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Vol 14: The Classics
THE FIRST PART OF
THE DELIGHTFUL HISTORY OF THE
MOST INGENIOUS KNIGHT
DON QUIXOTE OF THE MANCHA
BY MIGUEL DE CERVANTES
TRANSLATED BY THOMAS SHELTON
WITH INTRODUCTIONS AND NOTES
VOLUME 14
P F COLLIER Gf SON
NEW YORK
Copyright, 1909
By P. F. Collier & Son
Designed, Prinlcd, and Bound at
'Cfje Collier Prefifi, J@eba gorfe
CONTENTS
PAGE
Sonnets 15
THE FIRST PART
Chapter I 19
Chapter II • 25
Chapter III 32
Chapter IV 39
Chapter V 46
Chapter VI 51
Chapter VII 59
Chapter VIII 65
THE SECOND BOOK
Chapter I 73
Chapter II 79
Chapter III 85
Chapter IV 92
Chapter V 99
Chapter VI 109
THE THIRD BOOK
Chapter I 119
Chapter II 127
Chapter III 135
Chapter IV 144
Chapter V 154
Chapter VI 162
Chapter VII ^, 175
Chapter VIII 1S7
ITC XIV — I
2 CONTENTS
PAGE
Chapter IX 198
Chapter X 211
Chapter XI 221
Chapter XII 238
Chapter XIII 247
THE FOURTH BOOK
Chapter I 266
Chapter II 282
Chapter III 295
Chapter IV 306
Chapter V .316
Chapter VI 323
Chapter VII 344
Chapter VIII 364
Chapter IX 374
Chapter X 385
Chapter XI 396
Chapter XII 4°!
Chapter XIII 410
Chapter XIV 424
Chapter XV 445
Chapter XVI 453
Chapter XVII 464
Chapter XVIII 473
Chapter XIX 482
Chapter XX 49^
Chapter XXI 502
Chapter XXII 5io
Chapter XXIII 5i8
Chapter XXIV 5*5
Chapter XXV 53i
Epitaphs and Eulogies 540
GlOSSAEY S4*
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra was born at Alcald de Henares
in Spain in 1547, of a noble Castilian family. Nothing is certainly
known of his education, but by the age of twenty-three we find
him serving in the army as a private soldier. He was maimed for
life at the battle of Lepanto, shared in a number of other
engagements, and was taken captive by the Moors on his way
home in 1575. After five years of slavery he was ransomed;
and two or three yearns later he returned to 'Spain, and betook
himself to the profession of letters. From youth he had practised
the writing of verse, and now he turned to the production of
plays; but, failing of financial success, he obtained an employment
in the Government offices, which he held till 1597, when he was
imprisoned for a shortage in his accounts due to the dishonesty
of an associate. The imprisonment on this occasion lasted only
till the end of the year, and after a period of obscurity he issued,
in 1605, his masterpiece, "Don Quixote." Its success was great
and immediate, and its reputation soon spread beyond Spain.
Translations of parts into French appeared; and in 1611 Thomas
Shelton, an Englishman otherwise unknown, put forth the present
version, in style and vitality, if not in accuracy, acknowledged
the most fortunate of English renderings.
The present volume contains the whole of the first part of
the novel, which is complete in itself. The second part, issued
in 1615, the year before his death, is of the nature of a sequel,
and is generally regarded as inferior.
In writing his great novel, Cervantes set out to parody the
romances of chivalry, the chief of which will be found in the
description of Don Quixote's library in the sixth chapter of the
first book. But, as in the somezvhat parallel case of Fielding and
"Joseph Andrews," the hero got the better of his creator's pur-
pose, and the work passed far beyond the limits of a mere bur-
lesque. Yet the original purpose was accomplished. The liter-
ature of Knight Errantry, which Church and State had sought
without success to check, was crushed by Cervantes with this
single blow.
But the importance of this greatest of novels is not merely,
or mainly, that it put an end to an extravagant and outworn form
3
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
of fiction. Loose in structure and uneven in workmanship, it
remains unsurpassed as a masterpiece of droll humor, as a picture
of Spanish life, as a gallery of immortal portraits. It has in the
highest degree the mark of all great art, the Successful combina-
tion of the particular and the universal: it is true to the life of
the country and age of its production, and true also to general
human nature everywhere and always. With reference to the
fiction of the Middle Ages, it is a triumphant satire; with refer-
ence to modern novels, it is the first and the most widely enjoyed.
In its author's words: "It is so conspicuous and void of difficulty
that children may handle him, youths may read him, men may
understand him, and old men may celebrate him."
To the Right Honourable His Very Good Lord,
The Lord of Walden, etc.
Mine Honourable Lord, —
Having translated, some five or six years ago, the History of
Don Quixote, out of the Spanish tongue into English, in the
space of forty days, — being thereunto more than half enforced
through the importunity of a very dear friend that was desirous
to understand the subject, — after I had given him once a view
thereof, I cast it aside, where it lay long time neglected in a
corner, and so little regarded by me, as I never once set hand to
review or correct the same. Since when, at the entreaty of others
my friends, I was content to let it come to light, conditionally
that some one or other would peruse and amend the errors
escaped, my many affairs hindering me from undergoing that
labour. Now, I understand by the printer that the copy was
presented to your Honour, which did, at the first, somewhat
disgust me; because, as it must pass, I fear much it will prove
far unworthy either of your noble view or protection. Yet
since it is mine, though abortive, I do humbly entreat that your
Honour will lend it a favourable countenance, thereby to animate
the parent thereof to produce in time some worthier subject, in
your honourable name, whose many rare virtues have already
rendered me so highly devoted to your service, as I will some
day give very evident tokens of the same; and till then I rest, —
Your Honour's most affectionate Servitor,
Thomas Shelton.
THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE
TO THE READER
THOU mayst believe me, gentle reader, without swearing,
that I could willingly desire this book (as a child of
my understanding) to be the most beautiful, gallant,
and discreet that might possibly be imagined; but I could
not transgress the order of nature, wherein everything begets
his like, which being so, what could my sterile and ill-tilled
wit engender but the history of a dry-toasted and humorous
son, full of various thoughts and conceits never before im-
agined of any other; much like one who was engendered
within some noisome prison, where all discommodities have
taken possession, and all doleful noises made their habitation,
seeing that rest, pleasant places, amenity of the fields, the cheer-
fulness of clear sky, the murmuring noise of the crystal foun-
tains, and the quiet repose of the spirit are great helps for the
most barren Muses to show themselves fruitful, and to bring
into the world such births as may enrich it with admiration and
delight? It ofttimes befalls that a father hath a child both by
birth evil-favoured and quite devoid of all perfection, and yet
the love that he bears him is such as it casts a mask over his
eyes, which hinders his discerning of the faults and simplicities
thereof, and makes him rather deem them discretions and
beauty, and so tells them to his friends for witty jests and con-
ceits. But I, though in show a father, yet in truth but a step-
father to Don Quixote, will not be borne away by the violent
current of the modern custom nowadays, and therefore entreat
thee, with the tears almost in mine eyes, as many others are
wont to do, most dear reader, to pardon and dissemble the
faults which thou shalt discern in this my son; for thou art
neither his kinsman nor friend, and thou hast thy soul in thy
body, and thy free-will therein as absolute as the best, and
thou art in thine own house, wherein thou art as absolute a
7
8 AUTHOR'S PREFACE
lord as the king is of his subsidies, and thou knowest well
the common proverb, that 'under my cloak a fig for the king,'
all which doth exempt thee and makes thee free from all respect
and obligation; and so thou mayst boldly say of this history
whatsoever thou shalt think good, without fear either to be
controlled for the evil or rewarded for the good that thou
shalt speak thereof.
I would very fain have presented it unto thee pure and
naked, without the ornament of a preface, or the rabblement
and catalogue of the wonted sonnets, epigrams, poems, elegies,
etc., which are wont to be put at the beginning of books. For
I dare say unto thee that, although it cost me some pains to
compose it, yet in no respect did it equalise that which I took
to make this preface which thou dost now read. I took, often-
times, my pen in my hand to write it, and as often set it down
again, as not knowing what I should write ; and being once
in a muse, with my paper before me, my pen in mine ear, mine
elbow on the table, and mine hand on my cheek, imagining what
I might write, there entered a friend of mine unexpectedly, who
was a very discreet and pleasantly-witted man, who, seeing me
so pensative, demanded of me the reason of my musing; and,
not concealing it from him, said that I bethought myself on
my preface I was to make to Don Quixote's history, which did
so much trouble me as I neither meant to make any at all, nor
publish the history of the acts of so noble a knight. 'For how
can I choose,' quoth I, 'but be much confounded at that which
the old legislator (the vulgar) will say, when it sees that, after
the end of so many years as are spent since I first slept in the
bosom of oblivion, I come out loaden with my grey hairs, and
bring with me a book as dry as a kex, void of invention, barren of
good phrase, poor of conceits, and altogether empty both of
learning and eloquence; without quotations on the margents, or
annotations in the end of the book, wherewith I see other books
are still adorned, be they never so idle, fabulous, and profane ;
so full of sentences of Aristotle and Plato, and the other crew
of the philosophers, as admires the readers, and makes them
believe that these authors are very learned and eloquent? And
after, when they cite Plutarch or Cicero, what can they say,
but that they are the sayings of St. Thomas, or other doctors of
the Church; observing herein so ingenious a method as in one
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 9
line they will paint you an enamoured gull, and in the other
will lay you down a little seeming devout sermon, so that it is a
great pleasure and delight to read or hear it? All which things
must be wanting in my book, for neither have I anything to cite
on the margent, or note in the end, and much less do I know
what authors I follow, to put them at the beginning, as the
custom is, by the letter of the ABC, beginning with Aristotle,
and ending in Xenophon, or in Zoilus or Zeuxis, although the
one was a railer and the other a painter. So likewise shall my
book want sonnets at the beginning, at least such sonnets whose
authors be dukes, marquises, earls, bishops, ladies, or famous
poets ; although, if I would demand them of two or three
artificers of mine acquaintance, I know they would make me
some such as those of the most renowned in Spain would in no
wise be able to equal or compare with them.
'Finally, good sir, and my very dear friend,' quoth I, 'I do
resolve that Sir Don Quixote remain entombed among the old
records of the Mancha, until Heaven ordain some one to adorn
him with the many graces that are yet wanting; for I find
myself wholly unable to remedy them, through mine insufficiency
and little learning, and also because I am naturally lazy and
unwilling to go searching for authors to say that which I can
say well enough without them. And hence proceeded the per-
plexity and ecstasy wherein you found me plunged.'
My friend hearing that, and striking himself on the forehead,
after a long and loud laughter, said : 'In good faith, friend, I
have now at last delivered myself of a long and intricate error,
wherewith I was possessed all the time of our acquaintance; for
hitherto I accounted thee ever to be discreet and prudent in all
thy actions, but now I see plainly that thou art as far from
that I took thee to be as heaven is from the earth. How is it
possible that things of so small moment, and so easy to be
redressed, can have force to suspend and swallow up so ripe a
wit as yours hath seemed to be, and so fitted to break up and
trample over the greatest difficulties that can be propounded?
This proceeds not, in good sooth, from defect of will, but from
superfluity of sloth and penury of discourse. Wilt thou see
whether that I say be true or no? Listen, then, attentively
awhile, and thou shalt perceive how, in the twinkling of an eye,
I will confound all the difficulties and supply all the wants which
10 AUTHOR'S PREFACE
do suspend and affright thee from publishing to the world the
history of thy famous Don Quixote, the light and mirror of all
knighthood-errant.'
'Say, I pray thee,' quoth I, hearing what he had said, 'after
what manner dost thou think to replenish the vacuity of my fear,
and reduce the chaos of my confusion to any clearness and light?'
And he replied: 'The first thing whereat thou stoppedst — of
sonnets, epigrams, eclogues, etc., (which are wanting for the
beginning, and ought to be written by grave and noble persons) —
may be remedied, if thou thyself wilt but take a little pains to
compass them, and thou mayst after name them as thou pleasest,
and father them on Prester John of the Indians or the Emperor
of Trapisonde, whom, I know, were held to be famous poets;
and suppose they were not, but that some pedants and pre-
sumptuous fellows would backbite thee, and murmur against
this truth, thou needest not weigh them two straws ; for, although
they could prove it to be an untruth, yet cannot they cut oflf thy
hand for it.
'As touching citations in the margent, and authors out of
whom thou mayst collect sentences and sayings to insert in thy
history, there is nothing else to- be done but to bob into it some
Latin sentences that thou knowest already by rote, or mayst get
easily with a little labour; as, for example, when thou treatest of
liberty and thraldom, thou mayst cite that, "Non bene pro toto
libertas venditur auro"; and presently quote Horace, or he
whosoever else that said it, on the margent. If thou sho'uldest
speak of the power of death, have presently recourse to that of
"Pallida mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas, regumque
turres." If of the instability of friends, thou hast at hand Cato
freely offering his distichon, "Donee eris foelix multos numerabis
amicos; Tempora si fuerint nubila, solus eris." If of riches,
"Quantum quisque sua nummorum servat in area, tantum habet
et fidei." If of love, "Hei mihi quod nullis amor est medicabilis
herbis !" And so, with these Latin authorities and other such-
like, they will at least account thee a good grammarian, and
the being of such an one is of no little honour and profit in this
our age. As touching the addition of annotations in the end of
thy book, thou mayst boldly observe this course : If thou namest
any giant in thy book, procure that it be the Giant Goliah ; and
with this alone (which almost will cost thee nothing), thou hast
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 11
gotten a fair annotation; for thou mayst say, "The Giant Golias
or Goliat was a Philistine, whom the shepherd David slew with
the blow of a stone in the Vale of Terebintho, as is recounted
in the Book of Kings, in the chapter wherein thou shalt find it
written."
'After all this, to show that thou art learned in human letters,
and a cosmographer, take some occasion to make mention of the
River Tagus, and thou shalt presently find thyself stored with
another notable notation, saying, "The River Tagus was so called
of a King of Spain ; it takes its beginning from such a place, and
dies in the ocean seas, kissing first the walls of the famous City
of Lisbon, and some are of opinion that the sands thereof are
of gold, etc." If thou wilt treat of thieves, I will recite the
history of Cacus to thee, for I know it by memory ; if of whores
or courtezans, there thou hast the Bishop of Mondonnedo, who
will lend thee Lamia, Layda, and Flora, whose annotation will
gain thee no small credit; if of cruel persons, Ovid will tender
Medea; if of enchanters or witches. Homer hath Calypso, and
Virgil Circe ; if of valorous captains, Julius Caesar shall lend him-
self in his Commentaries to thee, and Plutarch shall give thee a
thousand Alexanders. If thou dost treat of love, and hast but
two ounces of the Tuscan language, thou shalt encounter with
Lion the Hebrew, who will replenish thy vessels with store in
that kind ; but, if thou wilt not travel for it into strange countries,
thou hast here at home in thy house Fonseca vf the Love of God,
wherein is deciphered all that either thou or the most ingenious
capacity can desire to learn of that subject. In conclusion, there
is nothing else to be done, but that thou only endeavour to name
those names, or to touch those histories, in thine own, which I
have here related, and leave the adding of annotations and
citations unto me; for I do promise thee that I will both fill up
the margent, and also spend four or five sheets of advantage at
the end of the book.
'Now let us come to the citation of authors, which other books
have, and thine wanteth ; the remedy hereof is very easy ; for
thou needst do nought else but seek out a book that doth quote
them all from the letter A until Z, as thou saidst thyself but even
now, and thou shalt set that very same alphabet to thine own
book; for, although the little necessity that thou hadst to use
their assistance in thy work will presently convict thee of false-
12 AUTHOR'S PREFACE
hood, it makes no matter, and perhaps there may not a few be
found so simple as to believe that thou hast holp thyself in the
narration of thy most simple and sincere history with all their
authorities. And, though that large catalogue of authors do
serve to none other purpose, yet w^ill it, at least, give some
authority to the book, at the first blush ; and the rather, because
none will be so mad as to stand to examine whether thou dost
follow them or no, seeing they can gain nothing by the matter.
Vet, if I do not err in the consideration of so weighty an affair,
this book of thine needs none of all these things, forasmuch as
it is only an invective against books of knighthood, a subject
whereof Aristotle never dreamed, St. Basil said nothing, Cicero
never heard any word ; nor do the punctualities of truth, nor
observations of astrology, fall within the sphere of such fabulous
jestings ; nor do geometrical dimensions impart it anything, nor
the confutation of arguments usurped by rhetoric ; nor ought it
to preach unto any the mixture of holy matters with profane (a
motley wherewith no Christian well should be attired), only it
hath need to help itself with imitation; for, by how much the
more it shall excel therein, by so much the more will the work
be esteemed. And, since that thy labour doth aim at no more
than to diminish the authority and acceptance that books of
chivalry have in the world, and among the vulgar, there is no
reason w y thou shouldest go begging of sentences from philoso-
phers, fablea from poets, orations from rhetoricians, or miracles
from the .aints, but only endeavour to deliver with significant,
plain, honest, and well-ordered words, thy jovial and cheerful
discourse, xpressing as near as thou mayst possibly thy intention,
making thy conceits clear, and not intricate or dark; and labour
also that the melancholy man, by the reading thereof, may be
urged to laughter, the pleasant disposition increased, the simple
not cloyed; and that the judicious may admire thy invention, the
grave not despise it, the prudent applaud it. In conclusion, let
thy project be to overthrow the ill-compiled machina and bulk
of those knightly books, abhorred by many, but applauded by
more; for, if thou bring this to pass, thou hast not achieved a
small matter.'
I listened with very great attention to my friend's speech;
and his reasons are so firmly imprinted in my mind, as, without
making any reply unto them, I approved them all for good, and
AUTHOR'S PREFACE 13
framed my preface of them, wherein, sweet reader, thou mayst
perceive my friend's discretion, my happiness to meet with so
good a counsellor at such a pinch, and thine own ease in finding
so plainly and sincerely related The History of the famous Don
Quixote of the Mane ha, of whom it is the common opinion of all
the inhabitants bordering on the field of Montiel that he was the
most chaste, enomoured, and valiant knight that hath been seen,
read, or heard of these many ages. I will not endear the benefit
and service I have done thee, by making thee acquainted with
so noble and honourable a knight, but only do desire that thou
gratify me for the notice of the famous Sancho Panza, his squire,
in whom, in mine opinion, are deciphered all the squire-like
graces dispersed throughout the vain rout of knightly books.
And herewithal, I bid thee farewell, and do not forget me. Vale.
SONNETS
CERTAIN SONNETS, WRITTEN BY KNIGHTS-ERRANT,
LADIES, SQUIRES, AND HORSES, IN THE PRAISE OF
DON QUIXOTE, HIS DAME, HIS SQUIRE AND STEED
Amadis of Gaule, in Praise of Don Quixote.
Thou that my doleful life didst imitate.
When, absent and disdained, it befell.
Devoid of joy, I a repentant state
Did lead, and on the Poor Rock's top did dwell;
Thou, that the streams so often from thine eyes
Didst suck of scalding tears' disgustful brine ;
And, without pewter, copper, plate likewise.
Wast on the bare earth oft constrain'd to dine, —
Live of one thing secure eternally,
That whilst bright Phoebus shall his horses spur
Through the fourth sphere's dilated monarchy.
Thy name shall be renowned, near and fur ;
And as, 'mongst countries, thine is best alone,
So shall thine author peers on earth have none.
Don Belianis of Greece to Don Quixote of the Mancha.
I TORE, I hackt, abolish'd, said and did.
More than knight-errant else on earth hath done :
I, dexterous, valiant, and so stout beside.
Have thousand wrongs reveng'd, millions undone.
I have done acts that my fame eternise,
In love I courteous and so peerless was :
Giants, as if but dwarfs, I did despise;
And yet no time of love-plaints I let pass.
I have held fortune prostrate at my feet.
And by my wit seiz'd on Occasion's top,
Whose wandering steps I led where I thought meet;
And though beyond the moon my soaring hope
Did crown my hap with all felicity,
Yet, great Quixote, io I still envy thee.
15
16 SONNETS
The Knight of the Sun, Alphebo, to Don Quixote.
My sword could not at all compare with thine,
Spanish Alphebo ! full of courtesy;
Nor thine arm's valour can be match'd by mine,
Though I was fear'd where days both spring and die.
Empires I scorn'd, and the vast monarchy
Of th' Orient ruddy (offer'd me in vain),
I left, that I the sovereign face might see
Of my Aurora, fair Claridiane,
Whom, as by miracle, I surely lov'd :
So banish'd by disgrace, even very hell
Quak'd at mine arm, that did his fury tame.
But thou, illustrious Goth, Quixote ! hast prov'd
Thy valour, for Dulcinea's sake, so well
As both on earth have gain'd eternal fame.
Orlando Furioso, Peer of France, to Don Quixote of the
Mancha.
Though thou art not a peer, thou hast no peer,
Who mightst among ten thousand peers be one ;
Nor shalt thou never any peer have here,
Who, ever-conquering, vanquish'd was of none.
Quixote, I'm Orlando ! that, cast away
For fair Angelica, cross'd remotest seas,
And did such trophies on Fame's altar lay
As pass oblivion's reach many degrees.
Nor can I be thy peer ; for peerlessness
Is to thy prowess due and great renown,
Although I lost, as well as thou, my wit ;
Yet mine thou may'st be, if thy good success
Make thee the proud Moor tame, [achieve] that crown,
Us equals in disgrace and loving fit.
SoLis Dan to Don Quixote of the Mancha.
Maugre the ravings that are set abroach.
And rumble up and down thy troubled brain.
Yet none thine acts, Don Quixote, can reproach,
Or thy proceedings tax as vile or vain.
Thy feats shall be thy fairest ornament
(Seeing wrongs t'undo thou goest thus about).
Although with blows a thousand time y-shent
Thou wert well-nigh, yea, even by the miscreant rout.
And if thy fair Dulcinea shall wrong
By misrcgard thy fiirer expectation.
SONNETS 17
And to thy cares will lend no listening ear,
Then let this comfort all thy woes outwear, —
That Sancho fail'd in broker's occupation :
He, foolish; cruel, she; thou, without tongue.
The Princess Oriana of Great Britain to Lady
dulcinea del toboso.
Happy those which, for more commodity
And ease, Dulcinea fair ! could bring to pass
That Greenwich, where Toboso is, might be.
And London chang'd where thy knight's village was.
Happy she that might body and soul adorn
With thy rich livery and thy high desire ;
And see thy happy knight, by honour borne,
In cruel combat, broaching out his ire.
But happiest she that might so cleanly 'scape
From Amadis as thou hast whilom done
From thy well-manner'd knight, courteous Quixote !
O ! were I she, I'd envy no one's hap.
And had been merry when I most did moan,
And ta'en my pleasure without paying shot.
Gandaline, Amadis of Gaule's Squire, to Sancho Panza,
Don Quixote's Squire.
Hail, famous man ! whom fortune hath so blist.
When first, in squire-like trade, it thee did place.
As thou didst soft and sweetly pass disgrace
Ere thou thereof the threatening danger wist.
The shovel or sickle little do resist
The wandering exercise ; for now's in grace
Plain squire-like dealing, which doth quite deface
His pride that would the Moor bore with his fist.
Thine ass I jointly envy, and thy name,
And eke thy wallet I do emulate,
An argument of thy great providence.
Hail once again ! who, 'cause so good a man,
Thy worths our Spanish Ovid does relate.
And lovely chants them with all reverence.
A Dialogue between Babieca, Horse to the Cid, a Famous Con-
queror OF Spain ; and Rozinante, Don Quixote's Courser.
Ba. How haps it, Rozinante, thou art so lean?
Ro. Because I travel still, and never eat :
Ba. Thy want of barley and straw, what does it mean ?
18 SONNETS
Ro. That of my lord, a bit I cannot get.
Ba. Away, sir jade ! you are ill-mannered,
Whose ass's tongue your lord does thus abase.
Ro. If you did see how he's enamoured,
You would conclude that he's the greater ass.
Ba. Is love a folly? — Ro. Sure it is no wit.
Ba. Thou art a metaphysician. — Ro. For want of meat.
Ba. Complain upon the squire. — Ro. What profits it?
Or how shall I my woful plaints repeat ?
Since, though the world imputes slowness to me.
Yet greater jades my lord and Sancho be.
THE DELIGHTFUL HISTORY OF THE MOST
INGENIOUS KNIGHT
DON QUIXOTE OF THE
MANCHA
THE FIRST PART
CHAPTER I
Wherein Is Rehearsed the Calling and Exercise of the
Renowned Gentleman^ Don Quixote of the Mancha
THERE lived not long since, in a certain village of the
Mancha, the name whereof I purposely omit, a gentle-
man of their calling that use to pile up in their halls
old lances, halberds, morions, and such other armours and
weapons. He was, besides, master of an ancient target, a
lean stallion, and a swift greyhound. His pot consisted daily
of somewhat more beef than mutton: a gallimaufry each
night, collops and eggs on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and
now and then a lean pigeon on Sundays, did consume three
parts of his rents ; the rest and remnant thereof was spent on
a jerkin of fine puce, a pair of velvet hose, with pantofles of
the same for the holy-days, and one suit of the finest vesture ;
for therewithal he honoured and set out his person on the
workdays. He had in his house a woman-servant of about forty
years old, and a niece not yet twenty, and a man that served
him both in field and at home, and could saddle his horse, and
likewise manage a pruning-hook. The master himself was
about fifty years old, of a strong complexion, dry flesh, and
a withered face. He was- an early riser, and a great friend
19
20 DON QUIXOTE
of hunting. Some affirm that his surname was Quixada, or
Quesada (for in this there is some variance among the
authors that write his life), although it may be gathered, by
very probable conjectures, that he was called Quixana. Yet
all this concerns our historical relation but little: let it then
suffice, that in the narration thereof we will not vary a jot
from the truth.
You shall therefore wit, that this gentleman above named,
the spurts that he was idle (which was the longer part of
the year), did apply himself wholly to the reading of books
of knighthood, and that with such gusts and delights, as he
almost wholly neglected the exercise of hunting; yea, and the
very administration of his household affairs. And his curi-
osity and folly came to that pass, that he made away many
acres of arable land to buy him books of that kind, and there-
fore he brought to his house as many as ever he could get of
that subject. And among them all, none pleased him better
than those which famous Felician of Silva composed. For
the smoothness of his prose, with now and then some intri-
cate sentence meddled, seemed to him peerless; and princi-
pally when he did read the courtings, or letters of challenge,
that knights sent to ladies, or one to another ; where, in many
places, he found written : 'The reason of the unreasonableness
which against my reason is wrought, doth so weaken my
reason, as with all reason I do justly complain on your
beauty.' And also when he read: 'The high heavens, which
with your divinity do fortify you divinely with the stars, and
make you deserveress of the deserts which your greatness
deserves,' etc. With these and other such passages the poor
gentleman grew distracted, and was breaking his brains day
and night, to understand and unbowel their sense, an endless
labour ; for even Aristotle himself would not understand
them, though he were again resuscitated only for that pur-
pose. He did not like so much the unproportionate blows
that Don Belianis gave and took in fight ; for, as he imagined,
were the surgeons never so cunning that cured them, yet was
it impossible but that the patient his face and all his body
must remain full of scars and tokens. Yet did he praise,
notwithstanding, in the author of that history, the conclusion
of his book, with the promise of the Endless Adventure ; and
HIS CALLING AND EXERCISE 21
many times he himself had a desire to take pen and finish it
exactly, as it is there promised; and would doubtless have
performed it, and that certes with happy success, if other
more urgent and continual thoughts had not disturbed him.
Many times did he fall at variance with the curate of his
village (who was a learned man, graduated in Ciguenca)
touching who was the better knight, Palmerin of England,
or Amadis de Gaul. But Master Nicholas, the barber of the
same town, would affirm that none of both arrived in worth
to the Knight of the Sun ; and if any one knight might
paragon with him, it was infallibly Don Galaor, Amadis de
Gaul's brother, whose nature might fitly be accommodated to
anything; for he was not so coy and whining a knight as his
brother, and that in matters of valour he did not bate him
an ace.
In resolution, he plunged himself so deeply in his reading
of these books, as he spent many times in the lecture of them
whole days and nights ; and in the end, through his little sleep
and much reading, he dried up his brains in such sort as he
lost wholly his judgment. His fantasy was filled with those
things that he read, of enchantments, quarrels, battles, chal-
lenges, wounds, wooings, loves, tempests, and other impos-
sible follies. And these toys did so firmly possess his imagi-
nation with an infallible opinion that all that machina of
dreamed inventions which he read was true, as he accounted
no history in the world to be so certain and sincere as they
were. He was wont to say, that the Cid Ruy Diaz was
a very good knight, but not to be compared to the Knight of
the Burning Sword, which, with one thwart blow, cut asunder
two fierce and mighty giants. He agreed better with Ber-
nardo del Carpio, because he slew the enchanted Roland in
Roncesvalles. He likewise liked of the shift Hercules used
when he smothered Anteon, the son of the earth, between his
arms. He praised the giant Morgant marvellously, because,
though he was of that monstrous progeny, who are com-
monly all of them proud and rude, yet he was affable and
courteous. But he agreed best of all with Reinauld of Mount
Alban ; and most of all then, when he saw him sally out of
his castle to rob as many as ever he could meet; and when,
moreover, he robbed the idol of Mahomet, made of gold, as
22 DON QUIXOTE
his history recounts, and would be content to give his old
woman, yea, and his niece also, for a good opportunity on
the traitor Galalon, that he might lamb-skin and trample him
into powder.
Finally, his wit being wholly extinguished, he fell into one
of the strangest conceits that ever madman stumbled on in
this world; to wit, it seemed unto him very requisite and
behooveful, as well for the augmentation of his honour as
also for the benefit of the commonwealth, that he himself
should become a knight-errant, and go throughout the world,
with his horse and armour, to seek adventures, and practise
in person all that he had read was used by knights of yore;
revenging of all kinds of injuries, and offering himself to
occasions and dangers, which, being once happily achieved,
might gain him eternal renown. The poor soul did already
figure himself crowned, through the valour of his arm, at
least Emperor of Trapisonda ; and led thus by these soothing
thoughts, and borne away with the exceeding delight he
found in them, he hastened all that he might, to effect his
urging desires.
And first of all he caused certain old rusty arms to be
scoured, that belonged to his great-grandfather, and lay many
ages neglected and forgotten in a by-corner of his house;
he trimmed and dressed them the best he might, and then
perceived a great defect they had; for they wanted a helmet,
and had only a plain morion; but he by his industry supplied
that want, and framed, with certain papers pasted together, a
beaver for his morion. True it is, that to make trial whether
his pasted beaver was strong enough, and might abide the
adventure of a blow, he out with his sword and gave it a blow
or two, and with the very first did quite undo his whole
week's labour. The facility wherewithal it was dissolved
liked him nothing; wherefore, to assure himself better the
next time from the like danger, he made it anew, placing
certain iron bars within it, in so artificial a manner, as he
rested at once satisfied, both with his invention, and also the
solidity of the work; and without making a second trial, he
deputed and held it in estimation of a most excellent beaver.
Then did he presently visit his horse, who (though he had
more quarters than pence in a sixpence, through leanness,
HIS CALLING AND EXERCISE 23
and more faults than Gonella's), having nothing on him but
skin and bone; yet he thought that neither Alexander's
Bucephalus, nor the Cid his horse Balieca, were in any respect
equal to him. He spent four days devising him a name ; for
(as he reasoned to himself) it was not fit that so famous a
knight's horse, and chiefly being so good a beast, should want
a known name ; and therefore he endeavoured to give him
such a one as should both declare what sometime he had been,
before he pertained to a knight-errant, and also what at
present he was; for it stood greatly with reason, seeing his
lord and master changed his estate and vocation, that he
should alter likewise his denomination, and get a new one,
that were famous and altisonant, as became the new order
and exercise which he now professed; and therefore, after
many other names which he framed, blotted out, rejected,
added, undid, and turned again to frame in his memory and
imagination, he finally concluded to name him Rozinante,
a name in his opinion lofty, full, and significant of what he
had been when he was a plain jade, before he was exalted to
his new dignity ; being, as he thought, the best carriage beast
of the world. The name being thus given to his horse, and
so to his mind, he resolved to give himself a name also; and
in that thought he laboured other eight days ; and, in con-
clusion, called himself Don Quixote; whence (as is said) the
authors of this most true history deduce, that he was un-
doubtedly named Quixada, and not Quesada, as others would
have it. And remembering that the valorous Amadis was
not satisfied only with the dry name of Amadis, but added
thereunto the name of his kingdom and country, to render his
own more redoubted, terming himself Amadis de Gaul ; so he,
like a good knight, would add to his own that also of his
province, and call himself Don Quixote of the Mancha,
wherewith it appeared that he very lively declared his lineage
and country, which he did honour, by taking it for his sur-
name.
His armour being scoured, his morion transformed into a
helmet, his horse named, and himself confirmed with a new
name also, he forthwith bethought himself, that now he
wanted nothing but a lady on whom he might bestow his
service and affection; for. the knight-errant that is loveless
24 DON QUIXOTE
resembles a tree that wants leaves and fruit, or a body with-
out a soul : and therefore he was wont to say, 'If I should for
my sins, or by good hap, encounter there abroad with some
giant (as knights-errant do ordinarily), and that I should
overthrow him with one blow to the ground, or cut him with
a stroke in two halves, or finally overcome, and make him
yield to me, would it not be very expedient to have some
lady to whom I might present him? And that he, entering
in her presence, do kneel before my sweet lady, and say unto
her, with an humble and submissive voice, "Madam, I am
the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island called Mal-
indrania, whom the never-too-much-praised knight, Don
Quixote de la Mancha, hath overcome in single combat ; and
hath commanded to present myself to your greatness, that
it may please your highness to dispose of me according unto
your liking !" ' Oh, how glad was our knight when he had
made this discourse to himself, but chiefly when he had found
out one whom he might call his lady ! For, as it is imagined,
there dwelt in the next village unto his manor, a young hand-
some wench, with whom he was sometime in love, although,
as is understood, she never knew or took notice thereof. She
was called Aldonsa Lorenzo, and her he thought fittest to
entitle with the name of Lady of his thoughts, and searching
a name for her that should not vary much from her own,
and yet should draw and aveer somewhat to that of a princess
or great lady, he called her Dulcinea del Toboso (for there
she was born), a name in his conceit harmonious, strange,
and significant, like to all the others that he had given
to his things.
CHAPTER II
Of the First Sally That Don Quixote Made to Seek
Adventures
THINGS being thus ordered, he would defer the execu-
tion of his designs no longer, being spurred on the
more vehemently by the want which he esteemed his
delays wrought in the world, according to the wrongs that
he resolved to right, the harms he meant to redress, the ex-
cesses he would amend, the abuses that he would better, and
the debts he would satisfy. And therefore, without acquaint-
ing any living creature with his intentions, he, unseen of any,
upon a certain morning, somewhat before the day (being one
of the warmest of July), armed himself cap-a-pie, mounted
on Rozinante, laced on his ill-contrived helmet, embraced his
target, took his lance, and by a postern door of his base-court
issued out to the field, marvellous jocund and content to see
with what facility he had commenced his good desires. But
scarce had he sallied to the fields, when he was suddenly as-
saulted by a terrible thought, and such a one as did well-nigh
overthrow his former good purposes ; which was, he remem-
bered he was not yet dubbed knight, and therefore, by the
laws of knighthood, neither could nor ought to combat with
any knight : and though he were one, yet ought he to wear
white armour like a new knight, without any device in his
shield until he did win it by force of arms.
These thoughts did make him stagger in his purposes ; but
his follies prevailing more than any other reason, he purposed
to cause himself to be knighted by the first he met, to the
imitation of many others that did the same, as he had read
in the books which distracted him. As touching white
armour, he resolved, with the first opportunity, to scour his
own so well, that they should rest whiter than ermines. And
thus he pacified his mind and prosecuted his journey, without
25
26 DON QUIXOTE
choosing any other way than that which his horse pleased,
believing that therein consisted the vigour of knightly ad-
ventures. Our burnished adventurer, travelling thus onward,
did parley with himself in this manner: 'Who doubts, in the
ensuing ages, when the true history of my famous acts shall
come to light, but that the wise man who shall write it, will
begin it, when he comes to declare this my first sally so early
in the morning, after this manner? — "Scarce had the ruddy
Apollo spread over the face of the vast and spacious earth
the golden twists of his beautiful hairs, and scarce had the
little enamelled birds with their naked tongues saluted with
sweet and mellifluous harmony the arrival of rosy Aurora,
when, abandoning her jealous husband's soft couch, she
shows herself to mortal wights through the gates and win-
dows of the Manchegall horizon; when the famous knight,
Don Quixote of the Mancha, abandoning the slothful plumes,
did mount upon his renowned horse Rozinante, and began to
travel through the ancient and known fields of Montiel" ' (as
indeed he did). And following still on with his discourse,
he said : 'Oh, happy the age, and fortunate the time, wherein
my famous feats shall be revealed, feats worthy to be
graven in brass, carved in marble, and delivered with most
curious art in tables, for a future instruction and memory.
And, thou wise enchanter, whosoever thou beest, whom it
shall concern to be the chronicler of this strange history, I
desire thee not to forget my good horse Rozinante, mine
eternal and inseparable companion in all my journeys and
courses.' And then, as if he were verily enamoured, he said :
*0 Princess Dulcinea ! lady of this captive heart ! much
wrong hast thou done me by dismissing me, and reproaching
me with the rigorous decree and commandment, not to ap-
pear before thy beauty. I pray thee, sweet lady, deign to
remember thee of this poor subjected heart, that for thy love
suffers so many tortures !' And with these words he inserted
a thousand other ravings, all after the same manner that his
books taught him, imitating as near as he could their very
phrase and language, and did ride therewithal so slow a pace,
and the sun did mount so swiftly, and with so great heat,
as it was sufficient to melt his brains, if he had had any left.
He travelled almost all that day without encountering any-
HIS FIRST SALLY 27
thing worthy the recital, which made him to fret for anger;
for he desired to encounter presently some one upon whom
he might make trial of his invincible strength. Some authors
write that his first adventure was that of the Lapicean straits ;
others, that of the Windmills : but what I could only find out
in this affair, and which I have found written in the annals
of the Mancha, is that he travelled all that day long, and at
night both he and his horse were tired, and marvellously
pressed by hunger; and, looking about him on every side to
see whether he could discover any castle or sheepfold wherein
he might retire himself for that night, and remedy his wants,
he perceived an inn near unto the highway wherein he trav-
elled, which was as welcome a sight to him as if he had
seen a star that did address him to the porch, if not to the
palace, of his redemption. Then, spurring his horse, he hied
all he might towards it, and arrived much about nightfall.
There stood by chance at the inn door two young women,
adventurers likewise, which travelled toward Seville with
certain carriers, and did by chance take up their lodging in
that inn the same evening; and, forasmuch as our knight-
errant esteemed all which he thought, saw, or imagined, was
done or did really pass in the very same form as he had read
the like in his books, forthwith, as soon as he espied the vent,
he feigned to himself that it was a castle with four turrets,
whereof the pinnacles were of glistering silver, without
omitting the drawbridge, deep fosse, and other adherents be-
longing to the like places. And approaching by little and
little to the vent, when he drew near to it, checking Rozi-
nante with the bridle, he rested a while to see whether any
dwarf would mount on the battlements to give warning with
the sound of a trumpet how some knight did approach the
castle ; but seeing they stayed so long, and also, that Rozi-
nante kept a coil to go to his stable, he went to the inn door,
and there beheld the two loose baggages that stood at it,
whom he presently supposed to be two beautiful damsels
or lovely ladies, that did solace themselves before the castle
gates. And in this space it befel by chance, that a certain
swineherd, as he gathered together his hogs, blew the horn
whereat they are wont to come together; and instantly Don
Quixote imagined it was what he desired, to wit, some dwarf
28 DON QUIXOTE
who gave notice of his arrival ; and therefore, with marvel-
lous satisfaction of mind he approached to the inn and
ladies ; who beholding one armed in that manner to draw so
near, with his lance and target they made much haste, being
greatly affrighted, to get to their lodging. But Don Qui-
xote perceiving their fear by their flight, lifting up his pasted
beaver, and discovering his withered and dusty countenance,
did accost them with gentle demeanour and grave words in
this manner : 'Let not your ladyships flee, nor fear any out-
rage; for to the order of knighthood which I do profess, it
toucheth nor appertaineth not to wrong anybody, and least
of all such worthy damsels as your presences denote you to
be.' The wenches looked on him very earnestly, and did
search with their eyes for the visage, which his ill-fashioned
beaver did conceal; but when they heard themselves termed
damsels, a thing so far from their profession, they could not
contain their laughter, which was so loud, as Don Quixote
waxed ashamed thereat; and therefore said to them: 'Mod-
esty is a comely ornament of the beautiful, and the excessive
laughter that springs from a light occasion must be reputed
great folly. But I do not object this unto you to make you
the more ashamed, or that you should take it in ill part; for
my desire is none other than to do you all the honour and
service I may.' This he spake unto them in such uncouth
words as they could not understand him, which was an occa-
sion, joined with his own uncomeliness, to increase their
laughter and his wrath, which would have passed the bounds
of reason, if the innkeeper had not come out at the instant,
being a man who, by reason of his exceeding fatness, must
needs have been of a very peaceable condition ; who, behold-
ing that counterfeit figure, all armed in so unsuitable armour
as were his bridle, lance, target, and corslet, was very near
to have kept the damsels company in the pleasant shows of
his merriment, but fearing in effect the machina and bulk
contrived of so various furnitures, he determined to speak
him fairly; and therefore began to him in this manner: 'If
your worship, sir knight, do seek for lodging, you may chalk
yourself a bed for there is none in this inn, wherein you
shall find all other things in abundance.' Don Quixote, not-
ing the lowliness of the constable of that fortress (for such
HIS FIRST SALLY 29
the inn and innkeeper seemed unto him), answered, 'Any-
thing, sir constable, may serve me; for mine arms are mine
ornaments, and battles mine ease, etc' The host thought he
had called him a castellano or constable, because he es-
teemed him to be one of the sincere and honest men of
Castile, whereas he was indeed an Andalusian, and of the
commark of St. Lucars, no less thievish than Cacus, nor less
malicious and crafty than a student or page; and therefore
he answered him thus : 'If that be so, your bed must be hard
rocks, and your sleep a perpetual watching; and being such,
you may boldly alight, and shall find certainly here occasion
and opportunity to hold you waking this twelvemonth more,
for one night.' And, saying so, laid hold on Don Quixote's
stirrup, who did forthwith alight, though it was with great
difficulty and pain (as one that had not eaten all the day one
crumb), and then he requested his host to have special care
of his horse, saying, he was one of the best pieces that ever
ate bread. The innkeeper viewed and reviewed him, to
whom he did not seem half so good as Don Quixote valued
him, and, setting him up in the stable, he turned to see what
his guest would command, who was a-disarming by both
the damsels (which were by this time reconciled to him),
who, though they had taken off his breastplate and back
parts, yet knew they not how, nor could anywise undo his
gorget, nor take off his counterfeit beaver, which he had
fastened on with green ribbons; and by reason the knots
were so intricate, it was requisite they should be cut, where-
unto he would not in anywise agree ; and therefore remained
all the night with his helmet on, and was the strangest and
pleasantest figure thereby that one might behold. And as he
was a-disarming (imagining those light wenches that helped
him to be certain principal ladies and dames of that castle),
he said unto them, with a very good grace : 'Never was any
knight so well attended on and served by ladies as was Don
Quixote : when he departed from his village, damsels at-
tended on him, and princesses on his horse. O Rozinante ! —
for, ladies, that is the name of my horse, and Don Quixote
de la Mancha is mine own. For although I meant at the
first not to have discovered myself, until the acts done in
your service and benefit should manifest me; yet the neces-
30 DON QUIXOTE
sity of accommodating to our present purpose the old
romance of Sir Launcelot, hath been an occasion that you
should know my name before the right season. But the
time will come wherein your ladyships may command me,
and I obey, and then the valour of mine arm shall discover
the desire I have to do you service.'
The wenches being unaccustomed to hear so rhetorical
terms, answered never a word to him, but only demanded
whether he would eat anything. 'That I would,' replied
Don Quixote, 'forasmuch as I think the taking of a little
meat would be very behooveful for me.' It chanced by hap
to be on Friday, and therefore there was no other meat
in the inn than a few pieces of a fish called in Castile
ahadexo, in Andalusia hacallao, and in some places cura-
dillo, and in others truchiiela, and is but poor-john.
They demanded of him, therefore, whether he would eat
thereof, giving it the name, used in that place, of truchuela,
or little trout; for there was no other fish in all the inn to
present unto him but such. 'Why, then,' quoth Don Qui-
xote, 'bring it in ; for if there be many little trouts they may
serve me instead of a great one; it being all one to me, to
be paid my money (if I were to receive any) in eight single
reals, or to be paid the same in one real of eight. And,
moreover, those little trouts are perhaps like unto veal,
which is much more delicate flesh than beef; or the kid,
which is better than the goat; but be it what it list, let it
be brought in presently; for the labour and weight of arms
cannot be well borne without the well-supplying of the guts.'
Then was there straight laid a table at the inn door, that
he mought take the air; and the host brought him a portion
of evil-watered and worse-boiled poor-john, and a loaf as
black and hoary as his harness. But the only sport was
to behold him eat; for by reason his helmet was on, and his
beaver lifted, he could put nothing into his mouth himself if
others did not help him to find the way, and therefore one of
those ladies served his turn in that; but it was altogether
impossible to give him drink after that manner, and would
have remained so for ever, if the innkeeper had not bored a
cane, and setting the one end in his mouth, poured down the
wine at the other: all which he suffered most patiently, be-
HIS FIRST SALLY 31
cause he would not break the ribbons of his helmet. And as
he sat at supper, there arrived by chance a sowgelder, who,
as soon as he came to the inn, did sound four or five times a
whistle of canes, the which did confirm Don Quixote that he
was in some famous castle, where he was served with music ;
and that the poor-john was trouts; the bread of the finest
flour ; the whores, ladies ; and the innkeeper, constable of
that castle ; wherefore he accounted his resolution and de-
parture from his own house very well employed. But that
which did most afilict him was. that he was not yet dubbed
knight, forasmuch as he was fully persuaded that he could
not lawfully enterprise, or follow any adventure, until he re-
ceived the order of knighthood.
CHAPTER III
Wherein Is Recounted the Pleasant Manner Observed
IN THE Knighting of Don Quixote
A ND being thus tossed in mind, he made a short, beg-
l\ garly supper; which being finished, he called for his
-^ — ^ host, and, shutting the stable door very fast, he laid
himself down upon his knees in it before him, saying, 'I will
never rise from the place where I am, valorous knight, until
your courtesy shall grant unto me a boon that I mean to de-
mand of you, the which will redound unto your renown, and
also to the profit of all human kind.' The innkeeper seeing
his guest at his feet, and hearing him speak those words,
remained confounded beholding him, not knowing what he
might do or say, and did study and labour to make him arise ;
but all was in vain, until he must have promised unto him
that he would grant him any gift that he sought at his hands.
