favour and a service, thou wilt go to El
Toboso, where thou shalt say to my incomparable lady Dul-
cinea that her captive knight hath died in attempting things
that might make him worthy of being called hers."
When Sancho heard his master's words he began to weep in
the most pathetic way, saying:
"Senor, I know not why your worship wants to attempt this
so dreadful adventure; it is night now, no one sees us here, we
can easily turn about and take ourselves out of danger, even if
we don't drink for three days to come; and as there is no one to

148
see us, all the less will there be anyone to set us down as cow-
ards; besides, I have many a time heard the curate of our vil-
lage, whom your worship knows well, preach that he who seeks
danger perishes in it; so it is not right to tempt God by trying
so tremendous a feat from which there can be no escape save
by a miracle, and Heaven has performed enough of them for
your worship in delivering you from being blanketed as I was,
and bringing you out victorious and safe and sound from
among all those enemies that were with the dead man; and if
all this does not move or soften that hard heart, let this
thought and reflection move it, that you will have hardly quit-
ted this spot when from pure fear I shall yield my soul up to
anyone that will take it. I left home and wife and children to
come and serve your worship, trusting to do better and not
worse; but as covetousness bursts the bag, it has rent my
hopes asunder, for just as I had them highest about getting
that wretched unlucky island your worship has so often prom-
ised me, I see that instead and in lieu of it you mean to desert
me now in a place so far from human reach: for God's sake,
master mine, deal not so unjustly by me, and if your worship
will not entirely give up attempting this feat, at least put it off
till morning, for by what the lore I learned when I was a shep-
herd tells me it cannot want three hours of dawn now, because
the mouth of the Horn is overhead and makes midnight in the
line of the left arm."
"How canst thou see, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "where it
makes that line, or where this mouth or this occiput is that
thou talkest of, when the night is so dark that there is not a
star to be seen in the whole heaven?"
"That's true," said Sancho, "but fear has sharp eyes, and sees
things underground, much more above in heavens; besides,
there is good reason to show that it now wants but little of
day."
"Let it want what it may," replied Don Quixote, "it shall not
be said of me now or at any time that tears or entreaties
turned me aside from doing what was in accordance with
knightly usage; and so I beg of thee, Sancho, to hold thy peace,
for God, who has put it into my heart to undertake now this so
unexampled and terrible adventure, will take care to watch
over my safety and console thy sorrow; what thou hast to do is

149
to tighten Rocinante's girths well, and wait here, for I shall
come back shortly, alive or dead."
Sancho perceiving it his master's final resolve, and how little
his tears, counsels, and entreaties prevailed with him, determ-
ined to have recourse to his own ingenuity and compel him, if
he could, to wait till daylight; and so, while tightening the
girths of the horse, he quietly and without being felt, with his
ass' halter tied both Rocinante's legs, so that when Don Quix-
ote strove to go he was unable as the horse could only move by
jumps. Seeing the success of his trick, Sancho Panza said:
"See there, senor! Heaven, moved by my tears and prayers,
has so ordered it that Rocinante cannot stir; and if you will be
obstinate, and spur and strike him, you will only provoke for-
tune, and kick, as they say, against the pricks."
Don Quixote at this grew desperate, but the more he drove
his heels into the horse, the less he stirred him; and not having
any suspicion of the tying, he was fain to resign himself and
wait till daybreak or until Rocinante could move, firmly per-
suaded that all this came of something other than Sancho's in-
genuity. So he said to him, "As it is so, Sancho, and as Rocin-
ante cannot move, I am content to wait till dawn smiles upon
us, even though I weep while it delays its coming."
"There is no need to weep," answered Sancho, "for I will
amuse your worship by telling stories from this till daylight, un-
less indeed you like to dismount and lie down to sleep a little
on the green grass after the fashion of knights-errant, so as to
be fresher when day comes and the moment arrives for at-
tempting this extraordinary adventure you are looking forward
to."
"What art thou talking about dismounting or sleeping for?"
said Don Quixote. "Am I, thinkest thou, one of those knights
that take their rest in the presence of danger? Sleep thou who
art born to sleep, or do as thou wilt, for I will act as I think
most consistent with my character."
"Be not angry, master mine," replied Sancho, "I did not mean
to say that;" and coming close to him he laid one hand on the
pommel of the saddle and the other on the cantle so that he
held his master's left thigh in his embrace, not daring to separ-
ate a finger's width from him; so much afraid was he of the
strokes which still resounded with a regular beat. Don Quixote

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bade him tell some story to amuse him as he had proposed, to
which Sancho replied that he would if his dread of what he
heard would let him; "Still," said he, "I will strive to tell a story
which, if I can manage to relate it, and nobody interferes with
the telling, is the best of stories, and let your worship give me
your attention, for here I begin. What was, was; and may the
good that is to come be for all, and the evil for him who goes to
look for it—your worship must know that the beginning the old
folk used to put to their tales was not just as each one pleased;
it was a maxim of Cato Zonzorino the Roman, that says 'the evil
for him that goes to look for it,' and it comes as pat to the pur-
pose now as ring to finger, to show that your worship should
keep quiet and not go looking for evil in any quarter, and that
we should go back by some other road, since nobody forces us
to follow this in which so many terrors affright us."
"Go on with thy story, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and leave
the choice of our road to my care."
"I say then," continued Sancho, "that in a village of
Estremadura there was a goat-shepherd—that is to say, one
who tended goats—which shepherd or goatherd, as my story
goes, was called Lope Ruiz, and this Lope Ruiz was in love with
a shepherdess called Torralva, which shepherdess called Tor-
ralva was the daughter of a rich grazier, and this rich grazier-"
"If that is the way thou tellest thy tale, Sancho," said Don
Quixote, "repeating twice all thou hast to say, thou wilt not
have done these two days; go straight on with it, and tell it like
a reasonable man, or else say nothing."
"Tales are always told in my country in the very way I am
telling this," answered Sancho, "and I cannot tell it in any oth-
er, nor is it right of your worship to ask me to make new
customs."
"Tell it as thou wilt," replied Don Quixote; "and as fate will
have it that I cannot help listening to thee, go on."
"And so, lord of my soul," continued Sancho, as I have said,
this shepherd was in love with Torralva the shepherdess, who
was a wild buxom lass with something of the look of a man
about her, for she had little moustaches; I fancy I see her now."
"Then you knew her?" said Don Quixote.
"I did not know her," said Sancho, "but he who told me the
story said it was so true and certain that when I told it to

151
another I might safely declare and swear I had seen it all my-
self. And so in course of time, the devil, who never sleeps and
puts everything in confusion, contrived that the love the shep-
herd bore the shepherdess turned into hatred and ill-will, and
the reason, according to evil tongues, was some little jealousy
she caused him that crossed the line and trespassed on forbid-
den ground; and so much did the shepherd hate her from that
time forward that, in order to escape from her, he determined
to quit the country and go where he should never set eyes on
her again. Torralva, when she found herself spurned by Lope,
was immediately smitten with love for him, though she had
never loved him before."
"That is the natural way of women," said Don Quixote, "to
scorn the one that loves them, and love the one that hates
them: go on, Sancho."
"It came to pass," said Sancho, "that the shepherd carried
out his intention, and driving his goats before him took his way
across the plains of Estremadura to pass over into the Kingdom
of Portugal. Torralva, who knew of it, went after him, and on
foot and barefoot followed him at a distance, with a pilgrim's
staff in her hand and a scrip round her neck, in which she car-
ried, it is said, a bit of looking-glass and a piece of a comb and
some little pot or other of paint for her face; but let her carry
what she did, I am not going to trouble myself to prove it; all I
say is, that the shepherd, they say, came with his flock to cross
over the river Guadiana, which was at that time swollen and al-
most overflowing its banks, and at the spot he came to there
was neither ferry nor boat nor anyone to carry him or his flock
to the other side, at which he was much vexed, for he per-
ceived that Torralva was approaching and would give him
great annoyance with her tears and entreaties; however, he
went looking about so closely that he discovered a fisherman
who had alongside of him a boat so small that it could only hold
one person and one goat; but for all that he spoke to him and
agreed with him to carry himself and his three hundred goats
across. The fisherman got into the boat and carried one goat
over; he came back and carried another over; he came back
again, and again brought over another—let your worship keep
count of the goats the fisherman is taking across, for if one es-
capes the memory there will be an end of the story, and it will

152
be impossible to tell another word of it. To proceed, I must tell
you the landing place on the other side was miry and slippery,
and the fisherman lost a great deal of time in going and com-
ing; still he returned for another goat, and another, and
another."
"Take it for granted he brought them all across," said Don
Quixote, "and don't keep going and coming in this way, or thou
wilt not make an end of bringing them over this twelvemonth."
"How many have gone across so far?" said Sancho.
"How the devil do I know?" replied Don Quixote.
"There it is," said Sancho, "what I told you, that you must
keep a good count; well then, by God, there is an end of the
story, for there is no going any farther."
"How can that be?" said Don Quixote; "is it so essential to the
story to know to a nicety the goats that have crossed over, that
if there be a mistake of one in the reckoning, thou canst not go
on with it?"
"No, senor, not a bit," replied Sancho; "for when I asked your
worship to tell me how many goats had crossed, and you
answered you did not know, at that very instant all I had to say
passed away out of my memory, and, faith, there was much vir-
tue in it, and entertainment."
"So, then," said Don Quixote, "the story has come to an end?"
"As much as my mother has," said Sancho.
"In truth," said Don Quixote, "thou hast told one of the rarest
stories, tales, or histories, that anyone in the world could have
imagined, and such a way of telling it and ending it was never
seen nor will be in a lifetime; though I expected nothing else
from thy excellent understanding. But I do not wonder, for per-
haps those ceaseless strokes may have confused thy wits."
"All that may be," replied Sancho, "but I know that as to my
story, all that can be said is that it ends there where the mis-
take in the count of the passage of the goats begins."
"Let it end where it will, well and good," said Don Quixote,
"and let us see if Rocinante can go;" and again he spurred him,
and again Rocinante made jumps and remained where he was,
so well tied was he.
Just then, whether it was the cold of the morning that was
now approaching, or that he had eaten something laxative at
supper, or that it was only natural (as is most likely), Sancho

153
felt a desire to do what no one could do for him; but so great
was the fear that had penetrated his heart, he dared not separ-
ate himself from his master by as much as the black of his nail;
to escape doing what he wanted was, however, also impossible;
so what he did for peace's sake was to remove his right hand,
which held the back of the saddle, and with it to untie gently
and silently the running string which alone held up his
breeches, so that on loosening it they at once fell down round
his feet like fetters; he then raised his shirt as well as he could
and bared his hind quarters, no slim ones. But, this accom-
plished, which he fancied was all he had to do to get out of this
terrible strait and embarrassment, another still greater diffi-
culty presented itself, for it seemed to him impossible to re-
lieve himself without making some noise, and he ground his
teeth and squeezed his shoulders together, holding his breath
as much as he could; but in spite of his precautions he was un-
lucky enough after all to make a little noise, very different from
that which was causing him so much fear.
Don Quixote, hearing it, said, "What noise is that, Sancho?"
"I don't know, senor," said he; "it must be something new, for
adventures and misadventures never begin with a trifle." Once
more he tried his luck, and succeeded so well, that without any
further noise or disturbance he found himself relieved of the
burden that had given him so much discomfort. But as Don
Quixote's sense of smell was as acute as his hearing, and as
Sancho was so closely linked with him that the fumes rose al-
most in a straight line, it could not be but that some should
reach his nose, and as soon as they did he came to its relief by
compressing it between his fingers, saying in a rather snuffing
tone, "Sancho, it strikes me thou art in great fear."
"I am," answered Sancho; "but how does your worship per-
ceive it now more than ever?"
"Because just now thou smellest stronger than ever, and not
of ambergris," answered Don Quixote.
"Very likely," said Sancho, "but that's not my fault, but your
worship's, for leading me about at unseasonable hours and at
such unwonted paces."
"Then go back three or four, my friend," said Don Quixote, all
the time with his fingers to his nose; "and for the future pay
more attention to thy person and to what thou owest to mine;