*I did never expect less,' replied Don Quixote, 'from your
magnificence, my lord; and therefore I say unto you, that
the boon which I demand of you, and that hath been granted
unto me by your liberality, is, that to-morrow, in the morn-
ing, you will dub me knight, and this night I will watch mine
armour in the chapel of your castle, and in the morning, as
I have said, the rest of my desires shall be accomplished, that
I may go in due manner throughout the four parts of the
world, to seek adventures, to the benefit of the needy, as is
the duty of knighthood, and of knights-errant, as I am;
whose desires are wholly inclined and dedicated to such
achievements.' The host, who, as we noted before, was a
great giber, and had before gathered some arguments of the
defect of wit in his guest, did wholly now persuade himself
that his suspicions were true, when he heard him speak in
that manner ; and that he might have an occasion of laughter,
he resolved to feed his humour that night; and therefore an-
32
HIS KNIGHTING 33
swered him, that he had very great reason in that which he
desired and sought, and that such projects were proper and
natural to knights of the garb and worth he seemed to be of ;
and that he himself likewise, in his youthful years, had fol-
lowed that honourable exercise, going through divers parts
of the world to seek adventures, without either omitting the
dangers of Malaga, the Isles of Riaran, the compass of Se-
ville, the quicksilver house of Segovia, the olive field of
Valencia, the circuit of Granada, the wharf of St. Lucar, the
Potro or Cowlt of Cordova, and the little taverns of Toledo ;
and many other places, wherein he practised the dexterity of
his hands; doing many wrongs, soliciting many widows, un-
doing certain maidens, and deceiving many pupils, and finally
making himself known and famous in all the tribunals and
courts almost of all Spain ; and that at last he had retired
himself to that his castle, where he was sustained with his
own and other men's goods, entertaining in it all knights-
errant, of whatsoever quality and condition they were, only
for the great affection he bore towards them, and to the end
they might divide with him part of their winnings in recom-
pense of his goodwill. He added besides, that there was no
chapel in his castle wherein he might watch his arms, for he
had broken it down, to build it up anew; but, notwithstand-
ing, he knew very well that in a case of necessity they might
lawfully be watched in any other place, and therefore he
might watch them that night in the base-court of the castle ;
for in the morning, an it pleased God, the ceremonies
requisite should be done in such sort as he should remain a
dubbed knight, in so good fashion as in all the world he could
not be bettered. He demanded of Don Quixote whether he
had any money; who answered that he had not a blank, for
he had never read in any history of knights-errant that any
one of them ever carried any money. To this his host re-
plied, that he was deceived; for, admit that histories made
no mention thereof, because the authors of them deemed it
not necessary to express a thing so manifest and needful to
be carried as was money and clean shirts, it was not there-
fore to be credited that they had none; and therefore he
should hold, for most certain and manifest, that all the
knights-errant, with the story of whose acts so many books
34 DON QUIXOTE
are replenished and heaped, had their purses well lined for
that which might befall, and did moreover carry with them
a little casket of ointments and salves, to cure the wounds
which they received, for they had not the commodity of a
surgeon to cure them, every time that they fought abroad
in the fields and deserts, if they had not by chance some wise
enchanter to their friend, who would presently succour them,
bringing unto them, in some cloud, through the air, some
damsel or dwarf, with a vial of water of so great virtue, as
tasting one drop thereof, they remained as whole of their
sores and wounds as if they had never received any. But
when they had not that benefit, the knights of times past held
it for a very commendable and secure course that their
squires should be provided of money and other necessary
things, as lint and ointments for to cure themselves; and
when it befel that the like knights had no squires to attend
upon them (which happened but very seldom), then would
they themselves carry all this provision behind them on their
horses, in some slight and subtle wallets, which could scarce
be perceived as a thing of very great consequence; for, if it
were not upon such an occasion, the carriage of wallets was
not very tolerable among knights-errant. And in this respect
he did advise him, seeing he might yet command him, as one
that, by receiving the order of knighthood at his hands,
should very shortly become his godchild, that he should not
travel from thenceforward without money and other the
preventions he had then given unto him; and he should per-
ceive himself now behooveful they would prove unto him
when he least expected it.
Don Quixote promised to accomplish all that he had coun-
selled him to do, with all punctuality; and so order was
forthwith given how he should watch his arms in a great
yard that lay near unto one side of the inn. Wherefore Don
Quixote gathered all his arms together, laid them on a cis-
tern that stood near unto a well ; and, buckling on his target,
he laid hold on his lance, and walked up and down before the
cistern very demurely, and when he began to walk, the night
likewise began to lock up the splendour of the day. The inn-
keeper, in the mean season, recounted to all the rest that
lodged in the inn the folly of his guest, the watching of his
HC XIV — I
HIS KNIGHTING 35
arms, and the knighthood which he expected to receive.
They all admired very much at so strange a kind of folly, and
went out to behold him from afar off, and saw that some-
times he pranced to and fro with a quiet gesture ; other times,
leaning upon his lance, he looked upon his armour, without
beholding any other thing save his arms for a good space.
The night being shut up at last wholly, but with such
clearness of the moon as it might well compare with his
brightness that lent her her splendour, .everything which our
new knight did was easily perceived by all the beholders. In
this season one of the carriers that lodged in the inn resolved
to water his mules, and for that purpose it was necessary to
remove Don Quixote's armour that lay on the cistern; who,
seeing him approach, said unto him, with a loud voice, 'O
thou, whosoever thou beest, bold knight ! that comest to touch
the armour of the most valorous adventurer that ever girded
sword, look well what thou dost, and touch them not, if thou
meanest not to leave thy life in payment of thy presump-
tion.' The carrier made no account of those words (but it
were better he had, for it would have redounded to his
benefit), but rather, laying hold on the leatherings, threw
the armour a pretty way off from him, which being per-
ceived by Don Quixote, he lifted up his eyes towards heaven,
and addressing his thoughts (as it seemed) to his Lady
Dulcinea, he said, 'Assist me, dear lady, in this first danger-
ous scorn and adventure offered to this breast, that is en-
thralled to thee, and let not thy favour and protection fail
me in this my first trance 1' And, uttering these and other
such words, he let slip his target, and, lifting up his lance
with bold hands, he paid the carrier so round a knock there-
withal on the pate, as he overthrew him to the ground in so
evil taking, as, if he had seconded it with another, he should
not have needed any surgeon to cure him. This done, he
gathered up his armour again, and laying them where they
had been before, he walked after up and down by them, with
as much quietness as he did at the first.
But very soon after, another carrier, without knowing
what had happened (for his companion lay yet in a trance
on the ground), came also to give his mules water, and
coming to take away the arms, that he might free the cistern
HC XIV — 2
36 DON QUIXOTE
of encumbrances, and take water the easier — Don Quixote
saying nothing nor imploring favour of his mistre,' s or any
other, let slip again his target, and, lifting his lance, without
breaking of it in pieces, made more than three of the second
carrier's noddle; for he broke it in four places. All the
people of the inn, and amongst them the host likewise, re-
paired at this time to the noise; which Don Quixote perceiv-
ing, embracing his target, and laying hand on his sword, he
said : 'O lady of all beauty ! courage and vigour of my
weakened heart ! it is now high time that thou do convert the
eyes of thy greatness to this thy captive knight, who doth
expect so marvellous great an adventure.' Saying thus, he
recovered, as he thought, so great courage, that if all the
carriers of the world had assailed him, he would not go one
step backward. The wounded men's fellows, seeing them so
evil dight, from afar off began to rain stones on Don
Quixote, who did defend himself the best he might with his
target, and durst not depart from the cistern, lest he should
seem to abandon his arms. The innkeeper cried to them to
let him alone ; for he had already informed them that he was
mad, and so such a one would escape scot-free although he
had slain them all. Don Quixote likewise cried out louder,
terming them all disloyal men and traitors, and that the lord
of the castle was a treacherous and bad knight, seeing that
he consented that knights-errant should be so basely used;
and that, if he had not yet received the order of knighthood,
he would make him understand his treason: 'But of you
base and rascally kennel,' quoth he, T make no reckoning at
all. Throw at me, approach, draw near, and do me all the
hurt you may, for you shall ere long perceive the reward you
shall carry for this your madness and outrage.' Which
words he spoke with so '>"reat spirit and boldness, as he struck
a terrible fear into all tnose that assaulted him; and there-
fore, moved both by it, and the innkeeper's persuasions, they
left off throwing stones at him, and he permitted them to
carry away the wounded men, and returned to the guard of
his arms with as great quietness and gravity as he did at the
beginning.
The innkeeper did not like very much these tricks of his
guest, and therefore he determined to abbreviate, and give
HIS KNIGHTING S7
him the unfortunate order of knighthood forthwith, before
some other disaster befel. And with this resolution coming
unto him, he excused himself of the insolences those base
fellows had used to him, without his privity or consent; but
their rashness, as he said, remained well chastised. He added
how he had already told unto him, that there was no chapel
in his castle, and that for what yet rested unperfected of
their intention, it was not necessary, because the chief point
of remaining knighted consisted chiefly in blows of the neck
and shoulders, as he had read in the ceremonial book of the
order, and that that might be given in the very midst of the
fields ; and that he had already accomplished the obligation of
watching his arms, which with only two hours' watch might
be fulfilled; how much more after having watched four, as
he had done. All this Don Quixote believed, and therefore
answered, that he was most ready to obey him, and requested
him to conclude with all the brevity possible ; for if he saw
himself knighted, and were once again assaulted, he meant
not to leave one person alive in all the castle, except those
which the constable should command, whom he would spare
for his sake.
The constable being thus advertised, and fearful that he
would put this his deliberation in execution, brought out a
book presently, wherein he was wont to write down the ac-
counts of the straw and barley which he delivered from
time to time to such carriers as lodged in his inn, for their
beasts ; and, with a butt of a candle, which a boy held lighted
in his hand before him, accompanied by the two damsels
above mentioned, he came to Don Quixote, whom he com-
manded to kneel upon his knees, and, reading in his manual
(as it seemed, some devout orison), he held up his hand in
the midst of the lecture, and gave him a good blow on the
neck, and after that gave him another trim thwack over
the shoulders with his own sword, always murmuring
something between the teeth, as if he prayed. This being
done, he commanded one of the ladies to gird on his sword,
which she did with a singular good grace and dexterity,
which was much, the matter being of itself so ridiculous,
as it wanted but little to make a man burst with laughter at
every passage of the cerepionies; but the prowess which they
38 DON QUIXOTE
had already beheld in the new knight did limit and contain
their delight. At the girding on of his sword, the good lady-
said, 'God make you a fortunate knight, and give you good
success in all your debates !' Don Quixote demanded then
how she was called, that he might thenceforward know to
whom he was so much obliged for the favour received. And
she answered, with great buxomness, that she was named
Tolosa, and was a butcher's daughter of Toledo, that dwelt
in Sancho Senega's Street, and that she would ever honour
him as her lord. Don Quixote replied, requesting her, for
his sake, to call herself from thenceforth the Lady Tolosa,
which she promised him to perform. The other lady buckled
on his spur, with whom he had the very like conference, and,
asking her name, she told him she was called Molinera, and
was daughter to an honest miller of Antequera. Her like-
wise our knight entreated to call herself the Lady Molinera,
proffering her new services and favours. The new and
never-seen-before ceremonies being thus speedily finished, as
it seemed, with a gallop, Don Quixote could not rest until he
was mounted on horseback, that he might go to seek adven-
tures; wherefore, causing Rozinante to be instantly saddled,
he leaped on him, and embracing his host, he said unto him
such strange things, gratifying the favour he had done him
in dubbing him knight, as it is impossible to hit upon the
manner of recounting them right. The innkeeper, that he
might be quickly rid of him, did answer his words with others
no less rhetorical, but was in his speech somewhat briefer;
and, without demanding of him anything for his lodging, he
suffered him to depart in a fortunate hour.
CHAPTER IV
Of That Which Befel to Our Knight after He Had
Departed from the Inn
AURORA began to display her beauties about the time
that Don Quixote issued out of the inn, so content,
^ lively, and jocund to behold himself knighted, as his
very horse-girths were ready to burst for joy. But calling
to memory the counsels that his host had given him, touch-
ing the most needful implements that he was ever to carry
about him, of money and clean shirts, he determined to re-
turn to his house, and to provide himself of them, and also
of a squire ; making account to entertain a certain labourer,
his neighbour, who was poor and had children, but yet one
very fit for this purpose and squirely function belonging to
knighthood. With this determination he turned Rozinante
towards the way of his own village, who, knowing in a man-
ner his will, began to trot on with so good a pace as he
seemed not to touch the ground. He had not travelled far,
when he thought that he heard certain weak and delicate
cries, like to those of one that complained, to issue out from
the thickest of a wood that stood on the right hand. And
scarce had he heard them when he said: 'I render infinite
thanks to Heaven for the favour it doth me, by proffering me
so soon occasion wherein I may accomplish the duty of my
profession, and gather the fruits of my good desires. These
plaints doubtlessly be of some distressed man or woman, who
needeth my favour and aid.' Then, turning the reins, he
guided Rozinante towards the place from whence he thought
the complaints sallied; and within a few paces after he had
entered into the thicket, he saw a mare tied unto an holm
oak, and to another was tied a young youth, all naked from
the middle upward, -of about the age of fifteen years, and
was he that cried so pitiftilly : and not without cause ; for a
39
40 DON QUIXOTE
certain countryman of comely personage did whip him with
a girdle, and accompanied every blow with a reprehension
and counsel ; for he said, 'The tongue must peace, and the
eyes be wary.' And the boy answered, 'I will never do it
again, good master; for the passion of God, I will never do
it again. And I promise to have more care of your things
from henceforth.'
But Don Quixote, viewing all that passed, said, with an
angry voice, 'Discourteous knight, it is very uncomely to see
thee deal thus with one that cannot defend himself. Mount,
therefore, on horseback, and take thy lance' (for the farmer
had also a lance leaning to the very same tree whereunto his
mare was tied), 'for I will make thee know that it is the use
of cowards to do that which thou dost.' The oiher, beholding
such an antic to hover over him, all laden with arms, and
brandishing of his lance towards his face, made full account
that he should be slain, and therefore he answered, with very
mild and submissive words, saying, 'Sir knight, the boy which
I chastise is mine own servant, and keepeth for me a flock of
sheep in this commark; who is grown so negligent, as he
loseth one of them every other day, and because I correct
him for his carelessness and knavery, he says I do it through
covetousness and pinching, as meaning to defraud him of his
wages; but, before God, and in conscience, he belies me.'
'What ! the lie in my presence, rascally clown ?' quoth Don
Quixote. 'By the sun that shines on us, I am about to run
thee through and through with my lance, base carle ! Pay
him instantly, without more replying; or else, by that God
which doth manage our sublunar affairs, I will conclude thee
and annihilate thee in a moment ! Loose him forthwith !'
The countryman, hanging down of his head, made no reply,
but loosed his servant ; of whom Don Quixote demanded how
much did his master owe unto him. He said, nine months'
hire, at seven reals a month. Don Quixote made then the
account, and found that all amounted to sixty-one reals, and
therefore commanded the farmer to pay the money presently,
if he meant not to die for it. The fearful countryman an-
swered, that by the trance wherein he was then, and by the
oath he had made (which was none at all, for he swore not),
that he owed not so much; for there should be deducted out
THE COUNTRYMAN AND HIS BOY 41
of the account three pairs of shoes he had given unto him,
and a real for twice letting him blood, being sick. 'AH is
well,' quoth Don Quixote; 'but let the price of the shoes and
letting blood go for the blows which thou hast given him
without any desert; for if he have broken the leather of
those shoes thou hast bestowed on him, thou hast likewise
torn the skin of his body; and if the barber took away his
blood, being sick, thou hast taken it out, he being in health;
so as in that respect he owes thee nothing.' 'The damage is,
sir knight,' replied the boy's master, 'that I have no money
here about me. Let Andrew come with me to my house, and
I will pay him his wages, one real upon another.' 'I go with
him!' quoth the boy; 'evil befall me then! No, sir, I never
meant it ; for as soon as ever he were alone, he would flay me
like St. Bartholomew.' ' He will not dare to do it,' quoth Don
Quixote; 'for my command is sufficient to make him respect
me, and so that he will swear to me to observe it, by the
order of knighthood which he hath received, I will set him
free, and assure thee of the payment.' 'Good sir,' quoth the
youth, 'mark well what you say ; for this man, my master, is
no knight, nor did ever receive any order of knighthood, for
he is John Haldudo, the rich man, a dweller of Quintinar.'
'That makes no matter,' quoth Don Quixote; 'for there may
be knights of the Haldudos; and what is more, every one is
son of his works.' 'That's true,' quoth Andrew ; 'but of what
works can this my master be son, seeing he denies me my
wages, and my sweat and labour ?' 'I do not deny thy wages,
friend Andrew,' quoth his master ; 'do me but the pleasure to
come with me, and I swear, by all the orders of knighthood
that are in the world, to pay thee as I have said, one real
upon another — yea, and those also perfumed.' 'For the per-
fuming, I thank thee,' quoth Don Quixote; 'give it him in
reals, and with that I will rest satisfied ; and see that thou
fulfillest it as thou hast sworn: if not, I swear again to thee,
by the same oath, to return and search thee, and chastise
thee, and I will find thee out, though thou shouldst hide thy-
self better than a lizard; and if thou desirest to note who
commands thee this, that thou mayst remain more firmly
obliged to accomplish it, know that I am the valorous Don
Quixote of the Mancha,^the righter of wrongs and undoer of
42 DON QUIXOTE
injuries; and so farewell, and do not forget what thou hast
promised and sworn, on pain of the pains already pro-
nounced.' And, saying these words, he spurred Rozinante,
and in short space was got far off from them. The country-
man pursued him with his eye, and, perceiving that he was
past the wood, and quite out of sight, he returned to his man
Andrew, and said to him, 'Come to me., child, for I will pay
thee what I owe thee, as that righter of wrongs hath left me
commanded.' 'That I swear,' quoth Andrew; 'and you shall
deal discreetly in fulfilling that good knight's commandment,
who I pray God may live a thousand years; for, seeing he
is so valorous and so just a judge, I swear by Rocque, that if
you pay me not, he shall return and execute what he prom-
ised.' 'I also do swear the same.' quoth the farmer; 'but in
respect of the great affection I bear unto thee, I will aug-
ment the debt, to increase the payment.' And, catching the
youth by the arm, he tied him again to the oak, where he
gave him so many blows as he left him for dead. 'Call now,
Master Andrew,' quoth he, 'for the righter of wrongs, and
thou shalt see that he cannot undo this, although I believe
it is not yet ended to be done ; for I have yet a desire to flay
thee alive, as thou didst thyself fear.' Notwithstanding all
these threats, he untied him at last, and gave him leave to go
seek out his judge, to the end he might execute the sentence
pronounced. Andrew departed somewhat discontent, swear-
ing to search for the valorous Don Quixote of the Mancha,
and recount unto him, word for word, all that had passed,
and that he should pay the abuse with usury; but, for all his
threats, he departed weeping, and his master remained be-
hind laughing: and in this manner the valorous Don Quixote
redressed that wrong.
Who, glad above measure for his success, accounting him-
self to have given a most noble beginning to his feats of
arms, did travel towards his village, with very great satisfac-
tion of himself, and said, in a low tone, these words follow-
ing: 'Well mayst thou call thyself happy above all other
women of the earth, O above all beauties, beautiful Dulcinea
of Toboso! since thy good fortune was such, to hold subject
and prostrate to thy will and desire so valiant and renowned
a knight as is, and ever shall be, Don Quixote of the Mancha,
THE MERCHANTS OF TOLEDO 43
who, as all the world knows, received the order of knight-
hood but yesterday, and hath destroyed to-day the greatest
outrage and wrong that want of reason could form, or
cruelty commit. To-day did he take away the whip out of
that pitiless enemy's hand, which did so cruelly scourge with-
out occasion the delicate infant.'
In this discourse he came to a way that divided itself into
four, and presently these thwarting cross-ways represented
themselves to his imagination, which ofttimes held knights-
errant in suspense which way they should take; and, that
he might imitate them, he stood still a while, and, after he
had bethought himself well, he let slip the reins to Rozinante,
subjecting his will to that of his horse, who presently pur-
sued his first design, which was to return home unto his own
stable : and having travelled some two miles, Don Quixote
discovered a great troop of people, who, as it was after
known, were certain merchants of Toledo, that rode towards
Murcia to buy silks. They were six in number, and came
with their quitasoles, or shadows of the sun, four serving-
men on horseback, and three lackeys. Scarce had Don
Quixote perceived them, when he straight imagined them to
be a new adventure. And because he would imitate as much
as was possible the passages which he read in his books,
he represented this to himself to be just such an adventure
as he purposed to achieve. And so, with comely gesture and
hardiness, settling himself well in the stirrups, he set his
lance into his rest, and embraced his target, and, placing him-
self in the midst of the way, he stood awaiting when those
knights-errant should arrive; for now he judged and took
them for such. And when they were so near as they might
hear and see him, he lifted up his voice, and said: 'Let all
the world stand and pass no further, if all the world will not
confess that there is not in all the world a more beautiful
damsel than the Empress of the Mancha, the peerless Dul-
cinea of Toboso !' The merchants stayed at these words to
behold the marvellous and ridiculous shape of him that spake
them, and, by his fashion and them joined did incontinently
gather his folly and distraction, and, notwithstanding, would
leisurely behold to what tended that confession which he
exacted of them; and tlierefore one of them, who was some-
44 DON QUIXOTE
what given to gibing, and was withal very discreet, said unto
him, 'Sir knight, we do not know that good lady of whom
you speak; show her therefore to us, and if she be so beau-
tiful as you affirm, we will willingly, and without any com-
pulsion, confess the truth which you now demand of us.' 'If
I did show her to you,' replied Don Quixote, 'what mastery
were it then for you to acknowledge a truth so notorious?
The consequence of mine affairs consists in this, that, with-
out beholding her, you do believe, confess, affirm, swear, and
defend it; which if you refuse to perform, I challenge you
all to battle, proud and unreasonable folk; and, whether you
come one by one (as the order of knighthood requires), or
all at once, as is the custom and dishonourable practice of
men of your brood, here will I expect and await you all,
trusting in the reason which I have on my side.' 'Sir knight,'
replied the merchant, 'I request you, in all these princes'
names, as many as we be here, that to the end we may not
burden our consciences, confessing a thing which we never
beheld nor heard, and, chiefly, being so prejudicial to the
empresses and queens of the kingdoms of Alcaria and Estre-
madura, you will please to show us some portraiture of that
lady, although it be no bigger than a grain of wheat, for by
one thread we may judge of the whole clew; and we will
with this favour rest secure and satisfied, and you likewise
remain content and apaid. And I do believe, moreover, that
we are already so inclined to your side, that although her
picture showed her to be blind of the one eye, and at the
other that she ran fire and brimstone, yet would we, notwith-
standing, to please you, say in her favour all that you listed.'
'There drops not, base scoundrels,' quoth Don Quixote, all
inflamed with choler, — 'there drops not, I say, from her that
which thou sayst, but amber and civet among bombase; and
she is not blind of an eye, or crook-backed, but is straighter
than a spindle of Guadarama. But all of you together shall
pay for the great blasphemy thou hast spoken against so im-
mense a beauty as is that of my mistress.' And, saying so,
he abased his lance against him that had answered, with such
fury and anger, as, if good fortune had not so ordained it
that Rozinante should stumble and fall in the midst of the
career, it had gone very ill with the bold merchant. Rozi-
THE MERCHANTS OF TOLEDO 45
nante fell, in fine, and his master reeled over a good
piece of the field; and though he attempted to rise, yet was
he never able, he was so encumbered by his lance, target,
spurs, helmet, and his weighty old armour. And in the mean-
while that he strove to arise, and could not, he cried : 'Fly
not, cowardly folk ! abide, base people, abide ! for I lie not
here through mine own fault, but through the defect of my
horse.'
One of the lackeys that came in the company, and seemed
to be a man of none of the best intentions, hearing the poor
overthrown knight speak such insolent words, could not
forbear them without returning him an answer on his ribs;
and with that intention approaching to him, he took his
lance, and, after he had broken it in pieces, he gave Don
Quixote so many blows with one of them, that, in despite of
his armour, he threshed him like a sheaf of wheat. His mas-
ters cried to him, commanding him not to beat him so much,
but that he should leave him ; but all would not serve, for the
youth was angry, and would not leave off the play, until he
had avoided the rest of his choler. And therefore, running
for the other pieces of the broken lance, he broke them all
on the miserable fallen knight ; who, for all the tempest of
blows that rained on him, did never shut his mouth, but
threatened heaven and earth, and those murderers ; for such
they seemed to him. The lackey tired himself at last, and
the merchants followed on their way, carrying with them
occasion enough of talk of the poor belaboured knight; who,
when he saw himself alone, turned again to make trial
whether he might arise; but if he could not do it when he
was whole and sound, how was it possible he being so bruised
and almost destroyed? And yet he accounted himself very
happy, persuading himself that his disgrace was proper and
incident to knights-errant, and did attribute all to the fault
of his horse, and could in no wise get up, all his body was so
bruised and laden with blows.
CHAPTER V
Wherein Is Prosecuted the Former Narration of Our
Knight's Misfortunes
BUT seeing, in effect, that he could not stir himself, he
resolved to have recourse to his ordinary remedy,
vi'hich was to think on some passage of his histories;
and in the instant his folly presented to his memory that of
Valdovinos and the Marquis of Mantua, then when Carloto
had left him wounded on the mountain: a history known by
children, not hidden to young men, much celebrated, yea,
and believed by many old men ; and is yet for all that no more
authentical than are Mahomet's miracles. This history, as
it seemed to him, was most fit for the trance wherein he was;
and therefore he began, with signs of great pain, to tumble
up and down, and pronounce, with a languishing breath, the
same that they feign the wounded knight to have said in the
wood:
"Where art thou, lady dear ! that griev'st not at my smart?
Or thou dost it not know, or thou disloyal art."
And after this manner he did prosecute the old song, until
these verses that say : 'O noble Marquis of Mantua, my
carnal lord and uncle !' And it befel by chance, that at the
very same time there passed by the place where he lay a man
of his own village, who was his neighbour, and returned
after having carried a load of wheat to the mill; who be-
holding a man stretched on the ground, he came over to
him, and demanded what he was, and what was it that caused
him to complain so dolefully. Don Quixote did verily believe
that it was his uncle, the Marquis of Mantua, and so gave
him no other answer, but only followed on in the repetition
of his old romance, wherein he gave him account of his mis-
fortune, and of the love the emperor's son bore to his spouse
46
RETURN TO LA MANCHA 47
all in the very same manner that the ballad recounts it. The
labourer remained much astonished, hearing those follies.
And, taking off his visor, which with the lackey's blows was
broken all to pieces, he wiped his face that was full of
dust, and scarce had he done it when he knew him ; to whom
he said: 'Master Quixada' (for so he was probably called
when he had his wits, before he left the state of a staid
yeoman to become a wandering knight), 'who hath used you
after this manner?' But he continued his romance, answer-
ing out of it to every question that was put to him; which
the good man perceiving, disarmed him the best he could, to
see whether he had any wound; but he could see no blood,
or any token on him of hurt. Afterward he endeavoured to
raise him from the grovmd, which he did at the last with
much ado, and mounted him on his ass, as a beast of easiest
carriage. He gathered then together all his arms, and left
not behind so much as the splinters of the lance, and tied
them altogether upon Rozinante, whom he took by the
bridle, and the ass by his halter, and led them both in that
equipage fair and easily towards his village, being very pen-
sative to hear the follies that Don Quixote spoke. And
Don Quixote was no less melancholy, who was so beaten and
bruised as he could very hardly hold himself upon the ass;
and ever and anon he breathed forth such grievous sighs, as
he seemed to fix them in heaven ; which moved his neighbour
to entreat him again to declare unto him the cause of his
grief. And it seems none other but that the very devil him-
self did call to his memory histories accommodated to his
successes; for in that instant, wholly forgetting Valdovinos,
he remembered the Moor Abindarraez, then, when the con-
stable of Antequera, Roderick Narvaez, had taken him, and
carried him prisoner to his castle. So that, when his neigh-
bour turned again to ask of him how he did, and what ailed
him, he answered the very same words and speech that cap-
tive Abindarraez said to Narvaez, just as he had read them
in Diana of Montemayor, where the history is written; ap-
plying it so properly to his purpose, that the labourer grew
almost mad for anger to hear that machina of follies, by
which he collected that his neighbour was distracted ; and
therefore he hied as fast as possible he could to the village,
48 DON QUIXOTE
that so he might free himself from the vexation that Don
Quixote's idle and prolix discourse gave unto him. At the
end whereof the knight said: 'Don Roderick of Narvaez,
you shall understand that this beautiful Xarifa, of whom I
spoke, is now the fair Dulcinea of Toboso ; for whom I have
done, I do, and will do, such famous acts of knighthood as
ever have been, are, and shall be seen in all the world.' To
this his neighbour answered: 'Do not you perceive, sir,
(sinner that I am!) how I am neither Don Roderick de Nar-
vaez nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Peter Alonso, your
neighbour? nor are you Valdovinos nor Abindarraez, but the
honest gentleman. Master Quixada.' 'I know very well who
I am,' quoth Don Quixote; 'and also I know that I may not
only be those whom I have named, but also all the twelve
Peers of France, yea, and the nine Worthies ; since mine acts
shall surpass all those that ever they did together, or every
one of them apart.'
With these and such other discourses, they arrived at last
at their village about sunset : but the labourer awaited until
it waxed somewhat dark, because folk should not view the
knight so simply mounted. And when he saw his time he
entered into the town, and went to Don Quixote's house,
which he found full of confusion. There was the curate and
the barber of the village, both of them Don Quixote's great
friends; to whom the old woman of the house said, in a
lamentable manner: 'What do you think, Master Licentiate
Pero Perez' (for so the curate was called), 'of my master's
misfortune? These six days neither he nor his horse have
appeared, nor the target, lance, or armour. Unfortunate
woman that I am ! I do suspect, and I am as sure it is true
as that I shall die, how those accursed books of knighthood,
which he hath, and is wont to read ordinarily, have turned
his judgment; for now I remember that I have heard him
say oftentimes, speaking to himself, that he would become
a knight-errant, and go seek adventures throughout the world.
Let such books be recommended to Satan and Barabbas,
which have destroyed in this sort the most delicate under-
standing of all the Mancha.' His niece affirmed the same,
and did add: 'Moreover, you shall understand, good Master
Nicholas' (for so hight the barber), 'that it many times
RETURN TO LA MANCHA 49
befel my uncle to continue the lecture of those unhappy-
books of disventures two days and two nights together; at
the end of which, throwing the book away from him, he
would lay hand on his sword, and would fall a-slashing of the
walls ; and when he were wearied, he would say that he had
slain four giants as great as four towers, and the sweat that
dropped down, through the labour he took, he would say was
blood that gushed out of those wounds which he had received
in the conflict, and then would he quaff off a great pot full
of cold water, and straight he did become whole and quiet;
saying that water was a most precious drink, which the wise
man Esquife, a great enchanter or sorcerer, and his friend,
had brought unto him. But I am in the fault of all this, who
never advertised you both of mine uncle's raving, to the end
you might have redressed it ere it came to these terms, and
burnt all those excommunicated books ; for he had many that
deserved the fire as much as if they were heretical.' 'That
do I likewise affirm,' quoth Master Curate ; 'and, in sooth,
to-morrow shall not pass over us without making a public
process against them, and condemn them to be burnt in the
fire, that they may not minister occasion again to such as
may read them, to do that which I fear my good friend hath
done.'
The labourer and Don Quixote stood hearing all that which
was said, and then he perfectly understood the disease of his
neighbour, and therefore he began to cry aloud: 'Open the
doors to Lord Valdovinos and to the Lord Marquis of Man-
tua, who comes very sore wounded and hurt, and to the
Lord Moor, Abindarraez, whom the valorous Roderick of
Narvaez, Constable of Antequera, brings as his prisoner !'
All the household ran out, hearing these cries; and, some
knowing their friend, the others their master and uncle,
who had not yet alighted from the ass, because he was not
able, they ran to embrace him ; but he forbade them, saying,
'Stand still and touch me not, for I return very sore wounded
and hurt, through default of my horse : carry me to my bed,
and, if it be possible, send for the wise Urganda, that she
may cure and look to my hurt.' 'See, in an ill hour,' quoth the
old woman straightway, 'if my heart did not very well fore-
tell me on which foot my master halted. Come up in good
50 DON QUIXOTE
time, for we shall know how to cure you well enough with-
out sending for that Urganda you have mentioned. Ac-
cursed, say I once again, and a hundred times accursed, may
those books of knighthood be, which have brought you to
such estate !' With that they bore him up to his bed, and
searching for his wounds, could not find any; and then he
said all was but bruising, by reason of a great fall he had
with his horse Rozinante, as he fought with ten giants, the
most unm.easurable and boldest that might be found in a
great part of the earth. 'Hearken,' quoth the curate, 'we
have also giants in the dance ; by mine honesty, I will burn
them all before to-morrow at night.' Then did they ask a
thousand questions of Don Quixote ; but he would answer to
none of them, and only requested them to give him some
meat, and suffer him to sleep, seeing rest was most behoove-
ful for him. All which was done ; and the curate informed
himself at large of the labouring man, in what sort he had
found Don Quixote, which he recounted to him, and also
the follies he said, both at his finding and bringing to town ;
which did kindle more earnestly the licentiate's desire to do
what he had resolved the next day; which was to call his
friend the barber, Master Nicholas, with whom he came to
Don Quixote's house.
CHAPTER VI
Of the Pleasant and Curious Search Made by the
Curate and the Barber of Don Quixote's
Library
WHO slept yet soundly. The curate sought for the
keys of the library, the only authors of his harm,
which the gentleman's niece gave unto him very
willingly. All of them entered into it, and among the rest
the old woman; wherein they found more than a hundred
great volumes, and those very well bound, besides the small
ones. And as soon as the old woman had seen them, she
departed very hastily out of the chamber, and eftsoons re-
turned with as great speed, with a holy-water pot and a
sprinkler in her hand, and said: 'Hold, master licentiate,
and sprinkle this chamber all about, lest there should lurk
in it some one enchanter of the many which these books con-
tain, and cry quittance with us for the penalties we mean to
inflict on these books, by banishing them out of this world.'
The simplicity of the good old woman caused the licentiate
to laugh : who commanded the barber to fetch him down the
books from their shelves, one by one, that he might peruse
their arguments ; for it might happen some to be found which
in no sort deserved to be chastised with fire. 'No,' replied
the niece, 'no; you ought not to pardon any of them, seeing
they have all been offenders : it is better you throw them all
into the base-court, and there make a pile of them, and then
set them a-fire ; if not, they may be carried into the yard, and
there make a bonfire of them, and the smoke will offend no-
body.' The old woman said as much, both of them thirsted
so much for the death of these innocents ; but the curate
would not condescend thereto until he had first read the titles,
at the least, of every book.
The first that Master . Nicholas put into his hands was
51
52 DON QUIXOTE
that of Aniadis of Gaid; which the curate perusing a while:
'This comes not to me first of all others without some mys-
tery ; for, as I have heard told, this is the first book of knight-
hood that ever was printed in Spain, and all the others have
had their beginning and original from this; and therefore
methinks that we must condemn him to the fire, without all
' remission, as the dogmatiser and head of so bad a sect.' 'Not,
so, fie!' quoth the barber; 'for I have heard that it is the
very best contrived book of all those of that kind ; and there-
fore he is to be pardoned, as the only complete one of his
profession.' 'That is true,' replied the curate, 'and for that
reason we do give him his life for this time. Let us see
that other which lies next unto him.' 'It is,' quoth the bar-
ber, 'The Adventures of Splandian, Amadis of Gaul's law-
fully begotten son.' 'Yet, on mine honesty,' replied the
curate, 'his father's goodness shall nothing avail him. Take
this book, old mistress, and open the window, throw it down
into the yard, and let it lay the foundation of our heap for
the fire we mean to make.' She did what was commanded
with great alacrity, and so the good Splandian fled into the
yard, to expect with all patience the fire which he was threat-
ened to abide. 'Forward,' quoth the curate. 'This that
comes now,' said the barber, 'is Amadis of Greece; and, as I
conjecture, all those that lie on this side are of the same
lineage of Amadis.' 'Then let them go all to the yard,' quoth
the curate, 'in exchange of burning Queen Pintiquinestra, and
the shepherd Darinel with his eclogues, and the subtle and
intricate discourses of the author, which are able to entangle
the father that engendered me, if he went in form of a knight-
errant.' 'I am of the same opinion,' quoth the barber. 'And
I also,' said the niece. 'Then, since it is so,' quoth the old
wife, 'let them come, and to the yard with them all.' They
were rendered all up unto her, which were many in number :
wherefore, to save a labour of going up and down the stairs,
she threw them out at the window.
'What bundle is that?' quoth the curate. 'This is,' an-
swered Master Nicholas, 'Don Olivante of Laura.' 'The
author of that book,' quoth the curate, 'composed likewise
The Garden of Floivers, and, in good sooth, I can scarce
resolve which of the two works is truest, or, to speak better.
THE BURNING OF THE BOOKS S3
is less lying; only this much I can determine, that this must
go to the yard, being a book foolish and arrogant.' 'This
that follows is Florisniarte of Hircania,' quoth the barber.
'Is Lord Florismarte there?' then replied the curate; 'then, by
mine honesty, he shall briefly make his arrest in the yard,
in despite of his wonderful birth and famous adventures;
for the drouth and harshness of his style deserves no greater
favour. To the yard with him, and this other, good mas-
ters.' 'With a very good will,' quoth old Mumpsimus ; and
straightway did execute his commandment with no small
gladness. 'This is Sir Platyr,' quoth the barber. 'It is an
ancient book,' replied the curate,' wherein I find nothing merit-
ing pardon ; let him, without any reply, keep company with
the rest.' Forthwith it was done. Then was another book
opened, and they saw the title thereof to be The Knight of
the Cross. 'For the holy title which this book beareth,'
quoth the curate, 'his ignorance might be pardoned; but it is
a common saying, "The devil lurks behind the cross" ; where-
fore let it go the fire.' The barber, taking another book,
said, 'This is The Mirror of Knighthood.' 'I know his wor-
ship well,' quoth the curate. 'There goes among those books,
I see, the Lord Reynold of Montalban, with his friends and
companions, all of them greater thieves than Cacus, and the
twelve peers of France, with the historiographer Turpin. I
am, in truth, about to condemn them only to exile, forasmuch
as they contain some part of the famous poet, Matthew
Boyardo, his invention : out of which the Christian poet,
Lodovic Ariosto, did likewise weave his work, which, if I
can find among these, and that he speaks not his own native
tongue, I'll use him with no respect; but if he talk in his
own language, I will put him, for honour's sake, on my
head.' 'If that be so,' quoth the barber, *I have him at home
in the Italian, but cannot understand him.' 'Neither were it
good you should understand him,' replied the curate; 'and
here we would willingly have excused the good captain that
translated it into Spanish, from that labour, or bringing it
into Spain, if it had pleased himself; for he hath deprived
it of much natural worth in the translation: a fault incident
to all those that presume to translate verses out of one lan-
guage into another; for, ihough they employ all their in-
54 DON QUIXOTE
dustry and wit therein, they can never arrive to the height
of that primitive conceit which they bring with them in their
first birth. I say, therefore, that this book, and all the others
that may be found in this library to treat of French affairs,
be cast and deposited in some dry vault, until we may de-
termine, with more deliberation, what we should do with
them; always excepting Bernardo del Carpio, which must
be there amongst the rest, and another called Ronccsvalles;
for these two, coming to my hands, shall be rendered up to
those of the old guardian, and from hers into the fire's, with-
out any remission.' All which was confirmed by the barber,
who did ratify his sentence, holding it for good and discreet,
because he knew the curate to be so virtuous a man, and so
great a friend of the truth, as he would say nothing contrary
to it for all the goods of the world.
And then, opening another book, he saw it was Palmerin
de Oliva, near unto which stood another, entitled Palmerin
of England; which the licentiate perceiving, said, 'Let Oliva
be presently rent in pieces, and burned in such sort that even
the very ashes thereof may not be found; and let Palmerin
of England be preserved, as a thing rarely delectable; and
let such another box as that which Alexander found among
Darius' spoils, and deputed to keep Homer's works, be made
for it; for, gossip, this book hath sufficient authority for two
reasons ; the first, because of itself it is very good, and excel-
lently contrived ; the other, forasmuch as the report runs,
that a certain discreet king of Portugal was the author
thereof. All the adventures of the Castle of Miraguarda are
excellent and artificial ; the discourses very clear and courtly,
observing evermore a decorum in him that speaks, with great
propriety and conceit; therefore I say. Master Nicholas, if
you think good, this and Amadis de Gaul may be preserved
from the fire, and let all the rest, without further search or
regard, perish.' 'In the devil's name, do not so, gentle gos-
sip,' replied the barber; 'for this which I hold now in my
hand is the famous Don Belianis.' 'What ! he ?' quoth the
curate ; 'the second, third, and fourth part thereof have great
need of some rhubarb to purge his excessive choler, and we
must, moreover, take out of him all that of the Castle of
Fame, and other impertinences of more consequence.
THE BURNING OF THE BOOKS 55
Therefore, we give them a terminus ultramarinus, and as
they shall be corrected, so will we use mercy or justice
towards them ; and in the mean space, gossip, you may keep
them at your house, but permit no man to read them.' '1
am pleased,' quoth the barber ; and, being unwilling to tire
himself any more by reading of titles, he bade the old woman
to take all the great volumes and throw them into the yard.
The words were not spoken to a mome or deaf person, but
to one that had more desire to burn them than to weave a
piece of linen, were it never so great and fine ; and therefore,
taking eight of them together, she threw them all out of
the window, and returning the second time, thinlcing to carry
away a great many at once, one of them fell at the barber's
feet, who, desirous to know the title, saw that it was The
History of the famous Knight Tirante the White. 'Good
God !' quoth the curate, with a loud voice, 'is Tirante the
White here ? Give me it, gossip ; for I make account to find
in it a treasure of delight, and a copious mine of pastime.
Here is Don Quireleison of Montalban, a valiant knight; and
his brother Thomas of Montalban, and the Knight Fonseca,
and the combat which the valiant Detriante fought with
Alano, and the witty conceits of the damsel Plazerdemivida,
with the love and guiles of the widow Reposada, and of the
empress enamoured on her squire Ipolito. I say unto you,
gossip, that this book is, for the style, one of the best of the
world: in it knights do eat, and drink, and sleep, and die in
their beds naturally, and make their testaments before their
death; with many other things which all other books of this
subject do want; yet, notwithstanding, if I might be judge,
the author thereof deserved, because he purposely penned and
wrote so many follies, to be sent to the galleys for all the
days of his life. Carry it home and read it, and you shall
see all that I have said thereof to be true.' 'I believe it very
well,' quoth the barber; 'but what shall we do with these
little books that remain?' 'These, as I take,' said the curate,
'are not books of knighthood, but of poetry.' And, opening
one, he perceived it was the Diana of Montemayor ; and, be-
lieving that all the rest, were .of that stamp, he said : 'These
deserve not to be burned with the rest, for they have not,
nor can do, so much hurt as books of knighthood, being all
56 DON QUIXOTE
of them works full of understanding and conceits, and do
not prejudice any other.' 'Oh, good sir,' quoth Don Quixote
his niece, 'your reverence shall likewise do well to have them
also burnt, lest that mine uncle, after he be cured of his
knightly disease, may fall, by reading of these, in a humour
of becoming a shepherd, and so wander through the woods
and fields, singing of roundelays, and playing on a crowd;
and what is more dangerous than to become a poet? which
is, as some say, an incurable and infectious disease.' 'This
maiden says true,' quoth the curate ; 'and it will not be amiss to
remove this stumbling-block and occasion out of our friend's
way; and since we begin with the Diana of Montemayor, I
am of opinion that it be not burned, but only that all that
which treats of the wise Felicia, and of the enchanted water,
be taken away, and also all the longer verses, and let him
remain with his prose, and the honour of being the best of
that kind.' 'This that follows,' quoth the barber, 'is the
Diana, called the second, written by him of Salamanca; and
this other is of the same name, whose author is Gil Polo.'
'Let that of Salamanca,' answered master parson, 'augment
the number of the condemned in the yard, and that of Gil
Polo be kept as charily as if it were Apollo his own work;
and go forward speedily, good gossip, for it grows late.
'This book,' quoth the barber, opening of another, 'is The
Twelve Books of the Fortunes of Love, written by Anthony
Lofraso, the Sardinian poet.' 'By the holy orders which I
have received,' quoth the curate, 'since Apollo was Apollo,
and the muses muses, and poets poets, was never written so
delightful and extravagant a work as this; and that, in his
way and vein, it is the only one of all the books that have
ever issued of that kind to view the light of the world, and
he that hath not read it may make account that he hath
never read matter of delight. Give it to me, gossip,
for I do prize more the finding of it than I would the gift of
a cassock of the best satin of Florence.' And so, with great
joy, he laid it aside. And the barber prosecuted, saying,
'These that follow be The Shepherd of Iberia, The Nymphs
of Enares, and The Reclaiming of the Jealousies.' 'Then
there's no more to be done but to deliver them up to the
secular arm of the old wife, and do not demand the reason,
THE BURNING OF THE BOOKS 57
for that were never to make an end.' 'This that comes is
The Shepherd of Filida.' 'That is not a shepherd,' quoth
the curate, 'but a very complete courtier; let it be reserved
as a precious jewel.' 'This great one that follows is,' said
the barber, 'entitled The Treasure of Divers Poems.' 'If
they had not been so many,' replied the curate, 'they would
have been more esteemed. It is necessary that this book be
carded and purged of certain base things that lurk among
his high conceits. Let him be kept, both because the author
is my very great friend, and in regard of other more heroical
and lofty works he hath written.' 'This is,' said the barber,
'the Ditty Book of Lopez Maldonado.' 'The author of that
work is likewise my great friend,' replied the parson; 'and
his lines, pronounced by himself, do ravish the hearers, and
such is the sweetness of his A^oice when he sings them, as it
doth enchant the ear. He is somewhat prolix in his eclogues,
but that which is good is never superfluous; let him be kept
among the choicest. But what book is that which lies next
unto him?' 'The Galatea of Michael Cervantes,' quoth the
barber. 'That Cervantes,' said the curate, 'is my old ac-
quaintance this many a year, and I know he is more prac-
tised in misfortunes than in verses. His book hath some
good invention in it; he intends and propounds somewhat,
but concludes nothing; therefore we must expect the second
part, which he hath promised; perhaps his amendment may
obtain him a general remission, which until now is denied
him ; and whilst we expect the sight of his second work, keep
this part closely imprisoned in your lodging.' 'I am very
well content to do so, good gossip,' said the barber; 'and
here there come three together : the Auracana of Don Alonso
de Ercilla, the Austriada of John Ruffo, one of the magis-
trates of Cordova, and the Monserrato of Christopher de
Virnes, a Valencian poet' 'All these three books,' quoth the
curate, 'are the best that are written in heroical verse in the
Castilian tongue, and may compare with the most famous of
Italy; reserve them as the richest pawns that Spain enjoyeth
of poetry.' The curate with this grew weary to see so many
books, and so he would have all the rest burned at all adven-
tures. But the barber, ere the sentence was given, had
opened, by chance, one entitled The Tears of Angelica. '1
58 DON QUIXOTE
would have shed those tears myself,' said the curate, 'if I
had wittingly caused such a book to be burned ; for the author
thereof was one of the most famous poets of the world, not
only of Spain, and was most happy in the translation of cer-
tain fables of OvicJ.'
CHAPTER VII
Op the Second Departure Which Our Good Knight, Don
Quixote, Made from His House, to Seek
Adventures
WHILE they were thus busied, Don Quixote began
to cry aloud, saying, 'Here, here, valorous knights !
Here it is needful that you show the force of your
valiant arms; for the courtiers begin to bear away the best
of the tourney.' The folk repairing to this rumour and noise,
was an occasion that any further speech and visitation of
the books was omitted; and therefore it is to be suspected,
that the Carolca and Lion of Spain, with the Acts of the
Emperor Charles the Fifth, written by Don Louis de Avila,
were burned, without being ever seen or heard ; and perhaps
if the curate had seen them, they should not have passed
under so rigorous a sentence. When they all arrived to
Don Quixote his chamber, he was risen already out of his
bed, and continued still his outcries, cutting and slashing on
every side, being so broadly awake as if he never had slept.
Wherefore, taking him in their arms, they returned him by
main force into his bed; and, after he was somewhat quiet
and settled, he said, turning himself to the curate, 'In good
sooth. Lord Archbishop Turpin, it is a great dishonour to
us that are called the twelve Peers, to permit the knights of
the court to bear thus away the glory of the tourney without
more ado, seeing that we the adventurers have gained the
prize thereof the three foremost days.' 'Hold your peace,
good gossip,' quoth the curate, 'for fortune may be pleased to
change the success, and what is lost to-day may be won again
to-morrow. Look you to your health for the present; for
you seem at least to be very much tired, if besides you be not
sore wounded.' 'Wounded ! no,' quoth Don Quixote ; 'but
doubtless I am somewhat bruised, for that bastard, Don Row-
59
60 DON QUIXOTE
land, hath beaten me to powder with the stock of an oak-tree ;
and all for envy, because he sees that I only dare oppose
myself to his valour. But let me be never again called Ray-
nold of Montealban if he pay not dearly for it, as soon as I
rise from this bed, in despite of all his enchantment. But,
I pray you, call for my breakfast, for I know it will do me
much good, and leave the revenge of this wrong to my
charge.' Presently meat was brought; and after he had
eaten he fell asleep, and they remained astonished at his
wonderful madness. That night the old woman burned all
the books that she found in the house and yard; and some
there were burnt that deserved, for their worthiness, to be
kept up in everlasting treasuries, if their fortunes and the
laziness of the searchers had permitted it. And so the prov-
erb was verified in them, 'that the just pays sometimes for
the sinners.' One of the remedies which the curate and the
barber prescribed for that present, to help their friend's dis-
ease, was that they should change his chamber, and dam up
his study, to the end that, when he arose, he might not find
them ; for, perhaps, by removing the cause, they might also
take away the eflfects : and, moreover, they bade them to say
that a certain enchanter had carried them away, study and
all ; which device was presently put in practice. And, within
two days after, Don Quixote got up, and the first thing he
did was to go and visit his books; and seeing he could not
find the chamber in the same place where he had left it, he
went up and down to find it. Sometimes he came to the
place where the door stood, and felt it with his hands, and
then would turn his eyes up and down here and there to
seek it, without speaking a word. But at last, after delib-
eration, he asked of the old woman the way to his books.
She, as one well schooled before what she should answer,
said, 'What study, or what nothing, is this you look for?
There is now no more study nor books in this house ; for the
very devil himself carried all away with him.' 'It was not
the devil,' said his niece, 'but an enchanter, that came here
one night upon a cloud, the day after you departed from
hence; and, alighting down from a serpent upon which he
rode, he entered into the study, and what he did therein I
know not; and within a while after he fled out at the roof
THE SECOND DEPARTURE 61
of the house, and left all the house full of smoke ; and when
we accorded to see what he had done, we could neither see
book nor study: only this much the old woman and I do re-
member very well, that the naughty old man, at his departure,
said, with a loud voice, that he, for hidden enmity that he
bore to the lord of those books, had done all the harm to the
house that they might perceive when he were dep>arted, and
added that he was named the wise Muniaton. 'Frestron,
you would have said,' quoth Don Quixote. 'I know not,'
quoth the old woman, 'whether he hight Frestron or Friton,
but well I wot that his name ended with "ton." ' 'That is
true,' quoth Don Quixote ; 'and he is a very wise enchanter,
and my great adversary, and looks on me with a sinister
eye; for he knows, by his art and science, that I shall in
time fight a single combat with a knight, his very great
friend, and overcome him in battle, without being able to be
by him assisted, and therefore he labours to do me all the
hurt he may; and I have sent him word, that he strives in
vain to divert or shun that which is by Heaven already de-
creed.' 'Who doubts of that?' quoth his niece. 'But I pray
you, good uncle, say, what need have you to thrust yourself
into these difficulties and brabbles? Were it not better to
rest you quietly in your own house, than to wander through
the world, searching bread of blasted corn, without once
considering how many there go to seek for wool that return
again shorn themselves?' 'Oh, niece,' quoth Don Quixote,
'how ill dost thou understand the matter ! Before I permit
myself to be shorn, I will pill and pluck away the beards of
as many as shall dare or imagine to touch but a hair only of
me.' To these words the women would make no reply, be-
cause they saw his choler increase.
Fifteen days he remained quietly at home, without giving
any argument of seconding his former vanities ; in which
time passed many pleasant encounters between him and his
two gossips, the curate and barber, upon that point which
he defended, to wit, that the world needed nothing so much
as knights-errant, and that the erratical knighthood ought
to be again renewed therein. Master parson would contra-
dict him sometimes, and other times yield unto that he urged ;
for had they not observed that manner of proceeding, it
62 DON QUIXOTE
were impossible to bring him to any conformity. In this
space Don Quixote dealt with a certain labourer, his neigh-
bour, an honest man (if the title of honesty may be given to
the poor), but one of a very shallow wit; in resolution, he
said so much to him, and persuaded him so earnestly, and
made him so large promises, as the poor fellow determined
to go away with him, and serve him as his squire. Don
Quixote, among many other things, bade him to dispose him-
self willingly to depart with him ; for now and then such an
adventure might present itself, that, in as short space as one
would take up a couple of straws, an island might be won,
and he be left as governor thereof. With these and such
like promises, Sancho Panza (for so he was called) left his
wife and children, and agreed to be his squire. Afterward,
Don Quixote began to cast plots how to come by some
money ; which he achieved by selling one thing, pawning
another, and turning all upside down. At last he got a pretty
sum, and, accommodating himself with a buckler which he
had borrowed of a friend, and patching up his broken beaver
again as well as he could, he advertised his squire Sancho
of the day and hour wherein he meant to depart, that he
might likewise furnish himself with that which he thought
needful ; but above all things he charged him to provide him-
self of a wallet ; which he promised to perform, and said that
he meant also to carry a very good ass, which he had of his
own, because he was not wont to travel much a-foot. In
that of the ass Don Quixote stood a while pensive, calling to
mind whether ever he had read that any knight-errant car-
ried his squire assishly mounted ; but he could not remember
any authority for it ; yet, notwithstanding, he resolved that
he might bring his beast, with intention to accommodate him
more honourably, when occasion were ofifered, by dismount-
ing the first discourteous knight they met, from his horse,
and giving it to his squire ; he also furnished himself with
shirts, and as many other things as he might, according unto
the innkeeper's advice. All which being finished, Sancho
Panza, without bidding his wife and children farewell, or
Don Quixote his niece and old servant, they both departed
one night out of the village, unknown to any person living;
and they travelled so far that night, as they were sure in
THE SECOND DEPARTURE 63
the morning not to be found, although they were pursued.
Sancho Panza rode on his beast like a patriarch, with his
wallet and bottle, and a marvellous longing to see himself
governor of the island which his master had promised unto
him.
Don Quixote took by chance the same very course and
way that he had done in his first voyage through the field
of Montiel, wherein he travelled then with less vexation
than the first ; for, by reason it was early, and the sunbeams
striking not directly down, but athwart, the heat did not
trouble them much. And Sancho Panza, seeing the oppor-
tunity good, said to his master, 'I pray you, have care, good
sir knight, that you forget not that government of the island
which you have promised me, for I shall be able to govern it
were it never so great.' To which Don Quixote replied :
'You must understand, friend Sancho Panza, that it was a
custom very much used by ancient knights-errant, to make
their squires governors of the islands and kingdoms that
they conquered; and I am resolved that so good a custom
shall never be abolished by me, but rather I will pass and
exceed them therein ; for they sometimes, and as I take it,
did, for the greater part, expect until their squires waxed
aged ; and after they were cloyed with service, and had suf-
fered many bad days and worse nights, then did they bestow
upon them some title of an earl, or at least of a marquis, of
some valley or province, of more or less account. But if
thou livest, and I withal, it may happen that I may conquer
such a kingdom within six days, that hath other kingdoms
adherent to it, which would fall out as just as it were cast
in a mould for thy purpose, whom I would crown presently
king of one of them. And do not account this to be any
great matter ; for things and chances do happen to such
knights-adventurers as I am, by so unexpected and wonder-
ful ways and means, as I might give thee very easily a great
deal more than I have promised.' 'After that manner,' said
Sancho Panza, 'if I were a king, through some miracle of
those which you say, then should Joan Gutierez, my wife,
become a queen, and my children princes !' 'Who doubts of
that?' said Don Quixote. 'That do I,' replied Sancho Panza;
'for I am fully persuaded, that although God would rain
64 DON QUIXOTE
kingdoms down upon the earth, none of them would- sit well
on Mary Gutierez her head ; for, sir, you must understand
that she's not worth a dodkin for a queen. To be a countess
would agree with her better; and yet, I pray God that she
be able to discharge that calling.' 'Commend thou the mat-
ter to God,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that He may give her that
which is most convenient for her. But do not thou abase thy
mind so much as to content thyself with less than at the
least to be a viceroy.' 'I will not, good sir,' quoth Sancho,
'especially seeing I have so worthy a lord and master as your-
self, who knows how to give me all that may turn to my
benefit, and that I shall be able to discharge in good sort.'
CHAPTER VIII
Of the Good Success Don Quixote Had, in the Dreadful
AND Never-imagined Adventure of the Windmills,
with Other Accidents Worthy to Be Recorded
A S they discoursed, they discovered some thirty
/A or forty windmills, that are in that field ; and as soon
■^ — ^ as Don Quixote espied them, he said to his squire,
'Fortune doth address our affairs better than we ourselves
could desire; for behold there, friend Sancho Panza, how
there appears thirty or forty monstrous giants, with whom I
mean to fight, and deprive them all of their lives, with whose
spoils we will begin to be rich; for this is a good war, and a
great service unto God, to take away so bad a seed from the
face of the earth.' 'What giants?' quoth Sancho Panza.
'Those that thou seest there,' quoth his lord, 'with the long
arms; and some there are of that race whose arms are al-
most two leagues long.' 'I pray you understand,' quoth
Sancho Panza, 'that those which appear there are no giants,
but windmills ; and that which seems in them to be arms,
are their sails, that, swung about by the wind, do also make
the mill go.' 'It seems well,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that thou
art not yet acquainted with matter of adventures. They are
giants; and, if thou beest afraid, go aside and pray, whilst I
enter into cruel and unequal battle with them.' And, saying
so, he spurred his horse Rozinante, without taking heed to
his squire Sancho's cries, advertising him how they were
doubtless windmills that he did assault, and no giants; but
he went so fully persuaded that they were giants as he neither
heard his squire's outcries, nor did discern what they were,
although he drew very near to them, but rather said, as loud
as he could, 'Fly not, ye cowards and vile creatures ! for it is
only one knight that assaults you.'
With this the wind increased, and the mill sails began to
65
66 DON QUIXOTE
turn about; which Don Quixote espying, said, 'Although
thou movest more arms than the giant Briareus thou shalt
stoop to me.' And, after saying this, and commending him-
self most devoutly to his Lady Dulcinea, desiring her to suc-
cor him in that trance, covering himself well with his buckler,
and setting his lance on his rest, he spurred on Rozinante,
and encountered with the first mill that was before him,
and, striking his lance into the sail, the wind swung it about
with such fury, that it broke his lance into shivers, carrying
him and his horse after it, and finally tumbled him a good
way off from it on the field in evil plight. Sancho Panza re-
paired presently to succor him as fast as his ass could drive ;
and when he arrived, he found him not able to stir, he had
gotten such a crush with Rozinante. 'Good God!' quoth
Sancho, 'did I not foretell unto you that you should look
well what you did, for they were none other than wind-
mills? nor could any think otherwise, unless he had also
windmills in his brains.' 'Peace, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote;
'for matters of war are more subject than any other thing
to continual change; how much more, seeing I do verily
persuade myself, that the wise Frestron, who robbed my
study and books, hath transformed these giants into mills,
to deprive me of the glory of the victory, such is the enmity
he bears towards me. But yet, in fine, all his bad arts shall
but little prevail against the goodness of my sword.' 'God
grant it as he may !' said Sancho Panza, and then helped him
to arise ; and presently he mounted on Rozinante, who was
half shoulder-pitched by rough encounter; and, discoursing
upon that adventure, they followed on the way which guided
towards the passage or gate of Lapice; for there, as Don
Quixote avouched, it was not possible but to find many ad-
ventures, because it was a thoroughfare much frequented;
and yet he affirmed that he went very much grieved, because
he wanted a lance; and, telling it to his squire, he said, 'I
remember how I have read that a certain Spanish knight,
called Diego Peres of Vargas, having broken his sword in a
battle, tore off a great branch or stock from an oak-tree, and
did such marvels with it that day, and battered so many
Moors, as he remained with the surname of Machuca, which
signifies a stump, and as well he as all his progeny were ever
ADVENTURE OF THE WINDMILLS 67
after that day called Vargas and Machuca. I tell thee this,
because I mean to tear another branch, such, or as good as
that at least, from the first oak we shall encounter, and I
mean to achieve such adventures therewithal, as thou wilt
account thyself fortunate for having merited to behold them,
and be a witness of things almost incredible.' *In God's
name !' quoth Sancho, 'I do believe every word you said.
But, I pray you, sit right in your saddle ; for you ride side-
ling, which proceeds, as I suppose, of the bruising you got by
your fall.' 'Thou sayst true,' quoth Don Quixote; 'and if I
do not complain of the grief, the reason is, because knights-
errant use not to complain of any wound, although their guts
did issue out thereof.' 'If it be so,' quoth Sancho, 'I know
not what to say; but God knows that I would be glad to
hear you to complain when anything grieves you. Of myself
I dare affirm, that I must complain of the least grief that I
have, if it be not likewise meant that the squires of knights-
errant must not complain of any harm.' Don Quixote could
not refrain laughter, hearing the simplicity of his squire;
and after showed unto him that he might lawfully complain,
both when he pleased, and as much as he listed with desire,
or without it ; for he had never yet read anything to the
contrary in the order of knighthood. Then Sancho said
unto him that it was dinner-time. To whom he answered,
that he needed no repast; but if he had will to eat, he might
begin when he pleased. Sancho, having obtained his license,
did accommodate himself on his ass's back the best he might.
Taking out of his wallet some belly-munition, he rode after
his master, travelling and eating at once, and that with great
leisure; and ever and anon he lifted up his bottle with such
pleasure as the best-fed victualler of Malaga might envy his
state ; and whilst he rode, multiplying of quaffs in that man-
ner, he never remembered any of the promises his master had
made him, nor did he hold the fetch of adventures to be a
labour, but rather a great recreation and ease, were they
never so dangerous. In conclusion, they passed over that
night under certain trees, from one of which Don Quixote
tore a withered branch, which might serve him in some sort
for a lance ; and therefore he set thereon the iron of his own,
which he had reserved whgn it was broken.
HC XIV — 3
68 DON QUIXOTE
All that night Don Quixote slept not one wink, but thought
upon his Lady Dulcinea, that he might conform himself to
what he had read in his books of adventures, when knights
passed over many nights without sleep in forests and fields,
only entertained by the memory of their mistresses. But
Sancho spent not his time so vainly; for, having his stomach
well stuffed, and that not with succory water, he carried
smoothly away the whole night in one sleep; and if his
master had not called him up, neither the sunbeams which
struck on his visage, nor the melody of the birds, which were
many, and did cheerfully welcome the approach of the new
day, could have been able to awake him. At his arising he
gave one assay to the bottle, which he found to be somewhat
more weak than it was the night before, whereat his heart
was somewhat grieved; for he mistrusted that they took not
a course to remedy that defect so soon as he wished. Nor
could Don Quixote break his fast, who, as we have said,
meant only to sustain himself with pleasant remembrances.
Then did they return to their commenced way towards the
port of Lapice, which they discovered about three of the
clock in the afternoon. 'Here,' said Don Quixote, as soon
as he kenned it, 'may we, friend Sancho, thrust our hands
up to the very elbows in that which is called adventures.
But observe well this caveat which I shall give thee, that,
although thou seest me in the greatest dangers of the world,
thou must not set hand to thy sword in my defence, if thou
dost not see that those which assault me be base and vile
vulgar people ; for in such a case thou mayst assist me.
Marry, if they be knights, thou mayst not do so in anywise,
nor is it permitted, by the laws of arms, that thou mayst
help me, until thou beest likewise dubbed knight thyself.'
'I do assure you, sir,' quoth Sancho, 'that herein you shall
be most punctually obeyed; and therefore chiefly in respect
that I am of mine own nature a quiet and peaceable man,
and a mortal enemy of thrusting myself into stirs or quar-
rels; yet it is true that, touching the defence of mine own
person, I will not be altogether so observant of those laws,
seeing that both divine and human allow every man to defend
himself from any one that would wrong him.' 'I say no
less,' answered Don Quixote ; 'but in this of aiding me against
THE FRIARS OF S. BENET 69
any knight, thou must set bounds to thy natural impulses.*
'I say I will do so,' quoth Sancho; 'and I will observe this
commandment as punctually as that of keeping holy the Sab-
bath day.'
Whilst thus they reasoned, there appeared in the way two
monks of St. Benet's order, mounted on two dromedaries;
for the mules whereon they rode were but little less. They
wore masks with spectacles in them, to keep away the dust
from their faces; and each of them besides bore their um-
brills. After them came a coach, and four or five a-horse-
back accompanying it, and two lackeys that ran hard by it.
There came therein, as it was after known, a certain Bis-
caine lady, which travelled towards Seville, where her hus-
band sojourned at the present, and was going to the Indies
with an honorable charge. The monks rode not with her,
although they travelled the same way. Scarce had Don
Quixote perceived them, when he said to his squire, 'Either
I am deceived, or else this will prove the most famous ad-
venture that ever hath been seen; for these two great black
bulks, which appear there, are, questionless, enchanters, that
steal, or carry away perforce, some princess in that coach ;
and therefore I must, with all my power, undo that wrong.'
'This will be worse than the adventure of the windmills,'
quoth Sancho. 'Do not you see, sir, that those are friars of
St. Benet's order? and the coach can be none other than of
some travellers. Therefore, listen to mine advice, and see
well what you do, lest the devil deceive you.' 'I have said
already to thee, Sancho, that thou art very ignorant in mat-
ter of adventures. What I say is true, as now thou shalt see.'
And, saying so, he spurred on his horse, and placed himself
just in the midst of the way by which the friars came; and
when they approached so near as he supposed they might
hear him, he said, with a loud voice, 'Devilish and wicked ^
people ! leave presently those high princesses which you
violently carry away with you in that coach ; or, if you will
not, prepare yourselves to receive sudden death, as a just
punishment of your bad works.' The friars held their horses,
and were amazed both at the shape and words of Don
Quixote; to whom they answered: 'Sir knight, we are
neither devilish nor wicked, but religious men of St. Benet's
70 DON QUIXOTE
order, that travel about our affairs ; and we know not
whether or no there come any princesses forced in this
coach.' 'With me fair words take no effect,' quoth Don
Quixote ; 'for I know you very well, treacherous knaves !'
And then, without expecting their reply, he set spurs to
Rozinante, and, laying his lance on the thigh, charged the
first friar with such fury and rage, that if he had not suf-
fered himself willingly to fall off his mule, he would not
only have overthrown him against his will, but likewise have
slain, or at least wounded him very ill with the blow. The
second religious man, seeing how ill his companion was used,
made no words,; but, setting spurs to that castle his mule, did
fly away through the field, as swift as the wind itself. San-
cho Panza, seeing the monk overthrown, dismounted very
speedily off his ass, and ran over to him, and would have
ransacked his habits. _In this arrived the monks' two lackeys,
and demanded of him why he thus despoiled the friar.
Sancho replied that it was his due, by the law of arms, as
lawful spoils gained in battle by his lord, Don Quixote. The
lackeys, which understood not the jest, nor knew not what
words of battle or spoils meant, seeing that Don Quixote
was now out of the way, speaking with those that came in
the coach, set both at once upon Sancho, and left him not a
hair in his beard but they plucked, and did so trample him
under their feet, as they left him stretched on the ground
without either breath or feeling. The monk, cutting off all
delays, mounted again on horseback, all affrighted, having
scarce any drop of blood left in his face through fear; and,
being once up, he spurred after his fellow, who expected him
a good way off, staying to see the success of that assault;
and, being unwilling to attend the end of that strange adven-
ture, they did prosecute their journey, blessing and crossing
themselves as if the devil did pursue them.
Don Quixote, as is rehearsed, was in this season speaking
to the lady of the coach, to whom he said: 'Your beauty,
dear lady, may dispose from henceforth of your person as
best ye liketh ; for the pride of your robbers lies now pros-
trated on the ground, by this my invincible arm. And be-
cause you may not be troubled to know your deliverer his
name, know that I am called Don Quixote de la Mancha, a
knight-errant and adventurer, and captive to the peerless
THE BISCAINE SQUIRE 71
and beautiful Lady Dulcinea of Toboso. And, in reward of
the benefit which you have received at my hands, I demand
nothing else but that you return to Toboso, and there present
yourselves, in my name, before my lady, and recount unto
her what I have done to obtain your liberty.' To all these
words which Don Quixote said, a certain Biscaine squire,
that accompanied the coach, gave ear; who, seeing that Don
Quixote suffered not the coach to pass onward, but said that
it must presently turn back to Toboso, he drew near to him,
and, laying hold on his lance, he said, in his bad Spanish
and worse Basquish : 'Get thee away, knight, in an ill hour.
By the God that created me, if thou leave not the coach, I
will kill thee, as sure as I am a Biscaine.' Don Quixote,
understanding him, did answer, with great staidness: *If
thou were a knight, as thou art not, I would by this have
punished thy folly and presumption, caitiff creature !' The
Biscaine replied, with great fury : 'Not I a gentleman ! I
swear God thou liest, as well as I am a Christian. If thou
cast away thy lance, and draw thy sword, thou shalt see the
water as soon as thou shalt carry away the cat: a Biscaine
by land, and a gentleman by sea, a gentleman in spite of the
devil ; and thou liest, if other things thou sayst !' ' "Straight
thou shalt see that," said Agrages,' replied Don Quixote;
and, throwing his lance to the ground, he out with his sword,
and took his buckler, and set on the Biscaine, with resolution
to kill him. The Biscaine, seeing him approach in that man-
ner, although he desired to alight off his mule, which was
not to be trusted, being one of those naughty ones which are
wont to be hired, yet had he no leisure to do any other thing
than to draw out his sword ; but it befel him happily to be
near to the coach, out of which he snatched a cushion, that
served him for a shield; and presently the one made upon
the other like mortal enemies. Those that were present
laboured all that they might, but in vain, to compound the
matter between them; for the Biscaine swore, in his bad
language, that if they hindered him from ending the battle,
he would put his lady, and all the rest that dared to disturb
him, to the sword.
The lady, astonished and fearful of that which she beheld,
commanded the coachman to go a little out of the way, and
sat aloof, beholding the rigorous conflict; in the progress
72 DON QUIXOTE
whereof the Biscaine gave Don Quixote over the target a
mighty blow on one of the shoulders, where, if it had not
found resistance in his armour, it would doubtlessly have
cleft him down to the girdle. Don Quixote, feeling the
weight of that unmeasurable blow, cried, with a loud voice,
saying, *0 Dulcinea ! lady of my soul ! the flower of all
beauty ! succor this thy knight, who to set forth thy worth,
finds himself in this dangerous trance !' The saying of these
words, the gripping fast of his sword, the covering of him-
self well with his buckler, and the assailing of the Biscaine,
was done all in one instant, resolving to venture all the suc-
cess of the battle on that one only blow. The Biscaine, who
perceived him come in that manner, perceived, by his
doughtiness, his intention, and resolved to do the like ; and
therefore expected him very well, covered with his cushion,
not being able to manage his mule as he wished from one
part to another, who was not able to go a step, it was so
wearied, as a beast never before used to the like toys. Don
Quixote, as we have said, came against the wary Biscaine
with his sword lifted aloft, with full resolution to part him
in two ; and all the beholders stood, with great fear suspended,
to see the success of those monstrous blows wherewithal
they threatened one another. And the lady of the coach,
with her gentlewomen, made a thousand vows and offerings
to all the devout places of Spain, to the end that God might
deliver the squire and themselves out of that great danger
wherein they were.
But it is to be deplored how, in this very point and term,
the author of this history leaves this battle depending, ex-
cusing himself that he could find no more written of the acts
of Don Quixote than those which he hath already recounted.
True it is, that the second writer of this work would not
believe that so curious a history was drowned in the jaws of
oblivion, or that the wits of the Mancha were so little curi-
ous as not to reserve among their treasures or records some
papers treating of this famous knight; and therefore, en-
couraged by this presumption, he did not despair to find the
end of this pleasant history; which. Heaven being propitious
to him, he got at last, after the manner that shall be re-
counted in the Second Part.
THE SECOND BOOK
CHAPTER I
Wherein Is Related the Events of the Fearful Battle
Which the Gallant Biscaine Fought with
Don Quixote
WE left the valorous Biscaine and the famous Don
Quixote, in the First Part, with their swords lifted
up and naked, in terms to discharge one upon an-
other two furious cleavers, and such, as if they had lighted
rightly, would cut and divide them both from the top to the
toe, and open them like a pomegranate ; and in that so doubt-
ful a taking the delightful history stopped and remained dis-
membered, the author thereof leaving us no notice where we
might find the rest of the narration. This grieved me not a
little, but wholly turned the pleasure I took in reading the
beginning thereof into disgust, thinking how small com-
modity was offered to find out so much as in my opinion
wanted of this so delectable a tale. It seemed unto me al-
most impossible, and contrary to all good order, that so good
a knight should want some wise man that would undertake
his wonderful prowess and feats of chivalry: a thing that
none of those knights-errant ever wanted, of whom people
speak; for each of them had one or two wise men, of pur-
pose, that did not only write their acts, but also depainted
their very least thoughts and toys, were they never so hid-
den. And surely so good a knight could not be so unfortu-
nate as to want that wherewith Platyr and others his like
abounded; and therefore could not induce myself to believe
that so gallant a history might remain maimed and lame, and
did rather cast the fault upon the malice of the time, who is
a consumer and devourer of all things, which had either
hidden or consumed it. Methought, on the other side, seeing
73
74 DON QUIXOTE
that among his books were found some modern works, such
as the Undeceiving of Jealousy, and the Nymphs and Shep-
herds of Henares, that also his own history must have been
new; and if that it were not written, yet was the memory of
him fresh among the dwellers of his own village and the
other villages adjoining. This imagination held me sus-
pended, and desirous to learn really and truly all the life
and miracles of our famous Spaniard, Don Quixote of the
Mancha, the light and mirror of all Manchical chivalry, being
the first who, in this our age and time, so full of calamities,
did undergo the travels and exercise of arms-errant; and
undid wrongs, succored widows, protected damsels that rode
up and down with their whips and palfreys, and with all
their virginity on their backs, from hill to hill and dale to
dale; for, if it happened not that some lewd miscreant, or
some clown with a hatchet and long hair, or some mon-
strous giant, did force them, damsels there were in times
past that at the end of fourscore years old, all which time
they never slept one day under a roof, went as entire and
pure maidens to their graves as the very mother that bore
them. Therefore I say, that as well for this as for many
other good respects, our gallant Don Quixote is worthy of
continual and memorable praises; nor can the like be justly
denied to myself, for the labour and diligence which I used
to find out the end of this grateful history, although I know
very well that, if Heaven, chance, and fortune had not as-
sisted me, the world had been deprived of the delight and
pastime that they may take for almost two hours together,
who shall with attention read it. The manner, therefore, of
finding it was this :
Being one day walking in the exchange of Toledo, a cer-
tain boy by chance would have sold divers old quires and
scrolls of books to a squire that walked up and down in that
place, and I, being addicted to read such scrolls, though I
found them torn in the streets, borne away by this my nat-
ural inclination, took one of the quires in my hand, and per-
ceived it to be written in Arabical characters, and seeing
that, although I knew the letters, yet could_ I not read the
substance, I looked about to view whether 1 could perceive
any Moor turned Spaniard thereabouts, that could read
cm HAMETE BENENGELI 75
them; nor was it very difficult to find there such an inter-
preter ; for, if I had searched one of another better and more
ancient language, that place would easily aflford him. In
fine, my good fortune presented one to me; to whom telling
my desire, and setting the book in his hand, he opened it,
and, having read a little therein, began to laugh. I de-
manded of him why he laughed; and he answered, at that
marginal note which the book had. I bade him to expound
it to me, and with that took him a little aside; and he, con-
tinuing still his laughter, said: 'There is written there, on
this margin, these words : "This Dulcinea of Toboso, so
many times spoken of in this history, had the best hand for
powdering of porks of any woman in all the Mancha." ' When
I heard it make mention of Dulcinea of Toboso, I rested
amazed and suspended, and imagined forthwith that those
quires contained the history of Don Quixote. With this con-
ceit I hastened him to read the beginning, which he did, and,
translating the Arabical into Spanish in a trice, he said that
it begun thus : 'The History of Don Quixote of the Mancha,
written by Cid Hamete Benengeli, an Arabical historiog-
rapher.' Much discretion was requisite to dissemble the con-
tent of mind I conceived when I heard the title of the book,
and preventing the squire, I bought all the boy's scrolls and
papers for a real ; and were he of discretion, or knew my
desire, he might have promised himself easily, and also have
borne away with him, more than six reals for his merchan-
dise. I departed after with the Moor to the cloister of the
great church, and I requested him to turn me all the Arabical
sheets that treated of Don Quixote into Spanish, without
adding or taking away anything from them, and I would pay
him what he listed for his pains. He demanded fifty pounds
of raisins and three bushels of wheat, and promised to trans-
late them Speedily, well, and faithfully. But I, to hasten the
matter more, lest I should lose such an unexpected and wel-
come treasure, brought him to my house, where he trans-
lated all the work in less than a month and a half, even in
the manner that it is here recounted.
There was painted, in the first quire, very naturally, the
battle betwixt Don Quixote and the Biscaine ; even in the
same manner that the history relateth it, with their swords
76 DON QUIXOTE
lifted aloft, the one covered with his buckler, the other with
the cushion ; and the Biscaine's mule was delivered so nat-
urally as a man might perceive it was hired, although he
stood farther off than the shot of a cross-bow. The Biscaine
had a title written under his feet that said, 'Don Sancho de
Azpetia,' for so belike he was called ; and at Rozinante his
feet there was another, that said 'Don Quixote.' Rozinante
v/as marvellous well portraited; so long and lank, so thin
and lean, so like one labouring with an incurable consump-
tion, as he did show very clearly with what consideration
and propriety he had given unto him the name Rozinante.
By him stood Sancho Panza, holding his ass by the halter;
at whose feet was another scroll, saying, 'Sancho Zancas,'
and I think the reason thereof was, that, as his picture
showed, he had a great belly, a short stature, and thick legs;
and therefore, I judge, he was called Panza, or Zanca; for
both these names were written of him indifferently in the
history. There were other little things in it worthy noting;
but all of them are of no great importance, nor anything
necessary for the true relation of the history; for none is ill,
if it be true.. And if any objection be made against the
truth of this, it can be none other than that the author was
a Moor; and it is a known propriety of that nation to be
lying: yet, in respect that they hate us so mortally, it is to
be conjectured that in this history there is rather want and
concealment of our knight's worthy acts than any super-
fluity ; which I imagine the rather, because I iind in the prog-
ress thereof, many times, that when he might and ought to
have advanced his pen in our knight's praises, he doth, as it
were of purpose, pass them over in silence ; which was very
ill done, seeing that historiographers ought and should be
very precise, true, and unpassionate ; and that neither profit
nor fear, rancour nor affection, should make them to tread
awry from the truth, whose mother is history, the emu-
latress of time, the treasury of actions, the witness of things
past, the advertiser of things to come. In this history I
know a man may find all that he can desire in the most pleas-
ing manner; and if they want anything to be desired, I am
of opinion that it is through the fault of that ungracious
knave that translated it, rather than through any defect in
DEFEAT OF THE BISCAINE 11
the subject. Finally, the Second Part thereof (according to
the translation) began in this manner:
The trenchant swords of the two valorous and enraged
combatants being lifted aloft, it seemed that they threatened
heaven, the earth, and the depths, such was their hardiness
and courage. And the first that discharged his blow was
the Biscaine, which fell with such force and fury, as if the
sword had not turned a little in the way, that only blow had
been sufficient to set an end to the rigorous contention, and
■all other the adventures of our knight. But his good for-
tune, which reserved him for greater affairs, did wrest his
adversary's sword awry in such sort, as though he struck
him on the left shoulder, yet did it no more harm than dis-
arm all that side, carrying away with it a great part of his
beaver, with the half of his ear ; all which fell to the ground
with a dreadful ruin, leaving him in very ill case for a good
time. Good God ! who is he that can well describe, at this
present, the fury that entered in the heart of our Manchegan,
seeing himself used in that manner. Let us say no more, but
that it was such that, stretching himself again in the stirrups,
and gripping his sword fast in both his hands, he discharged
such a terrible blow on the Biscaine, hitting him right upon
the cushion, and by it on the head, that the strength and thick-
ness thereof so little availed him, that, as if a whole moun-
tain had fallen upon him, the blood gushed out of his
mouth, nose, and ears^ all at once, and he tottered so on his
mule, that every step he took he was ready to fall off, as he
would indeed if he had not taken him by the neck; yet,
nevertheless, he lost the stirrups, and, losing his grip of the
mule, it being likewise frighted by that terrible blow, ran
away as fast as it could about the fields, and within two or
three winches overthrew him to the ground. All which Don
Quixote stood beholding with great quietness; and as soon
as he saw him fall, he leaped off his horse, and ran over to
him very speedily; and, setting the point of his sword on his
eyes, he bade him yield himself, or else he would cut off his
head. The Biscaine was so amazed as he could not speak a
word ; and it had succeeded very ill with him, considering
Don Quixote's fury, if the ladies of the coach, which until
then had beheld the conflict with great anguish, had not
78 DON QUIXOTE
come where he was, and earnestly besought him to do them
the favour to pardon their squire's life. Don Quixote
answered, with a great loftiness and gravity: 'Truly, fair
ladies, I am well apaid to grant you your request, but it must
be with this agreement and condition, that this knight shall
promise me to go to Toboso, and present himself, in my
name, to the peerless Lady Dulcinea, to the end she may dis-
pose of him as she pleaseth.' The timorous and comfortless
lady, without considering what Don Quixote demanded, or
asking what Dulcinea was, promised that her squire should
accomplish all that he pleased to command. 'Why, then,'
quoth Don Quixote, 'trusting to your promise, I'll do him no
more harm, although he hath well deserved it at my hands.'
CHAPTER II
Of That Which after Befel Don Quixote When He Had
Left the Ladies
BY this Sancho Panza had gotten up, though somewhat
abused by the friars' lacHeys, and stood attentively
beholding his lord's combat, and prayed to God with
all his heart, that it would please Him to give him the vic-
tory; and that he might therein win some island, whereof he
might make him governor, as he had promised. And, seeing
the controversy ended at last, and that his lord remounted
upon Rozinante, he came to hold him the stirrup, and cast
himself on his knees before him ere he got up, and, taking
him by the hand, he kissed it, saying, 'I desire that it will
please you, good my lord Don Quixote, to bestow upon me
the government of that island which in this terrible battle
you have won ; for though it were never so great, yet do I
find myself able enough to govern it, as well as any other
whatsoever that ever governed island in this world.' To this
demand Don Quixote answered : 'Thou must note, friend
Sancho, that this adventure, and others of this I;ind, are not
adventures of islands, but of thwartings and highways,
wherein nothing else is gained but a broken pate, or the loss
of an ear. Have patience a while; for adventures will be
offered whereby thou shalt not only be made a governor, but
also a greater man.' Sancho rendered him many thanks, and,
kissing his hand again, and the skirt of his habergeon, he did
help him to get up on Rozinante, and he leapt on his ass,
and followed his lord, who, with a swift pace, without taking
leave or speaking to those of the coach, entered into a wood
that was hard at hand. Sancho followed him as fast as his
beast could trot; but Rozinante went off so swiftly, as he,
perceiving he was like to be left behind, was forced to call
aloud to his master that Ije would stay for him, which Don
79
80 DON QUIXOTE
Quixote did, by checking Rozinante with the bridle, until his
wearied squire did arrive ; who, as soon as he came, said unto
him, 'Methinks, sir, that it will not be amiss to retire our^
selves to some church ; for, according as that man is ill dight
with whom you fought, I certainly persuade myself that they
will give notice of the fact to the holy brotherhood, and they
will seek to apprehend us, which if they do, in good faith,
before we can get out of their claws, I fear me we shall
sweat for it,' 'Peace !' quoth Don Quixote ; 'where hast thou
ever read or seen that knight-errant that hath been brought
before the judge, though he committed never so many homi-
cides and slaughters?' 'I know nothing of omicills,' quoth
Sancho, 'nor have I cared in my life for any; but well I wot
that it concerns the Holy Brotherhood to deal with such as
fight in the fields, and in that other I will not intermeddle.'
'Then be not afraid, friend,' quoth Don Quixote ; 'for I will
deliver thee out of the hands of the Chaldeans, how much
more out of those of the brotherhood. But tell me, in very
good earnest, whether thou didst ever see a more valorous
knight than I am throughout the face of the earth? Didst
thou ever read in histories of any other that hath, or ever
had, more courage in assailing, more breath in persever-
ing, more dexterity in offending, or more art in overthrow-
ing, than I ?' 'The truth is,' quoth Sancho, 'that I have never
read any history; for I can neither read nor write: but that
which I dare wager is, that I never in my life served a bolder
master than you are ; and I pray God that we pay not for this
boldness there where I have said. That vvhich I request you
is, that you will cure yourself; for you lose much blood by
that ear, and here I have lint and a little unguentiim album
in my wallet.' 'All this might be excused,' quoth Don
Quixote, 'if I had remembered to make a vialful of the
Balsam of Fierebras ; for, with one drop of it, we might
spare both time, and want well all those other medicines.'
'What vial, and what balsam, is that?' said Sancho Panza.
'It is,' answered Don Quixote, *a balsam whereof I have the
recipe in memory, which one possessing he needs not fear
death, nor ought he to think that he may be killed by any
wound; and therefore, after I have made it, and given it unto
thee, thou hast nothing else to do, but when thou shalt see
SANCHO PANZA'S DESIRES 81
that in any battle I be cloven in twain (as many times it hap-
pens), thou shalt take fair and softly that part of my body
that is fallen to the ground, and put it up again, with great
subtlety, on the part that rests in the saddle, before the blood
congeal, having evermore great care that thou place it just
and equally; then presently after thou shalt give me two
draughts of that balsam of which I have spoken, and thou
shalt see me straight become sounder than an apple.' 'If
that be true,' quoth Sancho, 'I do presently here renounce
the government of the island you promised, and will demand
nothing else in recompense of my services of you, but only
the recipe of this precious liquor; for I am certain that an
ounce thereof will be worth two reals in any place, and when
I have it I should need nothing else to gain my living easily
and honestly. But let me know, is it costly in making?'
'With less than three reals,' quoth Don Quixote, 'a man may
make three gallons of it. But I mean to teach thee greater
secrets than this, and do thee greater favours also. And
now, let me cure myself; for mine ear grieves me more than
I would wish.' Sancho then took out of his wallet his lint
and ointment to cure his master. But when Don Quixote
saw that the visor of his helmet was broken, he was ready to
run mad; and, setting his hand to his sword, and lifting up
his eyes to heaven, he said: 'I vow to the Creator of all
things, and to the four gospels where they are largest written,
to lead such another life as the great Marquis of Mantua
did, when he swore to revenge the death of his nephew Val-
dovinos : which was, not to eat on table-cloth, nor sport with
his wife, and other things, which, although I do not now re-
member, I give them here for expressed, until I take com-
plete revenge on him that hath done me this outrage.'
Sancho, hearing this, said: 'You must note. Sir Don
Quixote, that if the knight had accomplished that which you
ordained, to go and present himself before my Lady Dulcinea
of Toboso, then hath he fully satisfied his debt, and deserves
no new punishment, except he commit a new fault.' 'Thou
hast spoken well, and hit the mark right,' said Don Quixote;
'and therefore I disannul the oath, in that of taking any new
revenge on him ; but I make it, and confirm it again, that I
will lead the life I have said until I take another helmet like.
82 DON QUIXOTE
or as good as this, perforce from some knight. And do not
think, Sancho, that I make this resolution lightly, or, as they
say, with the smoke of straws, for I have an author whom I
may very well imitate herein; for the very like, in every
respect, passed about Mambrino's helmet, which cost Sacri-
phante so dearly.' *I would have you resign those kind of
oaths to the devil,' quoth Sancho; 'for they will hurt your
health, and prejudice your conscience. If not, tell me now, I
beseech you, if we shall not these many days encounter with
any that wears a helmet, what shall we do? Will you ac-
complish the oath in despite of all the inconveniences and
discommodities that ensue thereof? to wit, to sleep in
your clothes, nor to sleep in any dwelling, and a thousand
other penitences, which the oath of the mad old man, the
Marquis of Mantua, contained, which you mean to ratify
now ? Do not you consider that armed men travel not in any
of these ways, but carriers and waggoners, who not only
carry no helmets, but also, for the most part, never heard
speak of them in their lives?' 'Thou dost deceive thyself
saying so,' replied Don Quixote ; 'for we shall not haunt
these ways two hours before we shall see more armed knights
than were at the siege of Albraca, to conquer Angelica the
fair.'
'Well, then, let it be so,' quoth Sancho; 'and I pray God it
befall us well, whom I devoutly beseech that the time may
come of gaining that island which costs me so dear, and after
let me die presently, and I care not.' 'I have already said to
thee, Sancho,' quoth his lord, 'that thou shouldst not trouble
thyself in any wise about this affair; for if an island were
wanting, we have then the kingdom of Denmark, or that of
Sobradisa, which will come as fit for thy purpose as a ring to
thy finger; and principally thou art to rejoice because they
are on the continent. But, omitting this till his own time,
see whether thou hast anything in thy wallet, and let us eat
it, that afterward we may go search out some castle wherein
we may lodge this night, and make the balsam which I have
told thee; for I vow to God that this ear grieves me mar-
vellously.' 'I have here an onion,' replied the squire, 'a piece
of cheese, and a few crusts of bread; but such gross meats
are not befitting so noble a knight as you are.' 'How ill dost
SANCHO PANZA'S DESIRES 83
thou understand it !' answered Don Quixote. *I let thee to
understand, Sancho, that it is an honour for knights-errant
not to eat once in a month's space ; and if by chance they
should eat, to eat only of that which is next at hand ; and this
thou mightest certainly conceive, hadst thou read so many
books as I have done; for though I passed over many, yet did
I never find recorded in any that knights-errant did ever eat,
but by mere chance and adventure, or in some costly ban-
quets that were made for them, and all the other days they
passed over with herbs and roots : and though it is to be
understood that they could not live without meat, and sup-
plying the other needs of nature, because they were in effect
men as we are, it is likewise to be understood, that spending
the greater part of their lives in forests and deserts, and that,
too, without a cook, that their most ordinary meats were but
coarse and rustical, such as thou dost now offer unto me. So
that, friend Sancho, let not that trouble thee which is my
pleasure, nor go not thou about to make a new world, or to
hoist knight-errantry off her hinges.' Tardon me, good sir,'
quoth Sancho ; 'for, by reason I can neither read nor write,
as I have said once before, I have not fallen rightly in the
rules and laws of knighthood; and from henceforth my wallet
shall be well furnished with all kinds of dry fruits for you,
because you are a knight ; and for myself, seeing I am none,
I will provide fowls and other things, that are of more sub-
stance.' 'I say not, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that it is a
forcible law to knights-errant not to eat any other things
than such fruits, but that their most ordinary sustenance
could be none other than those, and some herbs they found
up and down the fields, which they knew very well, and so
do I also.' 'It is a virtue,' quoth Sancho, 'to know those
herbs ; for, as I imagine, that knowledge will some day stand
us in stead.' And, saying so, he took out the provision he
had, which they both ate together with good conformity.
But, being desirous to search out a place where they might
lodge that night, they did much shorten their poor dinner,
and, mounting anon a-horseback, they made as much haste
as they could to find out some dwellings before the night did
fall ; but the sun and their hopes did fail them at once, they
being near the cabins of certain goatherds; and therefore
84 DON QUIXOTE
they concluded to take up their lodging there for that night:
for, though Sancho's grief was great to He out of a village,
yet Don Quixote's joy exceeded it far, considering he must
sleep under open heaven; because he made account, as oft as
this befel him, that he did a worthy act, which did facilitate
and ratify the practice of his chivalry.
CHAPTER III
Of That Which Passed Between Don Quixote and
Certain Goatherds
HE was entertained very cheerfully by the goatherds;
and Sancho, having set up Rozinante and his ass as
well as he could, he presently repaired to the smell
of certain pieces of goat-flesh, that stood boiling in a kettle
over the fire ; and although he thought, in that very moment,
to try whether they were in season to be translated out of
the kettle into the stomach, he did omit it, because he saw
the herds take them off the fire, and, spreading certain sheep-
skins, which they had for that purpose, on the ground, lay
in a trice their rustical table, and invited the master and
man, with very cheerful mind, to come and take part of that
which they had. There sat down round about the skins six
of them, which were all that dwelt in that fold; having first
(using some coarse compliments) placed Don Quixote upon
a trough, turning the bottom up. Don Quixote sat down,
and Sancho stood to serve the cup, which was made of horn.
His master, seeing him afoot, said, 'Sancho, to the end thou
mayst perceive the good included in wandering knighthood,
and also in what possibility they are which exercised them-
selves in any ministry thereof, to arrive briefly to honour
and reputation in the world, my will is, that thou dost sit
here by my side, and in company with this good people, and
that thou beest one and the very selfsame thing with me,
who am thy master and natural lord; that thou eat in my
dish and drink in the same cup wherein I drink; for the same
may be said of chivalry that is of love, to wit, that it makes
all things equal.' 'I yield you great thanks.' quoth Sancho;
'yet dare I avouch unto you, that so I had therewithal to eat
well, I could eat it as well, or better, standing and alone,
than if I sat hy an emperor. And besides, if I must say the
85
86 DON QUIXOTE
truth, methinks that which I eat in a corner, without cere-
monies, curiosity, or respect of any, though it were but bread
and an onion, smacks a great deal better than turkey-cocks
at other tables, where I must chew my meat leisurely, drink
but little, wipe my hands often, must not neese nor cough
though I have a desire, or be like to choke, nor do other
things that solitude and liberty bring with them. So that,
good sir, I would have you convert these honours that you
would bestow upon me, in respect that I am an adherent to
chivalry (as I am, being your squire), into things more es-
sential and profitable for me than these ; and though I remain
as thankful for them as if they were received, yet do I here
renounce, from this time until the world's end.' 'For all that,
thou shalt sit; for the humble shall be exalted.' And so,
taking him by the arm, he forced him to sit down near
himself.
The goatherds did not understand that gibberish of squires
and knights-errant, and therefore did nothing else but eat
and hold their peace, and look on their guests, that tossed in
with their fists whole slices, with good grace and stomachs.