154
for it is my great familiarity with thee that has bred this
contempt."
"I'll bet," replied Sancho, "that your worship thinks I have
done something I ought not with my person."
"It makes it worse to stir it, friend Sancho," returned Don
Quixote.
With this and other talk of the same sort master and man
passed the night, till Sancho, perceiving that daybreak was
coming on apace, very cautiously untied Rocinante and tied up
his breeches. As soon as Rocinante found himself free, though
by nature he was not at all mettlesome, he seemed to feel lively
and began pawing—for as to capering, begging his pardon, he
knew not what it meant. Don Quixote, then, observing that Ro-
cinante could move, took it as a good sign and a signal that he
should attempt the dread adventure. By this time day had fully
broken and everything showed distinctly, and Don Quixote saw
that he was among some tall trees, chestnuts, which cast a
very deep shade; he perceived likewise that the sound of the
strokes did not cease, but could not discover what caused it,
and so without any further delay he let Rocinante feel the spur,
and once more taking leave of Sancho, he told him to wait for
him there three days at most, as he had said before, and if he
should not have returned by that time, he might feel sure it
had been God's will that he should end his days in that perilous
adventure. He again repeated the message and commission
with which he was to go on his behalf to his lady Dulcinea, and
said he was not to be uneasy as to the payment of his services,
for before leaving home he had made his will, in which he
would find himself fully recompensed in the matter of wages in
due proportion to the time he had served; but if God delivered
him safe, sound, and unhurt out of that danger, he might look
upon the promised island as much more than certain. Sancho
began to weep afresh on again hearing the affecting words of
his good master, and resolved to stay with him until the final
issue and end of the business. From these tears and this hon-
ourable resolve of Sancho Panza's the author of this history in-
fers that he must have been of good birth and at least an old
Christian; and the feeling he displayed touched his but not so
much as to make him show any weakness; on the contrary, hid-
ing what he felt as well as he could, he began to move towards

155
that quarter whence the sound of the water and of the strokes
seemed to come.
Sancho followed him on foot, leading by the halter, as his
custom was, his ass, his constant comrade in prosperity or ad-
versity; and advancing some distance through the shady chest-
nut trees they came upon a little meadow at the foot of some
high rocks, down which a mighty rush of water flung itself. At
the foot of the rocks were some rudely constructed houses
looking more like ruins than houses, from among which came,
they perceived, the din and clatter of blows, which still contin-
ued without intermission. Rocinante took fright at the noise of
the water and of the blows, but quieting him Don Quixote ad-
vanced step by step towards the houses, commending himself
with all his heart to his lady, imploring her support in that
dread pass and enterprise, and on the way commending him-
self to God, too, not to forget him. Sancho who never quitted
his side, stretched his neck as far as he could and peered
between the legs of Rocinante to see if he could now discover
what it was that caused him such fear and apprehension. They
went it might be a hundred paces farther, when on turning a
corner the true cause, beyond the possibility of any mistake, of
that dread-sounding and to them awe-inspiring noise that had
kept them all the night in such fear and perplexity, appeared
plain and obvious; and it was (if, reader, thou art not disgusted
and disappointed) six fulling hammers which by their alternate
strokes made all the din.
When Don Quixote perceived what it was, he was struck
dumb and rigid from head to foot. Sancho glanced at him and
saw him with his head bent down upon his breast in manifest
mortification; and Don Quixote glanced at Sancho and saw him
with his cheeks puffed out and his mouth full of laughter, and
evidently ready to explode with it, and in spite of his vexation
he could not help laughing at the sight of him; and when San-
cho saw his master begin he let go so heartily that he had to
hold his sides with both hands to keep himself from bursting
with laughter. Four times he stopped, and as many times did
his laughter break out afresh with the same violence as at first,
whereat Don Quixote grew furious, above all when he heard
him say mockingly, "Thou must know, friend Sancho, that of
Heaven's will I was born in this our iron age to revive in it the

156
golden or age of gold; I am he for whom are reserved perils,
mighty achievements, valiant deeds;" and here he went on re-
peating the words that Don Quixote uttered the first time they
heard the awful strokes.
Don Quixote, then, seeing that Sancho was turning him into
ridicule, was so mortified and vexed that he lifted up his pike
and smote him two such blows that if, instead of catching them
on his shoulders, he had caught them on his head there would
have been no wages to pay, unless indeed to his heirs. Sancho
seeing that he was getting an awkward return in earnest for
his jest, and fearing his master might carry it still further, said
to him very humbly, "Calm yourself, sir, for by God I am only
joking."
"Well, then, if you are joking I am not," replied Don Quixote.
"Look here, my lively gentleman, if these, instead of being
fulling hammers, had been some perilous adventure, have I
not, think you, shown the courage required for the attempt and
achievement? Am I, perchance, being, as I am, a gentleman,
bound to know and distinguish sounds and tell whether they
come from fulling mills or not; and that, when perhaps, as is
the case, I have never in my life seen any as you have, low boor
as you are, that have been born and bred among them? But
turn me these six hammers into six giants, and bring them to
beard me, one by one or all together, and if I do not knock
them head over heels, then make what mockery you like of
me."
"No more of that, senor," returned Sancho; "I own I went a
little too far with the joke. But tell me, your worship, now that
peace is made between us (and may God bring you out of all
the adventures that may befall you as safe and sound as he has
brought you out of this one), was it not a thing to laugh at, and
is it not a good story, the great fear we were in?—at least that I
was in; for as to your worship I see now that you neither know
nor understand what either fear or dismay is."
"I do not deny," said Don Quixote, "that what happened to us
may be worth laughing at, but it is not worth making a story
about, for it is not everyone that is shrewd enough to hit the
right point of a thing."
"At any rate," said Sancho, "your worship knew how to hit
the right point with your pike, aiming at my head and hitting

157
me on the shoulders, thanks be to God and my own smartness
in dodging it. But let that pass; all will come out in the scour-
ing; for I have heard say 'he loves thee well that makes thee
weep;' and moreover that it is the way with great lords after
any hard words they give a servant to give him a pair of
breeches; though I do not know what they give after blows, un-
less it be that knights-errant after blows give islands, or king-
doms on the mainland."
"It may be on the dice," said Don Quixote, "that all thou say-
est will come true; overlook the past, for thou art shrewd
enough to know that our first movements are not in our own
control; and one thing for the future bear in mind, that thou
curb and restrain thy loquacity in my company; for in all the
books of chivalry that I have read, and they are innumerable, I
never met with a squire who talked so much to his lord as thou
dost to thine; and in fact I feel it to be a great fault of thine and
of mine: of thine, that thou hast so little respect for me; of
mine, that I do not make myself more respected. There was
Gandalin, the squire of Amadis of Gaul, that was Count of the
Insula Firme, and we read of him that he always addressed his
lord with his cap in his hand, his head bowed down and his
body bent double, more turquesco. And then, what shall we say
of Gasabal, the squire of Galaor, who was so silent that in or-
der to indicate to us the greatness of his marvellous taciturnity
his name is only once mentioned in the whole of that history,
as long as it is truthful? From all I have said thou wilt gather,
Sancho, that there must be a difference between master and
man, between lord and lackey, between knight and squire: so
that from this day forward in our intercourse we must observe
more respect and take less liberties, for in whatever way I may
be provoked with you it will be bad for the pitcher. The favours
and benefits that I have promised you will come in due time,
and if they do not your wages at least will not be lost, as I have
already told you."
"All that your worship says is very well," said Sancho, "but I
should like to know (in case the time of favours should not
come, and it might be necessary to fall back upon wages) how
much did the squire of a knight-errant get in those days, and
did they agree by the month, or by the day like bricklayers?"

158
 "I do not believe," replied Don Quixote, "that such squires
were ever on wages, but were dependent on favour; and if I
have now mentioned thine in the sealed will I have left at
home, it was with a view to what may happen; for as yet I know
not how chivalry will turn out in these wretched times of ours,
and I do not wish my soul to suffer for trifles in the other
world; for I would have thee know, Sancho, that in this there is
no condition more hazardous than that of adventurers."
"That is true," said Sancho, "since the mere noise of the ham-
mers of a fulling mill can disturb and disquiet the heart of such
a valiant errant adventurer as your worship; but you may be
sure I will not open my lips henceforward to make light of any-
thing of your worship's, but only to honour you as my master
and natural lord."
"By so doing," replied Don Quixote, "shalt thou live long on
the face of the earth; for next to parents, masters are to be re-
spected as though they were parents."

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Chapter 21
Which treats of the exalted adventure and rich prize of
Mambrino's helmet, together with other things that
happened to our invincible knight
It now began to rain a little, and Sancho was for going into
the fulling mills, but Don Quixote had taken such an abhor-
rence to them on account of the late joke that he would not
enter them on any account; so turning aside to right they came
upon another road, different from that which they had taken
the night before. Shortly afterwards Don Quixote perceived a
man on horseback who wore on his head something that shone
like gold, and the moment he saw him he turned to Sancho and
said:
"I think, Sancho, there is no proverb that is not true, all be-
ing maxims drawn from experience itself, the mother of all the
sciences, especially that one that says, 'Where one door shuts,
another opens.' I say so because if last night fortune shut the
door of the adventure we were looking for against us, cheating
us with the fulling mills, it now opens wide another one for an-
other better and more certain adventure, and if I do not con-
trive to enter it, it will be my own fault, and I cannot lay it to
my ignorance of fulling mills, or the darkness of the night. I say
this because, if I mistake not, there comes towards us one who
wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino, concerning which I
took the oath thou rememberest."
"Mind what you say, your worship, and still more what you
do," said Sancho, "for I don't want any more fulling mills to fin-
ish off fulling and knocking our senses out."
"The devil take thee, man," said Don Quixote; "what has a
helmet to do with fulling mills?"
"I don't know," replied Sancho, "but, faith, if I might speak as
I used, perhaps I could give such reasons that your worship
would see you were mistaken in what you say."

160
 "How can I be mistaken in what I say, unbelieving traitor?"
returned Don Quixote; "tell me, seest thou not yonder knight
coming towards us on a dappled grey steed, who has upon his
head a helmet of gold?"
"What I see and make out," answered Sancho, "is only a man
on a grey ass like my own, who has something that shines on
his head."
"Well, that is the helmet of Mambrino," said Don Quixote;
"stand to one side and leave me alone with him; thou shalt see
how, without saying a word, to save time, I shall bring this ad-
venture to an issue and possess myself of the helmet I have so
longed for."
"I will take care to stand aside," said Sancho; "but God grant,
I say once more, that it may be marjoram and not fulling mills."
"I have told thee, brother, on no account to mention those
fulling mills to me again," said Don Quixote, "or I vow—and I
say no more-I'll full the soul out of you."
Sancho held his peace in dread lest his master should carry
out the vow he had hurled like a bowl at him.
The fact of the matter as regards the helmet, steed, and
knight that Don Quixote saw, was this. In that neighbourhood
there were two villages, one of them so small that it had
neither apothecary's shop nor barber, which the other that was
close to it had, so the barber of the larger served the smaller,
and in it there was a sick man who required to be bled and an-
other man who wanted to be shaved, and on this errand the
barber was going, carrying with him a brass basin; but as luck
would have it, as he was on the way it began to rain, and not to
spoil his hat, which probably was a new one, he put the basin
on his head, and being clean it glittered at half a league's dis-
tance. He rode upon a grey ass, as Sancho said, and this was
what made it seem to Don Quixote to be a dapple-grey steed
and a knight and a golden helmet; for everything he saw he
made to fall in with his crazy chivalry and ill-errant notions;
and when he saw the poor knight draw near, without entering
into any parley with him, at Rocinante's top speed he bore
down upon him with the pike pointed low, fully determined to
run him through and through, and as he reached him, without
checking the fury of his charge, he cried to him:

161
 "Defend thyself, miserable being, or yield me of thine own ac-
cord that which is so reasonably my due."
The barber, who without any expectation or apprehension of
it saw this apparition coming down upon him, had no other way
of saving himself from the stroke of the lance but to let himself
fall off his ass; and no sooner had he touched the ground than
he sprang up more nimbly than a deer and sped away across
the plain faster than the wind.
He left the basin on the ground, with which Don Quixote con-
tented himself, saying that the pagan had shown his discretion
and imitated the beaver, which finding itself pressed by the
hunters bites and cuts off with its teeth that for which, by its
natural instinct, it knows it is pursued.
He told Sancho to pick up the helmet, and he taking it in his
hands said:
"By God the basin is a good one, and worth a real of eight if
it is worth a maravedis," and handed it to his master, who im-
mediately put it on his head, turning it round, now this way,
now that, in search of fitment, and not finding it he said,
"Clearly the pagan to whose measure this famous head-piece
was first forged must have had a very large head; but the worst
of it is half of it is wanting."
When Sancho heard him call the basin a headpiece he was
unable to restrain his laughter, but remembering his master's
wrath he checked himself in the midst of it.
"What art thou laughing at, Sancho?" said Don Quixote.
"I am laughing," said he, "to think of the great head the pa-
gan must have had who owned this helmet, for it looks exactly
like a regular barber's basin."
"Dost thou know what I suspect, Sancho?" said Don Quixote;
"that this wonderful piece of this enchanted helmet must by
some strange accident have come into the hands of some one
who was unable to recognise or realise its value, and who, not
knowing what he did, and seeing it to be of the purest gold,
must have melted down one half for the sake of what it might
be worth, and of the other made this which is like a barber's
basin as thou sayest; but be it as it may, to me who recognise
it, its transformation makes no difference, for I will set it to
rights at the first village where there is a blacksmith, and in
such style that that helmet the god of smithies forged for the