The course of flesh being ended, they served in on the rugs
a great quantity of shelled acorns, and half a cheese, harder
than if it were made of rough-casting. The horn stood not
the while idle ; for it went round about so often, now full,
now empty, much like a conduit of Noria ; and in a trice it
emptied one of the two wine-bags that lay there in the public
view. After that Don Quixote had satisfied his appetite well,
he took up a handful of acorns, and, beholding them earn-
estly, he began to discourse in this manner: 'Happy time,
and fortunate ages were those, whereon our ancestors be-
stowed the title of golden! not because gold (so much prized
in this our iron age) was gottei in tha'. happy time without
any labours, but because those which lived in that time knew
not these two words, 'thine' and 'mine'; in that holy age all
things were in common. No man needed, for his ordinary
sustenance, to do ought else than lift up his hand, and take
it from the strong oak, which did liberally invite them to
gather his sweet and savoury fruit. The clear fountains and
running rivers did ofiFer them these savoury and transparent
waters in magnificent abundance. In the clefts of rocks and
THE GOLDEN AGE 87
hollow trees did the careful and discreet bees erect their
commonwealth, offering to every hand, without interest, the
fertile crop of their sweetest travails. The lofty cork-trees
did dismiss of themselves, without any other art than that of
their native liberality, their broad and light rinds; where-
withal houses were at first covered, being sustained by rus-
tical stakes, to none other end but for to keep back the in-
clemencies of the air. All then was peace, all amity, and all
concord. As yet the ploughshare presumed not, with rude
encounter, to open and search the compassionate bowels of
our first mother; for she, without compulsion, offered up,
through all the parts of her fertile and spacious bosom, all
that which might satisfy, sustain, and delight those children
which it then had. Yea, it was then that the simple and
beautiful young shepherdesses went from valley to valley
and hill to hill, with their hair sometimes plaited, sometimes
dishevelled, without other apparel than that which was
requisite to cover comely that which modesty wills, and ever
would have, concealed. Then were of no request the attires
and ornaments which are now used by those that esteem the
purple of Tyre and the so-many-ways-martyrised silk so
much, but only certain green leaves of burdocks and ivy
intertexed and woven together; wherewithal, perhaps, they
went as gorgeously and comely decked as now our court
dames, with all their rare and outlandish inventions that idle-
ness and curiosity hath found out. Then were the amorous
conceits of the mind simply and sincerely delivered, and em-
bellished in the very form and manner that she had con-
ceived them, without any artificial contexture of words to
endear them. Fraud, deceit, or malice haa not then meddled
themselves with plainness and truth. Justice was then in
her proper terms, favour daring not to trouble or confound
her, or the respect of profit, which do now persecute, blemish,
and disturb her so much. The law of corruption, or taking
bribes, had not yet possessed the understanding of the judge;
for then was neither judge, nor person to be judged. Maidens
and honesty wandered then, I say, where they listed, alone,
signiorising, secure that no stranger liberty, or lascivious in-
tent could prejudice it, or their own native desire or will any
way endamage it. But now, in these our detestable times, no
88 DON QUIXOTE
damsel is safe, although she be hid and shut up in another
new labyrinth, like that of Crete; for even there itself the
amorous plague would enter, either by some cranny, or by
the air, or by the continual urgings of cursed care, to infect
her; for whose protection and security was first instituted,
by success of times, the order of knighthood, to defend
damsels, protect widows, and assist orphans and distressed
wights. Of this order am I, friends goatherds, whom I do
heartily thank for the good entertainment which you do give
unto me an my squire; for although that every one living
is obliged, by the law of nature, to favour knights-errant,
yet notwithstanding, knowing that you knew not this obli-
gation, and yet did receive and make much of me, it stands
with all reason that I do render you thanks with all my
heart !'
Our knight made this long oration (which might have
been well excused), because the acorns that were given unto
him called to his mind the golden world, and therefore the
humour took him to make the goatherds that unprofitable
discourse ; who heard him, all amazed and suspended, with
very great attention all the while. Sancho likewise held his
peace, eating acorns, and in the meanwhile visited very often
the second wine-bag, which, because it might be fresh, was
hanged upon a cork-tree. Don Quixote had spent more time
in his speech than in his supper; at the end whereof one of
the goatherds said, 'To the end that you may more assuredly
know, sir knight-errant, that we do entertain you with
prompt and ready will, we will likewise make you some pas-
time by hearing one of our companions sing, who is a herd
of good understanding, and very amorous withal, and can
besides read and write, and play so well on a rebec, that
there is nothing to be desired.' Scarce had the goatherd
ended his speech, when the sound of the rebec touched his
ear; and within a while after he arrived that played on it,
being a youth of some twenty years old, and one of a very
good grace and countenance. His fellows demanded if he
had supped; and, answering that he had, he which did offer
the courtesy, said, Then, Anthony, thou mayst do us a
pleasure by singing a little, that this gentleman our guest
may see that we enjoy, amidst these groves and woods, those
THE GOATHERD'S MUSIC 89
that know what music is. We have told him already thy
good qualities, and therefore we desire that thou show them,
to verify our words; and therefore I desire thee, by thy life,
that thou wilt sit and sing the ditty which thy uncle the pre-
bendary made of thy love, and was so well liked of in our
village.' 'I am content,' quoth the youth ; and, without
further entreaty, sitting down on the trunk of a lopped oak,
he tuned his rebec, and after a while began, with a singular
good grace, to sing in this manner :
'I know, Olalia, thou dost me adore !
Though yet to me the same thou hast not said;
Nor shown it once by one poor glance or more,
Since love is soonest by such tongues bewray'd.
'Yet, 'cause I ever held thee to be wise,
It me assures thou bearest me good will;
And he is not unfortunate that sees
How his affections are not taken ill.
'Yet for all this, Olalia, 'tis true !
I, by observance, gather to my woe ;
Thy mind is framed of brass, by art undue.
And flint thy bosom is, though it seem snow.
'And yet, amidst thy rigour's winter-face,
And other shifts, thou usest to delay me,
Sometimes hope, peeping out, doth promise grace;
But, woe is me ! I fear 'tis to betray me.
'Sweetest ! once in the balance of thy mind,
Poise with just weights my faith, which never yet
Diminish'd, though disfavour it did find ;
Nor can increase more, though thou favoured'st it.
'If love be courteous (as some men say).
By thy humanity, I must collect
My hopes, hows'ever thou dost use delay.
Shall reap, at last, the good I do expect.
'If many services be of esteem
Or power to render a hard heart benign.
Such things I did for thee, as made me deem
I have the match gain'd, and thou shalt be mine.
'For, if at any time thou hast ta'en heed.
Thou more than once might'st view how I was clad,
90 DON QUIXOTE
To honour thee on Mondays, with the weed
Which, worn on Sundays, got me credit had.
'For love and brav'ry still themselves consort,
Because they both shoot ever at one end ;
Which made me, when I did to thee resort.
Still to be neat and fine I did contend.
'Here I omit the dances I have done,
And musics I have at thy window given ;
When thou didst at cock-crow listen alone,
And seem'dst, hearing my voice, to be in heaven.
*I do not, eke, the praises here recount
Which of thy beauty I so oft have said ;
Which, though they all were true, were likewise wont
To make thee envious me for spite upbraid.
'When to Teresa, she of Berrocal,
I, of thy worth, discourse did sometime shape :
"Good God !" quoth she, "you seem an angel's thrall.
And yet, for idol, you adore an ape.
* "She to her bugles thanks may give, and chains.
False hair, and other shifts that she doth use
To mend her beauty, with a thousand pains
And guiles, which might love's very self abuse."
'Wroth at her words, I gave her straight the lie,
Which did her and her cousin so offend,
As me to fight he challenged presently,
And well thou know'st of our debate the end.
*I mean not thee to purchase at a clap.
Nor to that end do I thy favour sue ;
Thereby thine honour either to entrap,
Or thee persuade to take courses undue.
'The Church hath bands which do so surely hold.
As no silk string for strength comes to them near;
To thrust thy neck once in the yoke be bold.
And see if I, to follow thee, will fear.
'If thou wilt not, here solemnly I vov.
By holiest saint, enwrapt in precious shrine,
Never to leave those hills where I dwell now,
If 't be not to become a Capucine.'
ANTHONY'S DITTY 91
Here the goatherd ended his ditty, and although Don
Quixote entreated him to sing somewhat else, yet would not
Sancho Panza consent to it; who was at that tim better dis-
posed to sleep than to hear music; and therefore said to his
master, 'You had better provide yourself of a place wherein
to sleep this night than to hear music; for the labour that
these good men endure all the day long doth not permit that
they likewise spend the night in singing.' *I understand thee
well enough, Sancho,' answered Don Quixote; *nor did I
think less, but that thy manifold visitations of the wine-
bottle would rather desire to be recompensed with sleep than
with music' 'The wine liked us all well,' quoth Sancho. 'I
do not deny it,' replied Don Quixote; 'but go thou and lay
thee down where thou pleasest, for it becomes much more
men of my profession to watch than to sleep. Yet, notwith-
standing, it will not be amiss to lay somewhat again to mine
ear, for it grieves me very much.' One of the goatherds,
beholding the hurt, bade him be of good cheer, for he would
apply a remedy that should cure it easily. And, taking some
rosemary-leaves of many that grew thereabouts, he hewed
them, and after mixed a little salt among them ; and, apply-
ing this medicine to the ear, he bound it up well with a cloth,
assuring him that he needed to use no other medicine; as it
proved after, in effect.
CHAPTER IV
Of That Which One of the Goatherds Recounted to
Those That Were with Don Quixote
ABOUT this time arrived another youth, one of those
that brought them provision from the village, who
said, 'Companions, do not you know what passeth in
the village?' 'How can we know it, being absent?' says an-
other of them. 'Then, wit,' quoth the youth, 'that the famous
shepherd and student, Chrysostom, died this morning, and
they murmur that he died for love of that devilish lass Mar-
cela, William the Rich his daughter, she that goes up and
down these plains and hills among us, in the habit of a shep-
herdess.' 'Dost thou mean Marcela?' quoth one of them.
'Even her, I say,' answered the other; 'and the jest is, that
he hath commanded, in his testament, that he be buried in
the fields, as if he were a Moor; and that it be at the foot of
the rock, where the fountain stands off the cork-tree ; for
that, according to fame, and as they say he himself affirmed,
was the place wherein he viewed her first. And he hath like-
wise commanded such other things to be done, as the an-
cienter sort of the village do not allow, nor think fit to be
performed ; for they seem to be ceremonies of the Gentiles.
To all which objections, his great friend, Ambrosio the
student, who likewise apparelled himself like a shepherd at
once with him, answers, that all shall be accomplished, with-
out omission of anything, as Chrysostom hath ordained ; and
all the village is in an uproar about this affair; and yet it is
said that what Ambrosio and all the other shepherds his
friends do pretend, shall in fine be done; and to-morrow
morning they will come to the place I have named, to bury
him with great pomp. And as I suppose it will be a thing
worthy the seeing, at leastwise I will not omit to go and be-
hold it, although I were sure that I could not return the same
92
CHRYSOSTOM AND MARCELA 93
day to the village.' *We will all do the same,' quoth the
goatherds, 'and will draw lots who shall tarry here to keep
all our herds.' 'Thou sayst well, Peter,' quoth one of them,
'although that labour may be excused ; for I mean to stay be-
hind for you all, which you must not attribute to any virtue,
or little curiosity in me, but rather to the fork that pricked
my foot the other day, and makes me unable to travel from
hence.' 'We do thank thee, notwithstanding,' quoth Peter,
'for thy good-will.' And Don Quixote, who heard all their
discourse, entreated Peter to tell him who that dead man
was, and what the shepherdess of whom they spoke.
Peter made answer, that what he knew of the affair was,
'that the dead person was a rich gentleman of a certain vil-
lage seated among those mountains, who had studied many
years in Salamanca, and after returned home to his house,
with the opinion to be a very wise and learned man; but
principally it was reported of him, that he was skilful in
astronomy, and all that which passed above in heaven, in
the sun and the moon, for he would tell us most punctually
the clipse of the sun and the moon.' 'Friend,' quoth Don
Quixote, 'the darkening of these two great luminaries is
called an eclipse, not a clipse.' But Peter, stopping not at
those trifles, did prosecute his history, saying, 'He did also
prognosticate when the year would be abundant or estile.'
'Thou wouldst say sterile,' quoth Don Quixote. 'Sterile or
estile,' said Peter, 'all is one for my purpose. And I say that,
by his words, his father and his other friends, that gave
credit to him, became very rich ; for they did all that he coun-
selled them : who would say unto them, Sow barley this year,
and no wheat; in this, you may sow peas, and no barley; the
next year will be good for oil; the three ensuing, you shall
not gather a drop.' 'That science is called astrology,' quoth
Don Quixote. 'I know not how it is called,' replied Peter;
'but I know well he knew all this, and much more.
'Finally, a few months after he came from Salamanca, he
appeared one day apparelled like a shepherd, with his flock,
and leather coat, having laid aside the long habits that he
wore, being a scholar; and jointly with him came also a great
friend of his and fellow-student, called Ambrosio, apparelled
like a shepherd. I did almost forget to tell how Chrysostom,
94 DON QUIXOTE
the dead man, was a great maker of verses; insomuch that
he made the carols of Christmas Day at night, and the plays
for Corpus Christi Day, which the youths of our village did
represent, and all of them affirmed that they were most ex-
cellent. When those of the village saw the two scholars so
suddenly clad like shepherds, they were amazed, and could
not guess the cause that moved them to make so wonderful
a change. And about this time Chrysostom's father died,
and he remained possessed of a great deal of goods, as well
moveable as immoveable; and no little quantity of cattle,
great and small, and also a great sum of money ; of all which
the young man remained a dissolute lord. And truly he de-
served it all; for he was a good fellow, charitable, and a
friend of good folk, and he had a face like a blessing. It
came at last to be understood, that the cause of changing his
habit was none other than for to go up and down through
these deserts after the shepherdess Marcela, whom our herd
named before ; of whom the poor dead Chrysostom was be-
come enamoured. And I will tell you now, because it is fit
you should know it, what this wanton lass is ; perhaps, and
I think without perhaps, you have not heard the like thing
in all the days of your life, although you had lived more
years than Sarna.' 'Say Sarra,' quoth Don Quixote, being
not able any longer to hear him to change one word for
another.
'The Sarna, or scab,' quoth Peter, 'lives long enough too.
And if you go thus, sir, interrupting my tale at every pace,
we shall not be able to end it in a year.' 'Pardon me, friend,'
quoth Don Quixote ; 'for I speak to thee by reason there was
such difference between Sarna and Sarra. But thou dost
answer well; for the Sarna or Scab lives longer than Sarra.
And therefore prosecute thy history; for I will not interrupt
thee any more.' 'I say, then, dear sir of my soul,' quoth the
goatherd, 'that there was, in our village, a farmer that was
yet richer than Chrysostom's father, who was called William,
to whom fortune gave, in the end of his great riches, a
daughter called Marcela, of whose birth her mother died,
who was the best woman that dwelt in all this circuit. Me-
thinks I do now see her quick before me, with that face
which had on the one side the sun and on the other side the
CHRYSOSTOM AND MARCELA 95
moon ; and above all, she was a thrifty housewife, and a great
friend to the poor; for which I believe that her soul is this
very hour enjoying of the gods in the other world. For grief
of the loss of so good a wife, her husband William likewise
died, leaving his daughter Marcela, young and rich, in the
custody of his uncle, who was a priest, and curate of our
village. The child grew with such beauty as it made us re-
member that of her mother, which was very great; and yet,
notwithstanding, they judged that the daughter's would sur-
pass hers, as indeed it did; for when she arrived to the age
of fourteen or fifteen years old, no man beheld her that did
not bless God for making her so fair, and most men remained
enamoured and cast away for her love. Her uncle kept her
with very great care and closeness ; and yet, nevertheless, the
fame of her great beauty did spread itself in such sort that,
as well for it as for her great riches, her uncle was not only
requested by those of our village, but also was prayed, so-
licited, and importuned by all those that dwelt many leagues
about, and that by the very best of them, to give her to them
in marriage. But he (who is a good Christian, every inch
of him), although he desired to marry her presently, as soon
as she was of age, yet would he not do it without her good-
will, without ever respecting the gain and profit he might
make by the possession of her goods whilst he desired her
marriage. And, in good sooth, this was spoken of, to the
good priest his commendation, in more than one meeting of
the people of our village ; for I would have you to wit, sir
errant, that in these little villages they talk of all things, and
make account, as I do, that the priest must have been too
good who could oblige his parishioners to speak so well of
him, and especially in the villages.' 'Thou hast reason,'
quoth Don Quixote; 'and therefore follow on, for the history
is very pleasant, and thou, good Peter, dost recount it with
a very good grace.' 'I pray God,' said Peter, 'that I never
want our Herd's ; for it is that which makes to the purpose.
And in the rest you shall understand, that although her uncle
propounded, and told to his niece the quality of every wooer
of the many that desired her for wife, and entreated her to
iparry and choose at her pleasure, yet would she never
answer- other but that she would not marry as then, and that.
96 DON QUIXOTE
in respect of her over green years, she did not find herself
able enough yet to bear the burden of marriage. With these
just excuses which she seemed to give, her uncle left oflF
importuning of her, and did expect until she were further
entered into years, and that she might know how to choose
one that might like her; for he was wont to say, and that
very well, that parents were not to place or bestow their chil-
dren where they bore no liking. But, see here ! when we
least imagined it, the coy Marcela appeared one morning to
become a shepherdess; and neither her uncle, nor all those
of the village which dissuaded her from it, could work any
effect, but she would needs go to the fields, and keep her own
sheep with the other young lasses of the town. And she
coming thus in public, when her beauty was seen without
hindrance, I cannot possibly tell unto you how many rich
youths, as well gentlemen as farmers, have taken on them the
habit of Chrysostom, and follow, wooing of her, up and down
those fields ; one of which, as is said already, was our dead
man, of whom it is said, that learning to love her, he had at
last made her his idol. Nor is it to be thought that because
Marcela set herself in that liberty, and so loose a life, and
of so little or no keeping, that therefore she hath given the
least token or shadow of dishonesty or negligence. Nay,
rather, such is the watchfulness wherewithal she looks to
her honour, that among so many as serve and solicit her,
not one hath praised or can justly vaunt himself to have re-
ceived, at her hands, the least hope that may be to obtain
his desires; for, although she did not fly or shun the com-
pany and conversation of shepherds, and doth use them cour-
teously and friendly, whensoever any one of them begin to
discover their intention, be it ever so just and holy, as that
of matrimony, she casts them away from her, as with a sling.
'And with this manner of proceeding she does more harm
in this country than if the plague had entered into it by her
means; for her affability and beauty doth draw to it the
hearts of those which do serve and love her, but her disdain
and resolution do conduct them to terms of desperation.
And so they know not what to say unto her, but to call her
with a loud voice cruel and ungrateful, with other titles like
unto this, which do clearly manifest the nature of her con-
CHRYSOSTOM AND MARCELA 97
dition ; and, sir, if you stayed here but a few days, you
should hear these mountains resound with the lamentations
of those wretches that follow her. There is a certain place
not far off, wherein are about two dozen of beech-trees, and
there is not any one of them in whose rind is not engraven
Marcela's name, and over some names graven also a crown
in the same tree, as if her lover would plainly denote that
Marcela bears it away, and deserves the garland of all
human beauty. Here sighs one shepherd, there another com-
plains; in another place are heard amorous ditties; here, in
another, doleful and despairing laments. Some one there is
that passeth over all the whole hours of the night at the foot
of an oak or rock, and, without folding once his weeping
eyes, swallowed and transported by his thoughts, the sun
finds him there in the morning; and some other there is, who,
without giving way or truce to his sighs, doth, amidst the
fervour of the most fastidious heat of the summer, stretched
upon the burning sand, breathe his pitiful complaints to
heaven. And of this, and of him, and of those, and these,
the beautiful Marcela doth indifferently and quietly triumph.
All we that know her do wait to see wherein this her lofti-
ness will finish, or who shall be so happy as to gain do-
minion over so terrible a condition, and enjoy so peerless a
beauty. And because all that I have recounted is so notori-
ous a truth, it makes me more easily believe that our com-
panion hath told, that is said of the occasion of Chrysos-
tom's death ; and therefore I do counsel you, sir, that you
do not omit to be present to-morrow at his burial, which will
be worthy the seeing; for Chrysostom hath many friends,
and the place wherein he commanded himself to be buried is
not half a league from hence.' 'I do mean to be there,'
said Don Quixote; 'and do render thee many thanks for the
delight thou hast given me by the relation of so pleasant a
history.' 'Oh,' quoth the goatherd, 'I do not yet know the
half of the adventures succeeded to Marcela's lovers ; but
peradventure we may meet some shepherd on the way to-
morrow that will tell them unto us. And for the present
you will do well to go take your rest under some roof, for
the air migh* hurt your wound, although the medicine be
such that I have applied to it that any contrary accidents
98 DON QUIXOTE
need not much to be feared/ Sancho Panza, being wholly
out of patience with the goatherd's long discourse, did so-
licit, for his part, his master so effectually as he brought him
at last into Peter's cabin, to take his rest for that night;
whereinto, after he had entered, he bestowed the remnant of
the night in remembrances of his Lady Dulcinea, in imita-
tion of Marcela's lovers. Sancho Panza did lay himself
down between Roz nante and his ass, and slept it out, not
like a disfavoured lover, but like a man stamped and bruised
wilh tra;nplings.
CHAPTER V
Wherein Is Finished the History of the Shepherdess
Marcela, with Other Accidents
BUT scarce had the day begun to discover itself by the
oriental windows, when five of the six goatherds aris-
ing, went to awake Don Quixote, and demanded of him
whether he yet intended to go to Chrysostom's burial, and
that they would accompany him. Don Quixote, that desired
nothing more, got up, and commanded Sancho to saddle and
empannel in a trice; which he did with great expedition, and
with the like they all presently began their journey. And
they had not yet gone a quarter of a league, when, at the
crossing of a pathway, they saw six shepherds coming
towards them, apparelled with black skins, and crowned with
garlands of cypress and bitter eniila campana. Every one
of them carried in his hand a thick truncheon of elm. There
came likewise with them two gentlemen a-horseback, very
well furnished for the way, with other three lackeys that
attended on them. And, as soon as they encountered, they
saluted one another courteously, and demanded whither they
travelled; and knowing that they all went towards the place
of the burial, they began their journey together. One of
the horsemen, speaking to his companion, said, 'I think, Mr.
Vivaldo, we shall account the time well employed that we
shall stay to see this so famous an entertainment ; for it can-
not choose but be famous, , ccording to the wonderful things
these shepherds have recounted unto us, as well of the dead
shepherd as also of the murdering shepherdess.' 'It seems
so to me likewise,' quoth Vivaldo ; 'and I say, I would not
only stay one day, but a whole week, rather than miss to
behold it.' Don Quixote demanded of them what they had
heard of Marcela and Chrysostom. The traveller answered
that they had encountered that morning with those shepherds,
HC XIV — 4
100 DON QUIXOTE
and that, by reason they had seen them apparelled in that
mournful attire, they demanded of them the occasion thereof,
and one of them rehearsed it, recounting the strangeness and
beauty of a certain shepherdess called Marcela, and the amor-
ous pursuits of her by many, with the death of that Chrysos-
tom to whose burial they rode. Finally, he told all that
again to him that Peter had told the night before.
This discourse thus ended, another began, and was, that he
who was called Vivaldo demanded of Don Quixote the occa-
sion that moved him to travel thus armed through so peace-
able a country. To whom Don Quixote answered: 'The
profession of my exercise doth not license or permit me to
do other. Good days, cockering, and ease were invented for
soft courtiers ; but travels, unrest, and arms were only in-
vented and made for those which the world terms knights-
errant, of which number I myself (although unworthy) am
one, and the least of all.' Scarce had they heard him say this,
when they all held him to be wood. And, to find out the
truth better, Vivaldo did ask him again what meant the word
knights-errant. 'Have you not read, then,' quoth Don
Quixote, 'the histories and annals of England, wherein are
treated the famous acts of King Arthur, whom we continu-
ally call, in our Castilian romance, King Artus? of whom it
is an ancient and common tradition, in the kingdom of Great
Britain, that he never died, but that he was turned, by art
of enchantment, into a crow; and that, in process of time,
he shall return again to reign, and recover his sceptre and
kingdom; for which reason it cannot be proved that, ever
since that time until this, any Englishman hath killed a crow.
In this good king's time was first instituted the famous order
of knighthood of the Knights of the Round Table, and the
love that is there recounted did in every respect pass as it
is laid down between Sir Launcelot du Lake and Queen
Genever, the honourable Lady Quintaniona being a dealer,
and privy thereto ; whence sprung that so famous a ditty, and
so celebrated here in Spain, of, "Never was knight of ladies
so well served as Launcelot when that he in Britain arrived,"
etc., with that progress so sweet and delightful of his amor-
ous and valiant acts ; and from that time forward, the order
of knight went from hand to hand, dilating and spreading
KNIGHT-ERRANTRY 101
itself through many and sundry parts of the world; and in
it were, famous and renowned for their feats of arms, the
valiant Amadis of Gaul, with all his progeny until the fifth
generation; and the valorous Felixmarte of Hircania, and
the never-duly-praised Tirante the White, together with Sir
Bevis of Hampton, Sir Guy of Warwick, Sir Eglemore, with
divers others of that nation and age ; and almost in our days
we saw, and communed, and heard of the invincible and
valiant knight, Don Belianis of Greece. This, then, good
sirs, is to be a knight-errant ; and that which I have said is
the order of chivalry: wherein, as I have already said, I,
although a sinner, have made profession, and the same do
I profess that those knights professed whom I have above
mentioned; and therefore I travel through these solitudes
and deserts, seeking adventures, with full resolution to offer
mine own arm and person to the most dangerous that fortune
shall present, in the aid of weak and needy persons.'
By these reasons of Don Quixote's the travellers perfectly
perceived that he was none of the wisest ; and knew the kind
of folly wherewithal he was crossed, whereat those remained
wonderfully admired, that by the relation of the others came
to understand it.
And Vivaldo, who was very discreet, and likewise of a
pleasant disposition, to the end they might pass over the rest
of the way without heaviness unto the rock of the burial,
which the shepherds said was near at hand, he resolved to
give him further occasion to pass onward with his follies,
and therefore said unto him, 'Methinks, sir knight, that you
have professed one of the most austere professions in the
world; and I do constantly hold that even that of the Char-
terhouse monks is not near so strait.' *It may be as strait
as our profession,' quoth Don Quixote, 'but that it should
be so necessary for the world, I am within the breadth of
two fingers to call it in doubt; for, if we would speak a truth,
the soldier that puts in execution his captain's command doth
no less than the very captain that commands him. Hence I
infer, that religious men do with all peace and quietness seek
of Heaven the good of the earth ; but soldiers and we knights
do put in execution that which they demand, defending it
with the valour of our arms and files of our swords; not
102 DON QUIXOTE
under any roof, but under the wide heavens, made, as it
were, in summer a mark to the insupportable sunbeams, and
in winter to the rage of withering frosts. So that we are
the ministers of God on earth, and the armies wherewith He
executeth His justice; and as the affairs of war, and things
thereunto pertaining, cannot be put in execution without
sweat, labour, and travail, it follows that those which profess
warfare take, questionless, greater pain than those which, in
quiet, peace, and rest, do pray unto God that He will favour
and assist those that need it. I mean not therefore to affirm,
nor doth it once pass through my thought, that the state of
a knight-errant is as perfect as that of a retired religious
man, but only would infer, through that which I myself
suffer, that it is doubtlessly more laborious, more battered,
hungry, thirsty, miserable, torn, and lousy. For the knights-
errant of times past did, without all doubt, suffer much woe
and misery in the discourse of their life; and if some of them
ascended at last to empires, won by the force of their arms,
in good faith, it cost them a great part of their sweat and
blood; and if those which mounted to so high a degree had
wanted those enchanters and wise men that assisted them,
they would have remained much defrauded of their desires,
and greatly deceived of their hopes.' 'I am of the same
opinion,' replied the traveller; 'but one thing among many
others hath seemed to me very ill in knights-errant, which
is, when they perceive themselves in any occasion to begin
any great and dangerous adventure, in which appears mani-
fest peril of losing their lives, they never, in the instant of
attempting it, remember to commend themselves to God, as
every Christian is bound to do in like dangers, but rather
do it to their ladies, with so great desire and devotion as if
they were their gods — a thing which, in my opinion, smells
of Gentilism.' 'Sir,' quoth Don Quixote, 'they can do no
less in any wise, and the knight-errant which did any other
would digress much from his duty; for now it is a received
use and custom of errant chivalry, that the knight adven-
turous who, attempting of any great feat of arms, shall have
his lady in place, do mildly and amorously turn his eyes
towards her, as it were by them demanding that she do
favour and protect him in that ambiguous trance which he
KNIGHT-ERRANTRY 103
undertakes ; and, moreover, if none do hear him, he is bound
to say certain words between his teeth, by which he shall,
with all his heart, commend himself to her: and of this we
have innumerable examples in histories. Nor is it therefore
to be understood that they do omit to commend themselves
to God; for they have time and leisure enough to do it in
the progress of the work.'
'For all that,' replied the traveller, 'there remains in me
yet one scruple, which is, that oftentimes, as I have read,
some speech begins between two knights-errant, and from
one word to another their choler begins to be inflamed, and
they to turn their horses, and to take up a good piece of the
field, and, without any more ado, to run as fast as ever they
can drive to encounter again, and, in the midst of their race,
do commend themselves to their dames ; and that which com-
monly ensues of this encountering is, that one of them falls
down, thrown over the crupper of his horse, passed through
and through by his enemy's lance; and it befalls the other
that, if he had not caught fast of his horse's mane, he had
likewise fallen ; and I here cannot perceive how he that is
slain had any leisure to commend himself unto God in the
discourse of this so accelerate and hasty a work. Methinks
it were better that those words which he spent in his race
on his lady were bestowed as they ought, and as every Chris-
tian is bound to bestow them ; and the rather, because I
conjecture that all knights-errant have not ladies to whom
they may commend themselves, for all of them are not
amorous.'
'That cannot be,' answered Don Quixote ; 'I say it cannot
be that there's any knight-errant without a lady; for it is as
proper and essential to such to be enamoured as to heaven to
have stars : and I dare warrant that no history hath yet been
seen wherein is found a knight-errant without love ; for, by
the very reason that he were found without them, he would
be convinced to be no legitimate knight, but a bastard; and
that he entered into the fortress of chivalry, not by the gate,
but by leaping over the staccado like a robber and a thief.'
'Yet, notwithstanding,' replied the other, 'I have read (if
I do not forget myself) that Don Galaor, brother to the
valorous Amadis de Gaul, had never any certain mistress to
104 DON QUIXOTE
whom he might commend himself; and yet, for all that, he
was nothing less accounted of, and was a most valiant and
famous knight.' To that objection our Don Quixote
answered: 'One swallow makes not a summer. How much
more that I know, that the knight whom you allege was
secretly very much enamoured ; besides that, that his inclina-
tion of loving all ladies well, which he thought were fair,
was a natural inclination, which he could not govern so well ;
but it is, in conclusion, sufificiently verified, that yet he had
one lady whom he crowned queen of his will, to whom he
did also commend himself very often and secretly; for he
did not a little glory to be so secret in his loves.'
'Then, sir, if it be of the essence of all knights-errant to
be in love,' quoth the traveller, 'then may it likewise be pre-
sumed that you are also enamoured, seeing that it is annexed
to the profession ? And if you do not prize yourself to be as
secret as Don Galaor, I do entreat you, as earnestly as I
may, in all this company's name and mine own, that it will
please you to tell us the name, country, quality, and beauty
of your lady ; for I am sure she would account herself happy
to think that all the world doth know she is beloved and
served by so worthy a knight as is yourself.' Here Don
Quixote, breathing forth a deep sigh, said: *I cannot affirm
whether my sweet enemy delight or no that the world know
how much she is beloved, or that I serve her. Only I dare
avouch (answering to that which you so courteously de-
manded) that her name is Dulcinea, her country Toboso, a
village of Mancha. Her calling must be at least of a prin-
cess, seeing she is my queen and lady; her beauty sovereign,
for in her are verified and give glorious lustre to all those
impossible and chimerical attributes of beauty that poets give
to their mistresses, that her hairs are gold, her forehead the
Elysian fields, her brows the arcs of heaven, her eyes suns,
her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her neck
alabaster, her bosom marble, ivory her hands, and her white-
ness snow; and the parts which modesty conceals from
human sight, such as I think and understand that the discreet
consideration may prize, but never be able to equalize them.'
'Her lineage, progeny, we desire to know likewise,' quoth
Yivaldo. To which Don Quixote answered: 'She is not of
DULCINEA 105
the ancient Roman Curcios, Cayos, or Scipios; nor of the
modern Colonnas, or Ursinos ; nor of the Moncadas or
Requesenes of Catalonia ; and much less of the Rebelias and
Villanovas of Valencia; Palafoxes, Nucas, Rocabertis, Core-
lias, Alagones, Urreas, Fozes, and Gurreas of Aragon;
Cerdas, Manriquez, Mendoqas, and Guzmanes of Castile;
Lancasters, Palias, and Meneses of Portugal; but she is of
those of Toboso of the Mancha; a lineage which, though it
be modern, is such as may give a generous beginning to the
most noble families of ensuing ages. And let none contradict
me in this, if it be not with those conditions that Cerbino put
at the foot of Orlando's armour, to wit:
*' Let none from hence presume these arms to move,
But he that with Orlando dares his force to prove." '
'Although my lineage be of the Cachopines of Laredo,'
replied the traveller, *yet dare I not to compare it with that
of Toboso in the Mancha; although, to speak sincerely, I
never heard any mention of that lineage you say until now.'
'What !' quoth Don Quixote, 'is it possible that you never
heard of it till now?'
All the company travelled, giving marvellous attention to
the reasons of those two; and even the very goatherds and
shepherds began to perceive the great want of judgment that
was in Don Quixote : only Sancho Panza did verily believe
that all his master's words were most true, as one that knew
what he was from the very time of his birth ; but that where-
in his belief staggered somewhat, was of the beautiful Dul-
cinea of Toboso; for he had never heard speak in his life
before of such a name or princess, although he had dwelt so
many years hard by Toboso.
And as they travelled in these discourses, they beheld
descending, betwixt the cleft of two lofty mountains, to the
number of twenty shepherds, all apparelled in skins of black
wool and crowned with garlands, which, as they perceived
afterward, were all of yew and cypress. Six of them carried
a bier, covered with many sorts of flowers and boughs;
which one of the goatherds espying, he said, 'Those that
come there are they which bring Chrysostom's body, and the
foot of that mountain is the place where he hath commanded
106 DON QUIXOTE
them to bury him.' These words were occasion to make
them haste to arrive in time, which they did just about
the instant that the others had laid down the corpse on the
ground. And four of them, with sharp pickaxes, did dig the
grave at the side of a hard rock. The one and the others
saluted themselves very courteously; and then Don Quixote,
and such as came with him, began to behold the bier, wherein
they saw laid a dead body, all covered with flowers, and
apparelled like a shepherd of some thirty years old; and his
dead countenance showed that he was very beautiful, and
an able-bodied man. He had, placed round about him in the
bier, certain books and many papers, some open and some
shut, and altogether, as well those that beheld this as they
which made the grave, and all the others that were present,
kept a marvellous silence, until one of them which carried
the dead man said to another: 'See well, Ambrosio, whether
this be the place that Chrysostom meant, seeing that thou
wouldst have all so punctually observed which he com-
manded in his testament.' 'This is it,' answered Ambrosio;
'for many times my unfortunate friend recounted to me in it
the history of his mishaps. Even there he told me that he
had seen that cruel enemy of mankind first ; and there it was
where he first broke his affections too, as honest as they were
amorous; and there was the last time wherein Marcela did
end to resolve, and began to disdain him, in such sort as she
set end to the tragedy of his miserable life ; and here, in
memory of so many misfortunes, he commanded himself to
be committed to the bowels of eternal oblivion.' And, turn-
ing himself to Don Quixote and to the other travellers, he
said, 'This body, sirs, which you do now behold with pitiful
eyes, was the treasury of a soul wherein heaven had hoarded
up an infinite part of his treasures. This is the body of
Chrysostom, who was peerless in wit, without fellow for
courtesy, rare for comeliness, a phoenix for friendship, mag-
nificent without measure, grave without presumption, pleas-
ant without offence; and finally, the first in all that which
is good, and second to none in all unfortunate mischances.
He loved well, and was hated; he adored, and was disdained;
he prayed to one no less savage than a beast ; he importuned
a heart as hard as marble, he pursued the wind, he cried to
CHRYSOSTOM'S BURIAL 107
deserts, he served ingratitude, and he obtained for reward
the spoils of death in the midst of the career of his life: to
which a shepherdess hath given end whom he laboured to
eternize, to the end she might ever live in the memories of
men, as those papers which you see there might very well
prove, had he not commanded me to sacrifice them to the
fire as soon as his body was rendered to the earth.'
'If you did so,' quoth Vivaldo, 'you would use greater
rigour and cruelty towards them than their very lord, nor
is it discreet or justly done that his will be accomplished
who commands anything repugnant to reason; nor should
Augustus Caesar himself have gained the reputation of wis-
dom, if he had permitted that to be put in execution which
the divine Mantuan had by his will ordained. So that,
Senor Ambrosio, now that you commit your friend's body
to the earth, do not therefore commit his labour to oblivion;
for though he ordained it as one injured, yet are not you to
accomplish it as one void of discretion; but rather cause, by
giving life to these papers, that the cruelty of Marcela may
live eternally, that it may serve as a document to those that
shall breathe in ensuing ages how they may avoid and shun
the like downfalls; for both myself, and all those that come
here in my company, do already know the history of your
enamoured and despairing friend, the occasion of his death,
and what he commanded ere he deceased: out of which
lamentable relation may be collected how great hath been
the cruelty of Marcela, the love of Chrysostom, the faith of
your affection, and the conclusion which those make which
do rashly run through that way which indiscreet love doth
present to their view. We understood yesternight of Chry-
sostom's death, and that he should be interred in this place,
and therefore we omitted our intended journeys, both for
curiosity and pity, and resolved to come and behold with our
eyes that the relation whereof did so much grieve us in the
hearing; and therefore we desire thee, discreet Ambrosio,
both in reward of this our compassion, and also of the desire
which springs in our breasts, to remedy this disaster, if it
were possible; but chiefly I, for my part, request thee, that,
omitting to burn these papers, thou wilt license me to take
away some of them. And, saying so, without expecting th«
108 DON QUIXOTE
shepherd's answer, he stretched out his hand and took some
of them that were next to him; which Ambrosio perceiving,
said, 'I will consent, sir, for courtesy's sake, that you remain
lord of those which you have seized upon; but to imagine
that I would omit to burn these that rest were a very vain
thought.' Vivaldo, who did long to see what the papers con-
tained which he had gotten, did unfold presently one of them,
which had this title, 'A Ditty of Despair.' Ambrosio over-
heard him, and said: 'That is the last paper which this un-
fortunate shepherd wrote ; and because, sir, that you may see
the terms to which his mishaps conducted him, I pray you
to read it, but in such manner as you may be heard; for you
shall have leisure enough to do it whilst the grave is a-dig-
ging.' *I will do it with all my heart,' replied Vivaldo ; and
all those that were present having the like desire, they gath-
ered about him, and he, reading it with a clear voice, pro-
nounced it thus.
CHAPTER VI
Wherein Are Rehearsed the Despairing Verses of the
Dead Shepherd^ With Other Unexpected Accidents
The Canzone of Chrysostom.
Since cruel thou (I publish) dost desire,
From tongue to tongue, and the one to the other pole,
The efficacy of thy rigour sharp,
I'll hell constrain to assist my soul's desire.
And in my breast infuse a ton of dole.
Whereon my voice, as it is wont, may harp.
And labour, as I wish, at once to carp
And tell my sorrows and thy murdering deeds ;
The dreadful voice and accents shall agree,
And, with them, meet for greater torture be
Lumps of my wretched bowels, which still bleeds.
Then listen, and lend once attentive ear,
Not well-consorted tunes, but howling to bear.
That from my bitter bosom's depth takes flight;
And by constrained raving borne away.
Issues forth for mine ease and thy despite.
II
The lion's roaring, and the dreadful howls
Of ravening wolf, and hissing terrible
Of squammy serpent ; and the fearful bleat
Of some sad monster ; of foretelling fowls,
The pie's crackling, and rumour horrible
Of the contending wind, as it doth beat
The sea ; and implacable bellowing, yet
Of vanquish'd bull ; and of the turtle sole
The feeling mourning, and the doleful song
Of the envious owl, with the dire plaints among
Of all the infernal squadron full of dole,
Sally with my lamenting soul around
- 109
110 DON QUIXOTE
All mixed with so strange, unusual sound,
As all the senses may confounded be ;
For my fierce torment, a new way exact,
Wherein I may recount my misery.
Ill
The doleful echoes of so great confusion
Shall not resound o'er father Tagus' sands,
Nor touch the olive-wat'ring Betis' ears.
Of my dire pangs I'll only make effusion
'Mongst those steep rocks, and hollow bottom lands.
With mortified tongue, but living tears :
Sometimes, in hidden dales, where nought appears,
Or in unhaunted plains free from access;
Or where the sun could ne'er intrude a beam ;
Amidst the venomous crew of beasts unclean,
Whose wants, with bounty, the free plains redress ;
For, though among those vast and desert downs.
The hollow echo indistinctly sounds
Thy matchless rigour, and my cruel pain.
Yet, by the privilege of my niggard fates.
It will their force throughout the world proclaim.
IV
A disdain kills ; and patience runs aground,
By a suspicion either false or true ;
But jealousy, with greater rigour slays;
A prolix absence doth our life confound.
Against fear of oblivion to ensue.
Firm hope of best success gives little ease,
Inevitable death lurks in all these.
But I (O unseen miracle !) do still live.
Jealous, absent, disdain'd, and certain too
Of the suspicions that my life undo !
Drown'd in oblivion which my fire revives.
And amongst all those pains I never scope
Got, to behold the shadow once of hope :
Nor thus despaired would I it allow ;
But 'cause I may more aggravate my moans,
To live ever without it, here I vow.
Can hope and fear, at once, in one consist?
Or is it reason that it should be so ?
Seeing the cause more certain is of fear;
CHRYSOSTOM'S CANZONE m
If before me dire jealousy exist,
Shall I deflect mine eyes ? since it will show
Itself by a thousand wounds in my soul there.
Or, who will not the gates unto despair
Wide open set, after that he hath spy'd
Murd'ring disdain ? and noted each suspicion
To seeming truth transform'd? O sour conversion!
Whilst verity by falsehood is belied !
O tyrant of love's state, fierce jealousy!
With cruel chains these hands together tie,
With stubborn cords couple them, rough disdain !
But woe is me, with bloody victory,
Your memory is, by my sufferance, slain !
VI
I die, in fine, and 'cause I'll not expect
In death or life for the least good success,
I obstinate will rest in fantasy,
And say he doth well, that doth death affect.
And eke the soul most liberty possess,
That is most thrall to love's old tyranny.
And will affirm mine ever enemy.
In her fair shrine, a fairer soul contains ;
And her oblivion from my fault to spring,
And to excuse her wrongs will witness bring,
That love by her in peace his state maintains.
And with a hard knot, and this strange opinion
I will accelerate the wretched summon.
To which guided I am by her scorns rife,
And offer to the air body and soul.
Without hope or reward of future life.
VII
Thou that, by multiplying wrongs, doth show
The reason forcing me to use violence
Unto this loathsome life, grown to me hateful.
Since now by signs notorious thou mayst know,
From my heart's deepest wound, how willingly sense
Doth sacrifice me to thy scorns ungrateful.
If my deserts have seem'd to thee so bootful,
As thy fair eyes clear heav'n should be o'ercast.
And clouded at my death ; yet do not so,
For 'I'll no recompense take for the woe :
By which, of my soul's spoils possess'd thou wast:
But rather, laughing at my funeral sad.
112 DON QUIXOTE
Show how mine end begins to make thee glad.
But 'tis a folly to advise thee this,
For I know, in my death's acceleration,
Consists thy glory and thy chiefest bliss.
VIII
Let Tantalus from the profoundest deeps
Come, for it is high time now, with his thirst;
And Sisyphus, with his oppressing stone ;
Let Tityus bring his raven that ne'er sleeps.
And Ixion make no stay with wheel accurs'd,
Nor the three sisters, ever lab'ring on.
And let them all at once their mortal moan
Translate into my breast, and lovely sound
(If it may be a debt due to despair).
And chant sad obsequies, with doleful air,
Over a corse unworthy of the ground.
And the three-faced infernal porter grim.
With thousand monsters and chimeras dim,
Relish the dolorous descant out amain ;
For greater pomp than this I think not fit
That any dying lover should obtain.
IX
Despairing canzone, do not thou complain.
When thou my sad society shalt refrain ;
But rather, since the cause whence thou didst spring.
By my misfortune, grows more fortunate,
Ev'n in the grave, thou must shun sorrowing.
Chrysostom's canzone liked wonderfully all the hearers,
although the reader thereof affirmed that it was not con-
formable to the relation that he had received of Marcela's
virtue and care of herself; for in it Chrysostom did complain
of jealousies, suspicions, and absence, being all of them
things that did prejudice Marcela's good fame. To this ob-
jection Ambrosio answered (as one that knew very well the
most hidden secrets of his friend) : 'You must understand,
sir, to the end you may better satisfy your own doubt, that
when the unfortunate shepherd wrote that canzone he was
absent from Marcela, from whose presence he had wittingly
withdrawn himself, to see if he could deface some part of
his excessive passions, procured by absence ; and as every-
MARCELA'S DEFENCE 113
thing doth vex an absent lover, and every fear afflict him,
so was Chrysostom likewise tormented by imagined jeal-
ousies and feared suspicions as much as if they were real
and true. And with this remains the truth in her perfection
and point of Marcela's virtue, who, excepting that she is
cruel and somewhat arrogant and very disdainful, very envy
itself neither ought, nor can, attaint her of the least defect.'
'You have reason,' quoth Vivaldo ; and so, desiring to read
another paper, he was interrupted by a marvellous vision
(for such it seemed) that unexpectedly offered itself to their
view; which was, that on the top of the rock wherein they
made the grave, appeared the shepherdess Marcela, so fair
that her beauty surpassed far the fame that was spread
thereof. Such as had not beheld her before did look on her
then with admiration and silence, and those which were wont
to view her remained no less suspended than the others
which never had seen her. But scarce had Ambrosio eyed
her, when, with an ireful and disdaining mind, he spake these
words : 'Comest thou by chance, O fierce basilisk of these
mountains ! to see whether the wounds of this wretch will
yet bleed at thy presence? or dost thou come to insult and
vaunt in the tragical feats of thy stern nature? or to behold
from that height, like another merciless Nero, the fire of
inflamed Rome? or arrogantly to trample this infortunate
carcase, as the ingrateful daughter did her father Tarquin's?
Tell us quickly why thou comest, or what thou dost most
desire? For, seeing I know that Chrysostom's thoughts never
disobeyed thee in life, I will likewise cause that all those his
friends shall serve and reverence thee.'
'I come not here, good Ambrosio, to any of those ends
thou sayst,' quoth Marcela; 'but only to turn for mine
honour, and give the world to understand how little reason
have all those which make me the author either of their own
pains or of Chrysostom's death; and therefore I desire all
you that be here present to lend attention unto me, for I
mean not to spend much time or words to persuade to the
discreet so manifest a truth. Heaven, as you say, hath made
me beautiful, and that so much that my feature moves you
to love almost whether you will or no ; and for the affection
you show unto me, you say, ay, and you affirm, that I ought
114 DON QUIXOTE
to love you again. I know, by the natural instinct that Jove
hath bestowed on me, that each fair thing is amiable ; but
I cannot conceive why, for the reason of being beloved, the
party that is so beloved for her beauty should be bound to
love her lover, although he be foul; and, seeing that foul
things are worthy of hate, it is a bad argument to say, I love
thee, because fair; and therefore thou must affect me, al-
though uncomely. But set the case that the beauties occur
equal on both sides, it follows not, therefore, that their de-
sires should run one way; for all beauties do not enamour,
for some do only delight the sight, and subject not the will;
for if all beauties did enam.our and subject together, men's
wills would ever run confused and straying, without being
able to make any election; for the beautiful subjects being
infinite, the desires must also perforce be infinite. And, as
I have heard, true love brooks no division, and must needs be
voluntary, and not enforced; which being so, as I presume
it is, why would you have me subject my will forcibly, with-
out any other obligation than that, that you say you love me?
If not, tell me, if Heaven had made me foul, as it hath made
me beautiful, could I justly complain of you because you
affected me not ? How much more, seeing you ought to con-
sider that I did not choose the beauty I have ! for, such as it
is, Heaven bestowed it gratis, without my demanding or
electing it. And even as the viper deserves no blame for the
poison she carries, although therewithal she kill, seeing it
was bestowed on her by nature, so do I as little merit to be
reprehended because beautiful ; for beauty in an honest
woman is like fire afar off, or a sharp-edged sword; for
neither that burns nor this cuts any but such as come near
them. Honour and virtue are the ornaments of the soul,
without which the fairest body is not to be esteemed such ;
and if that honesty be one of the virtues that adorneth and
beautifieth most the body and soul, why should she that is
beloved, because fair, adventure the loss thereof, to answer
his intention which only for his pleasure's sake labours that
she may lose it, with all his force and industry? I was born
free, and, because I might live freely, I made election of the
solitude of the fields. The trees of these mountains are my
companions, the clear water of these streams my mirrors.
MARCELA'S DEFENCE 115
With the trees and waters I communicate my thoughts and
beauty. I am a parted fire, and a sword laid aloof. Those
whom I have enamoured with my sight, I have undeceived
with my words. And if desires be sustained by hopes, I
never having given any to Chrysostom, or to any other, it
may well be said that he was rather slain by his own obsti-
nacy than by my cruelty. And if I be charged that his
thoughts were honest, and that I was therefore obliged to
answer unto them, I say, that when in that very place where
you make his sepulchre, he first broke his mind unto me, I
told him that mine intention was to live in perpetual solitude,
and that only the earth should gather the fruits of my soli-
tariness and the spoils of my beauty; and if he would, after
this my resolution, persist obstinately without all hope, and
sail against the wind, what wonder is it that he should be
drowned in the midst of the gulf of his rashness? If I had
entertained him, then were I false ; if I had pleased him,
then should I do against my better purposes and projects.
He strove, being persuaded to the contrary; he despaired, ere
he was hated. See, then, if it be reason that I bear the
blame of his torment. Let him complain who hath been
deceived ; let him despair to whom his promised hopes have
failed; let him confess it whom I shall ever call; let him
vaunt whom I shall admit : but let him not call me cruel or a
homicide, whom I never promised, deceived, called, or ad-
mitted. Heaven hath not yet ordained that I should love
by destiny; and to think that I would do it by election may
be excused. And let this general caveat serve every one of
those which solicit me for his particular benefit. And let it
be known, that if any shall hereafter die for my love, that he
dies not jealous or unfortunate; for whosoever loves not any,
breeds not in reason jealousy in any, nor should any resolu-
tions to any be accounted disdainings. He that calls me a
savage and a basilisk, let him shun me as a hurtful and
prejudicial thing; he that calls me ungrateful, let him not
serve me ; he that's strange, let him not know me ; he that's
cruel, let him not follow me : for this savage, this basilisk,
this ingrate, this cruel and strange one, will neither seek,
serve, know, or pursue any of them. For if Chrysostom's
impatience and headlong desire slew him, why should mine
116 DON QUIXOTE
honest proceeding and care be inculped therewithal? If I
preserve mine integrity in the society of these trees, why
would any desire me to lose it, seeing every one covets to
have the like himself, to converse the better among men? I
have, as you all know, riches enough of mine own, and there-
fore do not covet other men's. I have a free condition, and
I do not please to subject me. Neither do I love or hate any.
I do not deceive this man, or solicit that other; nor do I jest
with one, and pass the time with another. The honest con-
versation of the pastoras of these villages and the care of
my goats, do entertain me. My desires are limited by these
mountains ; and if they do issue from hence, it is to con-
template the beauty of heaven — steps wherewithal the soul
travels toward her first dwelling.' And, ending here, with-
out desiring to hear any answer, she turned her back and
entered into the thickest part of the wood that was there at
hand, leaving all those that were present marvellously ad-
mired at her beauty and discretion.
Some of the shepherds present, that were wounded by the
powerful beams of her beautiful eyes, made proffer to pursue
her, without reaping any profit out of her manifest resolution
made there in their hearing; which Don Quixote noting, and
thinking that the use of this chivalry did jump fitly with that
occasion, by succouring distressed damsels, laying hand on
the pommel of his sword, he said, in loud and intelligible
words : 'Let no person, of whatsoever state or condition he
be, presume to follow the fair Marcela, under pain of falling
into my furious indignation. She hath shown, by clear and
sufficient reasons, the little or no fault she had in Chrysos-
tom's death, and how far she lives from meaning to con-
descend to the desires of any of her lovers ; for which respect
it is just that, instead of being pursued and persecuted, she
be honoured and esteemed by all the good men of the world;
for she shows in it, that it is only she alone that lives therein
with honest intention.' Now, whether it was through Don
Quixote's menaces, or whether because Ambrosio requested
them to conclude with the obligation they owed to their good
friend, none of the shepherds moved or departed from thence
until, the grave being made and Chrysostom's papers burnt,
they laid the body into it, with many tears of the beholders.
MARCELA'S DEFENCE 117
They shut the sepulchre with a gjeat stone, until a monument
were wrought, which Ambrosio said he went to have made,
with an epitaph to this sense :
'Here, of a loving swain,
The frozen carcase lies ;
Who was a herd likewise.
And died through disdain.
Stern rigour hath him slain.
Of a coy fair ingrate.
By whom love doth dilate
Her tyranny amain.'
They presently strewed on the grave many flowers and
boughs, and everyone condoling a while with his friend Am-
brosio, did afterward bid him farewell, and departed. The
like did Vivaldo and his companion : and Don Quixote, bid-
ding his host and the travellers adieu, they requested him
to come with them to Seville, because it was a place so fit
for the finding of adventures, as in every street and corner
thereof are offered more than in any other place whatsoever.
Don Quixote rendered them thanks for their advice and the
food-will they seemed to have to gratify him, and said he
neither ought nor would go to Seville until he had freed all
those mountains of thieves and robbers, whereof, as fame ran,
they were full. The travellers perceiving his good intention,
would not importune him more ; but, bidding him again fare-
well, they departed, and followed on their journey; in which
they wanted not matter of discourse, as well of the history of
Marcela and Chrysostom as of the follies of Don Quixote,
who determined to go in the search of the shepherdess Mar-
cela, and oflfer unto her all that he was able to do in her
service. But it befel him not as he thought, as shall be re-
hearsed in the discourse of this true history; giving end here
to the Second Part,
THE THIRD BOOK
CHAPTER I
Wherein Is Rehearsed the Unfortunate Adventure
Which Happened to Don Quixote, by Encountering
With Certain Yanguesian Carriers
THE wise Cid Hamet Benengeli recounteth that, as soon
as Don Quixote had taken leave of the goatherds, his
hosts the night before, and of all those that were
present at the burial of the shepherd Chrysostom, he and his
squire did presently enter into the same wood into which
they had seen the beautiful shepherdess Marcela enter before.
And, having travelled in it about the space of two hours with-
out finding of her, they arrived in fine to a pleasant meadow,
enriched with abundance of flourishing grass, near unto
which runs a delightful and refreshing stream, which did
invite, yea, constrain them thereby to pass over the heat of
the day, which did then begin to enter with great fervour
and vehemency. Don Quixote and Sancho alighted, and,
leaving the ass and Rozinante to the spaciousness of these
plains to feed on the plenty of grass that was there, they
ransacked their wallet, where, without any ceremony, the
master and man did eat, with good accord and fellowship,
what they found therein. Sancho had neglected to tie Rozin-
ante, sure that he knew him to be so sober and little wanton
as all the mares of the pasture of Cordova could not make
him to think the least sinister thought. But fortune did or-
dain, or rather the devil, who sleeps not at all hours, that a
troop of Gallician mares, belonging to certain Yanguesian
carriers, did feed up and down in the same valley; which
carriers are wont, with their beasts, to pass over the heats in
places situated near unto grass and water, and that wherein
Don Quixote happened to be was very fit for their purpose,
^ 119
120 DON QUIXOTE
It therefore befel that Rozinante took a certain desire to
solace himself with the lady mares, and therefore, as soon
as he had smelt them, abandoning his natural pace and cus-
tom, without taking leave of his master, he began a little
swift trot, and went to communicate his necessities to them.
But they, who, as it seemed, had more desire to feed than
to solace them, entertained him with their heels and teeth in
such sort as they broke all his girths, and left him in his
naked hair, having overthrown the saddle. But that which
surely grieved him most was, that the carriers, perceiving
the violence that was offered by him to their mares, repaired
presently to their succours, with clubs and truncheons, and
did so belabour him as they fairly laid him along. Now, in
this season, Don Quixote and Sancho (which beheld the
bombasting of Rozinante) approached breathless; and Don
Quixote said to Sancho, 'For as much as I can perceive,
friend Sancho, these men are no knights, but base, rascally
people of vile quality; I say it, because thou mayst help me to
take due revenge for the outrage which they have done be-
fore our face to Rozinante.' 'What a devil ' quoth Sancho,
'what revenge should we take, if these be more than twenty,
and we but two, and peradventure but one and a half?' 'I am
worth a hundred,' replied Don Quixote ; and, without making
any longer discourse, he set hand to his sword, and flew upon
the Yanguesians ; and Sancho Panza, moved by his lord's ex-
ample, did the like; when, with the first blow, Don Quixote
piercing a buff coat that one of them wore, wounded him
grievously in the shoulder. The Yanguesians, seeing them-
selves so rudely handled by two men only, they being so many,
ran to the stakes and truncheons of their carriage, and,
hemming in their adversaries in the midst of them, they laid
on them with admirable speed and vehemency. True it is,
that at the second peal they struck Sancho down to the
ground; and the like happened to Don Quixote, his dexterity
and courage being nothing available in that trance, and, his
fate so ordaining, he fell just at his courser's feet, who
had not get gotten up; by which we may ponder the fury
wherewithal truncheons batter, being placed in wrathful and
rustical fists. The carriers perceiving the evil they had
committed, trussing up their loading with all possible speed,
SANCHO'S QUESTIONINGS 121
followed on their way, leaving both the adventurers in a
bad fashion, and a worse talent.
The first that came to himself was Sancho Panza, who,
seeing his lord near unto him, said, with a weak and pitiful
voice, 'Sir Don Quixote ! oh, sir Don Quixote !' 'What
wouldst thou have, brother Sancho?' replied the knight, with
the like effeminate and doleful tune. 'I would,' quoth Sancho,
'have of your worship a draught or two of the liquor of Feo-
blas, if you have any of it at hand ; perhaps it is good to cure
broken bones as well as it helps wounds.' 'What would we
want, unhappy that I am !' replied Don Quixote, 'if I had it
here ; but I swear unto thee, Sancho Panza, by the faith of
a knight-errant, that before two days pass (if fortune dispose
not otherwise), I will have it in my power, or it shall hardly
escape my hands.' 'I pray you,' quoth Sancho, 'within how
many days, think you, shall we be able to stir our feet?' 'I
can say of myself,' quoth the crushed knight, 'that I cannot
set a certain term to the days of our recovery; but I am in the
fault of all, for I should not have drawn my sword against
men that are not knights as well as I am ; and therefore I be-
lieve that the god of battles hath permitted that this punish-
ment should be given unto me, in pain of transgressing the
laws of knighthood. Wherefore, brother Sancho, it is requis-
ite that thou beest advertised of that which I shall say unto
thee now, for it importeth both our goods very much ; and is,
that when thou beholdest that the like rascally rabble do us
any wrong, do not wait till I set hand to my sword against
them, for I will not do it in any sort ; but draw thou thine, and
chastise them at thy pleasure; and if any knights shall come to
their assistance and succour, I shall know then how to defend
thee, and offend them with all my force ; for thou hast by this
perceived, by a thousand signs and experiences, how far the
valour of this mine invincible arm extendeth itself : — so arro-
gant remained the poor knight, through the victory he had
gotten of the hardy Biscaine. But this advice of his lord
seemed not so good to Sancho Panza as that he would omit
to answer unto him, saying, 'Sir, I am a peaceable, quiet, and
sober man, and can dissemble any injury, for I have wife and
children to maintain and bring up ; wherefore, let this like-
wise be an advice to you (seeing it cannot be a command-
122 DON QUIXOTE
ment), that I will not set hand to my sword in any wise, be
it against clown or knight; and that, from this time forward,
I do pardon, before God, all the wrongs that they have done,
or shall do unto me, whether they were, be, or shall be done
by high or low person, rich or poor, gentleman or churl, with-
out excepting any state or condition.' Which being heard by
his lord, he said: 'I could wish to have breath enough that I
might answer thee with a little more ease, or that the grief
which I feel in this rib were assuaged ever so little, that I
might, Panza, make thee understand the error wherein thou
art. Come here, poor fool ! if the gale of fortune, hitherto so
contrary, do turn in our favour, swelling the sails of our de-
sire in such sort as we may securely and without any hin-
drance arrive at the haven of any of those islands which I
have promised unto thee, what would become of thee, if I,
conquering it, did make thee lord thereof, seeing thou wouldst
disable thyself, in respect thou art not a knight, nor desirest
to be one, nor wouldst have valour or will to revenge thine in-
juries, or to defend thy lordship's? For thou must understand
that, in the kingdoms and provinces newly conquered, the
minds of the inhabitants are never so thoroughly appeased or
wedded to the affection of their new lord, that it is not to be
feared that they will work some novelty to alter things again,
and turn, as men say, afresh to try fortune; and it is there-
fore requisite that the new possessor have understanding to
govern, and valour to offend, and defend himself in any ad-
venture whatsoever.' 'In this last that hath befallen us,'
quoth Sancho, 'I would I had had that understanding and
valour of which you speak ; but I vow unto you, by the faith
of a poor man, that I am now fitter for plaisters than dis-
courses. I pray you try whether you can arise, and we will
help Rozinante, although he deserves it not; for he was the
principal cause of all these troubles. I would never have be-
lieved the like before of Rozinante, whom I ever held to be
as chaste and peaceable a person as myself. In fine, they say
well, that one must have a long time to come to the knowl-
edge of bodies, and that there's nothing in this life secure.
Who^durst affirm that, after those mighty blows which you
gave to that unfortunate knight-errant, would succeed so in
post, and as it were in your pursuit, this so furious a tempest
SANCHO'S QUESTIONINGS 123
of staves, that hath discharged itself on our shoulders?'
'Thine, Sancho,' replied Don Quixote, 'are perhaps accus-
tomed to bear the like showers, but mine, nursed between cot-
tons and hollands, it is most evident that they must feel the
grief of this disgrace. And were it not that I imagine (but
why do I say imagine?) I know certainly that all these in-
commodities are annexed to the exercise of arms, I would
here die for very wrath and displeasure.' To this the squire
answered : 'Sir, seeing these disgraces are of the essence of
knighthood, I pray you whether they succeed very often, or
whether they have certain times limited wherein they befall ?
For methinks, within two adventures more, we shall wholly
remain disenabled for the third, if the gods in mercy do not
succour us.'
'Know, friend Sancho,' replied Don Quixote, 'that the life
of knights-errant is subject to a thousand dangers and mis-
fortunes ; and it is also as well, in the next degree and power,
to make them kings and emperors, as experience hath shown
in sundry knights, of whose histories I have entire notice.
And I could recount unto thee now (did the pain I suffer per-
mit me) of some of them which have mounted to those high
degrees which I have said, only by the valour of their arm ;
and the very same men found them, both before and after, in
divers miseries and calamities. For the valorous Amadis of
Gaul saw himself in the power of his mortal enemy, Arcalaus
the enchanter, of whom the opinion runs infallible, that he
gave unto him, being his prisoner, more than two hundred
stripes with his horse-bridle, after he had tied him to a pillar
in his base-court. And there is, moreover, a secret author of
no little credit, who says, that the Cavalier del Febo, being
taken in a gin, like unto a snatch, that slipped under his feet
in a certain castle, after the fall found himself in a deep dun-
geon under the earth, bound hands and feet; and there they
gave unto him a clyster of snow-water and sand, which
brought him almost to the end of his life ; and were it not that
he was succoured in that great distress by a wise man, his
very great friend, it had gone ill with the poor knight. So
that I may very well pass among so many worthy persons;
for the dangers and disgraces they suffered were greater than
those which we do now endure. For, Sancho, I would have
124 DON QUIXOTE
thee to understand, that these wounds which are given to one
with those instruments that are in one's hand, by chance, do
not disgrace a man. And it is written in the laws of single
combat, in express terms, that if the shoemaker strike another
with the last which he hath in his hand, although it be cer-
tainly of wood, yet cannot it be said that he who was striken
had the bastinado. I say this, to the end thou mayst not think,
although we remain bruised in this last conflict, that therefore
we be disgraced; for the arms which those men bore, and
wherewithal they laboured us, were none other than their
pack-staves, and, as far as I can remember, never a one of
them had a tuck, sword, or dagger.' 'They gave me no
leisure,' answered Sancho, 'to look to them so nearly; for
scarce had I laid hand on my truncheon, when they blessed
my shoulders with their pins, in such sort as they wholly
deprived me of my sight and the force of my feet together,
striking me down on the place where I yet lie straught, and
where the pain of the disgrace received by our cudgelling
doth not so much pinch me as the grief of the blows, which
shall remain as deeply imprinted in my memory as they do in
my back.'
'For all this, thou shalt understand, brother Panza,' replied
Don Quixote, 'that there is no remembrance which time will
not end, nor grief which death will not consume.' 'What
greater misfortune,' quoth Sancho, 'can there be than that
which only expect eth time and death to end and consume it?
If this our disgrace were of that kind which might be cured
by a pair or two of plaisters, it would not be so evil ; but I
begin to perceive that all the salves of an hospital will not
suffice to bring them to any good terms.' 'Leave off, Sancho,
and gather strength out of weakness,' said Don Quixote, 'for
so will I likewise do; and let us see how doth Rozinante,
for methinks that the least part of this mishap hath not
fallen to his lot.' 'You ought not to marvel at that,' quoth
Sancho, 'seeing he is likewise a knight-errant; that whereat
I wonder is that mine ass remains there without payment,
where we are come away without ribs.' 'Fortune leaves
always one door open in disasters,' quoth Don Quixote,
'whereby to remedy them. I say it, because that little beast
may supply Rozinante's want, by carrying off me from hence
SANCHO'S QUESTIONINGS 125
unto some castle, wherein I may be cured of my wounds. Nor
do I hold this kind of riding dishonourable; for I remember
to have read that the good old Silenus, tutor of the merry god
of laughter, when he entered into the city of the hundred
gates, rode very fairly mounted on a goodly ass.' 'It is like,'
quoth Sancho, 'that he rode, as you say, upon an ass; but
there is great difference betwixt riding and being cast athwart
upon one like a sack of rubbish.' To this Don Quixote an-
swered: 'The wounds that are received in battle do rather
give honour than deprive men of it ; wherefore, friend Panza,
do not reply any more unto me, but, as I have said, arise as
well as thou canst, and lay me as thou pleaseth upon thy
beast, and let us depart from hence before the night overtake
us in these deserts.' 'Yet I have heard you say,' quoth Panza,
'that it was an ordinary custom of knights-errant to sleep in
downs and deserts the most of the year, and that so to do
they hold for very good hap.' 'That is,' said Don Quixote,
'when they have none other shift, or when they are in love ;
and this is so true as that there hath been a knight that hath
dwelt on a rock, exposed to the sun and the shadow, and
other annoyances of heaven, for the space of two years, with-
out his lady's knowledge. And Amadis was one of that kind,
when calling himself Beltenebros, he dwelt in the Poor Rock,
nor do I know punctually eight years or eight months, for I
do not remember the history well ; let it suffice that there he
dwelt doing of penance, for some disgust which I know not,
that his lady, Oriana, did him. But, leaving that apart,
Sancho, despatch and away before some other disgrace
happen, like that of Rozinante, to the ass.'
'Even there lurks the devil,' quoth Sancho ; and so, breath-
ing thirty sobs and threescore sighs, and a hundred and
twenty discontents and execrations against him that had
brought him there, he arose, remaining bent in the midst of
the way, like unto a Turkish bow, without being able to ad-
dress himself; and, notwithstanding all this difficulty, he har-
nessed his ass (who had been also somewhat distracted by
the overmuch liberty of that day), and after he hoisted up
Rozinante, who, were he endowed with a tongue to complain,
would certainly have borne his lord and Sancho company.
In the end Sancho laid Don Quixote on the ass, and tied
k
126 DON QUIXOTE
Rozinante unto him, and, leading the ass by the halter, trav-
elled that way which he deemed might conduct him soonest
toward the highway. And fortune, which guided his affairs
from good to better, after he had travelled a little league, dis-
covered it unto him, near unto which he saw an inn, which,
in despite of him, and for Don Quixote's pleasure, must needs
be a castle. Sancho contended that it was an inn, and his lord
that it was not ; and their controversy endured so long as they
had leisure, before they could decide it, to arrive at the lodg-
ing; into which Sancho, without further verifying of the
dispute, entered with all his loading.
CHAPTER II
Of That Which Happened Unto the Ingenuous
Knight, Within the Inn, Which He
Supposed to Be a Castle
THE innkeeper, seeing Don Quixote laid overthwart
upon the ass, demanded of Sancho what disease he
had. Sancho answered that it was nothing but a fall
down from a rock, and that his ribs were thereby somewhat
bruised. This innkeeper had a wife, not of the condition that
those of that trade are wont to be ; for she was of a charitable
nature, and would grieve at the calamities of her neighbours,
and did therefore presently occur to cure Don Quixote,
causing her daughter, a very comely young maiden, to assist
her to cure her guest. There likewise served in the inn an
Asturian wench, who was broad-faced, flat-pated, saddle-
nosed, blind of one eye, and the other almost out; true it is,
that the comeliness of her body supplied all the other defects.
She was not seven palms long from her feet unto her head;
and her shoulders, which did somewhat burden her, made her
look oftener to the ground than she would willingly. This
beautiful piece did assist the young maiden, and both of them
made a very bad bed for Don Quixote in an old wide cham-
ber, which gave manifest tokens of itself that it had some-
times served many years only to keep chopped straw for
horses ; in which was also lodged a carrier, whose bed was
made a little way off from Don Quixote's, which, though it
was made of canvas and coverings of his mules, was much
better than the knight's, that only contained four boards
roughly planed, placed on two unequal tressels; a flock-bed,
which in the thinness seemed rather a quilt, full of pellets,
and had not they shown that they were wool, through certain
breaches made by antiquity on the tick, a man would by the
hardness rather take them to be stones ; a pair of sheets made
127
128 DON QUIXOTE
of the skins of targets ; a coverlet, whose threads if a man
would number, he should not lose one only of the account.
In this ungracious bed did Don Quixote lie, and presently
the hostess and her daughter anointed him all over, and Mari-
tornes (for so the Asturian wench was called) did hold the
candle. The hostess at the plaistering of him, perceiving him
to be so bruised in sundry places, she said unto him that those
signs rather seemed to proceed of blows than of a fall. 'They
were not blows,' replied Sancho; 'but the rock had many
sharp ends and knobs on it, whereof every one left behind it a
token; and I desire you, good mistress,' quoth he, 'to leave
some flax behind, and there shall not want one that needeth
the use of them; for, I assure you, my back doth likewise
ache.' 'If that be so,' quoth the hostess, 'it is likely that thou
didst also fall.' 'I did not fall,' quoth Sancho Panza, 'but with
the sudden affright that I took at my master's fall, my body
doth so grieve me, as methinks I have been handsomely be-
laboured.' 'It may well happen as thou sayst,' quoth the
hostess's daughter; 'for it hath befallen me sundry times to
dream that I fell down from some high tower, and could
never come to the ground ; and when I awoke, I did find my-
self so troubled and broken, as if I had verily fallen.' 'There
is the point, masters,' quoth Sancho Panza, 'that I, without
dreaming at all, but being more awake than I am at this hour,
found myself to have very few less tokens and marks than my
lord Don Quixote hath.' 'How is this gentleman called?'
quoth Maritornes the Asturian. 'Don Quixote of the Man-
cha,' replied Sancho Panza; 'and he is a knight-errant, and
one of the best and strongest that have been seen in the world
these many ages.' 'What is that, a knight-errant?' quoth the
wench. 'Art thou so young in the world that thou knowest
it not?' answered Sancho Panza. 'Know then, sister mine,
that a knight-errant is a thing which, in two words, you see
well cudgelled, and after becomes an emperor. To-day he is
the most unfortunate creature of the world, and the most
needy; and to-morrow he will have two or three crowns of
kingdoms to bestow upon his squire.' 'If it be so,' quoth the
hostess, 'why, then, hast not thou gotten at least an earldom,
seeing thou art this good knight his squire?' 'It is yet too
soon,' replied Sancho; 'for it is but a month since we began
\
ADVENTURES AT AN INN 129
first to seek adventures, and we have not yet encountered any
worthy of the name. And sometimes it befalls, that searching
for one thing we encounter another. True it is that, if my lord
Don Quixote recover of this wound or fall, and that I be not
changed by it, I would not make an exchange of my hopes
for the best title of Spain.' Don Quixote did very attentively
listen unto all these discourses, and, sitting up in his bed as
well as he could, taking his hostess by the hand, he said unto
her : 'Believe me, beautiful lady, that you may count yourself
fortunate for having harboured my person in this your castle,
which is such, that if I do not praise it, it is because men say
that proper praise stinks ; but my squire will inform you what
I am: only this I will say myself, that I will keep eternally
written in my memory the service that you have done unto
me, to be grateful unto you for it whilst I live. And I would
it might please the highest heavens that love held me not so
enthralled and subject to his laws as he doth, and to the eyes
of that ungrateful fair whose name I secretly mutter, then
should those of this beautiful damsel presently signiorise my
liberty.' The hostess, her daughter, and the good Maritornes
remained confounded, hearing the speech of our knight-errant,
which they understood as well as if he had spoken Greek unto
them; but yet they conceived that they were words of com-
pliments and love, and as people unused to hear the like lan-
guage, they beheld and admired him, and he seemed unto
them a man of the other world ; and so, returning him thanks,
with tavernly phrase, for his large offers, they departed. And
the Asturian Maritornes cured Sancho, who needed her help
no less than his master.
The carrier and she had agreed to pass the night together,
and she had given unto him her word that, when the guests
were quiet and her master sleeping, she would come unto him
and satisfy his desire, as much as he pleased. And it is said
of this good wench, that she never passed the like promise but
that she performed it, although it were given in the midst of
a wood, and without any v/itness; for she presumed to be of
gentle blood, and yet she held it no disgrace to serve in an
inn; for she was wont to affirm that disgraces and misfor-
tunes brought her to that state. The hard, narrow, niggard,
and counterfeit bed whereon Don Quixote lay was the first
130 DON QUIXOTE
of the four, and next unto it was his squire's, that only con-
tained a mat and a coverlet, and rather seemed to be of shorn
canvas than wool. After these two beds followed that of the
carrier, made, as we have said, of the pannels and furniture
of two of his best mules, although they were twelve all in
number, fair, fat, and goodly beasts; for he was one of the
richest carriers of Arevalo, as the author of this history
affirmeth, who maketh particular mention of him, because he
knew him very well, and besides, some men say that he was
somewhat akin unto him; omitting that Cid Mahamet Ben-
engeli was a very exact historiographer, and most curious in
all things, as may be gathered very well, seeing that those
which are related being so minute and trivial, he would not
overslip them in silence.
By which those grave historiographers may take example,
which recount unto us matters so short and succinctly as
they do scarce arrive to our knowledge, leaving the most sub-
stantial part of the works drowned in the ink-horn, either
through negligence, malice, or ignorance. Many good for-
tunes betide the author of Tahlante de Ricamonte, and him
that wrote the book wherein are rehearsed the acts of the
Count Tomillas : Lord ! with what preciseness do they de-
scribe every circumstance. To conclude, I say that, after the
carrier had visited his mules, and given unto them their
second refreshing, he stretched himself in his coverlets, and
expected the coming of the most exquisite Maritornes.
Sancho was also, by this, plaistered and laid down in his bed,
and though he desired to sleep, yet would not the grief of his
ribs permit him. And Don Quixote, with the pain of his
sides, lay with both his eyes open, like a hare.
All the inn was drowned in silence, and there was no other
light in it than that of a lamp, which hung lighting in the
midst of the entry. This marvellous quietness, and the
thoughts which always represented to our knight the memory
of the successes which at every pace are recounted in books
of knighthood (the principal authors of this mishap), called
to his imagination one of the strangest follies that easily may
be conjectured; which was, he imagined that he arrived to a
famous castle (for, as we have said, all the inns wherein he
lodged seemed unto him to be such), and that the innkeeper's
I
MARITORNES 131
daughter was the lord's daughter of the castle, who, overcome
by his comeliness and valour, was enamoured of him, and had
promised that she would come to solace with him for a good
space, after her father and mother had gone to bed. And
holding all this chimera and fiction, which he himself had
built in his brain, for most firm and certain, he began to be
vexed in mind, and to think on the dangerous trance, wherein
his honesty was like to fall, and did firmly purpose in heart
not to commit any disloyalty against his lady, Dulcinea of
Toboso, although very Queen Genever, with her lady, Quein-
tanonia, should come to solicit him. Whilst thus he lay think-
ing of these follies, the hour approached (that was unlucky
for him) wherein the Asturian wench should come, who
entered into the chamber in search of her carrier, in her
smock, barefooted, and her hair trussed up in a coif of fustian,
with soft and wary steps. But she was scarce come to the
door when Don Quixote felt her, and, arising and sitting up
in his bed, in despite of his plaisters and with great grief of
his ribs, he stretched forth his arms to receive his beautiful
damsel, the Asturian, who, crouching and silently, went
groping with her hands to find out her sweet heart, and en-
countered with Don Quixote's arms, who presently seized
very strongly upon one of her wrists, and, drawing her
towards him (she daring not to speak a word,) he caused her
to sit upon his bed's side, and presently groped her smock, and
although it was of the strongest canvas, he thought it was
most subtle and fine holland. She wore on her wrists certain
bracelets of glass, which he esteemed to be precious oriental
pearls. Her hair which was almost as rough as a horse-tail,
he held to be wires of the glisteringest gold of Arabia, whose
brightness did obscure that of the sun ; and her breath, which
certainly smelled like to stale salt-fish reserved from over
night, seemed unto him a most redolent, aromatical, and sweet
smell. And finally, he painted her in his fantasy of the same
very form and manner as he had read in his books of knight-
hood, of a certain princess which came to visit a knight who
was grievously wounded, being overcome by his love, embel-
lished with all the ornaments that here we have recounted:
and the blindness of this poor gallant was such, as neither the
touching, savour, or other things that accompanied the good
HC XIV — 5
132 DOlSr QUIXOTE
damsel, could undeceive him, being such as were able to make
any other, save a carrier, vomit up his bowels; but rather he
made full account that he held the goddess of love between
his arms, and, holding her still very fast, he began to court
her, with a low and amorous voice, in this manner : 'I could
wish to find myself in terms, most high and beautiful lady, to
be able to recompense so great a favour as that which, with
the presence of your matchless feature, you have shown unto
me; but fortune (who is never weary of persecuting the
good) hath pleased to lay me in this bed, wherein I lie so
broken and bruised, that although I were desirous to satisfy
your will, yet it is impossible; especially seeing to that im-
possibility may be added a greater, to wit, the promised faith
which I have given to the unmatchable Dulcinea of Toboso,
the only lady of my most hidden thoughts ; for did not this let
me, do not hold me to be so senseless and mad a knight as to
overslip so fortunate an occasion as this which your bounty
hath offered to me.'
Maritornes remained sweating, through anxiety, to see her-
self held so fast by Don Quixote, and, without either under-
standing or giving attention to his words, she laboured all
that she could to free herself from him without speaking a
word. The carrier, whose bad intention kept him still waking,
did hear his lady from the time that she first entered into the
room, and did attentively give ear to all Don Quixote's dis-
courses; and, jealous that the Asturian should break promise
with him for any other, he drew nearer unto Don Quixote's
bed, and stood quiet to see whereunto those words which he
could not understand tended; but viewing that the wench
strove to depart, and Don Quixote laboured to withhold her,
the jest seeming evil unto him, he up with his arm, and dis-
charged so terrible a blow on the enamoured knight's jaws as
he bathed all his mouth in blood; and, not content here-
withal, he mounted upon the knight, and did tread on his ribs,
and passed them all over with more than a trot.
The bed, which was somewhat weak, and not very firm of
foundation, being unable to suffer the addition of the carrier,
fell down to the ground with so great a noise as it waked the
innkeeper ; who, presently suspecting that it was one of Mari-
tornes' conflicts, because she answered him not, having called
I
MARITORNES 133
her loudly, he forthwith arose, and, lighting of a lamp, he
went towards the place where he heard the noise. The wench,
perceiving that her master came, and that he was extreme
choleric, did, all ashamed and troubled, run into Sancho
Panza's bed, who slept all this while very soundly, and there
crouched, and made herself as little as an egg.
Her master entered, crying, 'Whore, where art thou? I
dare warrant that these are some of thy doings?' By this
Sancho awaked, and, feeling that bulk lying almost wholly
upon him, he thought it was the nightmare, and began to lay
with his fists here and there about him very swiftly, and
among others wrought Maritornes I know not how many
blows; who, grieved for the pain she endured there, casting
all honesty aside, gave Sancho the exchange of his blows so
trimly as she made him to awake in despite of his sluggish-
ness. And, finding himself to be so abused of an uncouth
person, whom he could not behold, he arose and caught hold
of Maritornes as well as he could, and they both began the
best fight and pleasantest skirmish in the world.
The carrier, perceiving by the light which the innkeeper
brought in with him, the lamentable state of his mistress,
abandoning Don Quixote, he instantly repaired to give her
the succour that was requisite, which likewise the innkeeper
did, but with another meaning; for he approached with in-
tention to punish the wench, believing that she was infallibly
the cause of all that harmony. And so, as men say, the cat
to the rat, the rat to the cord, the cord to the post ; so the
carrier struck Sancho, Sancho the wench, she returned him
again his liberality with interest, and the inn-keeper laid load
upon his maid also ; and all of them did mince it with such
expedition, as there was no leisure at all allowed to any one
of them for breathing. And the best of all was, that the inn-
keeper's lamp went out, and then, finding themselves in dark-
ness, they belaboured one another so without compassion, and
at once, as wheresoever the blow fell, it bruised the place
pitifully.
There lodged by chance that night in the inn one of the
squadron of these which are called of the old Holy Brother-
hood of Toledo; he likewise hearing the wonderful noise of
the fight, laid hand on his cod of office and the tin box of his
134 DON QUIXOTE
titles, and entered into the chamber without light, saying,
'Stand still to the officer of justice and to the holy brother-
hood/ And, saying so, the first whom he met was the poor
battered Don Quixote, who lay overthrown in his bed,
stretched, with his face upward, without any feeling; and,
taking hold of his beard, he cried out incessantly, 'Help the
justice !' But, seeing that he whom he held fast bowed neither
hand nor foot, he presently thought that he was dead, and
that those battaillants that fought so eagerly in the room had
slain him ; wherefore he lifted his voice and cried out loudly,
saying, 'Shut the inn-door, and see that none escape ; for here
they have killed a man !' This word astonished all the com-
batants so much, as every one left the battle in the very terms
wherein this voice had overtaken them. The innkeeper re-
tired himself to his chamber, the carrier to his coverlets, the
wench to her couch; and only the unfortunate Don Quixote
and Sancho were not able to move themselves from the place
wherein they lay. The officer of the Holy Brotherhood in this
space letting slip poor Don Quixote's beard, went out for
light to search and apprehend the delinquents ; but he could
not find any, for the innkeeper had purposely quenched the
lamp as he retired to his bed; wherefore the officer was con-
strained to repair to the chimney, where, with great difficulty,
after he had spent a long while doing of it he at last lighted a
candle.
CHAPTER III
Wherein Are Rehearsed the Innumerable Misfortunes
Which Don Quixote and His Good Squire Sancho
Suffered in the Inn, Which He, to His Harm,
Thought to Be a Castle
BY this time Don Quixote was come to himself again out
of his trance, and, with the Hke lamentable notes as
that wherewithal he had called his squire the day be-
fore, when he was overthrown in the vale of the pack-staves,
he called to him, saying, 'Friend Sancho, art thou asleep?
sleepest thou, friend Sancho?' 'What! I asleep? I renounce
myself,' quoth Sancho, full of grief and despite, 'if I think
not all the devils in hell have been visiting of me here this
night !' 'Thou mayst certainly believe it,' replied Don Qui-
xote; 'for either I know very little, or else this castle is en-
chanted. For I let thee to wit — but thou must first swear to
keep secret that which I mean to tell thee now, until after my
death.' 'So I swear,' quoth Sancho. 'I say it,' quoth Don
Quixote, 'because I cannot abide to take away anybody's
honour.' 'Why,' quoth Sancho again, 'I swear that I will
conceal it until after your worship's days ; and I pray God
that I may discover it to-morrow.' 'Have I wrought thee
such harm, Sancho,' replied the knight, 'as thou wouldst
desire to see me end so soon?' 'It is not for that, sir,' quoth
Sancho; 'but because I cannot abide to keep things long, lest
they should rot in my custody.' 'Let it be for what thou
pleasest,' said Don Quixote ; 'for I do trust greater matters
than that to thy love and courtesy. And that I may rehearse
it unto thee briefly, know that, a little while since, the lord
of this castle's daughter came unto me, who is the most fair
and beautiful damsel that can be found m a great part of the
earth. What could I say unto thee of the ornaments of her
person? what of her excellent wit? what of other secret
135
136 DON QUIXOTE
things? which, that I may preserve the faith due unto my
Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, I pass over in silence. I will only
tell thee that Heaven, envious of the inestimable good that
fortune had put in my hands; or perhaps (and that is most
probable) this castle, as I have said, is enchanted; just at the
time when we were in most sweet and amorous speech, I
being not able to see or know from whence it came, there ar-
rived a hand, joined to the arm of some mighty giant, and
gave me such a blow on the jaws as they remain all bathed
in blood, and did after so thump and bruise me as I feel my-
self worse now than yesterday, when the carriers, through
Rozinante's madness, did use us thou knowest how. By which
I conjecture that the treasure of this damsel's beauty is kept
by some enchanted Moor, and is not reserved for me.' 'Nor
for me,' quoth Sancho; 'for I have been bombasted by more
than four hundred Moors, which have hammered me in such
sort as the bruising of the pack-staves was gilded bread and
spice-cakes in comparison of it. But, sir, I pray you tell me,
how can you call this a good and rare adventure, seeing we
remain so pitifully used after it? And yet your harms may be
accounted less, in respect you have held, as you said, that in-
comparable beauty between your arms. But I, what have I
had other than the greatest blows that I shall ever have in
my life? Unfortunate that I am^ and the mother that bare
me ! that neither am an errant-knight, nor ever means to be
any, and yet the greatest part of our mishaps still falls to my
lot.' 'It seems that thou wast likewise beaten,' replied Don
Quixote. 'Evil befal my lineage !' quoth Sancho ; 'have not I
told you I was ?' 'Be not grieved, friend,' replied the knight ;
'for I will now compound the precious balsam, which will
cure us in the twinkling of an eye.'
The officer having by this time lighted his lamp, entered
into the room to see him whom he accounted to be dead; and
as soon as Sancho saw him, seeing him come in in his shirt,
his head wrapped up in a kerchief, the lamp in his hand,
having withal a very evil-favoured countenance, he demanded
of his lord, — 'Sir, is this by chance the enchanted Moor, that
turns anew to torment us for somewhat that is yet unpun-
ished?' 'He cannot be the Moor,' answered Don Quixote;
'for necromancers suffer not themselves to be seen by any.'
THE HOLY BROTHER 137
'If they suffer not themselves to be seen,' quoth Sancho, 'they
suffer themselves at least to be felt; if not, let my shoulders
bear witness.' 'So might mine also,' said Don Quixote; 'but,
notwithstanding, this is no sufficient argument to prove him
whom we see to be the enchanted Moor.' As thus they dis-
coursed, the officer arrived, and, finding them to commune in
so peaceable and quiet manner, he rested admired. Yet Don
Quixote lay with his face upward as he had left him, and was
not able to stir himself, he was so beaten and beplaistered.
The officer approaching, demanded of him, 'Well, how dost
thou, good fellow?' 'I would speak more mannerly,' quoth
Don Quixote, 'if I were but such a one as thou art. Is it the
custom of this country, you bottle-head ! to talk after so rude
a manner to knights-errant?' The other, impatient to see one
of so vile presence use him with that bad language, could not
endure it ; but, lifting up the lamp, oil and all, gave Don Quix-
ote such a blow on the pate with it as he broke his head in
one or two places, and, leaving all in darkness behind him,
departed presently out of the chamber. 'Without doubt,' quoth
Sancho, seeing this accident, 'sir, that was the enchanted
Moor ; and I think he keepeth the treasure for others, and re-
serveth only for us fists and lamp-blows.' 'It is as thou sayst,'
quoth Don Quixote ; 'and therefore we are not to make ac-
count of these enchantments, or be wroth and angry at them ;
for, in respect that they are invisible and fantastical, we shall
not find him on whom we may take revenge, though we
labour ever so much to do it. Arise, therefore, Sancho, if
thou beest able, and call to the constable of this fortress, and
procure me some oil, wine, salt, and vinegar, that I make the
wholesome balsam ; for verily I believe that I do need it very
much at this time, the blood runneth so fast out of the wound
which the spirit gave me even now.' Sancho then got up,
with grief enough of his bones, and went without light
towards the innkeeper's, and encountered on the way the
officer of the holy brotherhood, who stood barkening what
did become of his enemy; to whom he said, 'Sir, whosoever
thou beest, I desire thee, do us the favour and benefit to give
me a little rosemary, oil, wine, and salt, to cure one of the
best knights-errant that is in the earth, who lieth now in that
bed, sorely wounded by the hands of an enchanted Moor that
138 DON QUIXOTE
is in this inn.' When the officer heard him speak in that
manner, he held him to be out of his wits; and because the
dawning began, he opened the inn-door, and told unto the
host that which Sancho demanded. The innkeeper presently-
provided all that he wanted, and Sancho carried it to his
master, who held his head between both his hands, and com-
plained much of the grief that the blow of his head caused,
which did him no other hurt than to raise up two blisters
somewhat great, and that which he supposed to be blood was
only the humour which the anxiety and labour of mind he
passed in this last dark adventure had made him to sweat.
In resolution, Don Quixote took his simples, of which he
made a compound, mixing them all together, and then boiling
of them a good while, until they came (as he thought) to
their perfection. He asked for a vial wherein he might lay
this precious liquor; but, the inn being unable to afford him
any such, he resolved at last to put it into a tin oil-pot, which
the host did freely give him, and forthwith he said over the
pot eighty paternosters, and as many aves, salves, and creeds,
and accompanied every word with a cross, in form of benedic-
tion; at all which ceremonies, Sancho, the innkeeper, and the
officer of the holy brotherhood were present; for the carrier
went very soberly to dress and make ready his mules.
The liquor being made, he himself would presently make
experience of the virtue of that precious balsam, as he did
imagine it to be, and so did drink a good draught of the over-
plus that could not enter into his pot, being a quart or there-
abouts ; and scarce had he done it when he began to vomit so
extremely as he left nothing uncast up in his stomach ; and,
through the pain and agitation caused by his vomits, he fell
into a very abundant and great sweat, and therefore com-
manded himself to be well covered, and left alone to take his
ease. Which was done forthwith and he slept three hourS;
and then, awaking, found himself so wonderfully eased and
free from all bruising and pain, as he doubted not but that he
was thoroughly whole ; and therefore did verily persuade him-
self that he had happened on the right manner of compound-
ing the Balsam of Fierabras ; and that, having that medicine,
he might boldly from thenceforth undertake any ruins, battles,
conflicts, or adventures, how dangerous soever.
THE BALSAM 139
Sancho Panza, who likewise attributed the sudden cure of
his master to miracle, requested that it would please him to
give him leave to sup up the remainder of the balsam which
rested in the kettle, and was no small quantity; which Don
Quixote granted; and he, lifting up between both hands, did,
with a good faith and better talent, quaff it off all, being little
less than his master had drunk. The success, then, of the his-
tory is, that poor Sancho's stomach was not so delicate as his
lord's, wherefore, before he could cast, he was tormented with
so many cruel pangs, loathings, sweats, and dismays, as he
did verily persuade himself that his last hour was come; and,
perceiving himself to be so afflicted and troubled, he cursed
the balsam, and the thief which had given it to him. Don
Quixote, seeing of him in that pitiful taking, said: 'I believe,
Sancho, all this evil befalleth thee because thou art not dubbed
knight; for I persuade myself that this liquor cannot help any
one that is not.' 'If your worship knew that,' quoth Sancho, —
'evil befall me and all my lineage ! — why did you therefore
consent that I should taste it ?'
In this time the drench had made his operation, and the
poor squire did so swift and vehemently discharge himself
by both channels, as neither his mat or canvas covering could
serve after to any use. He sweat and svv'eat again, with such
excessive swoonings, as not only himself, but likewise all the
beholders, did verily deem that his life was ending. This
storm and mishap endured about some two hours, after which
he remained not cured as his master, but so weary and indis-
posed as he was not able to stand.
But Don Quixote, who, as we have said, felt himself eased
and cured, would presently depart to seek adventures, it seem-
ing unto him that all the time which he abode there was no
other than a depriving both of the world and needful people
of his favour and assistance; and more, through the security
and confidence that he had in his balsam. And carried thus
away by this desire, he himself saddled his horse Rozi-
nante, and did empannel his squire's beast, whom he likewise
helped to apparel himself and to mount upon his ass; and
presently, getting a-horseback, he rode over to a corner of
the inn, and laid hand on a javelin that was there, to make
it serve him instead of a lance. All the people that were
140 DON QUIXOTE
in the inn stood beholding him, which were above twenty
in number.
The innkeeper's daughter did also look upon him, and he
did never withdraw his eye from her, and would ever and
anon breathe forth so doleful a sigh as if he had plucked it
out of the bottom of his heart ; which all the beholders took
to proceed from the grief of his ribs, but especially such as
had seen him plaistered the night before. And, being both
mounted thus a-horseback, he called the innkeeper, and said
unto him, with a grave and staid voice : 'Many and great
are the favours, sir constable, which I have received in this
your castle, and do remain most obliged to gratify you for
them all the days of my life. And if I may pay or recom-
pense them by revenging of you upon any proud miscreant
that hath done you any wrongs, know that it is mine office
to help the weak, to revenge the wronged, and to chastise
traitors. Call therefore to memory, and if you find anything
of this kind to commend to my correction, you need not but
once to say it ; for I do promise you, by the order of knight-
hood which I have received, to satisfy and apay you according
to your own desire.'
The innkeeper answered him again, with like gravity and
staidness, saying, 'Sir knight, I shall not need your assistance
when any wrong is done to me ; for I know very well myself
how to take the revenge that I shall think good, when the
injury is offered. That only which I require is, that you de-
fray the charges whereat you have been here in the inn this
night, as well for the straw and barley given to your two
horses, as also for both your beds.' 'This, then, is an inn?'
quoth Don Quixote. 'That it is, and an honourable one too,'
replied the innkeeper. 'Then have I hitherto lived in an
error,' quoth Don Quixote ; 'for, in very good sooth, I took
it till now to be a castle, and that no mean one neither. But
since that it is no castle, but an inn, that which you may do
for the present time is, to forgive me those expenses; for I
cannot do aught against the custom of knights-errant; of
all which I most certainly know (without ever having read
until this present anything to the contrary) that they never
paid for their lodging, or other thing, in any inn wheresoever
they lay; for, by all law and right, any good entertainment
I
THE EXPENSES OF KNIGHTS-ERRANT 141
that is given unto them is their due, in recompense of the
insupportable travels they endure, seeking of adventures both
day and night, in summer and winter, a-foot and a-horseback,
with thirst and hunger, in heat and cold, being subject to all
the distemperatures of heaven and all the discommodities of
the earth.' 'All that concerns me nothing,' replied the inn-
keeper. 'Pay unto me my due, and leave these tales and
knighthoods apart ; for I care for nothing else but how I may
come by mine own.' 'Thou art a mad and a bad host,' quoth
Don Quixote. And, saying so, he spurred Rozinante, and,
flourishing with his javelin, he issued out of the inn in despite
of them all, and, without looking behind him to see once
whether his squire followed, he rode a good way off from it.