162
god of battles shall not surpass it or even come up to it; and in
the meantime I will wear it as well as I can, for something is
better than nothing; all the more as it will be quite enough to
protect me from any chance blow of a stone."
"That is," said Sancho, "if it is not shot with a sling as they
were in the battle of the two armies, when they signed the
cross on your worship's grinders and smashed the flask with
that blessed draught that made me vomit my bowels up."
"It does not grieve me much to have lost it," said Don Quix-
ote, "for thou knowest, Sancho, that I have the receipt in my
memory."
"So have I," answered Sancho, "but if ever I make it, or try it
again as long as I live, may this be my last hour; moreover, I
have no intention of putting myself in the way of wanting it, for
I mean, with all my five senses, to keep myself from being
wounded or from wounding anyone: as to being blanketed
again I say nothing, for it is hard to prevent mishaps of that
sort, and if they come there is nothing for it but to squeeze our
shoulders together, hold our breath, shut our eyes, and let
ourselves go where luck and the blanket may send us."
"Thou art a bad Christian, Sancho," said Don Quixote on
hearing this, "for once an injury has been done thee thou never
forgettest it: but know that it is the part of noble and generous
hearts not to attach importance to trifles. What lame leg hast
thou got by it, what broken rib, what cracked head, that thou
canst not forget that jest? For jest and sport it was, properly
regarded, and had I not seen it in that light I would have re-
turned and done more mischief in revenging thee than the
Greeks did for the rape of Helen, who, if she were alive now, or
if my Dulcinea had lived then, might depend upon it she would
not be so famous for her beauty as she is;" and here he heaved
a sigh and sent it aloft; and said Sancho, "Let it pass for a jest
as it cannot be revenged in earnest, but I know what sort of
jest and earnest it was, and I know it will never be rubbed out
of my memory any more than off my shoulders. But putting
that aside, will your worship tell me what are we to do with
this dapple-grey steed that looks like a grey ass, which that
Martino that your worship overthrew has left deserted here?
for, from the way he took to his heels and bolted, he is not

163
likely ever to come back for it; and by my beard but the grey is
a good one."
"I have never been in the habit," said Don Quixote, "of taking
spoil of those whom I vanquish, nor is it the practice of chivalry
to take away their horses and leave them to go on foot, unless
indeed it be that the victor have lost his own in the combat, in
which case it is lawful to take that of the vanquished as a thing
won in lawful war; therefore, Sancho, leave this horse, or ass,
or whatever thou wilt have it to be; for when its owner sees us
gone hence he will come back for it."
"God knows I should like to take it," returned Sancho, "or at
least to change it for my own, which does not seem to me as
good a one: verily the laws of chivalry are strict, since they
cannot be stretched to let one ass be changed for another; I
should like to know if I might at least change trappings."
"On that head I am not quite certain," answered Don Quixote,
"and the matter being doubtful, pending better information, I
say thou mayest change them, if so be thou hast urgent need of
them."
"So urgent is it," answered Sancho, "that if they were for my
own person I could not want them more;" and forthwith, forti-
fied by this licence, he effected the mutatio capparum, rigging
out his beast to the ninety-nines and making quite another
thing of it. This done, they broke their fast on the remains of
the spoils of war plundered from the sumpter mule, and drank
of the brook that flowed from the fulling mills, without casting
a look in that direction, in such loathing did they hold them for
the alarm they had caused them; and, all anger and gloom re-
moved, they mounted and, without taking any fixed road (not
to fix upon any being the proper thing for true knights-errant),
they set out, guided by Rocinante's will, which carried along
with it that of his master, not to say that of the ass, which al-
ways followed him wherever he led, lovingly and sociably; nev-
ertheless they returned to the high road, and pursued it at a
venture without any other aim.
As they went along, then, in this way Sancho said to his mas-
ter, "Senor, would your worship give me leave to speak a little
to you? For since you laid that hard injunction of silence on me
several things have gone to rot in my stomach, and I have now

164
just one on the tip of my tongue that I don't want to be
spoiled."
"Say, on, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "and be brief in thy dis-
course, for there is no pleasure in one that is long."
"Well then, senor," returned Sancho, "I say that for some
days past I have been considering how little is got or gained by
going in search of these adventures that your worship seeks in
these wilds and cross-roads, where, even if the most perilous
are victoriously achieved, there is no one to see or know of
them, and so they must be left untold for ever, to the loss of
your worship's object and the credit they deserve; therefore it
seems to me it would be better (saving your worship's better
judgment) if we were to go and serve some emperor or other
great prince who may have some war on hand, in whose ser-
vice your worship may prove the worth of your person, your
great might, and greater understanding, on perceiving which
the lord in whose service we may be will perforce have to re-
ward us, each according to his merits; and there you will not
be at a loss for some one to set down your achievements in
writing so as to preserve their memory for ever. Of my own I
say nothing, as they will not go beyond squirely limits, though I
make bold to say that, if it be the practice in chivalry to write
the achievements of squires, I think mine must not be left out."
"Thou speakest not amiss, Sancho," answered Don Quixote,
"but before that point is reached it is requisite to roam the
world, as it were on probation, seeking adventures, in order
that, by achieving some, name and fame may be acquired, such
that when he betakes himself to the court of some great mon-
arch the knight may be already known by his deeds, and that
the boys, the instant they see him enter the gate of the city,
may all follow him and surround him, crying, 'This is the Knight
of the Sun'-or the Serpent, or any other title under which he
may have achieved great deeds. 'This,' they will say, 'is he who
vanquished in single combat the gigantic Brocabruno of mighty
strength; he who delivered the great Mameluke of Persia out of
the long enchantment under which he had been for almost nine
hundred years.' So from one to another they will go proclaim-
ing his achievements; and presently at the tumult of the boys
and the others the king of that kingdom will appear at the win-
dows of his royal palace, and as soon as he beholds the knight,

165
recognising him by his arms and the device on his shield, he
will as a matter of course say, 'What ho! Forth all ye, the
knights of my court, to receive the flower of chivalry who
cometh hither!' At which command all will issue forth, and he
himself, advancing half-way down the stairs, will embrace him
closely, and salute him, kissing him on the cheek, and will then
lead him to the queen's chamber, where the knight will find
her with the princess her daughter, who will be one of the most
beautiful and accomplished damsels that could with the utmost
pains be discovered anywhere in the known world. Straightway
it will come to pass that she will fix her eyes upon the knight
and he his upon her, and each will seem to the other something
more divine than human, and, without knowing how or why
they will be taken and entangled in the inextricable toils of
love, and sorely distressed in their hearts not to see any way of
making their pains and sufferings known by speech. Thence
they will lead him, no doubt, to some richly adorned chamber
of the palace, where, having removed his armour, they will
bring him a rich mantle of scarlet wherewith to robe himself,
and if he looked noble in his armour he will look still more so in
a doublet. When night comes he will sup with the king, queen,
and princess; and all the time he will never take his eyes off
her, stealing stealthy glances, unnoticed by those present, and
she will do the same, and with equal cautiousness, being, as I
have said, a damsel of great discretion. The tables being re-
moved, suddenly through the door of the hall there will enter a
hideous and diminutive dwarf followed by a fair dame, between
two giants, who comes with a certain adventure, the work of an
ancient sage; and he who shall achieve it shall be deemed the
best knight in the world.
"The king will then command all those present to essay it,
and none will bring it to an end and conclusion save the
stranger knight, to the great enhancement of his fame, where-
at the princess will be overjoyed and will esteem herself happy
and fortunate in having fixed and placed her thoughts so high.
And the best of it is that this king, or prince, or whatever he is,
is engaged in a very bitter war with another as powerful as
himself, and the stranger knight, after having been some days
at his court, requests leave from him to go and serve him in the
said war. The king will grant it very readily, and the knight will

166
courteously kiss his hands for the favour done to him; and that
night he will take leave of his lady the princess at the grating
of the chamber where she sleeps, which looks upon a garden,
and at which he has already many times conversed with her,
the go-between and confidante in the matter being a damsel
much trusted by the princess. He will sigh, she will swoon, the
damsel will fetch water, much distressed because morning ap-
proaches, and for the honour of her lady he would not that they
were discovered; at last the princess will come to herself and
will present her white hands through the grating to the knight,
who will kiss them a thousand and a thousand times, bathing
them with his tears. It will be arranged between them how
they are to inform each other of their good or evil fortunes, and
the princess will entreat him to make his absence as short as
possible, which he will promise to do with many oaths; once
more he kisses her hands, and takes his leave in such grief that
he is well-nigh ready to die. He betakes him thence to his
chamber, flings himself on his bed, cannot sleep for sorrow at
parting, rises early in the morning, goes to take leave of the
king, queen, and princess, and, as he takes his leave of the
pair, it is told him that the princess is indisposed and cannot
receive a visit; the knight thinks it is from grief at his depar-
ture, his heart is pierced, and he is hardly able to keep from
showing his pain. The confidante is present, observes all, goes
to tell her mistress, who listens with tears and says that one of
her greatest distresses is not knowing who this knight is, and
whether he is of kingly lineage or not; the damsel assures her
that so much courtesy, gentleness, and gallantry of bearing as
her knight possesses could not exist in any save one who was
royal and illustrious; her anxiety is thus relieved, and she
strives to be of good cheer lest she should excite suspicion in
her parents, and at the end of two days she appears in public.
Meanwhile the knight has taken his departure; he fights in the
war, conquers the king's enemy, wins many cities, triumphs in
many battles, returns to the court, sees his lady where he was
wont to see her, and it is agreed that he shall demand her in
marriage of her parents as the reward of his services; the king
is unwilling to give her, as he knows not who he is, but never-
theless, whether carried off or in whatever other way it may
be, the princess comes to be his bride, and her father comes to

167
regard it as very good fortune; for it so happens that this
knight is proved to be the son of a valiant king of some king-
dom, I know not what, for I fancy it is not likely to be on the
map. The father dies, the princess inherits, and in two words
the knight becomes king. And here comes in at once the be-
stowal of rewards upon his squire and all who have aided him
in rising to so exalted a rank. He marries his squire to a damsel
of the princess's, who will be, no doubt, the one who was con-
fidante in their amour, and is daughter of a very great duke."
"That's what I want, and no mistake about it!" said Sancho.
"That's what I'm waiting for; for all this, word for word, is in
store for your worship under the title of the Knight of the Rue-
ful Countenance."
"Thou needst not doubt it, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "for
in the same manner, and by the same steps as I have described
here, knights-errant rise and have risen to be kings and emper-
ors; all we want now is to find out what king, Christian or pa-
gan, is at war and has a beautiful daughter; but there will be
time enough to think of that, for, as I have told thee, fame must
be won in other quarters before repairing to the court. There is
another thing, too, that is wanting; for supposing we find a
king who is at war and has a beautiful daughter, and that I
have won incredible fame throughout the universe, I know not
how it can be made out that I am of royal lineage, or even
second cousin to an emperor; for the king will not be willing to
give me his daughter in marriage unless he is first thoroughly
satisfied on this point, however much my famous deeds may
deserve it; so that by this deficiency I fear I shall lose what my
arm has fairly earned. True it is I am a gentleman of known
house, of estate and property, and entitled to the five hundred
sueldos mulct; and it may be that the sage who shall write my
history will so clear up my ancestry and pedigree that I may
find myself fifth or sixth in descent from a king; for I would
have thee know, Sancho, that there are two kinds of lineages in
the world; some there be tracing and deriving their descent
from kings and princes, whom time has reduced little by little
until they end in a point like a pyramid upside down; and oth-
ers who spring from the common herd and go on rising step by
step until they come to be great lords; so that the difference is
that the one were what they no longer are, and the others are

168
what they formerly were not. And I may be of such that after
investigation my origin may prove great and famous, with
which the king, my father-in-law that is to be, ought to be satis-
fied; and should he not be, the princess will so love me that
even though she well knew me to be the son of a water-carrier,
she will take me for her lord and husband in spite of her father;
if not, then it comes to seizing her and carrying her off where I
please; for time or death will put an end to the wrath of her
parents."
"It comes to this, too," said Sancho, "what some naughty
people say, 'Never ask as a favour what thou canst take by
force;' though it would fit better to say, 'A clear escape is bet-
ter than good men's prayers.' I say so because if my lord the
king, your worship's father-in-law, will not condescend to give
you my lady the princess, there is nothing for it but, as your
worship says, to seize her and transport her. But the mischief
is that until peace is made and you come into the peaceful en-
joyment of your kingdom, the poor squire is famishing as far as
rewards go, unless it be that the confidante damsel that is to
be his wife comes with the princess, and that with her he tides
over his bad luck until Heaven otherwise orders things; for his
master, I suppose, may as well give her to him at once for a
lawful wife."
"Nobody can object to that," said Don Quixote.
"Then since that may be," said Sancho, "there is nothing for
it but to commend ourselves to God, and let fortune take what
course it will."
"God guide it according to my wishes and thy wants," said
Don Quixote, "and mean be he who thinks himself mean."
"In God's name let him be so," said Sancho: "I am an old
Christian, and to fit me for a count that's enough."
"And more than enough for thee," said Don Quixote; "and
even wert thou not, it would make no difference, because I be-
ing the king can easily give thee nobility without purchase or
service rendered by thee, for when I make thee a count, then
thou art at once a gentleman; and they may say what they will,
but by my faith they will have to call thee 'your lordship,'
whether they like it or not."
"Not a doubt of it; and I'll know how to support the tittle,"
said Sancho.