The innkeeper, seeing he departed without satisfying him,
came to Sancho Panza to get his money of him, who answered
that, since his lord would not pay, he would likewise give
nothing; for being, as he was, squire to a knight-errant, the
very same rules and reason that exempted his master from
payments in inns and taverns ought also to serve and be
understood as well of him. The innkeeper grew wroth at
these words, and threatened him that, if he did not pay him
speedily, he would recover it in manner that would grieve
him. Sancho replied, swearing by the order of knighthood
which his lord had received, that he would not pay one denier,
though it cost him his life; for the good and ancient customs
of knights-errant should never, through his default, be in-
fringed; nor should their squires which are yet to come into
the world ever complain on him, or upbraid him for trans-
gressing or breaking so just a duty. But his bad fortune or-
dained that there were at the very time in the same inn four
clothiers of Segovia, and three point-makers of the stews of
Cordova, and two neighbours of the market of Seville, all
pleasant folk, well-minded, malicious, and playsome; all
which, pricked and in a manner moved all at one time, and by
the very same spirit, came near to Sancho, and, pulling him
down off his ass, one of them ran in for the innkeeper's
coverlet, and, casting him into it, they looked up, and, seeing
the house was somewhat too low for their intended business,
they determined to go into the base-court, which was over-
head only limited by heaven; and then, Sancho being laid in
142 DON QUIXOTE
the midst of the blanket, they began to toss him aloft and
sport themselves with him, in the manner they were wont to
use dogs at Shrovetide.
The outcries of the miserable betossed squire were so many
and so loud as they arrived at last to his lord's hearing, who,
standing awhile to listen attentively what it was, believed that
some new adventure did approach, until he perceived at last
that he which cried was his squire; wherefore, turning the
reins, he made towards the inn with a loathsome gallop, and,
finding it shut, he rode all about it to see whether he might
enter into it. But scarce was he arrived at the walls of the
base-court, which were not very high, when he perceived the
foul play that was used toward his squire; for he saw him
descend and ascend into the air again, with such grace and
agility, that, did his choler permit, I certainly persuade my-
self, he would have burst for laughter. He assayed to mount
the wall from his horse, but he was so bruised and broken as
he could not do so much as alight from his back; wherefore,
from his back, he used such reproachful and vile language
to those which tossed Sancho, as it is impossible to lay them
down in writing. And, notwithstanding all his scornful
speech, yet did not they cease from their laughter and labour ;
nor the flying Sancho from his complaints, now and then
meddled with threats, now and then with entreaties; but
availed very little, nor could prevail, until they were con-
strained by weariness to give him over. Then did they bring
him his ass again, and, helping him up upon it, they lapped
him in his mantle; and the compassionate Maritornes, be-
holding him so afflicted and o'erlaboured, thought it needful to
help him to a draught of water, and so brought it him from
the well, because the water thereof was coolest. Sancho took
the pot, and, laying it to his lips, he abstained from drinking,
by his lord's persuasion, who cried to him aloud, saying, 'Son
Sancho, drink not water; drink it not, son; for it will kill
thee. Behold, I have here with me the most holy balsam'
(and showed him the oil-pot of the drenches he had com-
pounded) ; 'for, with only two drops that thou drinkest, thou
shalt, without all doubt, remain whole and sound.' At those
words, Sancho, looking behind him, answered his master,
with a louder voice : 'Have you forgotten so soon how that I
THE EXPENSES OF KXIGHTS-ERRANT 143
am no knight, or do you desire that I vomit the remnant of
the poor bowels that remain in me since yesternight? Keep
your liquor for yourself, in the devil's name, and permit me
to live in peace.' And the conclusion of this speech and his
beginning to drink was done all in one instant ; but, finding at
the first draught that it was water, he would not taste it any
more, but requested Maritornes that she would give him some
"wine, which she did straight with a very good will, and like-
wise paid for it out of her own purse; for in effect it is writ-
ten of her, that though she followed that trade, yet had she
some shadows and lineaments in her of Christianity. As soon
as Sancho had drunken, he visited his ass's ribs with his
heels twice or thrice ; and, the inn being opened, he issued out
of it, very glad that he had paid nothing, and gotten his de-
sire, although it were to the cost of his ordinary sureties, to
wit, his shoulders. Yet did the innkeeper remain possessed
of his wallets, as a payment for that he bwed him ; but Sancho
was so distracted when he departed as he never missed them.
After he departed, the innkeeper thought to have shut up
the inn-door again ; but the gentlemen-tossers would not per-
mit, being such folk that, if Don Quixote were verily one of
the knights of the Round Table, yet would not they esteem
him two chips.
CHAPTER IV
Wherein Are Rehearsed the Discourses Passed Between
Sancho Panza and His Lord, Don Quixote, With
Other Adventures Worthy the Recital
SANCHO arrived to his master all wan and dismayed,
insomuch as he was scarce able to spur on his beast.
When Don Quixote beheld him in that case, he said
io him : 'Now do I wholly persuade myself, friend Sancho,
that that castle or inn is doubtless enchanted; for those which
made pastime with thee in so cruel manner, what else could
they be but spirits, or people of another world? which I do
the rather believe, because I saw that, whilst I stood at the
barrier of the yard, beholding the acts of thy sad tragedy, I
was not in any wise able either to mount it, or alight from
Rozinante ; for, as I say, I think they held me then enchanted.
For I vow to thee, by mine honour, that if I could have
either mounted or alighted, I would have taken such ven-
geance on those lewd and treacherous caitiffs as they should
remember the jest for ever, though I had therefore adven-
tured to transgress the laws of knighthood ; which, as I have
ofttimes said unto thee, permitteth not any knight to lay
hands on one that is not knighted, if it be not in defence of
his proper life and person, and that in case of great and
urgent necessity.' 'So would I also have revenged myself,'
quoth Sancho, 'if I might, were they knights or no knights;
but I could not : and yet I do infallibly believe that those
which took their pleasure with me were neither ghosts nor
enchanted men, as you say, but men of flesh and bones as
we are; and all of them, as I heard them called whilst they
tossed me, had proper names, for one was termed Peter Mar-
tinez, and another Tenorio Herriander, and I heard also the
innkeeper called John Palameque the deaf; so that, for your
inability of not leaping over the barriers of the yard, or
SANCHO DISHEARTENED 145
alighting off your horse, was only enchantments in you.
Whereby I do clearly collect thus much, that these adventures
which we go in search o£ will bring us at last to so many
disventures as we shall not be able to know which is our
right foot. And that which we might do best, according to
my little understanding, were to return us again to our vil-
lage, now that it is reaping-time, and look to our goods, omit-
ting to leap thus, as they say, out of the frying-pan into the
fire.'
'How little dost thou know, Sancho,' replied Don Quixote,
'what appertaineth to chivalry ! Peace, and have patience,
for a day will come wherein thou shalt see with thine own
eyes how honourable it is to follow this exercise. If not,
tell me what greater content may there be in this world, or
what pleasure can equal that of winning a battle, and of
triumphing over one's enemy? None, without doubt.' 'I
think it be so,' quoth Sancho, 'although I do not know it;
only this I know, that, since we became knights-errant, or
that you are one (for there is no reason why I should count
myself in so honourable a number), we never overcame any
battle, if it was not that of the Biscaine, and you came even
out of the very same with half your ear and beaver less ; and
ever after that time we have had nothing but cudgels and
more cudgels, blows and more blows; I carrying with me
besides, of overplus, the tossing in the blanket ; and that, by
reason it was done to me by enchanted persons, I cannot be
revenged, and by consequence shall not know that true gust
and delight that is taken by vanquishing mine enemy, whereof
you spake even now.' 'That is it which grieves me, as it
should thee also, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote. 'But I will
procure hereafter to get a sword made with such art, that
whosoever shall wear it, no kind of enchantment shall hurt
him ; and perhaps fortune will present me the very same
which belonged to Amadis, when he called himself "the
knight of the burning sword," which was one of the best that
ever knight had in this world; for besides the virtue that I
told, it did also cut like a razor ; and no armour, were it ever
so strong or enchanted, could stand before it.' 'I am so for-
tunate,' quoth Sancho, 'that when this befel, and that you
found such a sword, it would only serve and be beneficial,
146 DON QUIXOTE
and stand in stead, such as are dubbed knights, as doth your
balsam; whilst the poor squires are crammed full with sor-
rows.' 'Fear not that, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote ; 'for
fortune will deal with thee more liberally than so.'
In these discourses Don Quixote and his squire rode ; when
Don Quixote, perceiving a great and thick dust to arise in
the way wherein he travelled, turning to Sancho, said, 'This
is, Sancho, the day wherein shall be manifest the good which
fortune hath reserved for me. This is the day wherein the
force of mine arm must be shown as much as in any other
whatsoever ; and in it I will do such feats as shall for ever
remain recorded in the books of fame. Dost thou see, San-
cho, the dust which ariseth there ? Know that it is caused by
a mighty army, and sundry and innumerable nations, which
come marching there.' 'If that be so,' quoth Sancho, 'then
must there be two armies ; for on this other side is raised as
great a dust.' Don Quixote turned back to behold it, and
seeing it was so indeed, he was marvellous glad, thinking
that they were doubtlessly two armies, which came to fight
one with another in the midst of that spacious plain ; for he
had his fantasy ever replenished with these battles, enchant-
ments, successes, ravings, loves, and challenges which are
rehearsed in books of knighthood, and all that ever he spoke,
thought, or did, was addressed and applied to the like things.
And the dust which he had seen was raised by two great
flocks of sheep, that came through the same field by two dif-
ferent ways, and could not be discerned, by reason of the
dust, until they were very near. Don Quixote did affirm
that they were two armies with so very good earnest as San-
cho believed it, and demanded of him, 'Sir, what then shall
we two do?' 'What shall we do,' quoth Don Quixote, 'but
assist the needful and weaker side? For thou shalt know,
Sancho, that he who comes towards us is the great emperor
Alifamfaron, lord of the great island of Trapobana ; the other,
who marcheth at oair back, is his enemy, the king of the
Garamantes, Pentapolin of the naked arm, so called because
he still entereth in battle with his right arm naked,' 'I pray
you, good sir,' quoth Sancho, 'to tell me why these two
princes hate one another so much?' 'They are enemies,' re-
plied Don Quixote, 'because that this Alifamfaron is a furi-
ADVENTURE OF THE SHEEP 147
ous pagan, and is enamoured of Pentapolin's daughter, who
is a very beautiful and gracious princess, and, moreover, a
Christian ; and her father refuseth to give her to the pagan
king, until first he abandon Mahomet's false sect, and become
one of his religion.' 'By my beard,' quoth Sancho, Tenta-
polin hath reason, and I will help him all that I may.' 'By
doing so,' quoth Don Quixote, 'thou performest thy duty; for
it is not requisite that one be a knight to the end he may enter
into such battles.' 'I do apprehend that myself,' quoth San-
cho, 'very well ; but where shall we leave this ass in the mean-
time, that we may be sure to find him again after the con-
flict? — for I think it is not the custom to enter into battle
mounted on such a beast.' 'It is true,' quoth Don Quixote ;
'that which thou mayst do is to leave him to his adventures,
and care not whether he be lost or found ; for we shall have
so many horses, after coming out of this battle victors, that
very Rozinante himself is in danger to be changed for an-
other. But be attentive ; for I mean to describe unto thee
the principal knights of both the armies ; and to the end thou
mayst the better see and note all things, let us retire our-
selves there to that little hillock, from whence both armies
may easily be descried.'
They did so; and, standing on the top of a hill, from
whence they might have seen both the flocks, which Don
Quixote called an army, very well, if the clouds of dust had
not hindered it and blinded their sight; yet, notwithstanding,
our knight seeing in conceit that which he really did not see
at all, began to say, with a loud voice, —
'That knight which thou seest there with the yellow armour,
who bears in his shield a lion, crowned, crouching at a dam-
sel's feet, is the valorous Laurcalio, lord of the silver bridge.
The other, whose arms are powdered with flowers of gold,
and bears in an azure field three crowns of silver, is the
dreaded Micocolembo, great duke of Quirocia. The other,
limbed like a giant, that standeth at his right hand, is the
undaunted Brandabarbaray of Boliche, lord of the three
Arabias, and comes armed with a serpent's skin, bearing for
his shield, as is reported, one of the gates of the temple which
Samson at his death overthrew to be revenged of his enemies.
But turn thine eyes to this other side, and thou shalt see first
148 DON QUIXOTE
of all, and in the front of this other army, the ever victor and
never vanquished Timonel of Carcajona, prince of New Bis-
cay, who comes armed with arms parted into blue, green,
white, and yellow quarters, and bears in his shield, in a field
of tawny, a cat of gold, with a letter that says Miau, which
is the beginning of his lady's name, which is, as the report
runs, the peerless Miaulina, daughter to Duke Alfeniquen of
Algarve. The other, that burdens and oppresseth the back
of that mighty courser, whose armour is as white as snow,
and also his shield without any device, is a new knight of
France, called Pierres Papin, lord of the barony of Utrique.
The other, that beats his horse's sides with his armed heels,
and bears the arms of pure azure, is the mighty Duke of
Nerbia Espartafilardo of the wood, who bears for his device
a harrow, with a motto that says, "So trails my fortune." '
And thus he proceeded forward, naming many knights of
the one and the other squadron, even as he had imagined
them, and attributed to each one his arms, his colours, im-
prese, and mottoes, suddenly borne away by the imagination
of his wonderful distraction; and, without stammering, he
proceeded, saying, —
'This first squadron containeth folk of many nations: in
it are those which taste the sweet waters of famous Xante;
the mountainous men that tread the Masilical fields; those
that do sift the most pure and rare gold of Arabia Felix;
those that possessed the famous and delightful banks of clear
Termodonte ; those that let blood, many and sundry ways the
golden Pactolus; the Numides, unstedfast in their promise;
the Persians, famous for archers; the Parthes and Medes,
that fight flying; the Arabs, inconstant in their dwellings;
the Scythians, as cruel as white ; the Ethiopians, of bored
lips ; and other infinite nations, whose faces I know and be-
hold, although I have forgotten their denominations. In that
other army come those that taste the crystalline streams of
the olive-bearing Betis; those that dip and polish their faces
with the liquor of the ever-rich and golden Tagus; those
that possess the profitable fluent of divine Genii ; those that
trample the Tartesian fields, so abundant in pasture ; those
that recreate themselves in the Elysian fields of Xerez ; the
rich Manchegans, crowned with ruddy ears of corn ; those
ADVENTURE OF THE SHEEP 149
apparelled with iron, the ancient relics of the Gothish blood;
those that bathe themselves in Pesverga, renowned for the
smoothness of his current ; those that feed their flocks in the
vast fields of the wreathing Guadiana, so celebrated for his
hidden course : those that tremble through the cold of the
bttshy Pirens, and the lofty Apennines; finally, all those that
Europe in itself containeth.'
Good God ! how many provinces repeated he at that time !
and how many nations did he name, giving to every one of
them, with marvellous celerity and briefness, their proper
attributes, being swallowed up and engulfed in those things
which he had read in his lying books ! Sancho Panza stood
suspended at his speech, and spoke not a word, but only would
now and then turn his head, to see whether he could mark
those knights and giants which his lord had named: and, by
reason he could not discover any, he said, 'Sir, I give to the
devil any man, giant, or knight, of all those you said, that
appeareth ; at least, I cannot discern them. Perhaps all is
but enchantment, like that of the ghosts of yesternight.' 'How
sayst thou so ?' quoth Don Quixote. 'Dost not thou hear the
horses neigh, the trumpets sound, and the noise of the drums?'
'I hear nothing else,' said Sancho, 'but the great bleating of
many sheep.' And so it was, indeed; for by this time the
two flocks did approach them very near. 'The fear that thou
conceivest, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 'maketh thee that
thou canst neither hear nor see aright ; for one of the effects
of fear is to trouble the senses, and make things appear other-
wise than they are ; and, seeing thou fearest so much, retire
thyself out of the way ; for I alone am sufficient to give the
victory to that part which I shall assist.' And, having ended
his speech, he set spurs to Rozinante, and, setting his lance
in the rest, he flung down from the hillock like a thunderbolt.
Sancho cried to him as loud as he could, saying, 'Return,
good sir Don Quixote ! for I vow unto God, that all those
which you go to charge are but sheep and muttons ; return, I
say. Alas that ever I was born ! what madness is this? Look;
for there is neither giant nor knight, nor cats, nor arms, nor
shields parted nor whole, nor pure azures nor devilish. What
is it you do? wretch that I am!' For all this Don Quixote
did not return, but rather rode, saying with a loud voice,
150 DON QUIXOTE
'On, on, knights ! all you that serve and march under the
banners of the valorous emperor Pentapolin of the naked arm ;
follow me, all of you, and you shall see how easily I will
revenge him on his enemy, Alifamfaron of Trapobana.' And,
saying so, he entered into the midst of the flock of sheep, and
began to lance them with such courage and fury as if he did
in good earnest encounter his mortal enemies.
The shepherds that came with the flock, cried to him to
leave off; but, seeing their words took no effect, they un-
loosed their slings, and began to salute his pate with stones
as great as one's fist. But Don Quixote made no account of
their stones, and did fling up and down among the sheep, say-
ing, 'Where art thou, proud Alifamfaron? where art thou?
Com.e to me; for I am but one knight alone, who desire to
prove my force with thee man to man, and deprive thee of
thy life, in pain of the wrong thou dost to the valiant Pen-
tapolin, the Garamante.' At that instant a stone gave him
such a blow on one of his sides, as did bury two of his ribs
in his body. He beholding himself so ill dight, did presently
believe that he was either slain or sorely wounded ; and, re-
membering himself of his liquor, he took out his oil-pot, and
set it to his mouth to drink ; but ere he could take as much as
he thought requisite to cure his hurts, there cometh another
almond, which struck him so full upon the hand and oil-pot,
as it broke it into pieces, and carried away with it besides
three or four of his cheek teeth, and did moreover bruise
very sorely two of his fingers. Such was the first and the
second blow, as the poor knight ^yas constrained to fall down
off his horse. And the shepherds arriving, did verily believe
they had slain him ; and therefore, gathering their flock to-
gether with all speed, and carrying away their dead muttons,
which were more than seven, they went away without verify-
ing the matter any further.
Sancho remained all this while on the height, beholding his
master's follies, pulling the hairs of his beard for very despair,
and cursed the hour and the moment wherein he first knew
him ; but, seeing him overthrown to the earth, and the shep-
herds fled away, he came down to him, and found him in very
bad taking, yet had he not quite lost the use of his senses ; to
whom he said, 'Did not I bid you, sir knight, return, and told
ADVENTURE OF THE SHEEP 151
you that you went not to invade an army of men, but a flock
of sheep ?' 'That thief, the wise man who is mine adversary/
quoth Don Quixote, 'can counterfeit and make men to seem
such, or vanish away, as he pleaseth; for, Sancho, thou
oughtest to know that it is a very easy thing for those kind
of men to make us seem what they please, and this malign
that persecuteth me, envying the glory which he saw I was
like to acquire in this battle, hath converted the enemy's
squadrons into sheep. And if thou wilt not believe me, San-
cho, yet do one thing for my sake, that thou mayst remove
thine error, and perceive the truth which I affirm : get up on
thine ass, and follow them fair and softly aloof, and, thou
shalt see that, as soon as they are parted any distance from
hence, they will turn to their first form, and, leaving to be
sheep, will become men, as right and straight as I painted
them to thee at the first. But go not now, for I have need of
thy help and assistance ; draw nearer to me, and see how
many cheek teeth and others I want, for methinks there is not
one left in my mouth.' With that, Sancho approached so
near that he laid almost his eyes on his master's mouth ; and
it was just at the time that the balsam had now wrought his
effect in Don Quixote his stomach, and at the very season
that Sancho went about to look into his mouth, he disgorged
all that he had in his stomach, with as great violence as it
had been shot out of a musket, just in his compassive squire's
beard. 'O holy Mother Mary !' quoth Sancho, 'what is this
that hath befallen me ? The poor man is mortally wounded
without doubt; for he vomiteth up blood at his mouth.' But,
looking a little nearer to it, he perceived in the colour and
smell that it was not blood, but the balsam of his master's oil-
bottle ; whereat he instantly took such a loathing, that his
stomach likewise turned, and he vomited out his very bowels
almost, all in his master's face. And so they both remained
like pearls. Soon after, Sancho ran to his ass to take some-
what to clear himself, and to cure his lord, out of his wallet,
which when he found wanting, he was ready to run out of
his wits. There he began anew to curse himself, and made a
firm resolution in mind that he would leave his master and
turn to his country again, although he were sure both to lose
his wages and the hope of government of the promised island.
152 DON QUIXOTE
By this Don Quixote arose, and, setting his left hand to
his mouth, that the rest of his teeth might not fall out, he
caught hold on the reins of Rozinante's bridle with the other,
who had never stirred from his master (such was his loyalty
and good nature), he went towards his squire, that leaned
upon his ass, with his hand under his cheek, like one pensa-
tive and malcontent. And Don Quixote, seeing of him in
that guise, with such signs of sadness, said unto him : 'Know
Sancho, that one man is not more than another, if he do not
more than another. All these storms that fall on us are
arguments that the time will wax calm very soon, and that
things will have better success hereafter ; for it is not possible
that either good or ill be durable. And hence we may collect
that, our misfortunes having lasted so long, our fortune and
weal must be likewise near; and therefore thou oughtest not
thus to afflict thyself for the disgraces that befal me, seeing
no part of them fall to thy lot.' 'How not?' quoth Sancho.
'Was he whom they tossed yesterday in the coverlet by for-
tune, any other man's son than my father's? and the wallet
that I want to-day, with all my provision, was it any other's
than mine own?' 'What ! dost thou want thy wallet, Sancho?'
quoth Don Quixote. 'Ay, that I do,' quoth he. 'In that man-
ner,' replied Don Quixote, 'we have nothing left us to eat to-
day.' 'That would be so,' quoth Sancho, 'if we could not find
among these fields the herbs which I have heard you say you
know, wherewithal such unlucky knights-errant as you are
wont to supply like needs.' 'For all that,' quoth Don Quixote,
'I would rather have now a quarter of a loaf, or a cake, and
two pilchard's heads, than all the herbs that Dioscorides de-
scribeth, although they came glossed by Doctor Laguna him-
self. But yet, for all that, get upon thy beast, Sancho the
good, and follow me ; for God, who is the provider for all
creatures, will not fail us ; and principally, seeing we do a
work so greatly to His service as we do, seeing He doth not
abandon the little flies of the air, nor the wormlings of the
earth, nor the spawnlings of the water ; and He is so merci-
ful that He maketh His sun shine on the good and the evil,
and rains on sinners and just men.' 'You were much fitter,*
quoth Sancho, 'to be a preacher than a knight-errant.'
'Knights-errant knew, and ought to know, somewhat of ail
THE LOST WALLET 153
things/ quoth Don Quixote ; 'for there hath been a knight-
errant, in times past, who would make a sermon or discourse
in the midst of a camp royal with as good grace as if he were
graduated in the university of Paris ; by which we may gather
that the lance never dulled the pen, nor the pen the lance.'
'Well, then,' quoth Sancho, 'let it be as you have said, and let
us depart hence, and procure to find a lodging for this night,
where, I pray God, may be no coverlets, and tossers, nor
spirits, nor enchanted Moors ; for if there be, I'll bestow the
flock and the hook on the devil.' 'Demand that of God, son
Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 'and lead me where thou pleas-
est ; for I will leave the election of our lodging to thy choice
for this time. Yet, I pray thee, give me thy hand, and feel
how many cheek teeth, or others, I want in this right side of
the upper jaw; for there I feel most pain.' Sancho put in
his finger, and whilst he felt him, demanded, 'How many
cheek teeth were you accustomed to have on this side?'
'Four,' quoth he, 'besides the hindermost; all of them very
whole and sound.' 'See well what you say, sir,' quoth San-
cho. 'I say four,' quoth Don Quixote, 'if they were not five;
for I never in my life drew or lost any tooth, nor hath any
fallen or been worm-eaten or marred by any rheum.' 'Well,
then,' quoth Sancho, 'you have in this nether part but two
cheek teeth and a half; and in the upper neither a half, nor
any ; for all there is as plain as the palm of my hand.' 'Un-
fortunate I !' quoth Don Quixote, hearing the sorrowful news
that his squire told unto him, 'for I had rather lose one of
my arms, so it were not that of my sword ; for, Sancho, thou
must wit, that a motith without cheek teeth is like a mill with-
out a mill-stone ; and a tooth is much more to be esteemed than
a diamond. But we which profess the rigorous laws of arms are
subject to all these disasters; wherefore mount, gentle friend,
and give the way; for I will follow thee what pace thou
pleasest.' Sancho obeyed, and rode the way where he thought
he might find lodging, without leaving the highway, which was
there very much beaten. And, going thus by little and little
(for Don Quixote his pain of his jaws did not suffer him
rest, or make overmuch haste), Sancho, to entertain him and
divert his thought by saying some things, began to aboard
him in the form we mean to rehearse in the chapter ensuing.
CHAPTER V
Of the Discreet Discourses Passed Between Sancho and
His Lord; with the Adventure Succeeding of a Dead
Body; and Other Notable Occurrences
METHINKS, good sir, that all the mishaps that befel
us these days past, are, without any doubt, pun-
ishment of the sin you committed against the order
of knighthood, by not performing the oath you swore, not to
eat bread on table-cloths, nor to sport with the queen, with
all the rest which ensueth, and you vowed to accomplish, un-
til you had won the helmet of Malandrino, or I know not how
the Moor is called, for I have forgotten his name.' 'Thou
sayst right, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote ; 'but, to tell the
truth, indeed I did wholly forget it; and thou mayst likewise
think certainly, that because thou didst not remember it to
me in time, that of the coverlet was inflicted as a punishment
on thee. But I will make amends ; for we have also manners
of reconciliation for all things in the order of knighthood.'
'Why, did I by chance swear anything?' quoth Sancho. 'It
little imports,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that thou hast not sworn ;
let it suffice that I know thou art not very clear from the
fault of an accessory ; and therefore, at all adventures, it will
not be ill to provide a remedy.' 'H it be so,' quoth Sancho,
'beware you do not forget this again, as you did that of the
oath ; for if you should, perhaps those spirits will take again
a fancy to solace themselves with me, and peradvcnture with
you yourself, if they see you obstinate.'
Being in these and other such discourses, the night over-
took them in the way, before they could discover any lodg-
ings, and that which was worst of all they were almost fam-
ished with hunger; for, by the loss of their wallets, they lost
at nnce both their provision and warder-house ; and, to accom-
plish wholly this disgrace, there succeeded a certain adven-
151
ADVENTURE OF THE HEARSE 155
ture, which certainly happened as we lay it down, without
any addition in the world, and was this. The night did shut
up with some darkness, yet notwithstanding they travelled
on still, Sancho believing that, since that was the highway,
there must be within a league or two, in all reason, some inn.
Travelling therefore, as I have said, in a dark night, the
squire being hungry, and the master having a good stomach,
they saw coming towards them in the very way they travelled
a great multitude of lights, resembling nothing so well as
wandering stars. Sancho, beholding them, was struck into a.
wonderful amazement, and his lord was not much better.
The one drew his ass's halter, the other held his horse, and
both of them stood still, beholding attentively what that might
be ; and they perceived that the lights drew still nearer unto
them, and the more they approached, they appeared the
greater. At the sight Sancho did tremble, like one infected
by the savour of quicksilver; and Don Quixote's hair stood
up like bristles, who, animating himself a little, said: 'Sancho,
this must be, questionless, a great and most dangerous adven-
ture, wherein it is requisite that I show all my valour and
strength.' 'Unfortunate I!' quoth Sancho; 'if by chance this
adventure were of ghosts, as it seemeth to me that it is, where
will there be ribs to suffer it?' 'Be they never so great
ghosts,' said Don Quixote, 'I will not consent that they touch
one hair of thy garments: for if they jested with thee the
other tim.e, it was because I could not leap over the walls of
the yard ; but now we are in plain field, where I may brandish
my sword as I please.' 'And if they enchant and benumb
you, as they did the other time,' quoth Sancho, 'what will it
then avail us to be in open field or no?' 'For all that,' replied
Don Quixote, 'I pray thee, Sancho, be of good courage; for
experience shall show thee how great my valour is.' 'I will,
and please God,' quoth Sancho. And so, departing somewhat
out of the way, they began again to view earnestly what that
of the travelling lights might be ; and after a very little space
they espied many white things, whose dreadful visions did in
that very instant abate Sancho Panza his courage, and now
began to chatter with his teeth like one that had the cold of
a quartan ; and when they did distinctly perceive what it was,
then did his beating and chattering of teeth increase; for they
156 DON QUIXOTE
discovered about some twenty, all covered with white,
a-horseback, with tapers lighted in their hands; after which
followed a litter covered over with black, and then ensued
other six a-horseback, attired in mourning, and likewise their
mules, even to the very ground; for they perceived that they
were not horses by the quietness of their pace. The white
folk rode murmuring somewhat among themselves, with a low
and compassive voice ; which strange vision, at such an hour,
and in places not inhabited, was very sufficient to strike fear
into Sancho's heart, and even in his master's, if it had been
any other than Don Quixote; but Sancho tumbled here and
there, being quite overthrown with terror. The contrary
happened to his lord, to whom in that same hour his imagina-
tion represented unto him most lively, the adventure wherein
he was to be such a one as he ofttimes had read in his books
of chivalry; for it figured unto him that the litter was a bier,
wherein was carried some grievously wounded or dead knight,
whose revenge was only reserved for him. And, without
making any other discourse, he set his lance in the rest, seated
himself surely in his saddle, and put himself in the midst of
the way by which the white folk must forcibly pass, with great
spirit and courage. And when he saw them draw near, he
said, with a loud voice, 'Stand, sir knight, whosoever you be,
and render me account what you are, from whence you come,
where you go, and what that is which you carry in that bier ;
for, according as you show, either you have done to others
or others to you some injury; and it is convenient and need-
ful that I know it, either to chastise you for the ill you have
committed, or else to revenge you of the wrong which you
have suffered.' 'We are in haste,' quoth one of the white
men, 'and the inn is far off, and therefore cannot expect to
give so full a relation as you request' ; and with that, spurring
his mule, passed forward. Don Quixote, highly disdaining
at the answer, took him by the bridle, and held him, saying,
'Stay, proud knight, and be better-mannered another time,
and give me account of that which I demanded; if not, I defy
you all to mortal battle.' The mule whereon the white man
rode was somewhat fearful and skittish; and, being taken
thus rudely by the bridle, she took such a fright, that, rising
up on her hinder legs, she unhorsed her rider. One of the
ADVENTURE OF THE HEARSE 157
lackeys that came with them, seeing him fallen, began to re-
vile Don Quixote, who, being by this thoroughly enraged,
without any more ado, putting his lance in the rest, ran upon
one of the mourners, and threw him to the ground very sore
wounded. And, turning upon the rest, it was a thing worthy
the noting with what dexterity he did assault, break upon
them, and put them all to flight; and it seemed none other
but that Rozinante had gotten then wings, he bestirred him-
self so nimbly and courageously.
All those white men were fearful people, and unarmed,
and therefore fled away fromx the skirmish in a trice, and be-
gan to traverse that field with their tapers burning, that they
seemed to be maskers that used to run up and down in nights
of Jove and recreation. The mourners likewise were so
lapped up and muffled by their mourning weeds, as they could
scarce stir them ; so that Don Quixote did, without any danger
of his person, give them all the bastinado, and caused them to
forsake their rooms whether they would or no ; for all of
them did verily think that he was no man, but a devil of hell,
that met them to take away the dead body which they carried
in the litter. All this did Sancho behold, marvellously ad-
miring at his master's boldness, which made him say to him-
self, 'My master is infallibly as strong and valiant as he said.'
There lay on the ground by him whom his mule had over-
thrown, a wax taper still burning, by whose light Don Quixote
perceived him, and, coming over to him, he laid the point of
his lance upon his face, saying, that he should render himself,
or else he would slay him. To which the other answered:
T am already rendered more than enough, seeing I cannot
stir me out of the place, for one of my legs is broken. And
if you be a Christian, I desire you not to kill me ; for therein
you would commit a great sacrilege, I being a licentiate, and
have received the first orders.' 'Well, then,' quoth Don
Quixote, 'what devil brought thee hither, being a Church-
man?' 'Who, sir,' replied the overthrown, 'but my misfor-
tune?' 'Yet doth a greater threaten thee,' said Don Quixote,
'if thou dost not satisfy me in all that which I first demanded
of thee.' 'You shall easily be satisfied,' quoth the licentiate,
'and therefore you shall wit that, although first of all I said
I was a licentiate, I am none but a bachelor, and am called
1S8 DON QUIXOTE
Alonso Lopez, born at Alcovcndas ; and I came from the city
of Baeza, with eleven other priests, which are those that fled
away with the tapers. We travel towards Segovia, accom-
panying the dead body that lies in the litter, of a certain gen-
tleman who died in Baeza, and was there deposited for a
while, and now, as I say, we carry his bones to his place of
burial, which is Segovia, the place of his birth.' 'And who
killed him ?' quoth Don Quixote. 'God,' quoth the bachelor,
'with certain pestilential fevers that he took.' 'In that man-
ner,' quoth Don Quixote, 'our Lord hath delivered me from
the pains I would have taken to revenge his death, if any
other had slain him. He having killed him that did, there is
no other remedy but silence, and to lift up the shoulders; for
the same I must myself have done, if He were likewise pleased
to slay me. And I would have your reverence to understand
that I am a knight of the Mancha, called Don Quixote ; and
mine office and exercise is, to go throughout the world right-
ing of wrongs and undoing of injuries.' 'I cannot understand
how that can be, of righting wrongs,' quoth the bachelor,
'seeing you have made me, who was right before, now very
crooked by breaking of my leg, which can never be righted
again as long as I live; and the injury which you have un-
done in me, is none other but to leave me so injured as I shall
remain injured for ever. And it was very great disventure
to have encountered with you that go about to seek adven-
tures.' 'All things,' quoth Don Quixote, 'succeed not of one
fashion. The hurt was, Master Bachelor Alonso Lopez, that
you travelled thus by night covered with those surplices, with
burning tapers, and covered with weeds of dole, so that you
appeared most properly some bad thing, and of the other
world; and so I could not omit to fulfil my duty by assault-
ing you, which I would have done although I verily knew you
to be the satans themselves of hell; for, for such I judged
and accounted you ever till now.'
'Then, since my bad fortune hath so disposed it,' quoth the
bachelor, 'I desire you, good sir knight-errant (who hath
given me so evil an errand) that you will help me to get up
from under this mule, who holds still my leg betwixt the
stirrup and saddle.' 'I would have stayed talking until to-
morrow morning,' quoth Don Quixote, 'and why did you ex-
ADVENTURE OF THE HEARSE 159
pect so long to declare your grief to me?' He presently
called for Sancho Panza to come over; but he had little mind
to do, for he was otherwise employed ransacking of a sump-
ter-mule, which those good folk brought with them, well fur-
nished with belly-ware. Sancho made a bag of his cassock,
and, catching all that he might or could contain, he laid it on
his beast, and then presently after repaired to his master, and
helped to deliver the good bachelor from the oppression of his
mule; and, mounting him again on it, he gave him his taper;
and Don Quixote bade him to follow his fellows, of whom
he should desire pardon, in his name, for the wrong he had
done them ; for it lay not in his hands to have done the con-
trary. Sancho said to him also : 'If those gentlemen would
by chance know who the valorous knight is that hath used
them thus, you may say unto them that he is the famous Don
Quixote of JMancha, otherwise called the Knight of the Ill-
favoured Face.'
With this the bachelor departed, and Don Quixote de-
manded of Sancho what had moved him to call him the
Knight of the Ill-favoured Face, more at that time than at
any other. 'I will tell you that,' quoth Sancho : 'I stood be-
holding of you a pretty while by the taper light which that
unlucky man carrieth, and truly you have one of the evil-
favouredest countenances of late that ever ' I saw, which
either proceedeth of your being tired after this battle, or else
through the loss of your teeth.' 'That is not the reason,'
said Don Quixote ; 'but rather, it hath seemed fit to the wise
man, to whose charge is left the writing of my history, that
I take some appellative name, as all the other knights of yore
have done; for one called himself the Knight of the Burning-
Sword ; another that of the Unicorn ; this, him of the
Phoenix ; the other, that of the Damsels ; another, the Knight
of the Griffin ; and some other, the Knight of Death ; and by
these names and devices they were known throughout the
compass of the earth. And so I say, that the wise man whom
I mentioned set in thy mind and tongue the thought to call
me the Knight of the Ill-favoured Face, as I mean to call
myself from henceforth ; and that the name may become me
better, I will, upon the first occasion, cause to be painted in
my shield a most ill-favoured countenance.' 'You need not,'
160 DON QUIXOTE
quoth Sancho, 'spend so much time and money in having the
Hke countenance painted ; but that which you may more easily
do is, to discover your own. and look directly on those that
behold you ; and I will warrant you, that without any more
ado, or new painting in your shield, they will call you "him
of the ill-favoured face." And let this be said in jest, that
hunger and the want of your teeth have given you, as I have
said, so ill-favoured a face, as you may well excuse all other
heavy portraitures.' Don Quixote laughed at his squire's
conceit, and yet. nevertheless, he purposed to call himself by
that name as soon as ever he should have commodity to paint
his shield and buckler.
And after a pause he said to Sancho: 'I believe I am ex-
communicated for having laid violent hands upon a conse-
crated thing. "Juxta illud, siquis suadente diabolo," etc. ; al-
though I am certain I laid not my hands upon him, but only
this javelin; and besides. I did not in any way suspect that I
offended priests or Churchmen, which I do respect and honour
as a Catholic and faithful Christian : but rather, that they
were shadows and spirits of the other world. And if the
worst happened, I remember well that which befel the Cid
Ruy Diaz, when he broke that other king's ambassador's
chair before the pope's holiness, for which he excommuni-
cated him ; and yet. for all that, the good Roderick Vivar
behaved himself that day like an honourable and valiant
knight.'
About this time the bachelor departed, as is said, without
speaking a word, and Don Quixote would fain have seen
whether the corpse that came in the litter was bones or no;
but Sancho would not permit him, saying, 'Sir. you have
finished this perilous adventure most with your safety of any
one of those I have seen. This people, although overcome
and scattered, might perhaps fall in the consideration that he
who hath overcome them is but one person alone, and. grow-
ing ashamed thereof, would perhaps join and unite them-
selves, and turn upon us. and give us enough business to do.
The ass is in good plight according to my desire, and the
mountain at hand, and hunger oppresseth us; therefore, we
have nothing else to do at this time but retire ourselves with
a good pace, and, as it is said, "To the grave with the dead,
ADVENTURE OF THE HEARSE 161
and them that live to the bread." ' And, pricking on his ass,
he requested his master to follow him; who, seeing that
Sancho spoke not without reason, he spurred after him with-
out replying; and, having travelled a little way between two
small mountains, they found a large and hidden valley, where
they alighted ; and Sancho lightening his beast, and lying
both along upon the green grass, holpen by the sauce of hun-
ger, they broke their fasts, dined, ate their beaver and supper
all at one time; satisfying their appetites with more than one
dish of cold meat, which the dead gentleman's chaplains
(which knew how to make much of themselves) had brought
for their provision. But here succeeded another discom-
modity, which Sancho accounted not as the least, and was,
that they had no wine to drink ; no, nor so much as a drop
of water to rinse their mouths ; and, being scorched with
drought, Sancho, perceiving the field where they were full
of thick and green grass, said that which shall ensue in the
chapter following.
CHAPTER VI
Of a \\*onderful Adventure, Achieved with Less Hazard
Than Ever Any Other Knight Did Any, ey the
Valorous Don Quixote of the Mancha
'TT is not possible, my lord, but that these green herbs do
I argue that near unto this place must be some fountain
-■- or stream that watereth them, and therefore, I pray
you, let us go a little farther, and we shall meet that which
may mitigate the terrible thirst that afflicts us, which sets us,
questionless, in more pain than did our hunger.' This coun-
sel was allowed by Don Quixote ; and therefore, leading
Rozinante by the bridle, and Sancho his ass by the halter,
after laying up the reversion of their supper, they set on
through the plain, only guided by their guess, for the night
was so dark as they could not see a jot. And scarce had
they travelled two hundred paces, when they heard a great
noise of water, as if it fell headlong from some great and
steep rock. The noise did cheer them very much, and stand-
ing to hear from whence it sounded, they heard unawares
another noise, which watered all the content they conceived
before, specially in Sancho, who, as I have noted, was nat-
urally very fearful and of little spirit. They heard, I say,
certain blows struck with proportion, with a kind of rattling
of irons and chains, which, accompanied by the furious sound
of the water, might strike terror into any other heart but
Don Quixote's.
The night, as we said, was dark, and they happened to
enter in among certain tall and lofty trees, whose leaves,
moved by a soft gale of wind, made a fearful and still noise ;
so that the solitude, situation, darkness, and the noise of the
water, and trembling of the leaves concurring, did breed
horror and affright : but specially seeing that the blows never
ceased, the wind slept not, nor the morning approached,
162
THE MYSTERIOUS NOISES 163
whereunto may be added, that they knew not the place where
they were. But Don Quixote, accompanied with his vahant
heart, leaped on Rozinante, and embracing his buckler, bran-
dished his lance, and said : 'Friend Sancho, I would have
thee know that I was born, by the disposition of Heaven, in
this our age of iron, to resuscitate in it that of gold, or the
golden world, as it is called. I am he for whom are re-
served all dangerous, great, and valorous feats. I say again,
that I am he which shall set up again those of the Round
Table, the Twelve Peers of France, and the Nine Worthies.
I am he who shall cause the acts to be forgotten of those
Platires, Tablantes, Olivantes, and Tirantes, the Phebuses,
Belianises, with all the crew of the famous knights-errant of
times past, doing in this wherein I live, such great and won-
derful feats of arms as shall obscure the bravest that ever
they achieved. Thou notest well, faithful and loyal squire,
the darkness of this night, the strange silence, the deaf and
confused trembling of these trees, the dreadful noise of that
water in whose search we come, which seems to throw itself
headlong down from the steep mountains of the moon ; the
inceasable blows which do still wound our ears ; all which
together, and every one apart, are able to strike terror, fear,
and amazement into the very mind of Mars ; how much more
in his that is not accustomed to the like chances and adven-
tures? Yet all this which I have depainted to thee are in-
citers and rousers of my mind, which now causeth my heart
almost to burst in my breast, with the desire it hath to try
this adventure, how difficult soever it shows itself. Where-
fore, tie my horse's girths a little straiter; and farewell!
Here in this place thou mayst expect me three days and no
more. And if I shall not return in that space, thou mayst
go back to our village, and from thence (for my sake) to
Toboso, where thou shalt say to my incomparable Lady Dul-
cinea, that her captive knight died by attempting things that
might make him worthy to be called hers.'
When Sancho heard his lord speak these words, he began
to weep, with the greatest compassion of the world, and say
unto him, 'Sir, I see no reason why you should undertake
this fearful adventure. If is now night, and nobody can per-
ceive us; we may very well cross the way, and apart from
HC XIV — 6
164 DON QUIXOTE
ourselves danger, although we should therefore want drink
these three days. And, seeing none behold us, there will be
much less any one to take notice of our cowardice ; the rather
because I heard ofttimes the curate of our village, whom
you know very well, preach, "that he which seeks the danger,
perisheth therein" ; so that it is not good to tempt God, un-
dertaking such a huge affair, out of which you cannot escape
but by miracle ; and let those which Heaven hath already
wrought for you suffice, in delivering you from being tossed
in a coverlet, as I was, and bringing you away a victor, free
and safe, from among so many enemies as accompanied the
dead man. And when all this shall not move or soften your
hard heart, let this move it, to think and certainly believe,
that scarce shall you depart from this place, when through
very fear I shall give up my soul to him that pleaseth to take
it. I left my country, wife, and children to come and serve
you, hoping thereby to be worth more, and not less ; but, as
covetousness breaks the sack, so hath it also torn my hopes,
seeing when they were most pregnant and lively to obtain
that unlucky and accursed island, which you promised me so
often, I see that, in exchange and pay thereof, you mean to
forsake me here in a desert, out of all frequentation. For
God's sake, do not me such a wrong, my lord; and if you will
not wholly desist from your purpose, yet defer it at least till
the morning; for as my little skill that I learned when I was
a shepherd, telleth me, the dawning is not three hours off;
for the mouth of the fish is over the head, and maketh mid-
night in the line of the left arm.' 'How canst thou, Sancho,'
quoth Don Quixote, 'see where is the line, or that mouth, or
that tail of which you speakest, seeing the night is so dark that
one star alone appeareth not?' 'That is true,' quoth Sancho;
'but fear hath eyes which can see things under the ground,
and much more in the skies. And besides, we may gather, by
good discourse, that the day is not far off.' 'Let it be as little
off as it lists,' quoth Don Quixote, 'it shall never be recorded
of me that either tears or prayers could ever dissuade me
from performing the duty of a knight; and therefore, good
Sancho, hold thy peace; for God, who hath inspired me to
attempt this unseen and fearful adventure, will have an eye to
my weal, and also to comfort thy sorrow. And that thou hast
THE MYSTERIOUS NOISES 165
therefore to do is to make strait my girths, and remain here;
for I will return here shortly, either alive or dead.'
Sancho, perceiving his lord's last resolution, and how little
his tears, counsels, or prayers could avail, resolved to profit
himself a little of his wit, and make him if he could to ex-
pect until day; and so, when he did fasten the girths, he
softly, without being felt, tied his ass's halter to both Rozi-
nante's legs so fast, that when Don Quixote thought to de-
part, he could not, for that his horse could not go a step, but
leaping. Sancho, seeing the good success of his guile, said,
'Behold, sir, how Heaven, moved by my tears and prayers,
hath ordained that Rozinante should not go a step ; and if
you will be still contending, and spurring, and striking him,
you will do nothing but enrage fortune, and, as the proverb
says, but "spurn against the prick." ' Don Quixote grew
wood at this, and yet the more he spurred him he was the
less able to go ; wherefore, without perceiving the cause of his
horse's stay, he resolved at last to be quiet, and expect either
till the morning or else till Rozinante would please to depart,
believing verily that the impediment came of some other cause,
and not from Sancho ; and therefore said unto him, 'Since it
is so, Sancho, that Rozinante cannot stir him, I am content
to tarry till the dawning, although her tardiness cost me some
tears.' 'You shall have no cause to weep,' replied Sancho;
'for I will entertain you telling you of histories until it be
day, if you will not alight and take a nap upon these green
herbs, as knights-errant are wont, that you may be the fresher
and better able to-morrow to attempt that monstrous adven-
ture which you expect/ 'What dost thou call alighting, or
sleeping?' quoth Don Quixote. 'Am I peradventure one of
those knights that repose in time of danger? Sleep thou,
who wast born to sleep, or do what thou please ; for I will do
that which I shall see fittest for my pretence.' 'Good sir, be
not angry,' quoth Sancho ; 'for I did not speak with that in-
tention.' And so, drawing near unto him, he set one of his
hands on the pommel of the saddle, and the other hinder in
such sort that he rested embracing his lord's left thigh, not
daring to depart from thence the breadth of a finger, such
was the fear he had of those blows, which all the while did
sound without ceasing.
166 DON QUIXOTE
Then Don Quixote commanded him to tell some tale to pass
away the time, as he had promised ; and Sancho said he
would, if the fear of that which he heard would suffer him.
'Yet,' quoth he, 'for all this I will encourage myself to tell
you one, whereon, if I can hit aright, and that I be not in-
terrupted, is the best history that ever you heard ; and be you
attentive, for now I begin. It was that it was, the good that
shall befall be for us all, and the harm for him that searches
it. And you must be advertised, good sir, that the beginning
that ancient men gave to their tales was not of ordinary
things, and it was a sentence of Cato, the Roman Conrozin,
which says, "And the harm be for him that searches it,"
which is as fit for this place as a ring for a finger, to the end
that you may be quiet, and not to go seek your own harm to
any place, but that we turn us another way, for nobody com-
pelleth us to follow this, where so many fears do surprise
us.' 'Prosecute this tale, Sancho,' said Don Quixote, 'and
leave the charge of the way we must go to me.' 'I say then,'
quoth Sancho, 'that in a village of Estremadura there was a
shepherd, I would say a goatherd ; and as I say of my tale, this
goatherd was called Lope Ruyz, and this Lope Ruyz was
enamoured on a shepherdess who was called Torralva, the
which shepherdess called Torralva was daughter to a rich
herdman, and this rich herdman — ' 'If thou tellest thy tale,
Sancho, after that manner,' quoth Don Quixote, 'repeating
everything twice that thou sayst, thou wilt not end it these two
days: tell it succinctly, and like one of judgment, or else say
nothing.' 'Of the very same fashion that I tell are all tales
told in my country, and I know not how to tell it any other
way, nor is it reason that you should ask of me to make new
customs.' 'Tell it as thou pleasest,' quoth Don Quixote ; 'for
since fortune will not otherwise but that I must hear thee, go
forward.' 'So that, my dear sir of my soul,' quoth Sancho,
'that, as I have said already, this shepherd was in love with
Torralva the shepherdess, who was a round wench, scornful,
and drew somewhat near to a man, for she had mochachoes;
for methinks I see her now before my face.' 'Belike, then,'
quoth Don Quixote, 'thou knewest her?' 'I did not know
her,' quoth Sancho, 'but he that told me the tale said it was
so certain and true, that I might, when I told it to any other.
SANCHO'S TALE 167
very well swear and affirm that I had seen it all myself. So
that, days passing and days coming, the devil, who sleeps not,
and that troubles all, wrought in such sort, as the love that
the shepherd bore to the shepherdess turned into man-slaugh-
ter and ill-will ; and the cause was, according to bad tongues,
a certain quantity of little jealousies that she gave him, such
as they passed the line, and came to the forbidden. And the
shepherd did hate her so much afterward, that he was con-
tent to leave all that country, because he would not see her,
and go where his eyes should never look upon her. Tor-
ralva, that saw herself disdained by Lope, did presently love
him better than ever she did before.' 'That is a natural con-
dition of women,' quoth Don Quixote, 'to disdain those that
love them, and to affect those which hate them. Pass for-
ward, Sancho.' 'It happened,' quoth Sancho, 'that the shep-
herd set his purpose in execution, and, gathering up his
goats, he travelled through the fields of Estremadura, to pass
into the kingdom of Portugal. Torralva, which knew it well,
followed him afoot and bare-legged, afar off, with a pilgrim's
staff in her hand, and a wallet hanging at her neck, where
they say that she carried a piece of a looking-glass, and an-
other of a comb, and I know not what little bottle of changes
for her face. But let her carry what she carries, for I will
not put myself now to verify that ; only I'll say, that they say,
that the shepherd arrived with his goats to pass over the river
Guadiana, v/hich in that season was swollen very much, and
overflowed the banks ; and at the side where he came there
was neither boat nor bark, nor any to pass himself or his
goats over the river ; for which he was very much grieved,
because he saw that Torralva came very near, and she would
trouble him very much with her prayers and tears. But he
went so long looking up and down, that he spied a fisher,
who had so little a boat as it could only hold one man and a
goat at once, and for all that he spake and agreed Vv^ith him
to pass himself and three hundred goats that he had over the
river. The fisherman entered into the boat, and carried
over one goat; he returned, and passed over another, and
turned back again, and passed over another. Keep you, sir,
good account of the goats that the fisherman ferries over;
for if one only be forgotten, the tale will end, and it will not
168 DON QUIXOTE
be possible to tell one word more of it. Follow on, then, and
I say that the landing-place on the other side was very dirty
and slippery, which made the fisherman spend much time
coming too and fro; yet, for all that, he turned for another
goat, and another, and another.'
'Make account,' quoth Don Quixote, that thou hast
passed them all over; for otherwise thou wilt not make an
end of passing them in a whole year's space.' 'How many,'
said Sancho, 'are already passed over?' 'What a devil know
I ?' said Don Quixote. 'See there that which I said,' quoth
Sancho, 'that you should keep good account. By Jove, the
tale is ended, therefore ; for there is no passing forward.'
'How can that be ?' said Don Quixote. 'Is it so greatly of the
essence of this history to know the goats that are passed so
exactly and distinctly that if one of the number be missed
thou canst not follow on with thy tale ?' 'No, sir, in no sort,'
said Sancho ; 'for as soon as I demanded of you to tell me
how many goats passed over, and that you answered me you
knew not, in that very instant it went from me out of my
memory all that was to be told, and in faith it was of great
virtue and content.' 'So, then,' quoth Don Quixote, 'the
tale is ended?' 'It is as certainly ended as is my mother,'
quoth Sancho. 'Surely,' replied Don Quixote, 'thou hast re-
counted one of the rarest tales or histories that any one of
the world could think upon, and that such a manner of telling
or finishing a tale was never yet seen, or shall be seen again ;
although I never expected any other thing from thy good
discourse. But I do not greatly marvel, for perhaps those
senseless strokes have troubled thine understanding.' 'All
that may be,' said Sancho ; 'but I know, in the discourse of
my tale, there is no more to be said, but that there it ends,
where the error of counting the goats that were wafted over
the river begins.' 'Let it end in a good hour where it lists,'
answered Don Quixote, 'and let us try whether Rozinante
can yet stir himself.' Then did he turn again to give him
the spurs, and he to leap as he did at the first and rest anew,
being unable to do other, he was so well shackled.
It happened about this time, that, either through the cold
of the morning, or that Sancho had eaten at supper some
lenitive meats, or that it was a thing natural (and that i.;
SANCHO'S DISTRESS 169
most credible), he had a desire to do that which others could
not do for him; but such was the fear that entered into his
heart as he dared not depart from his lord the breadth of a
straw, and to think to leave that which he had desired un-
done was also impossible ; therefore, his resolution in that
perplexed exigent (be it spoken with pardon) was this: he
loosed his right hand, wherewithal he held fast the hinder
part of the saddle, and therewithal very softly, and without
any noise, he untied the cod-piece point wherewithal his
breeches were only supported, which, that being let slip, did
presently fall down about his legs like a pair of bolts ; after
this, lifting up his shirt the best he could, he exposed his but-
tocks to the air, which were not the least. This being done,
which, as he thought, was the chiefest thing requisite to issue
out of that terrible anguish and plunge, he was suddenly
troubled with a greater, to wit, that he knew not how to dis-
burden himself without making a noise; which to avoid, first
he shut his teeth close, lifted up his shoulders, and gathered
up his breath as much as he might ; yet, notwithstanding all
these diligences, he was so unfortunate, that he made a little
noise at the end, much different from that which made him
so fearful. Don Quixote heard it, and said, 'What noise is
that, Sancho?' T know it not, sir,' quoth he; 'I think it be
some new thing for adventures; or rather, disventures never
begin with a little.' Then turned he once again to try his hap,
and it succeeded so well that, without making any rumour or
noise but that which he did at the first, he found himself free
of the loading that troubled him so much.
But Don Quixote having the sense of smelling as perfect
as that of his hearing, and Sancho stood so near, or rather
joined to him, as the vapours did ascend upward, almost by a
direct line, he could not excuse himself but that some of them
must needs touch his nose. And scarce had they arrived, but
that he occurred to the usual remedy, and stopped it very well
between his fingers, and then said with a snaffling voice, 'Me-
thinks, Sancho, that thou art much afraid.' T am indeed,'
replied Sancho ; 'but wherein, I pray you, do you perceive it
now more than ever ?' 'In that thou smellest now more than
ever,' quoth Don Quixote, 'and that not of amber.' 'It may
be so,' quoth Sancho; 'yet the fault is not mine, but yours.
170 DON QUIXOTE
which bring me, at such unseasonable hours, through so deso-
late and fearful places.' 'I pray thee, friend, retire thyself
two or three steps back,' quoth Don Quixote, holding his
fingers still upon his nose, 'and from henceforth have more
care of thy person, and of the respect thou owest to mine;
for I see the overmuch familiarity that I use with thee hath
engendered this contempt.' 'I dare wager,' quoth Sancho,
'that you think I have done somewhat with my person that I
ought not.' 'Friend Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 'it is the
worse to stir it thus.' And thus, in these and such like con-
versation, the master and the man passed over the night.
And Sancho, seeing that the morning approached, he loosed
Rozinante very warily, and tied up his hose. Rozinante,
feeling himself (although he was not naturally very cour-
ageous), he seemed to rejoice, and began to beat the ground
with his hoofs; for (by his leave) he could never yet curvet.
Don Quixote, seeing that Rozinante could now stir, accounted
it to be a good sign, and an encouragement of him to attempt
that timorous adventure.
By this Aurora did display her purple mantle over the face
of heaven, and everything appeared distinctly, which made Don
Quixote perceive that he was among a number of tall chest-
nut-trees, which commonly make a great shadow. He heard
likewise those incessable strokes, but could not espy the cause
of them ; wherefore, giving Rozinante presently the spur, and
turning back again to Sancho, to bid him farewell, he com-
manded him to stay for him there three days at the longest,
and that, if he returned not after that space, he should make
full account that Jove was pleased he should end his days in
that dangerous adventure. He repeated to him again the
embassage and errand he should carry in his behalf to his
Lady Dulcinea ; and that, touching the reward of his services,
he should not fear anything; for he had left his testament,
made before he departed from his village, where he should
find himself gratified touching all that which pertained to his
hire, according to the rate of the time he had served ; but if
God would bring him off from that adventure safe and sound,
and without danger, he might fully account to receive the
promised island.
Here Sancho began anew to weep, hearing again the piti-
THE MYSTERIOUS NOISES 171
ful discourses of his good lord, and determined not to aban-
don him until the last trance and end of that affair; and out
of these tears and honourable resolution of Sancho, the author
of this history collects, that it is like he was well born, or at
the very least an old Christian, whose grief did move his
master a little, but not so much as he should show the least
argument of weakness ; but rather, dissembling it the best he
could, he followed on his way towards the way of the water,
and that where the strokes were heard. Sancho followed
him afoot, leading, as he was wont, his ass by the halter, who
was the inseparable fellow of his prosperous or adverse for-
tunes.
And having travelled a good space among these chestnut
and shady trees, they came out into a little plain that stood
at the foot of certain steep rocks, from whose tops did pre-
cipitate itself a great fall of water. There were at the foot
of those rocks certain houses, so ill made as they rather
seemed ruins of buildings than houses ; from whence, as they
perceived, did issue the fearful rumour and noise of the
strokes, which yet continued.
Rozinante at this dreadful noise did start, and being made
quiet by his lord, Don Quixote did by little and little draw
near to the houses, recommending himself on the way most
devoutly to his Lady Dulcinea, and also to Jove, desiring him
that he would not forget him. Sancho never departed from
his lord's side, and stretched out his neck and eyes as far as
he might through Rozinante his legs, to see if he could per-
ceive that which held him so fearful and suspended. And
after they had travelled about a hundred paces more, at the
doubling of a point of a mountain, they saw the very cause
patent and open (for there could be none other) of that so
hideous and fearful a noise that had kept them all the night
so doubtful and affrighted, and was (O reader! if thou wilt
not take it in bad part) six iron maces that fulled cloth,
which, with their interchangeable blows, did form that mar-
vellous noise.
When Don Quixote saw what it was, he waxed mute and
all ashamed. Sancho beheld him, and saw that he hung his
head on his breast with tokens that he was somewhat
ashamed. Don Quixote looked also on his squire, and saw
172 DON QUIXOTE
his cheeks swollen with laughter, giving withal evident signs
that he was in danger to burst if he vented not that passion;
whereat all Don Quixote's melancholy little prevailing, he
could not, beholding Sancho, but laugh also himself. And
when Sancho saw his master begin the play, he let slip the
prisoner in such violent manner, to press his sides hardly with
both his hands to save himself from bursting. Four times he
ended, and other four he renewed his laughter, with as great
impulse and force as at the first ; whereat Don Quixote was
wonderfully enraged, but chiefly hearing him say in gibing
manner, 'I would have thee know, friend Sancho, that I was
born, by the disposition of Heaven, in this our age of iron,
to renew in it that of gold, or the golden world. I am he for
whom are reserved all dangerous, great, and valorous feats.'
And in this sort he went repeating all or the greatest part
of the words Don Quixote had said the first time that they
heard the timorous blows. Don Quixote perceiving that
Sancho mocked him, grew so ashamed and angry withal, that,
lifting up the end of his lance, he gave him two such blows
on the back, as if he had received them on his pate, would
have freed his master from paying him any wages, if it were
not to his heirs. Sancho, seeing that he gained so ill earnest
by his jests, fearing that his master should go onward with
it, he said unto him, with very great submission, 'Pacify your-
self, good sir; for, by Jove, I did but jest.' 'But why dost
thou jest? I tell thee I do not jest,' quoth Don Quixote.
'Come here, master merry-man ; thinkest thou that, as those
are iron maces to full cloth, if they were some other danger-
ous adventure, that I have not shown resolution enough to
undertake and finish it? Am I by chance obliged, being, as I
am, a knight, to know and distinguish noises, and perceive
which are of a fulling-mill, or no? And more it might (as
it is true), that I never saw any before, as thou hast done,
base villain that thou art ! born and brought up among the
like: if not, make thou that these six maces be converted
into giants, and cast them in my beard one by one, or all to-
gether; and when I do not turn all their heels up, then mock
me as much as thou pleasest.'
'No more, good sir,' quoth Sancho ; 'for I confess I have
been somewhat too laughsome; but tell me, I pray you, now
SANCHO'S MIRTH 173
that we are in peace, as God shall deliver you out of all ad-
ventures that may befall you, as whole and sound as He hath
done out of this, hath the not great fear we were in been a
good subject of laughter, and a thing worthy the telling? —
at least I ; for of you I am certain that you do not yet know
what fear or terror is.' 'I do not deny,' quoth Don Quixote,
'but that which befel us is worthy of laughter; yet ought it
not to be recounted, forasmuch as all persons are not so dis-
creet as to know how to discern one thing from another, and
set everything in his right point.' 'You know, at leastwise,'
quoth Sancho, 'how to set your javelin in his point when,
pointing at my pate, you hit me on the shoulders, thanks be to
God, and to the diligence I put in going aside. But farewell
it, for all will away in the bucking; and I have heard old folk
say "that man loves thee well who makes thee to weep." And
besides, great lords are wont, after a bad word which they say
to one of their serving-men, to bestow on him presently a pair
of hose. But I know not yet what they are wont to give them
after blows, if it be not that knights-errant give, after the
bastinado, islands, or kingdoms on the continent.' 'The die
might run so favourably,' quoth Don Quixote, 'as all thou
hast said might come to pass ; and therefore pardon what is
done, since thou art discreet, and knowest that a man's first
motions are not in his hand. And be advertised of one thing
from henceforward (to the end to abstain, and carry thyself
more respectfully in thy over-much liberty of speech with
me), that in as many books of chivalry as I have read, which
are infinite, I never found that any squire spoke so much with
his lord as thou dost with thine ; which, in good sooth, I do
attribute to thy great indiscretion and mine ; thine, in respect-
ing me so little ; mine, in not making myself to be more re-
garded. Was not Gandalin, Amadis de Gaul's squire, earl of
the Firm Island? And yet it is read of him, that he spoke
to his lord with his cap in his hand, his head bowed, and his
body bended (more Turcesco). What, then, shall we say of
Gasabel, Don Galaor's squire, who was so silent, as to declare
us the excellency thereof, his name is but once repeated in all
that so great and authentic a history? Of all which my
words, Sancho, thou must infer, that thou must make differ-
ence between the master and the man, the lord and his serv-
174 DON QUIXOTE
ing-man, the knight and his squire : so that from this day for-
ward we must proceed with more respect, not letting the clew
run so much ; for after what way soever I grow angry with
thee, it will be bad for the pitcher. The rewards and benefits
that I have promised thee will come in their time; and if they
do not, thy wages cannot be lost, as I have already said to
thee.'
'You say very well,' quoth Sancho; 'but fain would I learn
(in case that the time of rewards came not, and that I must
of necessity trust to my wages) how much a knight-errant's
squire did gain in times past? or if they did agree for months,
or by days, as mason's men?' 'I do not think,' quoth Don
Quixote, 'that they went by the hire, but only trusted to their
lord's courtesy. And if I have assigned wages to thee in my
sealed testament, which I left at home, it was to prevent the
worst; because I know not yet what success chivalry may
have in these our so miserable times, and I would not have
my soul suffer in the other world for such a minuity as is
thy wages ; for thou must understand that in this world there
is no state so dangerous as that of knights-errant.' 'That is
most true,' replied Sancho, 'seeing the only sound of the
maces of a fulling-mill could trouble and disquiet the heart of
so valiant a knight as you are. But you may be sure that I
will not hereafter once unfold my lips to jest at your doings,
but only to honour you as my master and natural lord.' 'By
doing so,' replied Don Quixote, 'thou shalt live on the face
of the earth ; for, next to our parents, we are bound to re-
spect our masters as if they were our fathers.'
CHAPTER VII
Of the High Adventure and Rich Winning of the
Helmet of Mambrino, with Other Successes Which
Befel the Invincible Knight
IT began about this time to rain, and Sancho would fain
have entered into the fulling-mills ; but Don Quixote had
conceived such hate against them for the jest recounted,
as he would in no wise come near them; but, turning his way
on the right hand, he fell into a highway, as much beaten as
that wherein they rode the day before. Within a while after,
Don Quixote espied one a-horseback, that bore on his head
somewhat that glistered like gold; and scarce had he seen
him, when he turned to Sancho, and said, 'Methinks, Sancho,
that there's no proverb that is not true ; for they are all sen-
tences taken out of experience itself, which is the universal
mother of sciences ! and specially that proverb that says,
"Where one door is shut, another is opened." I say this be-
cause, if fortune did shut yesternight the door that we
searched, deceiving us in the adventure of the iron maces, it
lays us now wide open the door that may address us to a
better and more certain adventure, whereon, if I cannot make
a good entry, the fall shall be mine, without being able to
attribute it to the little knowledge of the fulling-maces, or the
darkness of the night ; which I affirm because, if I be not de-
ceived, there comes one towards us that wears on his head the
helmet of Mambrino, for which I made the oath.' 'See well
what you say, sir, and better what you do,' quoth Sancho;
'for I would not wish that this were new maces, to batter us
and our understanding.' 'The devil take thee for a man !' re-
plied Don Quixote; 'what difference is there betwixt a helmet
and fulling-maces?' T know not,' quoth Sancho; 'but if I
could speak as much now as I was wont, perhaps I would
give you such reasons as you yourself should see how much
175
176 DON QUIXOTE
you are deceived in that you speak.' 'How may I be de-
ceived in that I say, scrupulous traitor?' quoth Don Quixote.
Tell me, seest thou not that knight which comes riding
towards us on a dapple-grey horse, with a helmet of gold on
his head?' 'That which I see and find out to be so,' answered
Sancho, 'is none other than a man on a grey ass like mine
own, and brings on his head somewhat that shines.' 'Why,
that is Mambrino's helmet,' quoth Don Quixote. 'Stand aside,
and leave me alone with him; thou shalt see how, without
speech, to cut off delays, I will conclude this adventure, and
remain with the helmet as mine own which I have so much
desired.' 'I will have care to stand off; but I turn again to
say, that I pray God that it be a purchase of gold, and not
fulling-mills.' 'I have already said unto thee that thou do not
make any more mention, no, not in thought, of those maces;
for if thou dost,' said Don Quixote, 'I vow, I say no more,
that I will batter thy soul.' Here Sancho, fearing lest his
master would accomplish the vow which he had thrown out
as round as a bowl, held his peace.
This, therefore, is the truth of the history of the helmet,
horse, and knight, which Don Quixote saw. There was in
that commark two villages, the one so little as it had neither
shop nor barber, but the greater, that was near unto it, was
furnished of one ; and he therefore did serve the little village
when they had any occasion, as now it befell that therein lay
one sick, and must be let blood, and another that desired to
trim his beard; for which purpose the barber came, bringing
with him a brazen basin. And as he travelled, it by chance
began to rain, and therefore clapped his basin on his head to
save his hat from staining^ because it belike was a new one;
and the basin being clean scoured, glistered half a league off.
He rode on a grey ass, as Sancho said, and that was the
reason why Don Quixote took him to be a dapple-grey steed,
a knight, and a helmet of gold; for he did, with all facility,
apply everything which he saw to his raving chivalry and ill-
errant thoughts. And when he saw that the poor knight drew
near, without settling himself to commune with him, he in-
rested his javelin low on the thigh, and ran with all the force
Rozinante might, thinking to strike him through and through ;
and, drawing near unto him, without stopping his horse, he
THE HELMET OF MAMBRINO 177
cried, 'Defend thyself, caitiff! or else render unto me will-
ingly that which is my due by all reason.'
The barber, who so without fearing or surmising any such
thing, saw that fantasy and spirit came upon him, had no
other remedy, to avoid the blow of the lance, but to fall off
his ass to the ground; and scarce had he touched the earth,
when rising up again as light as a deer, he ran away so
swiftly through the plain as the wind could scarce overtake
him, leaving behind him on the ground his basin ; wherewithal
Don Quixote rested content, and said that pagan which lost
it was discreet, and did imitate the castor, who seeing him-
self hotly pursued by the hunters, which tears and cuts away
that with his teeth for which he knows by natural instinct he
is followed.
Then he commanded Sancho to take up the helmet; who,
lifting it, said, 'The basin is a good one, by God, and is as
well worth a real of eight as a marvedi.' And, giving it to
his lord, he presently set it on his head, turning about every
way to see whether he could get the beaver ; and, seeing he
could not find it, he said, 'The pagan for whom this famous
helmet was first forged had doubtlessly a very great head;
and that which grieves me principally is that this helmet
wants the one half.'
When Sancho heard him call the basin a helmet, he could
not contain his laughter; but presently remembering of his
master's choler, he checked it in the midst. 'Why dost thou
laugh, Sancho?' quoth Don Quixote. 'I laugh,' said he, 'to
think on the great head the pagan owner of this helmet had ;
for it is for all the world like a barber's basin.' 'Know,
Sancho, that I imagine,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that this famous
piece of this enchanted helmet did fall, by some strange acci-
dent, into some one's hands that knew not the worth thereof,
and seeing it was of pure gold, without knowing what he did,
I think he hath molten the half, to profit himself therewithal,
and made of the other half this, which seems a barber's basin,
as thou sayst: but be it what it list, to me who knows well
what it is, his transmutation makes no matter ; for I will dress
it in the first town where I shall find a smith, as that which
the God of Forges made for the God of War shall not sur-
pass, no, nor come near it ; and in the meanwhile I will wear
178 DON QUIXOTE
it as I may, for something is better than nothing; and more,
seeing it may very well defend me from the blow of a stone."
'That's true,' quoth Sancho, 'if it be not thrown out of a
sling, such as that of the battle of the two armies, when they
blessed your worship's cheek teeth, and broke the bottle
wherein you carried the most blessed drench which made me
vomit up my guts.' 'I do not much care for the loss of it,
Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote; 'for, as thou knowest, I have
the recipe in memory.' 'So have I likewise,' quoth Sancho;
'but if ever I make it or taste it again in my life, I pray God
that here may be mine end : how much more, I never mean to
thrust myself into any occasion wherein I should have need
of it ; for I mean, with all my five senses, to keep myself from
hurting any, or being hurt. Of being once again tossed in a
coverlet, I say nothing ; for such disgraces can hardly be pre-
vented, and if they befall, there is no other remedy but
patience, and to lift up the shoulders, keep in the breath, shut
the eyes, and suffer ourselves to be borne where fortune and
the coverlet pleaseth.'
'Thou art a bad Christian, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote,
hearing him say so; 'for thou never forgettest the injuries
that are once done to thee: know that it is the duty of noble
and generous minds not to make any account of toys. What
leg hast thou brought away lame, what rib broken, or what
head hurt, that thou canst not yet forget that jest? For the
thing being well examined, it was none other than a jest or
pastime ; for if I did not take it to be such, I had returned by
this to that place, and done more harm in thy revenge than
that which the Greeks did for the rape of Helen: who, if she
were in these times, or my Dulcinea in hers, she might be
sure she should never have gained so much fame for beauty
as she did.' And, saying so, he pierced the sky with a sigh.
'Then,' said Sancho, 'let it pass for a jest, since the revenge
cannot pass in earnest; but I know well the quality both of
the jest and earnest, and also that they shall never fall out
of my memory, as they will never out of my shoulders. But,
leaving this apart, what shall we do with this dapple-grey
steed, that looks so like a grey ass, which that Martin left be-
hind, whom you overthrew, who, according as he laid feet on
the dust and made haste, he minds not to come back for him
THE HELMET OF MAMBRINO 179
again; and, by rny beard, the grey beast is a good one.' 'I am
not accustomed,' quoth Don Quixote, 'to ransack and spoil
those whom I overcome; nor is it the practice of chivalry to
take their horses and let them go afoot, if that it befall [not]
the victor to lose in the conflict his own; for in such a case
it is lawful to take that of the vanquished as won in fair war.
So that, Sancho, leave that horse, or ass, or what else thou
pleasest to call it ; for when his owner sees us departed, he
will return again for it.' 'God knows,' quoth Sancho, 'whether
it will be good or no for me to take him, or at least change
for mine own, which^ methinks, is not so good. Truly the
laws of knighthood are strait, since they extend not them-
selves to license the exchange of one ass for another. And I
would know whether they permit at least to exchange the one
harness for another?' 'In that I am not very sure,' quoth
Don Quixote; 'and as a case of doubt (until I be better in-
formed), I say that thou exchange them, if by chance thy
need be extreme.' 'So extreme,' quoth Sancho, 'that if they
were for mine own very person, I could not need them more.'
And presently, enabled by the license, he made mutatio
caparum, and set forth his beast like a hundred holidays.
This being done, they broke their fast with the relics of the
spoils they had made in the camp of sumpter-horse, and drank
of the mills' streams, without once turning to look on them
(so much they abhorred them for the marvellous terror they
had strucken them in) ; and having by their repast cut away
all choleric and melancholic humours, they followed on the
way which Rozinante pleased to lead them, who was the de-
pository of his master's will, and also of the ass's, who fol-
lowed him always wheresoever he went, in good amity and
company: for all this, they returned to the highway, wherein
they travelled at random, without any certain deliberation
which way to go. And as they thus travelled, Sancho said to
his lord, 'Sir, will you give me leave to commune a little with
you? for, since you have imposed upon me that sharp com-
mandment of silence more than four things have rotted in
my stomach ; and one thing that I have now upon the tip of
my tongue, I would not wish for anything that it should mis-
carry.' 'Say it,' quoth Don Quixote, 'and be brief in thy rea-
sons ; for none is delightful if it be prolix.' 1 say then,' quoth
180 DON QUIXOTE
Sancho, 'that I have been these later days considering how
little is gained by following these adventures that you do
through these deserts and cross-ways, where, though you
overcome and finish the most dangerous, yet no man sees
or knows them, and so they shall remain in perpetual silence,
both to your prejudice and that of the fame which they de-
serve. And therefore, methinks, it were better (still expect-
ing your better judgment herein), that we went to serve some
emperor or other great prince that maketh war, in whose
service you might show the valour of your person, your mar-
vellous force, and wonderful judgment, which being per-
ceived by the lord whom we shall serve, he must perforce re-
ward us, every one according to his deserts; and in such a
place will not want one to record your noble acts for a per-
petual memory. Of mine I say nothing, seeing they must not
transgress the squire-like limits ; although I dare avouch that,
if any notice be taken in chivalry of the feats of squires, mine
shall not fall away betwixt the lines.'
'Sancho, thou sayst not ill,' quoth Don Quixote; 'but before
such a thing come to pass, it is requisite to spend some time
up and down the world, as in probation, seeking of adven-
tures, to the end that, by achieving some, a man may acquire
such fame and renown, as when he goes to the court of any
g^eat monarch, he be there already known by his works ; and
that he shall scarcely be perceived to enter at the gates by the
boys of that city, when they all will follow and environ him,
crying out aloud, This is the Knight of the Sun, or the Ser-
pent, or of some other device under which he hath achieved
strange adventures. "This is he," will they say, "who over-
came in single fight the huge giant Brocabruno of the in-
vincible strength ; he that disenchanted the great Sophy of
Persia, of the large enchantment wherein he had lain almost
nine hundred years." So that they will thus go proclaiming
his acts from hand to hand; and presently the king of that
kingdom, moved by the great bruit of the boys and other
people, will stand at the windows of his palace to see what it
is ; and as soon as he shall eye the knight, knowing him by
his arms, or by the imprese of his shield, he must necessarily
say, "Up ! go all of you, my knights, as many of you as are
in court, forth, to receive the flower of chivalry, which comes
A DREAM OF TRIUMPH 181
there." At whose command they ail will sally, and he himself
will come down to the midst of the stairs, and will embrace
him most straitly, and will give him the peace, kissing him on
the cheek; and presently will carry him by the hand to the
queen's chamber, where the knight shall find her accompanied
by the princess her daughter, which must be one of the fairest
and debonaire damsels that can be found throughout the vast
compass of the earth. After this will presently and in a trice
succeed, that she will cast her eye on the knight, and he on
her, and each of them shall seem to the other no human crea-
ture, but an angel ; and then, without knowing how, or how
not, they shall remain captive and entangled in the inex-
tricable amorous net, and with great care in their minds,
because they know not how they shall speak to discover the
anguish and feeling. From thence the king will carry him,
without doubt, to some quarter of his palace richly hanged;
where, having taken off his arms, they will bring him a rich
mantle of scarlet, furred with ermines, to wear ; and if he
seemed well before, being armed, he shall now look as well,
or better, out of them. The night being come, he shall sup
with the king, queen, and princess, where he shall never take
his eye off her, beholding unawares of those that stand
present, and she will do the like with as much discretion ; for,
as I have said, she is a very discreet damsel. The tables shall
be taken up; there shall enter, unexpectedly, in at the hall,
an ill-favoured little dwarf, with a fair lady that comes be-
hind the dwarf between two giants, with a certain adventure,
wrought by a most ancient wise man, and that he who shall
end it shall be held for the best knight of the world. Pres-
ently the king will command all those that are present to
prove it, which they do, but none of them can finish it but
only the new-come knight, to the great proof of his fame;
whereat the princess will remain very glad, and will be very
joyful, and well apaid, because she hath settled her thoughts
in so high a place. And the best of it is, that this king, or
prince, or what else he is, hath a very great war with another
as mighty as he; and the knight his guest doth ask him (after
he hath been in the court a few days) license to go and serve
him in that war. The king will give it with a very good will,
and the knight will kiss his hands courteously for the favour
182 DON QUIXOTE
he doth him therein. And that night he will take leave of his
lady, the princess, by some window of a garden that looks
into her bed-chamber, by the which he hath spoken to her oft-
times before, — being a great means and help thereto, a certain
damsel which the princess trusts very much. He sighs, and
she will fall in a swoon, and the damsel will bring water to
bring her to herself again; she will be also full of care be-
cause the morning draws near, and she would not have
them discovered by any, for her lady's honour. Finally,
the princess will return to herself, and will give out her
beautiful hands at the window to the knight, who will kiss
them a thousand and a thousand times, and will bathe
them all in tears. There it will remain agreed between
them two the means that they will use to acquaint one
another with their good or bad successes ; and the prin-
cess will pray him to stay away as little time as he
may; which he shall promise unto her, with many oaths
and protestations. Then will he turn again to kiss her
hands, and take his leave of her with such feeling, that
there will want but little to end his life in the place.
He goes from thence to his chamber, and casts himself upon
his bed ; but he shall not be able to sleep a nap for sorrow
of his departure. He will after get up very early, and will
go to take leave of the king, the queen, and princess. They
tell him (having taken leave of the first two) that the prin-
cess is ill at ease, and that she cannot be visited: the knight
thinks that it is for grief of his departure, and the which
tidings lanceth him anew to the bottom of his heart, whereby
he will be almost constrained to give manifest tokens of his
grief. The damsel that is privy to their loves will be present,
and must note all that passeth, and go after to tell it to her
mistress, who receives her with tears, and says unto her, that
one of the greatest afflictions she hath is, that she doth not
know who is her knight, or whether he be of blood royal or
no. Her damsel will assure her again, that so great bounty,
beauty, and valour as is in her knight could not find place
but in a great and royal subject. The careful princess
will comfort herself with this hope, and labour to be
cheerful, lest she should give occasion to her parents to
suspect any sinister thing of her; and within two days again
THE DON'S PEDIGREE 183
she will come out in public. By this the knight is departed:
he fights in the war, and overcomes the king's enemy; he
wins many cities, and triumphs for many battles; he returns
to the court ; he visits his lady, and speaks to her at the ac-
customed place ; he agreeth with her to demand her of the
king for his wife, in reward of his services; whereunto the
king will not consent, because he knows not what he is; but
for all this, either by carrying her away, or by some other
manner, the princess becomes his wife, and he accounts him-
self therefore very fortunate, because it was after known that
the same knight is son to a very valorous king, of I know not
what country ; for I believe it is not in all the map. The
father dies, and the princess doth inherit the kingdom ; and
thus, in two words, our knight is become a king. Here in
this place enters presently the commodity to reward his
squire, and all those that helped him to ascend to so high an
estate. He marries his squire with one of the princess's dam-
sels, which shall doubtless be the very same that was ac-
quainted with his love, who is some principal duke's
daughter.'
'That's it I seek for,' quoth Sancho, 'and all will go right;
therefore I will leave to that, for every whit of it which you
said will happen to yourself, without missing a jot, calling
yourself, the Knight of the Ill-favoured Face.' 'Never doubt
it, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote; 'for even in the very same
manner, and by the same steps that I have recounted here,
knights-errant do ascend, and have ascended, to be kings and
emperors. This only is expedient, that we inquire what king
among the Christians or heathens makes war and hath a fair
daughter: but we shall have time enough to bethink that,
since, as I have said, we must first acquire fame in other
places, before we go to the court. Also I want another
thing, that put case that we find a Christian or pagan king
that hath wars and a fair daughter, and that I have gained
incredible fame throughout the wide world, yet cannot I tell
how I might find that I am descended from kings, or that 1
am at the least cousin-german removed of an emperor; for
the king will not give me his daughter until this be first very
well proved, though my works deserve it never so much; so
that I fear to lose, through this defect, that which mine own
184 DON QUIXOTE
hath merited so well. True it is that I am a gentleman of a
known house of propriety and possession ; and perhaps the
wise man that shall write my history will so beautify my
kindred and descent, that he will find me to be the fifth or sixth
descent from a king. For thou must understand, Sancho,
that there are two manners of lineages in the world: some
that derive their pedigree from princes and monarchs, whom
time hath by little and little diminished and consumed,
and ended in a point like pyramids; others, that took their
beginning from base people, and ascend from degree unto de-
gree, until they become at last great lords. So that all the
difference is, that some were that which they are not now,
and others are that which they were not; and it might be
that I am of those, and, after good examination, my begin-
ning might be found to have been famous and glorious,
wherewithal the king, my father-in-law, ought to be content,
whosoever he were ; and when he were not, yet shall the
princess love me in such sort, that she shall, in despite of her
father's teeth, admit me for her lord and spouse, although
she knew me to be the son of a water-bearer. And if not,
here in this place may quader well the carrying of her away
perforce, and carrying of her where best I liked ; for either
time or death must needs end her father's displeasure.'
'Here comes well to pass that,' [said] Sancho, 'which some
damned fellows are wont to say, "Seek not to get that with
a good will which thou mayst take perforce"; although it
were better said, "The leap of a shrub is more worth than
good men's entreaties." I say it to this purpose, that if the
king, your father-in-law, will not condescend to give unto
you the princess, my mistress, then there's no more to be
done, but, as you say, to steal her away and carry her to an-
other place; but all the harm is that, in the meanwhile that
composition is unmade, and you possess not quietly your king-
dom, the poor squire may whistle for any benefit or pleasure
you are able to do him, if it be not that the damsel of whom
you spoke even now run away with her lady, and that he pass
away his misfortunes now and then with her, until Heaven
ordain some other thing; for I do think that his lord may
give her unto him presently, if she please to be his lawful
spouse.' 'There's none that can deprive thee of that,' quoth
THE DON'S PEDIGREE 18S
Don Quixote. 'Why, so that this may befall,' quoth Sancho,
'there's no more but to commend ourselves to God, and let
fortune run where it may best address us.' 'God bring it so
to pass,' quoth Don Quixote, 'as I desire, and thou hast need
of, Sancho ; and let him be a wretch that accounts himself
one.' 'Let him be so,' quoth Sancho; 'for I am an old Chris-
tian, and to be an earl there is no more requisite.' *Ay, and
'tis more than enough/ quoth Don Quixote, 'for that pur-
pose; and though thou wert not, it made not much matter;
for I, being a king, may give thee nobility, without either
buying of it, or serving me with nothing; for, in creating
thee an earl, lo ! thereby thou art a gentleman. And, let
men say what they please, they must, in good faith, call thee
"right honourable," although it grieve them never so much.'
'And think you,' quoth Sancho, 'that I would not authorise my
lit ado f 'Thou must say diet ado, or dignity,' quoth Don Qui-
xote, 'and not litado, for that's a barbarous word.' 'Let it be
so,' quoth Sancho Panza. 'I say that I would accommodate
all very well ; for I was once the warner of a confratriety,
and the warner's gown became me so well that every one said
I had a presence fit for the provost of the same : then how
much more when I shall set on my shoulders the royal robe of
a duke, or be apparelled with gold and pearls, after the custom
of strange earls? I do verily believe that men will come a
hundred leagues to see me.' 'Thou wilt seem very well,' quoth
Don Quixote ; 'but thou must shave that beard very often ; for
as thou hast it now, so bushy, knit, and unhandsome, if thou
shavest it not with a razor at the least every other day, men
will know that thou art as far from gentility as a musket can
carry.' 'What more is there to be done,' quoth Sancho, 'than
to take a barber and keep him hired in my house? yea, and if
it be necessary, he shall ride after me, as if he were a master
of horse to some nobleman.' 'How knowest thou,' quoth Don
Quixote, 'that noblemen have their masters of horses riding
after them?' 'Some few years ago I was a month in the court,
and there I saw that a young little lord rode by for his pleas-
ure ; they said he was a great grandee ; there followed him
still a-horseback a certain man, turning every way that he
went, so as he verily seemed to be his horse's tail. I then
demanded the cause why that man did not ride by the other's
186 DON QUIXOTE
side, but still did follow him so. They answered me that he
was master of his horses, and that the grandees were ac-
customed to carry such men after them.' 'Thou sayst true,'
quoth Don Quixote, 'and thou mayst carry thy barber in that
manner after thee; for customs came not all together, nor
were not invented at once; and thou mayst be the first earl
that carried his barber after him: and I do assure thee that
it is an office of more trust to trim a man's beard than to sad-
dle a horse.' 'Let that of the barber rest to my charge,' quoth
Sancho, 'and that of procuring to be a king, and of creating
me an earl, to yours.' 'It shall be so,' quoth Don Quixote.
And thus, lifting up his eyes, he saw that which shall be re-
counted in the chapter following.
CHAPTER VIII
Of the Liberty Don Quixote Gave to Many Wretches,
Who Were A-Carrying Perforce to a Place
They Desired Not
CID HAMET BENENGELI, an Arabic and Man-
chegan author, recounts, in this most grave, lofty, di-
vine, sw^eet conceited history, that, after these dis-
courses passed between Don Quixote and his squire Sancho
Panza, which we have laid down in the last chapter, Don
Quixote, lifting up his eyes, saw that there came in the very
same way wherein they rode, about some twelve men in a
company on foot, inserted like bead-stones in a great chain of
iron, that was tied about their necks, and every one of them
had manacles besides on their hands. There came to conduct
them two on horseback and two others afoot : the horsemen
had firelock pieces ; those that came afoot, darts and swords.
And as soon as Sancho saw them, he said: 'This is a chain of
galley-slaves, people forced by the king to go to the galleys.'
'How! people forced?' demanded Don Quixote; 'is it possible
that the king will force anybody?' 'I say not so,' answered
Sancho, 'but that it is people which are condemned, for their
offences, to serve the king in the galleys perforce.' 'In reso-
lution,' replied Don Quixote, 'howsoever it be, this folk, al-
though they be conducted, go perforce, and not willingly.'
That's so,' quoth Sancho. Then, if that be so, here falls in
justly the execution of my function, to wit, the dissolving
of violences and outrages, and the succouring of the aflflicted
and needful.' 'I pray you, sir,' quoth Sancho, 'to consider that
the justice, who represents the king himself, doth wrong or
violence to nobody, but only doth chastise them for their
committed crimes.'
By this the chain of slaves arrived, and Don Quixote, with
very courteous terms, requested those that went in their
187
188 DON QUIXOTE
guard, that they would please to inform him of the cause
wherefore they carried that people away in that manner. One
of the guardians a-horseback answered that they were slaves
condemned by his majesty to the galleys, and there was no
more to be said, neither ought he to desire any further knowl-
edge. 'For all that,' replied Don Quixote, 'I would fain
learn of every one of them in particular the cause of his
disgrace.' And to this did add other such and so courteous
words, to move them to tell him what he desired, as the
other guardian a-horseback said, 'Although we carry here the
register and testimony of the condemnations of every one
of these wretches, yet this is no time to hold them here long,
or take out the processes to read : draw you nearer, and de-
mand it of themselves : for they may tell it an they please, and
I know they will; for they are men that take delight both
in acting and relating knaveries.'
With this license, which Don Quixote himself would have
taken although they had not given it him, he came to the
chain, and demanded of the first for what offence he went in
so ill a guise. He answered that his offence was no other
than for being in love ; for which cause only he went in
that manner. 'For that, and no more ?' replied Don Quixote.
'Well, if enamoured folk be cast into the galleys, I might have
been rowing there a good many days ago.' 'My love was
not such as you conjecture,' quoth the slave; 'for mine was
that I loved so much a basket well heaped with fine linen, as
I did embrace it so straitly, that if the justice had not taken it
away from me by force, I would not have forsaken it to this
hour by my good-will. All was done in flagrante; there
was no leisure to give me torment; the cause was concluded,
my shoulders accommodated with a hundred, and, for a sup-
plement, three prizes of garrupes, and the work was ended.'
'What are garrupes?' quoth Don Quixote. 'Garrupes are
galleys,' replied the slave, who was a young man of some
four-and-twenty years old, and said he was born in Piedrahita.
Don Quixote demanded of the second his cause of offence,
who would answer nothing, he went so sad and melancholy.
But the first answered for him, and said, 'Sir, this man goes
for a canary-bird, I mean for a musician and singer.' *Is
it possible,' quoth Don Quixote, 'that musicians and singers
THE GALLEY SLAVES 189
are likewise sent to the galleys?' 'Yes, sir,' quoth the slave;
'for there's nothing worse than to sing in anguish.' 'Rather,'
quoth Don Quixote, 'I have heard say that he which
sings doth affright and chase away his harms.' 'Here it
is quite contrary,' quoth the slave; 'for he that sings once
weeps all his life after.' 'I do not understand it,' said Don
Quixote. But one of the guardians said to him, 'Sir knight,
to sing in anguish is said, among this people, non sancta,
to confess upon the rack. They gave this poor wretch the
torture, and he confessed his delight that he was a quartrezo,
that is, a stealer of beasts; nd because he hath confessed,
he is likewise condemned to the galleys for six years, with
an amen of two hundred blows, which he bears already with
him on his shoulders. And he goes always thus sad and
pensative, because the other thieves that remain behind, and
also those which go here, do abuse, despise, and scorn him for
confessing, and not having a courage to say Non; for, they
say, a No hath as many letters as a Yea, and that a delinquent
is very fortunate when his life or his death only depends of
his own tongue, and not of witnesses or proofs: and, in
mine opinion, they have very great reason.' 'I likewise think
the same,' quoth Don Quixote.
And, passing to the third, he demanded that which he had
done of the rest, who answered him out of hand, and that
pleasantly : 'I go to the Lady Garrupes for five years, because
I wanted ten ducats.' 'I will give twenty with all my heart
to free thee from that misfortune,' quoth Don Quixote.
'That,' quoth the slave, 'would be like one that hath money
in the midst of the gulf, and yet dies for hunger because
he can get no meat to buy for it. I say this, because if I
had those twenty ducats which your worship's liberality offers
me, in due season I would have so anointed with them the
notary's pen, and whetted my lawyer's wit so well, that
I might to-day see myself in the midst of the market of
Cocodover of Toledo, and not in this way trailed thus
like a greyhound. But God is great ; ^patience, and this is
enough.'
Don Quixote went after to the fourth, who was a man of
venerable presence, with a long white beard which reached to
his bosom ; who, hearing himself demanded the cause why he
190 DON QUIXOTE
came there, began to weep, and answered not a word. But
the fifth slave lent him a tongue, and said, 'This honest man
goes to the galleys for four years, after he had walked the
ordinary apparelled in pomp and a-horseback.' 'That is/
quoth Sancho Panza, 'as I take, after he was carried about to
the shame and public view of the people,' 'You are in the
right,' quoth the slave; 'and the crime for which he is con-
demned to this pain was, for being a broker of the ear, eye,
and of all the body too ; for in effect I mean that this gen-
tleman goeth for a bawd, and likewise for having a little
smack and entrance in witchcraft.' 'If that smack and in-
sight in witchcraft were not added,' quoth Don Quixote, 'he
merited not to go and row in the galleys for being a pure
bawd, but rather deserved to govern and be their general;
for the office of a bawd is not like every other ordinary
office, but rather of great discretion, and most necessary in
any commonwealth well governed, and should not be prac-
tised but by people well born; and ought, besides, to have a
veedor and examinator of them, as are of all other trades,
and a certain appointed number of men known, as are of
the other brokers of the exchange. And in this manner many
harms that are done might be excused, because this trade
and office is practised by indescreet people of little understand-
ing; such as are women of little more or less; young pages
and jesters of few years' standing, and of less experience,
which in the most urgent occasions, and when they should
contrive a thing artificially, the crumbs freeze in their mouths
and fists, and they know not which is their right hand. Fain
would I pass forward and give reasons why it is convenient to
make choice of those which ought in the commonwealth to
practise this so necessary an office; but the place and season
is not fit for it; one day I will say it to those which may pro-
vide and remedy it : only I say now, that the assumpt or ad-
dition of a witch hath deprived me of the compassion I
should otherwise have to see those grey hairs and venerable
face in such distress for being a bawd: although I know
very well that no sorcery in the world can move or force
the will, as some ignorant persons think (for our will is a
free power, and there's no herb or charm can constrain it) ;
that which certain simple wO'Hen or cozening companions
THE GALLEY SLAVES 191
make, are some mixtures and poisons, wherewithal they
cause men run mad, and in the meanwhile persuade us that
they have force to make one love well, being (as I have said)
a thing most impossible to constrain the will.' 'That is true,'
quoth the old man; 'and I protest, sir, that I am wholly in-
nocent of the imputation of witchcraft. As for being a bawd,
I could not deny it; but yet I never thought that I did ill
therein; for all mine intention was, that all the world should
disport them, and live together in concord and quietness, with-
out griefs or quarrels. But this by good desire availed me
but little to hinder my going there, from whence I have no
hope ever to return, my years do so burden me, and also the
stone, which lets me not rest an instant.' And, saying this,
he turned again to his lamentations as at the first; and
Sancho took such compassion on him, as, setting his hand
into his bosom, he drew out a couple of shillings and gave it
him as an alms.
From him Don Quixote passed to another, and demanded
his fault; who answered with no less, but with much more
pleasantness than the former: *I go here because I have
jested somewhat too much with two cousins-german of mine
own, and with two other sisters, which were none of mine
own; finally, I jested so much with them all, that thence
resulted the increase of my kindred so intricately, as there is
no casuist that can well resolve it. All was proved by me;
I wanted favour, I had no money, and was in danger to lose
my head; finally, I was condemned for six years to the gal-
leys. I consented it, as a punishment of my fault ; I am
young, and let my life but hold out a while longer, and all
will go well. And if you, sir knight, carry anything to suc-
cour us poor folk, God will reward you it in heaven, and we
will have care here on earth to desire God, in our daily pray-
ers for your life and health, that it be as long and as good
as your good countenance deserves.' He that said this went
in the habit of a student, and one of the guard told him that
he was a great talker and a very good Latinist.
After all these came a man of some thirty years old, of very
comely personage, save only that when he looked he seemed
to thrust the one eye into the other. He was differently tied
from the rest, for he carried about his leg so long a chain.