169
 "Title thou shouldst say, not tittle," said his master.
"So be it," answered Sancho. "I say I will know how to be-
have, for once in my life I was beadle of a brotherhood, and the
beadle's gown sat so well on me that all said I looked as if I
was to be steward of the same brotherhood. What will it be,
then, when I put a duke's robe on my back, or dress myself in
gold and pearls like a count? I believe they'll come a hundred
leagues to see me."
"Thou wilt look well," said Don Quixote, "but thou must shave
thy beard often, for thou hast it so thick and rough and un-
kempt, that if thou dost not shave it every second day at least,
they will see what thou art at the distance of a musket shot."
"What more will it be," said Sancho, "than having a barber,
and keeping him at wages in the house? and even if it be ne-
cessary, I will make him go behind me like a nobleman's
equerry."
"Why, how dost thou know that noblemen have equerries be-
hind them?" asked Don Quixote.
"I will tell you," answered Sancho. "Years ago I was for a
month at the capital and there I saw taking the air a very small
gentleman who they said was a very great man, and a man fol-
lowing him on horseback in every turn he took, just as if he
was his tail. I asked why this man did not join the other man,
instead of always going behind him; they answered me that he
was his equerry, and that it was the custom with nobles to
have such persons behind them, and ever since then I know it,
for I have never forgotten it."
"Thou art right," said Don Quixote, "and in the same way
thou mayest carry thy barber with thee, for customs did not
come into use all together, nor were they all invented at once,
and thou mayest be the first count to have a barber to follow
him; and, indeed, shaving one's beard is a greater trust than
saddling one's horse."
"Let the barber business be my look-out," said Sancho; "and
your worship's be it to strive to become a king, and make me a
count."
"So it shall be," answered Don Quixote, and raising his eyes
he saw what will be told in the following chapter.

170
Chapter 22
Of the freedom Don Quixote conferred on several unfor-
tunates who against their will were being carried where
they had no wish to go
Cide Hamete Benengeli, the Arab and Manchegan author,
relates in this most grave, high-sounding, minute, delightful,
and original history that after the discussion between the fam-
ous Don Quixote of La Mancha and his squire Sancho Panza
which is set down at the end of chapter twenty-one, Don Quix-
ote raised his eyes and saw coming along the road he was fol-
lowing some dozen men on foot strung together by the neck,
like beads, on a great iron chain, and all with manacles on
their hands. With them there came also two men on horseback
and two on foot; those on horseback with wheel-lock muskets,
those on foot with javelins and swords, and as soon as Sancho
saw them he said:
"That is a chain of galley slaves, on the way to the galleys by
force of the king's orders."
"How by force?" asked Don Quixote; "is it possible that the
king uses force against anyone?"
"I do not say that," answered Sancho, "but that these are
people condemned for their crimes to serve by force in the
king's galleys."
"In fact," replied Don Quixote, "however it may be, these
people are going where they are taking them by force, and not
of their own will."
"Just so," said Sancho.
"Then if so," said Don Quixote, "here is a case for the exer-
cise of my office, to put down force and to succour and help the
wretched."
"Recollect, your worship," said Sancho, "Justice, which is the
king himself, is not using force or doing wrong to such persons,
but punishing them for their crimes."

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 The chain of galley slaves had by this time come up, and Don
Quixote in very courteous language asked those who were in
custody of it to be good enough to tell him the reason or reas-
ons for which they were conducting these people in this man-
ner. One of the guards on horseback answered that they were
galley slaves belonging to his majesty, that they were going to
the galleys, and that was all that was to be said and all he had
any business to know.
"Nevertheless," replied Don Quixote, "I should like to know
from each of them separately the reason of his misfortune;" to
this he added more to the same effect to induce them to tell
him what he wanted so civilly that the other mounted guard
said to him:
"Though we have here the register and certificate of the sen-
tence of every one of these wretches, this is no time to take
them out or read them; come and ask themselves; they can tell
if they choose, and they will, for these fellows take a pleasure
in doing and talking about rascalities."
With this permission, which Don Quixote would have taken
even had they not granted it, he approached the chain and
asked the first for what offences he was now in such a sorry
case.
He made answer that it was for being a lover.
"For that only?" replied Don Quixote; "why, if for being lovers
they send people to the galleys I might have been rowing in
them long ago."
"The love is not the sort your worship is thinking of," said the
galley slave; "mine was that I loved a washerwoman's basket of
clean linen so well, and held it so close in my embrace, that if
the arm of the law had not forced it from me, I should never
have let it go of my own will to this moment; I was caught in
the act, there was no occasion for torture, the case was settled,
they treated me to a hundred lashes on the back, and three
years of gurapas besides, and that was the end of it."
"What are gurapas?" asked Don Quixote.
"Gurapas are galleys," answered the galley slave, who was a
young man of about four-and-twenty, and said he was a native
of Piedrahita.
Don Quixote asked the same question of the second, who
made no reply, so downcast and melancholy was he; but the

172
first answered for him, and said, "He, sir, goes as a canary, I
mean as a musician and a singer."
"What!" said Don Quixote, "for being musicians and singers
are people sent to the galleys too?"
"Yes, sir," answered the galley slave, "for there is nothing
worse than singing under suffering."
"On the contrary, I have heard say," said Don Quixote, "that
he who sings scares away his woes."
"Here it is the reverse," said the galley slave; "for he who
sings once weeps all his life."
"I do not understand it," said Don Quixote; but one of the
guards said to him, "Sir, to sing under suffering means with
the non sancta fraternity to confess under torture; they put this
sinner to the torture and he confessed his crime, which was be-
ing a cuatrero, that is a cattle-stealer, and on his confession
they sentenced him to six years in the galleys, besides two
bundred lashes that he has already had on the back; and he is
always dejected and downcast because the other thieves that
were left behind and that march here ill-treat, and snub, and
jeer, and despise him for confessing and not having spirit
enough to say nay; for, say they, 'nay' has no more letters in it
than 'yea,' and a culprit is well off when life or death with him
depends on his own tongue and not on that of witnesses or
evidence; and to my thinking they are not very far out."
"And I think so too," answered Don Quixote; then passing on
to the third he asked him what he had asked the others, and
the man answered very readily and unconcernedly, "I am going
for five years to their ladyships the gurapas for the want of ten
ducats."
"I will give twenty with pleasure to get you out of that
trouble," said Don Quixote.
"That," said the galley slave, "is like a man having money at
sea when he is dying of hunger and has no way of buying what
he wants; I say so because if at the right time I had had those
twenty ducats that your worship now offers me, I would have
greased the notary's pen and freshened up the attorney's wit
with them, so that to-day I should be in the middle of the plaza
of the Zocodover at Toledo, and not on this road coupled like a
greyhound. But God is great; patience—there, that's enough of
it."

173
 Don Quixote passed on to the fourth, a man of venerable as-
pect with a white beard falling below his breast, who on hear-
ing himself asked the reason of his being there began to weep
without answering a word, but the fifth acted as his tongue and
said, "This worthy man is going to the galleys for four years,
after having gone the rounds in ceremony and on horseback."
"That means," said Sancho Panza, "as I take it, to have been
exposed to shame in public."
"Just so," replied the galley slave, "and the offence for which
they gave him that punishment was having been an ear-broker,
nay body-broker; I mean, in short, that this gentleman goes as
a pimp, and for having besides a certain touch of the sorcerer
about him."
"If that touch had not been thrown in," said Don Quixote, "he
would not deserve, for mere pimping, to row in the galleys, but
rather to command and be admiral of them; for the office of
pimp is no ordinary one, being the office of persons of discre-
tion, one very necessary in a well-ordered state, and only to be
exercised by persons of good birth; nay, there ought to be an
inspector and overseer of them, as in other offices, and recog-
nised number, as with the brokers on change; in this way many
of the evils would be avoided which are caused by this office
and calling being in the hands of stupid and ignorant people,
such as women more or less silly, and pages and jesters of little
standing and experience, who on the most urgent occasions,
and when ingenuity of contrivance is needed, let the crumbs
freeze on the way to their mouths, and know not which is their
right hand. I should like to go farther, and give reasons to
show that it is advisable to choose those who are to hold so ne-
cessary an office in the state, but this is not the fit place for it;
some day I will expound the matter to some one able to see to
and rectify it; all I say now is, that the additional fact of his be-
ing a sorcerer has removed the sorrow it gave me to see these
white hairs and this venerable countenance in so painful a pos-
ition on account of his being a pimp; though I know well there
are no sorceries in the world that can move or compel the will
as some simple folk fancy, for our will is free, nor is there herb
or charm that can force it. All that certain silly women and
quacks do is to turn men mad with potions and poisons,

174
pretending that they have power to cause love, for, as I say, it
is an impossibility to compel the will."
"It is true," said the good old man, "and indeed, sir, as far as
the charge of sorcery goes I was not guilty; as to that of being
a pimp I cannot deny it; but I never thought I was doing any
harm by it, for my only object was that all the world should en-
joy itself and live in peace and quiet, without quarrels or
troubles; but my good intentions were unavailing to save me
from going where I never expect to come back from, with this
weight of years upon me and a urinary ailment that never gives
me a moment's ease;" and again he fell to weeping as before,
and such compassion did Sancho feel for him that he took out a
real of four from his bosom and gave it to him in alms.
Don Quixote went on and asked another what his crime was,
and the man answered with no less but rather much more
sprightliness than the last one.
"I am here because I carried the joke too far with a couple of
cousins of mine, and with a couple of other cousins who were
none of mine; in short, I carried the joke so far with them all
that it ended in such a complicated increase of kindred that no
accountant could make it clear: it was all proved against me, I
got no favour, I had no money, I was near having my neck
stretched, they sentenced me to the galleys for six years, I ac-
cepted my fate, it is the punishment of my fault; I am a young
man; let life only last, and with that all will come right. If you,
sir, have anything wherewith to help the poor, God will repay it
to you in heaven, and we on earth will take care in our peti-
tions to him to pray for the life and health of your worship, that
they may be as long and as good as your amiable appearance
deserves."
This one was in the dress of a student, and one of the guards
said he was a great talker and a very elegant Latin scholar.
Behind all these there came a man of thirty, a very person-
able fellow, except that when he looked, his eyes turned in a
little one towards the other. He was bound differently from the
rest, for he had to his leg a chain so long that it was wound all
round his body, and two rings on his neck, one attached to the
chain, the other to what they call a "keep-friend" or "friend's
foot," from which hung two irons reaching to his waist with two
manacles fixed to them in which his hands were secured by a

175
big padlock, so that he could neither raise his hands to his
mouth nor lower his head to his hands. Don Quixote asked why
this man carried so many more chains than the others. The
guard replied that it was because he alone had committed
more crimes than all the rest put together, and was so daring
and such a villain, that though they marched him in that fash-
ion they did not feel sure of him, but were in dread of his mak-
ing his escape.
"What crimes can he have committed," said Don Quixote, "if
they have not deserved a heavier punishment than being sent
to the galleys?"
"He goes for ten years," replied the guard, "which is the
same thing as civil death, and all that need be said is that this
good fellow is the famous Gines de Pasamonte, otherwise
called Ginesillo de Parapilla."
"Gently, senor commissary," said the galley slave at this, "let
us have no fixing of names or surnames; my name is Gines, not
Ginesillo, and my family name is Pasamonte, not Parapilla as
you say; let each one mind his own business, and he will be do-
ing enough."
"Speak with less impertinence, master thief of extra meas-
ure," replied the commissary, "if you don't want me to make
you hold your tongue in spite of your teeth."
"It is easy to see," returned the galley slave, "that man goes
as God pleases, but some one shall know some day whether I
am called Ginesillo de Parapilla or not."
"Don't they call you so, you liar?" said the guard.
"They do," returned Gines, "but I will make them give over
calling me so, or I will be shaved, where, I only say behind my
teeth. If you, sir, have anything to give us, give it to us at once,
and God speed you, for you are becoming tiresome with all this
inquisitiveness about the lives of others; if you want to know
about mine, let me tell you I am Gines de Pasamonte, whose
life is written by these fingers."
"He says true," said the commissary, "for he has himself writ-
ten his story as grand as you please, and has left the book in
the prison in pawn for two hundred reals."
"And I mean to take it out of pawn," said Gines, "though it
were in for two hundred ducats."
"Is it so good?" said Don Quixote.

176
 "So good is it," replied Gines, "that a fig for 'Lazarillo de
Tormes,' and all of that kind that have been written, or shall be
written compared with it: all I will say about it is that it deals
with facts, and facts so neat and diverting that no lies could
match them."
"And how is the book entitled?" asked Don Quixote.
"The 'Life of Gines de Pasamonte,'" replied the subject of it.
"And is it finished?" asked Don Quixote.
"How can it be finished," said the other, "when my life is not
yet finished? All that is written is from my birth down to the
point when they sent me to the galleys this last time."
"Then you have been there before?" said Don Quixote.
"In the service of God and the king I have been there for four
years before now, and I know by this time what the biscuit and
courbash are like," replied Gines; "and it is no great grievance
to me to go back to them, for there I shall have time to finish
my book; I have still many things left to say, and in the galleys
of Spain there is more than enough leisure; though I do not
want much for what I have to write, for I have it by heart."
"You seem a clever fellow," said Don Quixote.
"And an unfortunate one," replied Gines, "for misfortune al-
ways persecutes good wit."
"It persecutes rogues," said the commissary.
"I told you already to go gently, master commissary," said
Pasamonte; "their lordships yonder never gave you that staff to
ill-treat us wretches here, but to conduct and take us where his
majesty orders you; if not, by the life of-never mind-; it may be
that some day the stains made in the inn will come out in the
scouring; let everyone hold his tongue and behave well and
speak better; and now let us march on, for we have had quite
enough of this entertainment."
The commissary lifted his staff to strike Pasamonte in return
for his threats, but Don Quixote came between them, and
begged him not to ill-use him, as it was not too much to allow
one who had his hands tied to have his tongue a trifle free; and
turning to the whole chain of them he said:
"From all you have told me, dear brethren, make out clearly
that though they have punished you for your faults, the punish-
ments you are about to endure do not give you much pleasure,
and that you go to them very much against the grain and

177
against your will, and that perhaps this one's want of courage
under torture, that one's want of money, the other's want of
advocacy, and lastly the perverted judgment of the judge may
have been the cause of your ruin and of your failure to obtain
the justice you had on your side. All which presents itself now
to my mind, urging, persuading, and even compelling me to
demonstrate in your case the purpose for which Heaven sent
me into the world and caused me to make profession of the or-
der of chivalry to which I belong, and the vow I took therein to
give aid to those in need and under the oppression of the
strong. But as I know that it is a mark of prudence not to do by
foul means what may be done by fair, I will ask these gentle-
men, the guards and commissary, to be so good as to release
you and let you go in peace, as there will be no lack of others
to serve the king under more favourable circumstances; for it
seems to me a hard case to make slaves of those whom God
and nature have made free. Moreover, sirs of the guard," ad-
ded Don Quixote, "these poor fellows have done nothing to you;
let each answer for his own sins yonder; there is a God in
Heaven who will not forget to punish the wicked or reward the
good; and it is not fitting that honest men should be the instru-
ments of punishment to others, they being therein no way con-
cerned. This request I make thus gently and quietly, that, if you
comply with it, I may have reason for thanking you; and, if you
will not voluntarily, this lance and sword together with the
might of my arm shall compel you to comply with it by force."
"Nice nonsense!" said the commissary; "a fine piece of pleas-
antry he has come out with at last! He wants us to let the
king's prisoners go, as if we had any authority to release them,
or he to order us to do so! Go your way, sir, and good luck to
you; put that basin straight that you've got on your head, and
don't go looking for three feet on a cat."
"'Tis you that are the cat, rat, and rascal," replied Don Quix-
ote, and acting on the word he fell upon him so suddenly that
without giving him time to defend himself he brought him to
the ground sorely wounded with a lance-thrust; and lucky it
was for him that it was the one that had the musket. The other
guards stood thunderstruck and amazed at this unexpected
event, but recovering presence of mind, those on horseback
seized their swords, and those on foot their javelins, and

178
attacked Don Quixote, who was waiting for them with great
calmness; and no doubt it would have gone badly with him if
the galley slaves, seeing the chance before them of liberating
themselves, had not effected it by contriving to break the chain
on which they were strung. Such was the confusion, that the
guards, now rushing at the galley slaves who were breaking
loose, now to attack Don Quixote who was waiting for them,
did nothing at all that was of any use. Sancho, on his part, gave
a helping hand to release Gines de Pasamonte, who was the
first to leap forth upon the plain free and unfettered, and who,
attacking the prostrate commissary, took from him his sword
and the musket, with which, aiming at one and levelling at an-
other, he, without ever discharging it, drove every one of the
guards off the field, for they took to flight, as well to escape
Pasamonte's musket, as the showers of stones the now re-
leased galley slaves were raining upon them. Sancho was
greatly grieved at the affair, because he anticipated that those
who had fled would report the matter to the Holy Brotherhood,
who at the summons of the alarm-bell would at once sally forth
in quest of the offenders; and he said so to his master, and en-
treated him to leave the place at once, and go into hiding in the
sierra that was close by.
"That is all very well," said Don Quixote, "but I know what
must be done now;" and calling together all the galley slaves,
who were now running riot, and had stripped the commissary
to the skin, he collected them round him to hear what he had
to say, and addressed them as follows: "To be grateful for be-
nefits received is the part of persons of good birth, and one of
the sins most offensive to God is ingratitude; I say so because,
sirs, ye have already seen by manifest proof the benefit ye have
received of me; in return for which I desire, and it is my good
pleasure that, laden with that chain which I have taken off your
necks, ye at once set out and proceed to the city of El Toboso,
and there present yourselves before the lady Dulcinea del
Toboso, and say to her that her knight, he of the Rueful Coun-
tenance, sends to commend himself to her; and that ye recount
to her in full detail all the particulars of this notable adventure,
up to the recovery of your longed-for liberty; and this done ye
may go where ye will, and good fortune attend you."

179
 Gines de Pasamonte made answer for all, saying, "That which
you, sir, our deliverer, demand of us, is of all impossibilities the
most impossible to comply with, because we cannot go togeth-
er along the roads, but only singly and separate, and each one
his own way, endeavouring to hide ourselves in the bowels of
the earth to escape the Holy Brotherhood, which, no doubt,
will come out in search of us. What your worship may do, and
fairly do, is to change this service and tribute as regards the
lady Dulcinea del Toboso for a certain quantity of ave-marias
and credos which we will say for your worship's intention, and
this is a condition that can be complied with by night as by day,
running or resting, in peace or in war; but to imagine that we
are going now to return to the flesh-pots of Egypt, I mean to
take up our chain and set out for El Toboso, is to imagine that
it is now night, though it is not yet ten in the morning, and to
ask this of us is like asking pears of the elm tree."
"Then by all that's good," said Don Quixote (now stirred to
wrath), "Don son of a bitch, Don Ginesillo de Paropillo, or
whatever your name is, you will have to go yourself alone, with
your tail between your legs and the whole chain on your back."
Pasamonte, who was anything but meek (being by this time
thoroughly convinced that Don Quixote was not quite right in
his head as he had committed such a vagary as to set them
free), finding himself abused in this fashion, gave the wink to
his companions, and falling back they began to shower stones
on Don Quixote at such a rate that he was quite unable to pro-
tect himself with his buckler, and poor Rocinante no more
heeded the spur than if he had been made of brass. Sancho
planted himself behind his ass, and with him sheltered himself
from the hailstorm that poured on both of them. Don Quixote
was unable to shield himself so well but that more pebbles
than I could count struck him full on the body with such force
that they brought him to the ground; and the instant he fell the
student pounced upon him, snatched the basin from his head,
and with it struck three or four blows on his shoulders, and as
many more on the ground, knocking it almost to pieces. They
then stripped him of a jacket that he wore over his armour, and
they would have stripped off his stockings if his greaves had
not prevented them. From Sancho they took his coat, leaving
him in his shirt-sleeves; and dividing among themselves the

180
remaining spoils of the battle, they went each one his own way,
more solicitous about keeping clear of the Holy Brotherhood
they dreaded, than about burdening themselves with the chain,
or going to present themselves before the lady Dulcinea del
Toboso. The ass and Rocinante, Sancho and Don Quixote, were
all that were left upon the spot; the ass with drooping head,
serious, shaking his ears from time to time as if he thought the
storm of stones that assailed them was not yet over; Rocinante
stretched beside his master, for he too had been brought to the
ground by a stone; Sancho stripped, and trembling with fear of
the Holy Brotherhood; and Don Quixote fuming to find himself
so served by the very persons for whom he had done so much.

181
Chapter 23
Of what befell Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena, which
was one of the rarest adventures related in this veracious
history
Seeing himself served in this way, Don Quixote said to his
squire, "I have always heard it said, Sancho, that to do good to
boors is to throw water into the sea. If I had believed thy
words, I should have avoided this trouble; but it is done now, it
is only to have patience and take warning for the future."
"Your worship will take warning as much as I am a Turk," re-
turned Sancho; "but, as you say this mischief might have been
avoided if you had believed me, believe me now, and a still
greater one will be avoided; for I tell you chivalry is of no ac-
count with the Holy Brotherhood, and they don't care two
maravedis for all the knights-errant in the world; and I can tell
you I fancy I hear their arrows whistling past my ears this
minute."
"Thou art a coward by nature, Sancho," said Don Quixote,
"but lest thou shouldst say I am obstinate, and that I never do
as thou dost advise, this once I will take thy advice, and with-
draw out of reach of that fury thou so dreadest; but it must be
on one condition, that never, in life or in death, thou art to say
to anyone that I retired or withdrew from this danger out of
fear, but only in compliance with thy entreaties; for if thou say-
est otherwise thou wilt lie therein, and from this time to that,
and from that to this, I give thee lie, and say thou liest and wilt
lie every time thou thinkest or sayest it; and answer me not
again; for at the mere thought that I am withdrawing or retir-
ing from any danger, above all from this, which does seem to
carry some little shadow of fear with it, I am ready to take my
stand here and await alone, not only that Holy Brotherhood
you talk of and dread, but the brothers of the twelve tribes of

182
Israel, and the Seven Maccabees, and Castor and Pollux, and
all the brothers and brotherhoods in the world."
"Senor," replied Sancho, "to retire is not to flee, and there is
no wisdom in waiting when danger outweighs hope, and it is
the part of wise men to preserve themselves to-day for to-mor-
row, and not risk all in one day; and let me tell you, though I
am a clown and a boor, I have got some notion of what they
call safe conduct; so repent not of having taken my advice, but
mount Rocinante if you can, and if not I will help you; and fol-
low me, for my mother-wit tells me we have more need of legs
than hands just now."
Don Quixote mounted without replying, and, Sancho leading
the way on his ass, they entered the side of the Sierra Morena,
which was close by, as it was Sancho's design to cross it en-
tirely and come out again at El Viso or Almodovar del Campo,
and hide for some days among its crags so as to escape the
search of the Brotherhood should they come to look for them.
He was encouraged in this by perceiving that the stock of pro-
visions carried by the ass had come safe out of the fray with
the galley slaves, a circumstance that he regarded as a mir-
acle, seeing how they pillaged and ransacked.
That night they reached the very heart of the Sierra Morena,
where it seemed prudent to Sancho to pass the night and even
some days, at least as many as the stores he carried might last,
and so they encamped between two rocks and among some
cork trees; but fatal destiny, which, according to the opinion of
those who have not the light of the true faith, directs, ar-
ranges, and settles everything in its own way, so ordered it
that Gines de Pasamonte, the famous knave and thief who by
the virtue and madness of Don Quixote had been released from
the chain, driven by fear of the Holy Brotherhood, which he
had good reason to dread, resolved to take hiding in the moun-
tains; and his fate and fear led him to the same spot to which
Don Quixote and Sancho Panza had been led by theirs, just in
time to recognise them and leave them to fall asleep: and as
the wicked are always ungrateful, and necessity leads to evil-
doing, and immediate advantage overcomes all considerations
of the future, Gines, who was neither grateful nor well-prin-
cipled, made up his mind to steal Sancho Panza's ass, not
troubling himself about Rocinante, as being a prize that was no

183
good either to pledge or sell. While Sancho slept he stole his
ass, and before day dawned he was far out of reach.
Aurora made her appearance bringing gladness to the earth
but sadness to Sancho Panza, for he found that his Dapple was
missing, and seeing himself bereft of him he began the saddest
and most doleful lament in the world, so loud that Don Quixote
awoke at his exclamations and heard him saying, "O son of my
bowels, born in my very house, my children's plaything, my
wife's joy, the envy of my neighbours, relief of my burdens, and
lastly, half supporter of myself, for with the six-and-twenty
maravedis thou didst earn me daily I met half my charges."
Don Quixote, when he heard the lament and learned the
cause, consoled Sancho with the best arguments he could, en-
treating him to be patient, and promising to give him a letter of
exchange ordering three out of five ass-colts that he had at
home to be given to him. Sancho took comfort at this, dried his
tears, suppressed his sobs, and returned thanks for the kind-
ness shown him by Don Quixote. He on his part was rejoiced to
the heart on entering the mountains, as they seemed to him to
be just the place for the adventures he was in quest of. They
brought back to his memory the marvellous adventures that
had befallen knights-errant in like solitudes and wilds, and he
went along reflecting on these things, so absorbed and carried
away by them that he had no thought for anything else.
Nor had Sancho any other care (now that he fancied he was
travelling in a safe quarter) than to satisfy his appetite with
such remains as were left of the clerical spoils, and so he
marched behind his master laden with what Dapple used to
carry, emptying the sack and packing his paunch, and so long
as he could go that way, he would not have given a farthing to
meet with another adventure.
While so engaged he raised his eyes and saw that his master
had halted, and was trying with the point of his pike to lift
some bulky object that lay upon the ground, on which he
hastened to join him and help him if it were needful, and
reached him just as with the point of the pike he was raising a
saddle-pad with a valise attached to it, half or rather wholly
rotten and torn; but so heavy were they that Sancho had to
help to take them up, and his master directed him to see what
the valise contained. Sancho did so with great alacrity, and

184
though the valise was secured by a chain and padlock, from its
torn and rotten condition he was able to see its contents, which
were four shirts of fine holland, and other articles of linen no
less curious than clean; and in a handkerchief he found a good
lot of gold crowns, and as soon as he saw them he exclaimed:
"Blessed be all Heaven for sending us an adventure that is
good for something!"
Searching further he found a little memorandum book richly
bound; this Don Quixote asked of him, telling him to take the
money and keep it for himself. Sancho kissed his hands for the
favour, and cleared the valise of its linen, which he stowed
away in the provision sack. Considering the whole matter, Don
Quixote observed:
"It seems to me, Sancho—and it is impossible it can be
otherwise-that some strayed traveller must have crossed this
sierra and been attacked and slain by footpads, who brought
him to this remote spot to bury him."
"That cannot be," answered Sancho, "because if they had
been robbers they would not have left this money."
"Thou art right," said Don Quixote, "and I cannot guess or ex-
plain what this may mean; but stay; let us see if in this memor-
andum book there is anything written by which we may be able
to trace out or discover what we want to know."
He opened it, and the first thing he found in it, written
roughly but in a very good hand, was a sonnet, and reading it
aloud that Sancho might hear it, he found that it ran as follows:
SONNET
Or Love is lacking in intelligence,
Or to the height of cruelty attains,
Or else it is my doom to suffer pains
Beyond the measure due to my offence.
But if Love be a God, it follows thence
That he knows all, and certain it remains
No God loves cruelty; then who ordains
This penance that enthrals while it torments?
It were a falsehood, Chloe, thee to name;
Such evil with such goodness cannot live;
And against Heaven I dare not charge the blame,
I only know it is my fate to die.
To him who knows not whence his malady

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 A miracle alone a cure can give.
"There is nothing to be learned from that rhyme," said San-
cho, "unless by that clue there's in it, one may draw out the
ball of the whole matter."
"What clue is there?" said Don Quixote.
"I thought your worship spoke of a clue in it," said Sancho.
"I only said Chloe," replied Don Quixote; "and that no doubt,
is the name of the lady of whom the author of the sonnet com-
plains; and, faith, he must be a tolerable poet, or I know little
of the craft."
"Then your worship understands rhyming too?"
"And better than thou thinkest," replied Don Quixote, "as
thou shalt see when thou carriest a letter written in verse from
beginning to end to my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, for I would
have thee know, Sancho, that all or most of the knights-errant
in days of yore were great troubadours and great musicians,
for both of these accomplishments, or more properly speaking
gifts, are the peculiar property of lovers-errant: true it is that
the verses of the knights of old have more spirit than neatness
in them."
"Read more, your worship," said Sancho, "and you will find
something that will enlighten us."
Don Quixote turned the page and said, "This is prose and
seems to be a letter."
"A correspondence letter, senor?"
"From the beginning it seems to be a love letter," replied Don
Quixote.
"Then let your worship read it aloud," said Sancho, "for I am
very fond of love matters."
"With all my heart," said Don Quixote, and reading it aloud as
Sancho had requested him, he found it ran thus:
Thy false promise and my sure misfortune carry me to a
place whence the news of my death will reach thy ears before
the words of my complaint. Ungrateful one, thou hast rejected
me for one more wealthy, but not more worthy; but if virtue
were esteemed wealth I should neither envy the fortunes of
others nor weep for misfortunes of my own. What thy beauty
raised up thy deeds have laid low; by it I believed thee to be an
angel, by them I know thou art a woman. Peace be with thee
who hast sent war to me, and Heaven grant that the deceit of

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thy husband be ever hidden from thee, so that thou repent not
of what thou hast done, and I reap not a revenge I would not
have.
When he had finished the letter, Don Quixote said, "There is
less to be gathered from this than from the verses, except that
he who wrote it is some rejected lover;" and turning over
nearly all the pages of the book he found more verses and let-
ters, some of which he could read, while others he could not;
but they were all made up of complaints, laments, misgivings,
desires and aversions, favours and rejections, some rapturous,
some doleful. While Don Quixote examined the book, Sancho
examined the valise, not leaving a corner in the whole of it or
in the pad that he did not search, peer into, and explore, or
seam that he did not rip, or tuft of wool that he did not pick to
pieces, lest anything should escape for want of care and pains;
so keen was the covetousness excited in him by the discovery
of the crowns, which amounted to near a hundred; and though
he found no more booty, he held the blanket flights, balsam
vomits, stake benedictions, carriers' fisticuffs, missing alforjas,
stolen coat, and all the hunger, thirst, and weariness he had
endured in the service of his good master, cheap at the price;
as he considered himself more than fully indemnified for all by
the payment he received in the gift of the treasure-trove.
The Knight of the Rueful Countenance was still very anxious
to find out who the owner of the valise could be, conjecturing
from the sonnet and letter, from the money in gold, and from
the fineness of the shirts, that he must be some lover of distinc-
tion whom the scorn and cruelty of his lady had driven to some
desperate course; but as in that uninhabited and rugged spot
there was no one to be seen of whom he could inquire, he saw
nothing else for it but to push on, taking whatever road Rocin-
ante chose—which was where he could make his way—firmly
persuaded that among these wilds he could not fail to meet
some rare adventure. As he went along, then, occupied with
these thoughts, he perceived on the summit of a height that
rose before their eyes a man who went springing from rock to
rock and from tussock to tussock with marvellous agility. As
well as he could make out he was unclad, with a thick black
beard, long tangled hair, and bare legs and feet, his thighs

187
were covered by breeches apparently of tawny velvet but so
ragged that they showed his skin in several places.
He was bareheaded, and notwithstanding the swiftness with
which he passed as has been described, the Knight of the Rue-
ful Countenance observed and noted all these trifles, and
though he made the attempt, he was unable to follow him, for
it was not granted to the feebleness of Rocinante to make way
over such rough ground, he being, moreover, slow-paced and
sluggish by nature. Don Quixote at once came to the conclu-
sion that this was the owner of the saddle-pad and of the
valise, and made up his mind to go in search of him, even
though he should have to wander a year in those mountains be-
fore he found him, and so he directed Sancho to take a short
cut over one side of the mountain, while he himself went by the
other, and perhaps by this means they might light upon this
man who had passed so quickly out of their sight.
"I could not do that," said Sancho, "for when I separate from
your worship fear at once lays hold of me, and assails me with
all sorts of panics and fancies; and let what I now say be a no-
tice that from this time forth I am not going to stir a finger's
width from your presence."
"It shall be so," said he of the Rueful Countenance, "and I am
very glad that thou art willing to rely on my courage, which
will never fail thee, even though the soul in thy body fail thee;
so come on now behind me slowly as well as thou canst, and
make lanterns of thine eyes; let us make the circuit of this
ridge; perhaps we shall light upon this man that we saw, who
no doubt is no other than the owner of what we found."
To which Sancho made answer, "Far better would it be not to
look for him, for, if we find him, and he happens to be the own-
er of the money, it is plain I must restore it; it would be better,
therefore, that without taking this needless trouble, I should
keep possession of it until in some other less meddlesome and
officious way the real owner may be discovered; and perhaps
that will be when I shall have spent it, and then the king will
hold me harmless."
"Thou art wrong there, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for now
that we have a suspicion who the owner is, and have him al-
most before us, we are bound to seek him and make restitu-
tion; and if we do not see him, the strong suspicion we have as

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to his being the owner makes us as guilty as if he were so; and
so, friend Sancho, let not our search for him give thee any un-
easiness, for if we find him it will relieve mine."
And so saying he gave Rocinante the spur, and Sancho fol-
lowed him on foot and loaded, and after having partly made the
circuit of the mountain they found lying in a ravine, dead and
half devoured by dogs and pecked by jackdaws, a mule saddled
and bridled, all which still further strengthened their suspicion
that he who had fled was the owner of the mule and the saddle-
pad.
As they stood looking at it they heard a whistle like that of a
shepherd watching his flock, and suddenly on their left there
appeared a great number of goats and behind them on the
summit of the mountain the goatherd in charge of them, a man
advanced in years. Don Quixote called aloud to him and
begged him to come down to where they stood. He shouted in
return, asking what had brought them to that spot, seldom or
never trodden except by the feet of goats, or of the wolves and
other wild beasts that roamed around. Sancho in return bade
him come down, and they would explain all to him.
The goatherd descended, and reaching the place where Don
Quixote stood, he said, "I will wager you are looking at that
hack mule that lies dead in the hollow there, and, faith, it has
been lying there now these six months; tell me, have you come
upon its master about here?"
"We have come upon nobody," answered Don Quixote, "nor
on anything except a saddle-pad and a little valise that we
found not far from this."
"I found it too," said the goatherd, "but I would not lift it nor
go near it for fear of some ill-luck or being charged with theft,
for the devil is crafty, and things rise up under one's feet to
make one fall without knowing why or wherefore."
"That's exactly what I say," said Sancho; "I found it too, and I
would not go within a stone's throw of it; there I left it, and
there it lies just as it was, for I don't want a dog with a bell."
"Tell me, good man," said Don Quixote, "do you know who is
the owner of this property?"
"All I can tell you," said the goatherd, "is that about six
months ago, more or less, there arrived at a shepherd's hut
three leagues, perhaps, away from this, a youth of well-bred

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appearance and manners, mounted on that same mule which
lies dead here, and with the same saddle-pad and valise which
you say you found and did not touch. He asked us what part of
this sierra was the most rugged and retired; we told him that it
was where we now are; and so in truth it is, for if you push on
half a league farther, perhaps you will not be able to find your
way out; and I am wondering how you have managed to come
here, for there is no road or path that leads to this spot. I say,
then, that on hearing our answer the youth turned about and
made for the place we pointed out to him, leaving us all
charmed with his good looks, and wondering at his question
and the haste with which we saw him depart in the direction of
the sierra; and after that we saw him no more, until some days
afterwards he crossed the path of one of our shepherds, and
without saying a word to him, came up to him and gave him
several cuffs and kicks, and then turned to the ass with our
provisions and took all the bread and cheese it carried, and
having done this made off back again into the sierra with ex-
traordinary swiftness. When some of us goatherds learned this
we went in search of him for about two days through the most
remote portion of this sierra, at the end of which we found him
lodged in the hollow of a large thick cork tree. He came out to
meet us with great gentleness, with his dress now torn and his
face so disfigured and burned by the sun, that we hardly recog-
nised him but that his clothes, though torn, convinced us, from
the recollection we had of them, that he was the person we
were looking for. He saluted us courteously, and in a few well-
spoken words he told us not to wonder at seeing him going
about in this guise, as it was binding upon him in order that he
might work out a penance which for his many sins had been
imposed upon him. We asked him to tell us who he was, but we
were never able to find out from him: we begged of him too,
when he was in want of food, which he could not do without, to
tell us where we should find him, as we would bring it to him
with all good-will and readiness; or if this were not to his taste,
at least to come and ask it of us and not take it by force from
the shepherds. He thanked us for the offer, begged pardon for
the late assault, and promised for the future to ask it in God's
name without offering violence to anybody. As for fixed abode,
he said he had no other than that which chance offered

190
wherever night might overtake him; and his words ended in an
outburst of weeping so bitter that we who listened to him must
have been very stones had we not joined him in it, comparing
what we saw of him the first time with what we saw now; for,
as I said, he was a graceful and gracious youth, and in his cour-
teous and polished language showed himself to be of good
birth and courtly breeding, and rustics as we were that
listened to him, even to our rusticity his gentle bearing sufficed
to make it plain.
"But in the midst of his conversation he stopped and became
silent, keeping his eyes fixed upon the ground for some time,
during which we stood still waiting anxiously to see what
would come of this abstraction; and with no little pity, for from
his behaviour, now staring at the ground with fixed gaze and
eyes wide open without moving an eyelid, again closing them,
compressing his lips and raising his eyebrows, we could per-
ceive plainly that a fit of madness of some kind had come upon
him; and before long he showed that what we imagined was
the truth, for he arose in a fury from the ground where he had
thrown himself, and attacked the first he found near him with
such rage and fierceness that if we had not dragged him off
him, he would have beaten or bitten him to death, all the while
exclaiming, 'Oh faithless Fernando, here, here shalt thou pay
the penalty of the wrong thou hast done me; these hands shall
tear out that heart of thine, abode and dwelling of all iniquity,
but of deceit and fraud above all; and to these he added other
words all in effect upbraiding this Fernando and charging him
with treachery and faithlessness.
"We forced him to release his hold with no little difficulty,
and without another word he left us, and rushing off plunged in
among these brakes and brambles, so as to make it impossible
for us to follow him; from this we suppose that madness comes
upon him from time to time, and that some one called
Fernando must have done him a wrong of a grievous nature
such as the condition to which it had brought him seemed to
show. All this has been since then confirmed on those occa-
sions, and they have been many, on which he has crossed our
path, at one time to beg the shepherds to give him some of the
food they carry, at another to take it from them by force; for
when there is a fit of madness upon him, even though the

191
shepherds offer it freely, he will not accept it but snatches it
from them by dint of blows; but when he is in his senses he
begs it for the love of God, courteously and civilly, and receives
it with many thanks and not a few tears. And to tell you the
truth, sirs," continued the goatherd, "it was yesterday that we
resolved, I and four of the lads, two of them our servants, and
the other two friends of mine, to go in search of him until we
find him, and when we do to take him, whether by force or of
his own consent, to the town of Almodovar, which is eight
leagues from this, and there strive to cure him (if indeed his
malady admits of a cure), or learn when he is in his senses who
he is, and if he has relatives to whom we may give notice of his
misfortune. This, sirs, is all I can say in answer to what you
have asked me; and be sure that the owner of the articles you
found is he whom you saw pass by with such nimbleness and so
naked."
For Don Quixote had already described how he had seen the
man go bounding along the mountain side, and he was now
filled with amazement at what he heard from the goatherd, and
more eager than ever to discover who the unhappy madman
was; and in his heart he resolved, as he had done before, to
search for him all over the mountain, not leaving a corner or
cave unexamined until he had found him. But chance arranged
matters better than he expected or hoped, for at that very mo-
ment, in a gorge on the mountain that opened where they
stood, the youth he wished to find made his appearance, com-
ing along talking to himself in a way that would have been un-
intelligible near at hand, much more at a distance. His garb
was what has been described, save that as he drew near, Don
Quixote perceived that a tattered doublet which he wore was
amber-tanned, from which he concluded that one who wore
such garments could not be of very low rank.
Approaching them, the youth greeted them in a harsh and
hoarse voice but with great courtesy. Don Quixote returned his
salutation with equal politeness, and dismounting from Rocin-
ante advanced with well-bred bearing and grace to embrace
him, and held him for some time close in his arms as if he had
known him for a long time. The other, whom we may call the
Ragged One of the Sorry Countenance, as Don Quixote was of
the Rueful, after submitting to the embrace pushed him back a

192
little and, placing his hands on Don Quixote's shoulders, stood
gazing at him as if seeking to see whether he knew him, not
less amazed, perhaps, at the sight of the face, figure, and ar-
mour of Don Quixote than Don Quixote was at the sight of him.
To be brief, the first to speak after embracing was the Ragged
One, and he said what will be told farther on.

193
Chapter 24
In which is continued the adventure of the Sierra Morena
The history relates that it was with the greatest attention
Don Quixote listened to the ragged knight of the Sierra, who
began by saying:
"Of a surety, senor, whoever you are, for I know you not, I
thank you for the proofs of kindness and courtesy you have
shown me, and would I were in a condition to requite with
something more than good-will that which you have displayed
towards me in the cordial reception you have given me; but my
fate does not afford me any other means of returning kind-
nesses done me save the hearty desire to repay them."
"Mine," replied Don Quixote, "is to be of service to you, so
much so that I had resolved not to quit these mountains until I
had found you, and learned of you whether there is any kind of
relief to be found for that sorrow under which from the
strangeness of your life you seem to labour; and to search for
you with all possible diligence, if search had been necessary.
And if your misfortune should prove to be one of those that re-
fuse admission to any sort of consolation, it was my purpose to
join you in lamenting and mourning over it, so far as I could;
for it is still some comfort in misfortune to find one who can
feel for it. And if my good intentions deserve to be acknow-
ledged with any kind of courtesy, I entreat you, senor, by that
which I perceive you possess in so high a degree, and likewise
conjure you by whatever you love or have loved best in life, to
tell me who you are and the cause that has brought you to live
or die in these solitudes like a brute beast, dwelling among
them in a manner so foreign to your condition as your garb and
appearance show. And I swear," added Don Quixote, "by the
order of knighthood which I have received, and by my vocation
of knight-errant, if you gratify me in this, to serve you with all
the zeal my calling demands of me, either in relieving your

194
misfortune if it admits of relief, or in joining you in lamenting it
as I promised to do."
The Knight of the Thicket, hearing him of the Rueful Coun-
tenance talk in this strain, did nothing but stare at him, and
stare at him again, and again survey him from head to foot;
and when he had thoroughly examined him, he said to him:
"If you have anything to give me to eat, for God's sake give it
me, and after I have eaten I will do all you ask in acknowledg-
ment of the goodwill you have displayed towards me."
Sancho from his sack, and the goatherd from his pouch, fur-
nished the Ragged One with the means of appeasing his hun-
ger, and what they gave him he ate like a half-witted being, so
hastily that he took no time between mouthfuls, gorging rather
than swallowing; and while he ate neither he nor they who ob-
served him uttered a word. As soon as he had done he made
signs to them to follow him, which they did, and he led them to
a green plot which lay a little farther off round the corner of a
rock. On reaching it he stretched himself upon the grass, and
the others did the same, all keeping silence, until the Ragged
One, settling himself in his place, said:
"If it is your wish, sirs, that I should disclose in a few words
the surpassing extent of my misfortunes, you must promise not
to break the thread of my sad story with any question or other
interruption, for the instant you do so the tale I tell will come
to an end."
These words of the Ragged One reminded Don Quixote of the
tale his squire had told him, when he failed to keep count of
the goats that had crossed the river and the story remained un-
finished; but to return to the Ragged One, he went on to say:
"I give you this warning because I wish to pass briefly over
the story of my misfortunes, for recalling them to memory only
serves to add fresh ones, and the less you question me the
sooner shall I make an end of the recital, though I shall not
omit to relate anything of importance in order fully to satisfy
your curiosity."
Don Quixote gave the promise for himself and the others,
and with this assurance he began as follows:
"My name is Cardenio, my birthplace one of the best cities of
this Andalusia, my family noble, my parents rich, my misfor-
tune so great that my parents must have wept and my family

195
grieved over it without being able by their wealth to lighten it;
for the gifts of fortune can do little to relieve reverses sent by
Heaven. In that same country there was a heaven in which love
had placed all the glory I could desire; such was the beauty of
Luscinda, a damsel as noble and as rich as I, but of happier for-
tunes, and of less firmness than was due to so worthy a passion
as mine. This Luscinda I loved, worshipped, and adored from
my earliest and tenderest years, and she loved me in all the in-
nocence and sincerity of childhood. Our parents were aware of
our feelings, and were not sorry to perceive them, for they saw
clearly that as they ripened they must lead at last to a mar-
riage between us, a thing that seemed almost prearranged by
the equality of our families and wealth. We grew up, and with
our growth grew the love between us, so that the father of
Luscinda felt bound for propriety's sake to refuse me admission
to his house, in this perhaps imitating the parents of that
Thisbe so celebrated by the poets, and this refusal but added
love to love and flame to flame; for though they enforced si-
lence upon our tongues they could not impose it upon our
pens, which can make known the heart's secrets to a loved one
more freely than tongues; for many a time the presence of the
object of love shakes the firmest will and strikes dumb the
boldest tongue. Ah heavens! how many letters did I write her,
and how many dainty modest replies did I receive! how many
ditties and love-songs did I compose in which my heart de-
clared and made known its feelings, described its ardent long-
ings, revelled in its recollections and dallied with its desires! At
length growing impatient and feeling my heart languishing
with longing to see her, I resolved to put into execution and
carry out what seemed to me the best mode of winning my de-
sired and merited reward, to ask her of her father for my law-
ful wife, which I did. To this his answer was that he thanked
me for the disposition I showed to do honour to him and to re-
gard myself as honoured by the bestowal of his treasure; but
that as my father was alive it was his by right to make this de-
mand, for if it were not in accordance with his full will and
pleasure, Luscinda was not to be taken or given by stealth. I
thanked him for his kindness, reflecting that there was reason
in what he said, and that my father would assent to it as soon
as I should tell him, and with that view I went the very same

196
instant to let him know what my desires were. When I entered
the room where he was I found him with an open letter in his
hand, which, before I could utter a word, he gave me, saying,
'By this letter thou wilt see, Cardenio, the disposition the Duke
Ricardo has to serve thee.' This Duke Ricardo, as you, sirs,
probably know already, is a grandee of Spain who has his seat
in the best part of this Andalusia. I took and read the letter,
which was couched in terms so flattering that even I myself felt
it would be wrong in my father not to comply with the request
the duke made in it, which was that he would send me immedi-
ately to him, as he wished me to become the companion, not
servant, of his eldest son, and would take upon himself the
charge of placing me in a position corresponding to the esteem
in which he held me. On reading the letter my voice failed me,
and still more when I heard my father say, 'Two days hence
thou wilt depart, Cardenio, in accordance with the duke's wish,
and give thanks to God who is opening a road to thee by which
thou mayest attain what I know thou dost deserve; and to these
words he added others of fatherly counsel. The time for my de-
parture arrived; I spoke one night to Luscinda, I told her all
that had occurred, as I did also to her father, entreating him to
allow some delay, and to defer the disposal of her hand until I
should see what the Duke Ricardo sought of me: he gave me
the promise, and she confirmed it with vows and swoonings un-
numbered. Finally, I presented myself to the duke, and was re-
ceived and treated by him so kindly that very soon envy began
to do its work, the old servants growing envious of me, and re-
garding the duke's inclination to show me favour as an injury
to themselves. But the one to whom my arrival gave the
greatest pleasure was the duke's second son, Fernando by
name, a gallant youth, of noble, generous, and amorous dispos-
ition, who very soon made so intimate a friend of me that it
was remarked by everybody; for though the elder was attached
to me, and showed me kindness, he did not carry his affection-
ate treatment to the same length as Don Fernando. It so
happened, then, that as between friends no secret remains un-
shared, and as the favour I enjoyed with Don Fernando had
grown into friendship, he made all his thoughts known to me,
and in particular a love affair which troubled his mind a little.
He was deeply in love with a peasant girl, a vassal of his

197
father's, the daughter of wealthy parents, and herself so beau-
tiful, modest, discreet, and virtuous, that no one who knew her
was able to decide in which of these respects she was most
highly gifted or most excelled. The attractions of the fair peas-
ant raised the passion of Don Fernando to such a point that, in
order to gain his object and overcome her virtuous resolutions,
he determined to pledge his word to her to become her hus-
band, for to attempt it in any other way was to attempt an im-
possibility. Bound to him as I was by friendship, I strove by the
best arguments and the most forcible examples I could think of
to restrain and dissuade him from such a course; but perceiv-
ing I produced no effect I resolved to make the Duke Ricardo,
his father, acquainted with the matter; but Don Fernando,
being sharp-witted and shrewd, foresaw and apprehended this,
perceiving that by my duty as a good servant I was bound not
to keep concealed a thing so much opposed to the honour of
my lord the duke; and so, to mislead and deceive me, he told
me he could find no better way of effacing from his mind the
beauty that so enslaved him than by absenting himself for
some months, and that he wished the absence to be effected by
our going, both of us, to my father's house under the pretence,
which he would make to the duke, of going to see and buy
some fine horses that there were in my city, which produces
the best in the world. When I heard him say so, even if his res-
olution had not been so good a one I should have hailed it as
one of the happiest that could be imagined, prompted by my af-
fection, seeing what a favourable chance and opportunity it
offered me of returning to see my Luscinda. With this thought
and wish I commended his idea and encouraged his design, ad-
vising him to put it into execution as quickly as possible, as, in
truth, absence produced its effect in spite of the most deeply
rooted feelings. But, as afterwards appeared, when he said this
to me he had already enjoyed the peasant girl under the title of
husband, and was waiting for an opportunity of making it
known with safety to himself, being in dread of what his father
the duke would do when he came to know of his folly. It
happened, then, that as with young men love is for the most
part nothing more than appetite, which, as its final object is en-
joyment, comes to an end on obtaining it, and that which
seemed to be love takes to flight, as it cannot pass the limit

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fixed by nature, which fixes no limit to true love—what I mean
is that after Don Fernando had enjoyed this peasant girl his
passion subsided and his eagerness cooled, and if at first he
feigned a wish to absent himself in order to cure his love, he
was now in reality anxious to go to avoid keeping his promise.
"The duke gave him permission, and ordered me to accom-
pany him; we arrived at my city, and my father gave him the
reception due to his rank; I saw Luscinda without delay, and,
though it had not been dead or deadened, my love gathered
fresh life. To my sorrow I told the story of it to Don Fernando,
for I thought that in virtue of the great friendship he bore me I
was bound to conceal nothing from him. I extolled her beauty,
her gaiety, her wit, so warmly, that my praises excited in him a
desire to see a damsel adorned by such attractions. To my mis-
fortune I yielded to it, showing her to him one night by the
light of a taper at a window where we used to talk to one an-
other. As she appeared to him in her dressing-gown, she drove
all the beauties he had seen until then out of his recollection;
speech failed him, his head turned, he was spell-bound, and in
the end love-smitten, as you will see in the course of the story
of my misfortune; and to inflame still further his passion, which
he hid from me and revealed to Heaven alone, it so happened
that one day he found a note of hers entreating me to demand
her of her father in marriage, so delicate, so modest, and so
tender, that on reading it he told me that in Luscinda alone
were combined all the charms of beauty and understanding
that were distributed among all the other women in the world.
It is true, and I own it now, that though I knew what good
cause Don Fernando had to praise Luscinda, it gave me uneasi-
ness to hear these praises from his mouth, and I began to fear,
and with reason to feel distrust of him, for there was no mo-
ment when he was not ready to talk of Luscinda, and he would
start the subject himself even though he dragged it in un-
seasonably, a circumstance that aroused in me a certain
amount of jealousy; not that I feared any change in the con-
stancy or faith of Luscinda; but still my fate led me to forebode
what she assured me against. Don Fernando contrived always
to read the letters I sent to Luscinda and her answers to me,
under the pretence that he enjoyed the wit and sense of both.
It so happened, then, that Luscinda having begged of me a

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book of chivalry to read, one that she was very fond of, Amadis
of Gaul-"
Don Quixote no sooner heard a book of chivalry mentioned,
than he said:
"Had your worship told me at the beginning of your story
that the Lady Luscinda was fond of books of chivalry, no other
laudation would have been requisite to impress upon me the
superiority of her understanding, for it could not have been of
the excellence you describe had a taste for such delightful
reading been wanting; so, as far as I am concerned, you need
waste no more words in describing her beauty, worth, and in-
telligence; for, on merely hearing what her taste was, I declare
her to be the most beautiful and the most intelligent woman in
the world; and I wish your worship had, along with Amadis of
Gaul, sent her the worthy Don Rugel of Greece, for I know the
Lady Luscinda would greatly relish Daraida and Garaya, and
the shrewd sayings of the shepherd Darinel, and the admirable
verses of his bucolics, sung and delivered by him with such
sprightliness, wit, and ease; but a time may come when this
omission can be remedied, and to rectify it nothing more is
needed than for your worship to be so good as to come with me
to my village, for there I can give you more than three hundred
books which are the delight of my soul and the entertainment
of my life;—though it occurs to me that I have not got one of
them now, thanks to the spite of wicked and envious en-
chanters;—but pardon me for having broken the promise we
made not to interrupt your discourse; for when I hear chivalry
or knights-errant mentioned, I can no more help talking about
them than the rays of the sun can help giving heat, or those of
the moon moisture; pardon me, therefore, and proceed, for
that is more to the purpose now."
While Don Quixote was saying this, Cardenio allowed his
head to fall upon his breast, and seemed plunged in deep
thought; and though twice Don Quixote bade him go on with
his story, he neither looked up nor uttered a word in reply; but
after some time he raised his head and said, "I cannot get rid
of the idea, nor will anyone in the world remove it, or make me
think otherwise—and he would be a blockhead who would hold
or believe anything else than that that arrant knave Master El-
isabad made free with Queen Madasima."

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 "That is not true, by all that's good," said Don Quixote in high
wrath, turning upon him angrily, as his way was; "and it is a
very great slander, or rather villainy. Queen Madasima was a
very illustrious lady, and it is not to be supposed that so exal-
ted a princess would have made free with a quack; and who-
ever maintains the contrary lies like a great scoundrel, and I
will give him to know it, on foot or on horseback, armed or un-
armed, by night or by day, or as he likes best."
Cardenio was looking at him steadily, and his mad fit having
now come upon him, he had no disposition to go on with his
story, nor would Don Quixote have listened to it, so much had
what he had heard about Madasima disgusted him. Strange to
say, he stood up for her as if she were in earnest his veritable
born lady; to such a pass had his unholy books brought him.
Cardenio, then, being, as I said, now mad, when he heard him-
self given the lie, and called a scoundrel and other insulting
names, not relishing the jest, snatched up a stone that he
found near him, and with it delivered such a blow on Don
Quixote's breast that he laid him on his back. Sancho Panza,
seeing his master treated in this fashion, attacked the madman
with his closed fist; but the Ragged One received him in such a
way that with a blow of his fist he stretched him at his feet,
and then mounting upon him crushed his ribs to his own satis-
faction; the goatherd, who came to the rescue, shared the
same fate; and having beaten and pummelled them all he left
them and quietly withdrew to his hiding-place on the mountain.
Sancho rose, and with the rage he felt at finding himself so be-
laboured without deserving it, ran to take vengeance on the
goatherd, accusing him of not giving them warning that this
man was at times taken with a mad fit, for if they had known it
they would have been on their guard to protect themselves.
The goatherd replied that he had said so, and that if he had not
heard him, that was no fault of his. Sancho retorted, and the
goatherd rejoined, and the altercation ended in their seizing
each other by the beard, and exchanging such fisticuffs that if
Don Quixote had not made peace between them, they would
have knocked one another to pieces.
"Leave me alone, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance," said
Sancho, grappling with the goatherd, "for of this fellow, who is
a clown like myself, and no dubbed knight, I can safely take

201
satisfaction for the affront he has offered me, fighting with him
hand to hand like an honest man."
"That is true," said Don Quixote, "but I know that he is not to
blame for what has happened."
With this he pacified them, and again asked the goatherd if it
would be possible to find Cardenio, as he felt the greatest anxi-
ety to know the end of his story. The goatherd told him, as he
had told him before, that there was no knowing of a certainty
where his lair was; but that if he wandered about much in that
neighbourhood he could not fail to fall in with him either in or
out of his senses.

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Chapter 25
Which treats of the strange things that happened to the
stout knight of la Mancha in the Sierra Morena, and of
his imitation of the penance of Beltenebros
Don Quixote took leave of the goatherd, and once more
mounting Rocinante bade Sancho follow him, which he having
no ass, did very discontentedly. They proceeded slowly, making
their way into the most rugged part of the mountain, Sancho
all the while dying to have a talk with his master, and longing
for him to begin, so that there should be no breach of the in-
junction laid upon him; but unable to keep silence so long he
said to him:
"Senor Don Quixote, give me your worship's blessing and dis-
missal, for I'd like to go home at once to my wife and children
with whom I can at any rate talk and converse as much as I
like; for to want me to go through these solitudes day and
night and not speak to you when I have a mind is burying me
alive. If luck would have it that animals spoke as they did in the
days of Guisopete, it would not be so bad, because I could talk
to Rocinante about whatever came into my head, and so put up
with my ill-fortune; but it is a hard case, and not to be borne
with patience, to go seeking adventures all one's life and get
nothing but kicks and blanketings, brickbats and punches, and
with all this to have to sew up one's mouth without daring to
say what is in one's heart, just as if one were dumb."
"I understand thee, Sancho," replied Don Quixote; "thou art
dying to have the interdict I placed upon thy tongue removed;
consider it removed, and say what thou wilt while we are wan-
dering in these mountains."
"So be it," said Sancho; "let me speak now, for God knows
what will happen by-and-by; and to take advantage of the per-
mit at once, I ask, what made your worship stand up so for that
Queen Majimasa, or whatever her name is, or what did it

203
matter whether that abbot was a friend of hers or not? for if
your worship had let that pass—and you were not a judge in
the matter—it is my belief the madman would have gone on
with his story, and the blow of the stone, and the kicks, and
more than half a dozen cuffs would have been escaped."
"In faith, Sancho," answered Don Quixote, "if thou knewest
as I do what an honourable and illustrious lady Queen Ma-
dasima was, I know thou wouldst say I had great patience that
I did not break in pieces the mouth that uttered such blas-
phemies, for a very great blasphemy it is to say or imagine that
a queen has made free with a surgeon. The truth of the story is
that that Master Elisabad whom the madman mentioned was a
man of great prudence and sound judgment, and served as
governor and physician to the queen, but to suppose that she
was his mistress is nonsense deserving very severe punish-
ment; and as a proof that Cardenio did not know what he was
saying, remember when he said it he was out of his wits."
"That is what I say," said Sancho; "there was no occasion for
minding the words of a madman; for if good luck had not
helped your worship, and he had sent that stone at your head
instead of at your breast, a fine way we should have been in for
standing up for my lady yonder, God confound her! And then,
would not Cardenio have gone free as a madman?"
"Against men in their senses or against madmen," said Don
Quixote, "every knight-errant is bound to stand up for the hon-
our of women, whoever they may be, much more for queens of
such high degree and dignity as Queen Madasima, for whom I
have a particular regard on account of her amiable qualities;
for, besides being extremely beautiful, she was very wise, and
very patient under her misfortunes, of which she had many;
and the counsel and society of the Master Elisabad were a
great help and support to her in enduring her afflictions with
wisdom and resignation; hence the ignorant and ill-disposed
vulgar took occasion to say and think that she was his mistress;
and they lie, I say it once more, and will lie two hundred times
more, all who think and say so."
"I neither say nor think so," said Sancho; "let them look to it;
with their bread let them eat it; they have rendered account to
God whether they misbehaved or not; I come from my vine-
yard, I know nothing; I am not fond of prying into other men's

204
lives; he who buys and lies feels it in his purse; moreover, na-
ked was I born, naked I find myself, I neither lose nor gain; but
if they did, what is that to me? many think there are flitches
where there are no hooks; but who can put gates to the open
plain? moreover they said of God-"
"God bless me," said Don Quixote, "what a set of absurdities
thou art stringing together! What has what we are talking
about got to do with the proverbs thou art threading one after
the other? for God's sake hold thy tongue, Sancho, and hence-
forward keep to prodding thy ass and don't meddle in what
does not concern thee; and understand with all thy five senses
that everything I have done, am doing, or shall do, is well foun-
ded on reason and in conformity with the rules of chivalry, for I
understand them better than all the world that profess them."
"Senor," replied Sancho, "is it a good rule of chivalry that we
should go astray through these mountains without path or
road, looking for a madman who when he is found will perhaps
take a fancy to finish what he began, not his story, but your
worship's head and my ribs, and end by breaking them alto-
gether for us?"
"Peace, I say again, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for let me
tell thee it is not so much the desire of finding that madman
that leads me into these regions as that which I have of per-
forming among them an achievement wherewith I shall win
eternal name and fame throughout the known world; and it
shall be such that I shall thereby set the seal on all that can
make a knight-errant perfect and famous."
"And is it very perilous, this achievement?"
"No," replied he of the Rueful Countenance; "though it may
be in the dice that we may throw deuce-ace instead of sixes;
but all will depend on thy diligence."
"On my diligence!" said Sancho.
"Yes," said Don Quixote, "for if thou dost return soon from
the place where I mean to send thee, my penance will be soon
over, and my glory will soon begin. But as it is not right to keep
thee any longer in suspense, waiting to see what comes of my
words, I would have thee know, Sancho, that the famous
Amadis of Gaul was one of the most perfect knights-errant—I
am wrong to say he was one; he stood alone, the first, the only
one, the lord of all that were in the world in his time. A fig for