192 DON QUIXOTE
that it tired all the rest of his body; and he had besides two
iron rings about his neck, the one of the chain, and the other
of that kind which are called a 'keep-friend,' or the 'foot of a
friend,' from whence descended two irons unto his middle,
out of which did stick two manacles, wherein his hands
were locked up with a great hanging lock, so as he could
neither set his hands to his mouth, nor bend down his head
towards his hands. Don Quixote demanded why he was so
loaded with iron more than the rest. The guard answered,
because he alone had committed more faults than all to-
gether, and was a more desperate knave; and that, although
they carried him tied in that sort, yet went they not sure of
him, but feared he would make an escape. 'What faults can
he have so grievous,' quoth Don Quixote, 'since he hath only
deserved to be sent to the galleys?' 'He goeth,' replied the
guard, 'to them for ten years, which is equivalent to a civil
death : never strive to know more, but that this man is the
notorious Gines of Passamonte, who is otherwise called Gin-
esilio of Parapilla.' ' Master commissary,' quoth the slave,
hearing him say so, 'go fair and softly, and run not thus
dilating of names and surnames. I am called Gines, and not
Ginesilio; and Passamonte is my surname, and not Parapilla,
as you say; and let every one turn about him, and he shall
not do little.' 'Speak with less swelling,' quoth the commis-
sary, 'sir thief-of-more-than-the-mark, if you will not have
me to make you hold your peace maugre your teeth.' 'It
seems well,' quoth the slave, 'that a man is carried as pleaseth
God; but one day somebody shall know whether I be called
Ginesilio of Parapilla,' 'Why, do not they call thee so,
cozener?' quoth the guard. 'They do,' said Gines; 'but I will
make that they shall not call me so, or I will fleece them
there where I mutter under my teeth. Sir knight, if you
have anything to bestow on us, give it us now, and begone, in
the name of God; for you do tire us with your too-curious
search of knowing other men's lives : and if you would know
mine, you shall understand that I am Gines of Passamonte,
whose life is written' (showing his hand) 'by these two fin-
gers.' 'He says true,' quoth the commissary; 'for he himself
hath penned his own history so well as there is nothing more
to be desired, and leaves the book pawned in the prison for
THE GALLEY SLAVES 193
two hundred reals.' 'And likewise means to redeem it,'
quoth GineSj 'though it were in for as many ducats.'
'Is it so good a work?' said Don Quixote. 'It is so good,'
replied Gines, 'that it quite puts down Lazarillo de Tormes,
and as many others as are written or shall be written of that
kind; for that which I dare affirm to you is, that it treats of
true accidents, and those so delightful that no like inven-
tion can be compared to them.' 'And how is the book en-
titled?' quoth Don Quixote. 'It is called,' said he, 'The
Life of Gines of Passamonte.' 'And is it yet ended?' said
the knight. 'How can it be finished,' replied he, 'my life being
not yet ended, since all that is written is from the hour of
my birth until that instant that I was sent this last time to the
galleys?' 'Why, then, belike you were there once before?'
quoth Don Quixote. 'To serve God and the king I have been
in there another time four years, and I know already how
the biscuit and provant agree with my stomach,' quoth Gines,
'nor doth it grieve me very much to return unto them; for
there I shall have leisure to finish my book, and I have
many things yet to say; and in the galleys of Spain there
is more resting-time than is requisite for that business, al-
though I shall not need much time to pen what is yet unwrit-
ten; for I can, if need were, say it all by rote.' 'Thou seem-
est to be ingenious,' quoth Don Quixote. 'And unfortunate
withal,' quoth Gines; 'for mishaps do still persecute the best
wits.' 'They persecute knaves,' quoth the commissary. 'I
have already spoken to master commissary,' quoth Passa-
monte, 'to go fair and softly; for the lords did not give you
that rod to the end you should abuse us wretches that go
here, but rather to guide and carry us where his majesty hath
commanded; if not, by the life of — 'Tis enough that per-
haps one day may come to light the sports that were made
in the inn ; and let all the world peace and live well, and
speak better; for this is now too great a digression.' The
commissary held up his rod to strike Passamonte in answer
of his threats ; but Don Quixote put himself between them,
and entreated him not to use him hardly, seeing it was not
much that one who carried his hands so tied should have
his tongue somewhat free ; and then, turning himself to-
wards the slaves, he said:
194 DON QUIXOTE
'I have gathered out of all that which you have said, dear
brethren, that although they punish you for your faults, yet
that the pains you go to suffer do not very well please you,
and that you march toward them with a very ill will^ and
wholly constrained, and that perhaps the little courage this
fellow had on the rack, the want of money that the other had,
the small favour that a third enjoyed, and finally, the
wretched sentence of the judge, and the not executing that
justice that was on your sides, have been cause of your mis-
ery. All which doth present itself to my memory in such
sort, as it persuadeth, yea, and enforceth me, to effect that for
you for which Heaven sent me into the world, and made
me profess that order of knighthood which I follow, and
that vow which I made therein to favour and assist the need-
ful, and those that are oppressed by others more potent.
But, forasmuch as I know that it is one of the parts of
prudence not to do that by foul means which may be ac-
complished by fair, I will entreat those gentlemen, your
guardians and commissary, they will please to loose and let
you depart peaceably ; for there will not want others to serve
the king in better occasions ; for it seems to me a rigorous
manner of proceeding to make slaves of them whom God and
nature created free. How much more, good sirs of the guard,'
added Don Quixote, 'seeing these poor men have never com-
mitted any offence against you? Let them answer for their
sins in the other world : there is a God in heaven who is not
negligent in punishing the evil nor rewarding the good; and it
is no wise decent that honourable men should be the exe-
cutioners of other men, seeing they cannot gain or lose much
thereby. I demand this of you in this peaceable, quiet man-
ner, to the end that, if you accomplish my request, I may
have occasion to yield you thanks ; and if you will not do
it willingly, then shall this lance and this sword, guided by
the invincible valour of mine arm, force you to it.'
'This is a pleasant doting,' answered the commissary, 'and
an excellent jest wherewithal you have finished your large
reasoning. Would you, good sir knight, have us leave unto
you those the king forceth, as if we had authority to let them
go, or you to command us to do it? Go on your way in a
good hour, gentle sir, and settle the basin you bear on your
THE GALLEY SLAVES 195
head somewhat righter, and search not thus whether the cat
hath three feet.' 'Thou art a cat, and a rat, and a knave !'
quoth Don Quixote. And so, with word and deed at once,
he assaulted him so suddenly as, without giving him leisure to
defend himself, he struck him down to the earth very sore
wounded with a blow of his lance; and as fortune would,
this was he that had the firelock piece. The rest of the
guard remained astonished at the unexpected accident; but at
last returning to themselves, the horsemen set hand to their
swords, and the footmen to their darts, and all of them set
upon Don Quixote, who expected them very quietly. And
doubtlessly he would have been in danger, if the slaves per-
ceiving the occasion offered to be so fit to recover liberty, had
not procured it by breaking the chain wherein they were
linked. The hurly-burly was such as the guards now began
to run to hinder the slaves from untieing themselves, now to
offend Don Quixote who assaulted them; so that they could
do nothing available to keep their prisoners. Sancho, for
his part, helped to loose Gines of Passamonte, who was the
first that leaped free into the field without clog, and set-
ting upon the overthrown commissary, he disarmed him of
his sword and piece, and now aiming at the one and then
at the other with it^ without discharging, made all the guards
to abandon the field, as well for fear of Passamonte's piece
as also to shun the marvellous showers of stones that the
slaves, now delivered, poured on them. Sancho grew marvel-
lous sad at this success ; for he suspected that those which
fled away would go and give notice of the violence committed
to the Holy Brotherhood, which would presently issue in
troops to search the delinquents; and said as much to his
lord, requesting him to depart presently from thence, and em-
bosk himself in the mountain, which was very near. 'All is
well,' quoth Don Quixote; 'I know now what is fit to be
done.' And so, calling together all the slaves that were in
a tumult, and had stripped the commissary naked, they came
all about him to hear what he commanded ; to whom he said :
'It is the part of people well born to gratify and acknowl-
edge the benefits they receive, ingratitude being one of the
sins thai most offendeth the Highest. I say it, sirs, to this
end, because you have, by manifest trial, seen that which you
HC XIV — 7
196 DON QUIXOTE
have received at my hand, in reward whereof I desire, and it
is my will, that all of you, loaden with that chain from which
I even now freed your necks, go presently to the city of To-
boso, and there present yourselves before the Lady Dulcinea
of Toboso, and recount unto her that her Knight of the Ill-fa-
voured Face sends you there to remember his service to her;
and relate unto her at large the manner of your freedom, all
you that have had such noble fortune ; and this being done,
you may after go where you please.'
Gines de Passamonte answered for all the rest, saying,
'That which you demand, good sir, our releaser, is most im-
possible to be performed, by reason that we cannot go all
together through these ways, but alone and divided, procur-
ing each of us to hide himself in the bowels of the earth,
to the end we may not be found by the Holy Brotherhood,
which will doubtlessly set out to search for us. That, there-
fore, which you may and ought to do in this exigent is, to
change this service and homage of the Lady Dulcinea of To-
boso into a certain number of ave-maries and creeds, which
we will say for your intention ; and this is a thing that may
be accomplished by night or by day, running or resting, in
peace or in war; but to think that we will return again to
take up our chains, or set ourselves in the way of Toboso,
is as hard as to make us believe that it is now night, it be-
ing yet scarce ten of the clock in the morning; and to de-
mand such a thing of us is as likely as to seek for pears of
the elm-tree.' T swear by such a one,' quoth Don Quixote,
thoroughly enraged, 'sir son of a whore, Don Ginesilio of
Parapilla, or howsoever you are called, that thou shalt go thy-
self alone, with thy tail between thy legs, and bear all the
chain in thy neck.' Passamonte, who was by nature very
choleric, knowing assuredly that Don Quixote was not very
wise (seeing he had attempted such a desperate act as to seek
to give them liberty), seeing himself thus abused, wink&d on
his companions, and, going a little aside, they sent such a
shower of stones on Don Quixote, as he had no leisure to
cover himself with his buckler; and poor Rozinante made no
more account of the spur than if his sides were made of brass,
Sancho ran behind his ass, and by his means sheltered him-
self from the cloud and shower of stones that rained upon
THE GALLEY SLAVES 197
both. And Don Quixote could not cover himself so well, but
that a number of stones struck him in the body with so great
force as they overthrew him at last to the ground ; and scarce
was he fallen when the student leapt upon him and took the
basin off his head, and gave him three or four blows with it
on the shoulders, and after struck it so oft about the ground
as he almost broke it in pieces. They took from him likewise
a cassock which he wore upon his armour, and thought also
to take away his stockings, but that they were hindered by his
greaves. From Sancho they took away his cassock, and left
him in his hair; and, dividing all the spoils of the battle
among themselves, they departed every one by the way he
pleased, troubled with greater care how to escape from the
Holy Brotherhood which they feared, than to load themselves
with the iron chain, and go and present themselves before
the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso. The ass and Rozinante,
Sancho and Don Quixote, remained alone : the ass stood pen-
sive, with his head hanging downwards, shaking now and then
his ears, thinking that the storm of stones was not yet past,
but that they still buzzed by his head; Rozinante lay over-
thrown by his master, who was likewise struck down by an-
other blow of a stone ; Sancho, in fear of the bullets of the
Holy Brotherhood; and Don Quixote, most discontent to see
himself so misused by those very same to whom he had done
so much good.
CHAPTER IX
Op That Which Befel the Famous Don Quixote in Si-
erra MoRENA Which Was One of the Most Rare Ad-
ventures That in This or Any Other so Authentic
a History Is Recounted
DON QUIXOTE, seeing himself in so ill plight, said to
his squire, 'Sancho, I have heard say ofttimes, that to
do good to men unthankful is to cast water into the
sea. If I had believed vi^hat thou saidst to me, I might well
have prevented all this grief; but now that is past, patience,
and be wiser another time.' 'You will take warning as much
by this,' quoth Sancho, 'as I am a Turk. But since you say
that if you had believed me you had avoided this grief, be-
lieve me now, and you shall eschew a greater; for you must
wit that no knighthood nor chivalry is of any authority with
the Holy Brotherhood ; for it cares not two farthings for all
the knights-errant in the world; and know that, methinks, I
hear their arrows buzz about mine ears already.' 'Sancho,
thou art a natural coward,' quoth Don Quixote ; 'but, because
thou mayst not say that I am obstinate, and that I never fol-
low thine advice, I will take thy counsel this time, and con-
vey myself from that fury which now thou fearest so much:
but it shall be on a condition — that thou never tell, alive nor
dying, to any mortal creature, that I retired or withdrew my-
self out of this danger for fear, but only to satisfy thy re-
quests ; for if thou sayst any other thing thou shalt belie me
most falsely, and even from this very time till that^ and from
thence until now, I give thee the He herein; and I say thou
liest, and shalt lie, as ofttimes as thou sayst or dost think
the contrary. And do not reply to me, for in only thinking
that I withdraw myself out of any peril, but principally this,
which seems to carry with it some shadow of fear ; I am about
to remain and expect here alone, not only for the Holy Broth-
198
ADVENTURE OF SIERRA MORENA 199
erhood, which thou namest and fearest, but also for the
brethren of the Twelve Tribes, for the seven Maccabees, for
Castor and Pollux, and for all the other brothers and brother-
hoods in the world.' 'Sir,' answered Sancho, 'to retire is not
to fiy, and to expect is wisdom, when the danger exceedeth all
hope; and it is the part of a wise man to keep himself safe
to-day for to-morrow, and not to adventure himself wholly
in one day. And know that, although I be but a rude clown,
yet do I, for all that, understand somewhat of that which
men call good government; and therefore do not repent your-
self for following mine advice, but mount on Rozinante if
you be able, if not I will help you, and come after me; for
my mind gives me that we shall now have more use of legs
than hands.'
Don Quixote leaped on his horse without replying a word,
and Sancho guiding him on his ass, they both entered into
that part of Sierra Morena that was near unto them. Sancho
had a secret design to cross over it all, and issue at Viso or
Almodovar del Campo, and in the meantime to hide them-
selves for some days among those craggy and intricate rocks,
to the end they might not be found by the Holy Brotherhood,
if it did make after them. And he was the more encouraged
to do this, because he saw their provision, which he carried
on his ass, had escaped safely out of the skirmish of the
galley-slaves ; a thing which he accounted to be a miracle,
considering the diligence that the slaves had used to search
and carry away all things with them. They arrived that
night into the very midst and bowels of the mountain, and
there Sancho thought it fittest to spend that night, yea, and
some other few days also, at least as long as their victuals en-
dured; and with this resolution they took up their lodging
among a number of cork-trees that grew between two rocks.
But fatal chance, which, according to the opinion of those
that have not the light cf faith, guideth, directeth, and com-
poundeth all as it liketh, ordained that that famous cozener
and thief, Gines de Passamonte, who was before delivered out
of chains by Don Quixote's force and folly, persuaded through
fear he conceived of the Holy Brotherhood (whom he had
just cause to fear), resolved to hide himself likewise in that
mountain; and his fortune and fears led him just to the place
200 DON QUIXOTE
where it had first addressed Don Quixote and his squire, just
at such time as he might perceive them, and they both at that
instant fallen asleep. And as evil men are evermore ungrate-
ful, and that necessity forceth a man to attempt that which
it urgeth, and likewise that the present redress prevents the
expectation of a future, Gines, who was neither grateful nor
gracious, resolved to steal away Sancho his ass, making no
account of Rozinante, as a thing neither saleable nor pawn-
able. Sancho slept soundly, and so he stole his beast, and was
before morning so far off from thence, as he feared not to
be found.
Aurora sallied forth at last to refresh the earth, and af-
fright Sancho with a most sorrowful accident, for he pres-
ently missed his ass ; and so, seeing himself deprived of him,
he began the most sad and doleful lamentation of the world,
in such sort as he awaked Don Quixote with his outcries,
who heard that he said thus: 'O child of my bowels, born
in mine own house, the sport of my children, the comfort of
my wife, and the envy of my neighbours, the ease of my bur-
dens, and finally, the sustainer of half of my person ! for,
with six-and-twenty marvedis that I gained daily by thee, I
did defray half of mine expenses !' Don Quixote, who heard
the plaint, and knew also the cause, did comfort Sancho with
the best words he could devise, and desired him to have pa-
tience, promising to give a letter of exchange, to the end that
they of his house might deliver him three asses of five which
he had left at home.
Sancho comforted himself again with this promise, and
dried up his tears, moderated his sighs, and gave his lord
thanks for so great a favour; and as they entered in farther
among those mountains we cannot recount the joy of our
knight, to whom those places seemed most accommodate to
achieve the adventures he searched for. They reduced to his
memory the marvellous accidents that had befallen knights-
errant in like solitudes and deserts, and he rode so over-
whelmed and transported by these thoughts as he remem-
bered nothing else: nor Sancho had any other care (after he
was out of fear to be taken) but how to fill his belly with
some of the relics which yet remained of the clerical spoils;
and so he followed his lord, taking now and then out of a
ADVENTURE OF SIERRA MORENA 201
basket (which Rozinante carried for want of the ass) some
meat, lining therewithal his paunch ; and, whilst he went thus
employed, he would not have given a mite to encounter any-
other adventure, how honourable soever.
But whilst he was thus busied, he espied his master la-
bouring to take up with the point of his javelin some bulk or
other that lay on the ground, and went towards him to see
whether he needed his help, just at the season that he lifted
up a saddle-cushion and a portmanteau fast to it, which were
half rotten, or rather wholly rotted, by the weather; yet
they weighed so much that Sancho's assistance was requisi'.e
to take them up : and straight his lord commanded him to
see what was in the wallet. Sancho obeyed with expedition,
and although it was shut with a chain and hanging lock, yet
by the parts which were torn he saw what was within, to wit.
four fine holland shirts, and other linens both curious and
clean, and moreover, a handkerchief, wherein was a good
quantity of gold; which he perceiving, said, 'Blessed be
Heaven, which hath once presented to us a beneficial ad-
venture !'
And, searching for more, he found a tablet very costly
bound. This Don Quixote took of him, commanding him
to keep the gold with himself; for which rich favour Sancho
did presently kiss his hands ; and, after taking all the linen,
he clapped it up in the bag of their victuals.
Don Quixote having noted all these things, said, 'Methinks,
Sancho (and it cannot be possible any other), that some
traveller having left his way, passed through this mountain,
and being encountered by thieves, they slew him, and buried
him in this secret place.' *It cannot be so,' answered Sancho ;
'for, if they were thieves, they would not have left this
money behind them.' 'Thou sayst true,' quoth Don Quixote ;
'and therefore I cannot conjecture what it might be: but stay
a while, we will see whether there be anything written in
these tablets by which we may vent and find out that which
I desire.'
Then he opened it, and the first thing that he found written
in it, as it were a first dr^ft, but done with a very fair char-
acter, was a sonnet, which he read aloud, that Sancho might
also hear it, and was this which ensues :
202 DON QUIXOTE
*0r Love of understanding quite is void;
Or he abounds in cruelty, or my pain
The occasion equals not ; for which I bide
The torments dire he maketh me sustain.
'But if Love be a god, I dare maintain
He nought ignores ; and reason aye decides
Gods should not cruel be : then who ordains
This pain I worship, which my heart divides?
'Filis ! I err, if thou I say it is ;
For so great ill and good cannot consist.
Nor doth this wrack from Heaven befall, but yet
That shortly I must die can no way miss.
For the evil whose cause is hardly well exprest,
By miracle alone true cure may get.'
'Nothing can be learned by that verse,' quoth Sancho, 'if
by that hilo, or thread, which is said there, you gather not
where lies the rest of the clue.' 'What hilo is here?' quoth
Don Quixote. 'Methought,' quoth Sancho, 'that you read hilo
there.' '1 did not, but Fili,' said Don Quixote, 'which is,
without doubt, the name of the lady on whom the author of
this sonnet complains, who in good truth seems to be a rea-
sonable good poet, or else I know but littie of that art.'
'Why, then,' quoth Sancho, 'belike you do also understand
poetry ?' 'That I do, and more than thou thinkest,' quoth Don
Quixote, 'as thou shalt see when thou shalt carry a letter
from me to my Lady Dulcinea del Toboso, written in verse
from the one end to the other; for I would thou shouldst
know, Sancho, that all, or the greater number of knights-
errant, in times past, were great versifiers and musicians ;
for these two qualities, or graces, as I may better term them,
are annexed to amorous knights-adventurers. True it is that
the verses of the ancient knights are not so adorned with
words as they are rich in conceits.'
'I pray you, read more,' quoth Sancho; 'for perhaps you
may find somewhat that may satisfy.' Then Don Quixote
turned the leaf, and said, 'This is prose, and seems to be a
letter.' 'What, sir, a missive letter?' quoth Sancho. 'No; but
rather of love, according to the beginning,' quoth Don Qui-
xote. 'I pray you, therefore,' quoth Sancho, 'read it loud
enough; for I take great delight in these things of love.' 'I
ADVENTURE OF SIERRA MORENA 203
am content,' quoth Don Quixote: and, reading it loudly, as
Sancho had requested, it said as ensueth :
'Thy false promise, and my certain misfortune, do carry
me to such a place, as from thence thou shalt sooner receive
news of my death than reasons of my just complaints. Thou
hast disdained me, O ingrate ! for one that hath more, but not
for one that is worth more than I am; but if virtue were a
treasure of estimation, I would not emulate other men's for-
tunes, nor weep thus for mine own misfortunes. That which
thy beauty erected, thy works have overthrown; by it I
deemed thee to be an angel, and by these I certainly know thee
to be but a woman. Rest in peace, O causer of my war!
and let Heaven work so that thy spouse's deceits remain
still concealed, to the end thou mayst not repent what thou
didst, and I be constrained to take revenge of that I desire
not.'
Having read the letter, Don Quixote said: 'We can col-
lect less by this than by the verses what the author is, other
than that he is some disdained lover.' And so, passing over all
the book, he found other verses and letters, of which he
could read some, others not at all; but the sum of them all
were accusations, plaints, and mistrusts, pleasures, griefs, fa-
vours, and disdains, some solemnised, others deplored. And
whilst Don Quixote passed over the book, Sancho passed over
the malet, without leaving a corner of it or the cushion un-
searched, or a seam unripped, nor a lock of wool uncarded,
to the end that nothing might remain behind for want of dili-
gence, or carelessness — the found gold, which passed a hun-
dred crowns, had stirred in him such a greediness to have
more. And though he got no more than that which he found
at the first, yet did he account his flights in the coverlet, his
vomiting of the drench, the benedictions of the pack-staves, the
blows of the carrier, the loss of his wallet, the robbing of his
cassock, and all the hunger, thirst, and weariness that he had
passed in the service of his good lord and master, for well
employed; accounting himself to be more than well paid by
the gifts received of the money they found. The Knight of
the Ill-favoured Face was the while possessed with a marvel-
lous desire to know who was the owner of the malet, con-
jecturing, by the sonnet and letter, the gold and linen, that
204 DON QUIXOTE
the enamoured was some man of worth, whom the disdain and
rigour of his lady had conducted to some desperate terms.
But by reason that nobody appeared through that inhabitable
and desert place by whom he might be informed, he thought
on it no more, but only rode on, without choosing any other
way than that which pleased Rozinante to travel (who took
the plainest and easiest to pass through), having still an imag-
ination that there could not want some strange adventure
amidst that forest.
And as he rode on with this conceit, he saw a man on the
top of a little mountain that stood just before his face, leap
from rock to rock and tuff to tuff with wonderful dexterity;
and, as he thought, he was naked ; had a black and thick
beard, the hairs many and confusedly mingled; his feet and
legs bare ; his thighs were covered with a pair of hose,
which seemed to be of murrey velvet, but were so torn that
they discovered his flesh in many places ; his head was like-
wise bare : and although he passed by with the haste we have
recounted, yet did the Knight of the Ill-favoured Face note
all these particulars; and although he endeavoured, yet could
not he follow him; for it was not in Rozinante's power, in
that weak state wherein he was, to travel so swiftly among
those rocks, chiefly being naturally very slow and phlegmatic.
Don Quixote, after espying him, did instantly imagine him
to be the owner of the cushion and malet, and therefore re-
solved to go in his search, although he should spend a whole
year therein among those mountains ; and commanded Sancho
to go about the one side of the mountain, and he would go
the other. 'And,' quoth he, 'it may befall that, by using this
diligence, we may encounter with that man which vanished so
suddenly out of our sight.'
'I cannot do so,' quoth Sancho; 'for that, in parting one
step from you, fear presently so assaults me with a thousand
visions and affrightments ; and let this serve you hereafter for
a warning, to the end you may not henceforth part me the
black of a nail from your presence.' 'It shall be so,' answered
the Knight of the Ill-favoured Face; 'and I am very glad
that thou dost thus build upon my valour, the which shall
never fail thee, although thou didst want thy very soul : and,
therefore, follow me by little and little, or as thou mayst, and
• ADVENTURE OF SIERRA MORENA 205
make of thine eyes two lanterns ; for we will give a turn about
this little rock, and perhaps we may meet with this man
whom we saw even now, who doubtlessly can be none other
than the owner of our booty.'
To which Sancho replied: *It were much better not to
find him ; for if we should meet him, and he were by chance
the owner of this money, it is most evident that I must re-
store it to him ; and therefore it is better, without using this
unprofitable diligence, to let me possess it bona fide, until the
true lord shall appear, by some way less curious and diligent ;
which, perhaps, may fall at such a time as it shall be all
spent ; and in that case I am free from all processes by
privilege of the king.'
'Thou deceivest thyself, Sancho, therein,' quoth Don Qui-
xote ; 'for, seeing we are fallen already into suspicion of the
owner, we are bound to search and restore it to him ; and
when we would not seek him out, yet the vehement presump-
tion that we have of it hath made us possessors mala fide,
and renders us as culpable as if he whom we surmise were
verily the true lord. So that, friend Sancho, be not grieved
to seek him, in respect of the grief whereof thou shalt free
me if he be found.' And, saying so, spurred Rozinante; and
Sancho followed after afoot, animated by the hope of the
young asses his master had promised unto him. And having
compassed a part of the mountain, they found a little stream,
wherein lay dead, and half devoured by dogs and crows, a
mule saddled and bridled, all which confirmed more in them
the suspicion that he which fled away was owner of the mule
and cushion. And as they looked on it, they heard a whistle
much like unto that which shepherds use as they keep their
flocks ; and presently appeared at their left hand a great
number of goats, after whom the goatherd that kept them,
who was an aged man, followed on the top of the mountain.
And Don Quixote cried to him, requesting him to come down
to them ; who answered them again as loudly, demanding of
them who had brought them to those deserts, rarely
trodden by any other than goats, wolves, or other savage
beasts which frequented those mountains. Sancho answered
him, that if he would descend where they were, they would
give him account thereof.
206 DON QUIXOTE
With that the shepherd came down, and, arriving to the
place where Don Quixote was, he said: 'I dare wager that
you look on the hired mule which lies dead there in that
bottom; well, in good faith, he hath lain in that very place
these six months. Say, I pray you, have not you met in the
way with the master thereof?' 'We have encountered no-
body but a cushion and a little malet, which we found not
very far off from hence.' 'I did likewise find the same,'
replied the goatherd, 'but I would never take it up nor ap-
proach to it, fearful of some misdemeanour, or that I
should be hereafter demanded for it as for a stealth ; for the
devil is crafty, and now and then something ariseth, even
from under a man's feet, whereat he stumbles and falls,
without knowing how or how not.'
'That is the very same I say,' quoth Sancho; 'for I like-
wise found it, but would not approach it the cast of a stone.
There I have left it, and there it remains as it was ; for I
would not have a dog with a bell.' 'Tell me, good fellow,'
quoth Don Quixote, 'dost thou know who is the owner of all
these things?'
'That which I can say,' answered the goatherd, 'is that,
about some six months past, little more or less, there arrived
at a certain sheepfold, some three leagues off, a young gentle-
man of comely personage and presence, mounted on that very
mule which lies dead there, and with the same cushion and
malet which you say you met but touched not. He demanded
of us which was the most hidden and inaccessible part of
the mountain. And we told him that this wherein we are
now: and it is true; for if you did enter but half a league
farther, perhaps you would not find the way out again so
readily; and I do greatly marvel how you could find the way
hither itself, for there is neither highway nor path that
may address any to this place. I say, then, that the young
man, as soon as he heard our answer, he turned the bridle,
and travelled towards the place we showed to him, leaving
us all with very great liking of his comeliness, and marvelled
at his demand and speed, wherewith he departed and made
towards the mountain; and after that time we did not see
him a good many of days, until by chance one of our shep-
herds came by with our provision of victuals; to whom he
ADVENTURE OF SIERRA MORENA 207
drew near, without speaking a word, and spurned and beat
him, well-favouredly, and after went to the ass which carried
our victuals, and taking away all the bread and cheese
that was there, he fled into the mountain with wonderful
speed.
'When we heard of this, some of us goatherds, we went to
search for him, and spent therein almost two days in the
most solitary places of this mountain, and in the end found
him lurking in the hollow part of a very tall and great cork-
tree ; who, as soon as he perceived us, came forth to meet us
with great staidness. His apparel was all torn; his visage
disfigured, and toasted with the sun in such manner as we
could scarce know him, if it were not that his attire, al-
though rent, by the notice we had of it, did give us to un-
derstand that he was the man for whom we sought. He
saluted us courteously, and in brief and very good reasons,
he said, that we ought not to marvel seeing him go in that
manner, for that it behoved to do so, that he might accomplish
a certain penance enjoined to him, for the many sins he had
committed. We prayed him to tell us what he was ; but we
could never persuade him to do it. We requested him like-
wise, that whensoever he had any need of meat (without
which he could not live) he should tell us where we might
find him, and we would bring it to him with great love and
diligence ; and that if he also did not like of this motion, that
he would at leastwise come and ask it, and not take it
violently, as he had done before, from our shepherds. He
thanked us very much for our offer, and entreated pardon of
the assaults passed, and promised to ask it from thencefor-
ward for God's sake, without giving annoyance to any one.
And, touching his dwelling or place of abode, he said that he
had none other than that where the night overtook him, and
ended his discourse with so feeling laments, that we might
well be accounted stones which heard him if therein we had
not kept him company, considering the state wherein we had
seen him first, and that wherein now he was; for, as I said,
he was a very comely and gracious young man, and showed,
by his courteous and orderly speech, that he was well born,
and a court-like person ; for, though we were all clowns such
as did hear him, his gentility was such as could make it-
208 DON QUIXOTE
self known, even to rudeness itself. And being in the best of
his discourse he stopped and grew silent, fixing his eyes on
the ground a good while ; wherein we likewise stood still
suspended, expecting in what that distraction would end, with
no little compassion to behold it ; for we easily perceived that
some accident of madness had surprised him, by his staring
and beholding the earth so fixedly, without once moving the
eyelid, and other times by the shutting of them, the biting of
his lips, and bending of his brows. But very speedily af-
ter, he made us certain thereof himself; for, rising from
the ground (whereon he had thrown himself a little before)
with great fury, he set upon him that sat next unto him, with
such courage and rage, that if we had not taken him away
he would have slain him with blows and bites; and he did
all this, saying, "O treacherous Fernando ! here, here thou
shalt pay me the injury that thou didst me; these hands
shall rend out the heart, in which do harbour and are
heaped all evils together, but principally fraud and deceit."
And to these he added other words, all addressed to the
dispraise of that Fernando, and to attach him of treason
and untruth.
'We took from him at last, not without difficulty, our fel-
low; and he, without saying a word, departed from us, em-
bushing himself presently among the bushes and brambles,
leaving us wholly disabled to follow him in those rough
and unhaunted places. By this we gathered that his mad-
ness comes to him at times, and that some one, called Fer-
nando, had done some ill work of such weight, as the terms
show, to which it hath brought him. All which hath after
been yet confirmed as often (which were many times) as he
came out to the fields, sometimes to demand meat of the
shepherds, and other times to take it of them perforce ; for
when he is taken with this fit of madness, although the shep-
herds do offer him meat willingly, yet will not he receive,
unless he take it with buffets; and when he is in his right
sense, he asks it for God's sake, with courtesy and humanity,
and renders many thanks, and that not without tears. And
in very truth, sirs, I say unto yov,' quoth the goatherd, 'that
I and four others, whereof two are my men, other two my
friends, resolved yesterday to search until we found him, and
ADVENTURE OF SIERRA MORENA 209
being found, either by force or fair means, we will carry him
to the town of Almodovar, which is but eight leagues from
hence, and there will we have him cured, if his disease may
be holpen ; or at least we shall learn what he is, when he
turns to his wits, and whether he hath any friends to whom
notice of his misfortune may be given. This is, sirs, all that
I can say concerning that of which you demand of me; and
you shall understand that the owner of those things which
you saw in the way, is the very same whom you saw pass by
you so naked and nimble' ; — for Don Quixote had told him
by this, that he had seen that man go by, leaping among the
rocks.
Don Quixote rested marvellously admired at the goatherd's
tale; and, with greater desire to know who that unfortunate
madman was, purposed with himself, as he had already re-
solved, to search him throughout the mountains, without
leaving a corner or cave of it unsought until he had gotten
him. But fortune disposed the matter better than he ex-
pected; for he appeared in that very instant in a cleft of a
rock that answered to the place where they stood speaking;
who came towards them, murmuring somewhat to himself,
which could not be understood near at hand, and much less
afar off. His apparel was such as we have delivered, only
differing in this, as Don Quixote perceived when he drew
nearer, that he wore on him, although torn, a leather jerkin,
perfumed with amber ; by which he thoroughly collected that
the person which wore such attire was not of the least
quality.
When the young man came to the place where they dis-
coursed, he saluted them with a hoarse voice, but with great
courtesy ; and Don Quixote returned him his greetings with
no less compliment; and, alighting from Rozinantc, he ad-
vanced to embrace him with very good carriage and coun-
tenance, and held him a good while straitly between his arms,
as if he had known him of long time. The other, whom we
may call the Unfortunate Knight of the Rock as well as Don
Quixote the Knight of the Ill-favoured Face, after he had
permitted himself to be embraced a while, did step a little
off from our knight, and, laying his hands on his shoulders,
began to behold him earnestly, as one desirous to call to mind
210 DON QUIXOTE
whether he had ever seen him before; being, perhaps, no less
admired to see Don Quixote's figure, proportion, and arms,
than Don Quixote was to view him. In resolution, the first
that spoke after the embracing was the ragged knight, and
said what we will presently recount.
CHAPTER X
Wherein Is Prosecuted the Adventure of Sierra Morena
THE history affirms that great was the attention where-
withal Don Quixote listened to the Unfortunate Knight
of the Rock, who began his speech on this manner :
'Truly, good sir, whatsoever you be (for I know you not), I
do with all my heart gratify the signs of affection and cour-
tesy which you have used towards me, and wish heartily that
I were in terms to serve with more than my will the good-
will you bear towards me, as your courteous entertainment
denotes ; but my fate is so niggardly as it affords me no other
means to repay good works done to me, than only to lend me
a good desire sometime to satisfy them.'
'So great is mine affection,' replied Don Quixote, 'to serve
you, as I was fully resolved never to depart out of these
mountains until I had found you, and known of yourself
whether there might be any kind of remedy found for the
grief that this your so unusual a kind of life argues doth
possess your soul; and, if it were requisite, to search it out
with all possible diligence; and when your disasters were
known of those which clap their doors in the face of comfort,
I intended in that case to bear a part in your lamentations,
and plain it with the doleful note ; for it is a consolation in
affliction to have one that condoles in them. And, if this my
good intention may merit any acceptance, or be gratified by
any courtesy, let me entreat you, sir, by the excess thereof
which I see accumulated in your bosom, and jointly I conjure
you by that thing which you have, or do presently most
affect, that you will please to disclose unto me who you are,
and what the cause hath been that persuaded you to come to
live and die in these deserts like a brute beast, seeing you
live among such, so alienated from yourself, as both your
attire and countenance demonstrate. And I do vow,' quoth
211
212 DON QUIXOTE
Don Quixote, *by the high order of chivalry which I, ahhough
unworthy and a sinner, have received, and by the profession
of knights-errant, that if you do pleasure me herein, to assist
you with as good earnest as my profession doth bind me,
either by remedying your disaster, if it can be holpen, or else
by assisting you to lament it, if it be so desperate.'
The Knight of the Rock, who heard him of the Ill-favoured
Face speak in that manner, did nothing else for a great while
but behold him again and again, and re-behold him from top
to toe. And, after viewing him well, he said : Tf you have
anything to eat, I pray you give it me for God's sake, and
after I have eaten I will satisfy your demand thoroughly, to
gratify the many courtesies and undeserved proffers you have
made unto me.' Sancho, and the goatherd present, the one
out of his wallet, the other out of his scrip, took some meat,
and gave it to the Knight of the Rock, to allay his hunger;
and he did eat so fast, like a distracted man, as he left no
intermission between bit and bit, but clapt them up so swiftly,
as he rather seemed to swallow than to chew them; and
whilst he did eat, neither he nor any of the rest spake a word ;
and having ended his dinner, he made them signs to follow
him, as at last they did, unto a little meadow seated hard by
that place, at the fold of a mountain, where being arrived, he
stretched himself on the grass, which the rest did likewise in
his imitation, without speaking a word until that he, after
settling himself in his place, began in this manner: 'If, sirs,
you please to hear the exceeding greatness of my disasters
briefly rehearsed, you must promise me that you will not
interrupt the file of my doleful narration with either demand
or other thing; for in the very instant that you shall do it,
there also must remain that which I say depending.' These
words of our ragged knight's called to Don Quixote's remem-
brance the tale which his squire had told unto him, where
he erred in the account of his goats which had passed the
river, for which that history remained suspended. But re-
turning to our ragged man, he said: 'This prevention which
now I give is to the end that I may compendiously pass over
the discourse of my mishaps; for the revoking of them to
remembrance only serves me to none other stead than to in-
crease the old by adding of new misfortunes; and by how
CARDENIO'S STORY 21^
much the fewer your questions are, by so much the more
speedily shall I have finished my pitiful discourse ; and yet I
mean not to omit the essential point of my woes untouched,
that your desires may be herein sufficiently satisfied.' Don
Quixote, in his own and his other companion's name, prom-
ised to perform his request; whereupon he began his relation
on this manner:
'My name is Cardenio, the place of my birth one of the
best cities in Andalusia, my lineage noble, my parents rich,
and my misfortunes so great as I think my parents have ere
this deplored and my kinsfolk condoled them, being very
little able with their wealth to redress them; for the goods of
fortune are but of small virtue to remedy the disasters of
heaven. There dwelt in the same city a heaven, wherein
love had placed all the glory that I could desire; so great is
the beauty of Lucinda, a damsel as noble and rich as I, but
more fortunate, and less constant than my honourable desires
expected. I loved, honoured, and adored this Lucinda almost
from my very infancy, and she affected me likewise, with all
the integrity and good-will which with her so young years
did accord. Our parents knew our mutual amity, for which
they were nothing aggrieved, perceiving very well, that al-
though we continued it, yet could it have none other end but
that of matrimony: a thing which the equality of our blood
and substance did of itself almost invite us to. Our age and
affection increased in such sort, as it seemed fit for Lucinda's
father, for certain good respects, to deny me the entrance of
his house any longer, imitating in a manner therein Thisbe,
so much solemnised by the poets, her parents; which hin-
drance served only to add flame to flame, and desire to desire ;
for, although it set silence to our tongues, yet would they
not impose it to our pens, which are wont to express to
whom it pleased, the most hidden secrecies of our souls, with
more liberty than the tongue ; for the presence of the beloved
doth often distract, trouble, and strike dumb the boldest
tongue and firmest resolution. O heavens ! how many letters
have I written unto her ! What cheerful and honest answers
have I received! How many ditties and amorous verses
have I composed, wherein my soul declared and published
her passions, declined her inflaiued desires, entertained her
214 DON QUIXOTE
remembrance, and recreated her will ! In effect, perceiving
myself to be forced, and that my soul consumed with a per-
petual desire to behold her, I resolved to put my desires in
execution, and finish in an instant that which I deemed most
expedient for the better achieving of my desired and deserved
reward; which was (as I did indeed), to demand her of her
father for my lawful spouse.'
'To which he made answer, that he did gratify the good-
will which I showed by honouring him, and desire to honour
myself with pawns that were his; but, seeing my father yet
lived, the motion of that matter properly most concerned him :
for, if it were not done with his good liking and pleasure,
Lucinda was not a woman to be taken or given by stealth.
I rendered him thanks for his good-will, his words seeming
unto me very reasonable, as that my father should agree
unto them as soon as I should explain the matter ; and there-
fore departed presently to acquaint him with my desires :
who, at the time which I entered into a chamber wherein he
was, stood with a letter open in his hand ; and, espying me,
ere I could break my mind unto him, gave it me, saying,
"By that letter, Cardenio, you may gather the desire that
Duke Ricardo bears to do you any pleasure or favour."
'This Duke Ricardo, as I thinlc you know, sirs, already, is
a grandee of Spain, whose dukedom is seated in the best part
of all Andalusia. I took the letter and read it, which ap-
peared so urgent, as I myself accounted it would be ill done
if my father did not accomplish the contents thereof, which
were indeed, that he should presently address me to his court,
to the end I might be companion (and not servant) to his
eldest son; and that he would incharge himself with the ad-
vancing of me to such preferments as might be answerable
unto the value and estimation he made of my person. I
passed over the whole letter, and was strucken dumb at the
reading thereof, but chiefly hearing my father to say, "Car-
denio, thou must depart within two days, to accomplish the
duke's desire, and omit not to render Almighty God thanks,
which doth thus open the way by which thou mayst attain in
fine to that which I know thou dost merit." And to these
words added certain others of fatherly counsel and direction.
The term of my departure arrived, and I spoke to my Lucinda
CARDENIO'S STORY 215
on a certain night, and recounted unto her all that passed,
and likewise to her father, entreating them to overslip a few
days, and defer the bestowing of his daughter elsewhere,
until I went to understand Duke Ricardo his will ; which he
promised me, and she confirmed it, with a thousand oaths and
promises.
'Finally, I came to Duke Ricardo's court, and was so
friendly received and entertained by him, as even then very
envy began to exercise her accustomed function, being forth-
with emulated by the ancient servitors, persuading them-
selves that the tokens the duke showed to do me favours
could not but turn to their prejudice. But he that rejoiced
most at mine arrival was a second son of the duke's, called
Fernando, who was young, gallant, very comely, liberal, and
amorous ; who, within a while after my coming, held me so
dearly as every one wondered thereat ; and although the elder
loved me well, and did me favour, yet was it in no respect
comparable to that wherewithal Don Fernando loved and
treated me. It therefore befel that, as there is no secrecy
amongst friends so great but they will communicate it the
one to the other, and the familiarity which I had with Don
Fernando was now past the limits of favour and turned into
dearest amity, he revealed unto me all his thoughts, but
chiefly one of his love, which did not a little molest him ; for
he was enamoured on a farmer's daughter, that was his
father's vassal, whose parents were marvellous rich, and she
herself so beautiful, wary, discreet, and honest, as never a
one that knew her could absolutely determine wherein or in
which of all her perfections she did most excel, or was most
accomplished. And those good parts of the beautiful country
maid reduced Don Fernando his desires to such an exigent,
as he resolved, that he might the better gain her good-will
and conquer her integrity, to pass her a promise of marriage;
for otherwise he should labour to effect that which was im-
possible, and but strive against the stream. I, as one bound
thereunto by our friendship, did thwart and dissuade him
from his purpose with the best reasons and most efficacious
words I might; and, seeing all could not prevail, I deter-
mined to acquaint the Duke Ricardo his father wherewithal.
But Don Fernando, being very crafty and discreet, suspected
216 DON QUIXOTE
and feared as much, because he considered that, in the law
of a faithful servant, I was bound not to conceal a thing that
would turn so much to the prejudice of the duke, my lord;
and therefore, both to divert and deceive me at once, [he
said] that he could find no means so good to deface the re-
membrance of that beauty out of his mind, which held his
heart in such subjection, than to absent himself for certain
months; and he would likewise have that absence to be this,
that both of us should depart together, and come to my
father's house, under pretence (as he would inform the duke)
that he went to see and cheapen certain great horses that
were in the city wherein I was born, a place of breeding the
best horses in the world.
'Scarce had I heard him say this, when (borne away by
the natural propension each one hath to his country, and my
love joined) although his designment had not been so good,
yet would I have ratified it, as one of the most expedient
that could be imagined, because I saw occasion and oppor-
tunity so fairly offered, to return and see again my Lucinda ;
and therefore, set on by this thought and desire, I approved
his opinion, and did quicken his purpose, persuading him to
prosecute it with all possible speed ; for absence would in
the end work her effect in despite of the most forcible and
urgent thoughts. And when he said this to me, he had al-
ready, under the title of a husband (as it was afterward
known), reaped the fruits of his longing desires from his
beautiful country maid, and did only await an opportunity
to reveal it without his own detriment, fearful of the
duke his father's indignation when he should understand
his error.
'It afterwards happened that, as love in young men is not
for the most part love, but lust, the which (as [that which]
it ever proposeth to itself as his last end and period is de-
light) so soon as it obtaineth the same, it likewise decayeth
and maketh forcibly to retire that which was termed love ;
for it cannot transgress the limits which Nature hath assigned
it, which boundings or measures Nature hath in no wise al-
lotted to true and sincere affection, — I would say that, as
soon as Don Fernando had enjoyed his country lass, his de-
sires weakened, and his importunities waxed cold; and if at
AN INTERRUPTION 2l7
the first he feigned an excuse to absent himself, that he
might with more facility compass them, he did now in very
good earnest procure to depart, to the end he might not put
them in execution. The duke gave him licence to depart,
and commanded me to accompany him. We came to my
city, where my father entertained him according to his call-
ing. I saw Lucinda, and then again were revived (although,
indeed, they were neither dead nor mortified) my desires,
and I acquainted Don Fernando (alas! to my total ruin)
with them, because I thought it was not lawful, by the law
of amity, to keep anything concealed from him. There I
dilated to him on the beauty, wit, and discretion of Lucinda,
in so ample a manner as my praise stirred in him a desire to
view a damsel so greatly adorned, and enriched with so rare
endowments. And this his desire I (through my misfor-
tune) satisfied, showing her unto him by the light of a
candle, at a window where we two were wont to parley to-
gether; where he beheld her to be such as was sufficient to
blot out of his memory all the beauties which ever he had
viewed before. He stood mute, beside himself, and ravished ;
and, moreover, rested so greatly enamoured, as you may per-
ceive in the discourse of this my doleful narration. And, to
inflame his desires the more (a thing which I fearfully
avoided, and only discovered to Heaven), fortune so disposed
that he found after me one of her letters, wherein she re-
quested that I would demand her of her father for wife,
which was so discreet, honest, and amorously penned, as he
said, after reading it, that in Lucinda alone were included
all the graces of beauty and understanding jointly, which
were divided and separate in all the other women of the
world.
'Yet, in good sooth, I will here confess the truth, that al-
though I saw clearly how deservedly Lucinda was thus ex-
tolled by Don Fernando, yet did not her praises please me so
much pronounced by him; and therefore began to fear and
suspect him, because he let no moment overslip us without
making some mention of Lucinda, and would still himself
begin the discourse, were the occasion never so far-fetched:
a thing which roused in me I cannot tell what jealousy; not
that I did fear any traverse in Lucinda's loyalty, but yet.
218 DON QUIXOTE
for all, my fates made me the very thing which they most
assured me. And Don Fernando procured to read all the
papers I sent to Lucinda, or she to me, under pretext that he
took extraordinary delight to note the witty conceits of us
both. It therefore fell out, that Lucinda, having demanded
of me a book of chivalry to read, wherein she took marvel-
lous delight, and was that of Amadis de Gaul' —
Scarce had Don Quixote well heard him make mention of
books of knighthood when he replied to him: 'If you had,
good sir, but once told me at the beginning of your his-
torical narration that your Lady Lucinda was affected to the
reading of knightly adventures, you needed not to have used
any amplification to endear or make plain unto me the emi-
nency of her wit, which certainly could not in any wise be so
excellent and perspicuous as you have figured it if she wanted
the propension and feeling you have rehearsed to the perus-
ing of so pleasing discourses; so that henceforth, with me,
you need not spend any more words to explain and manifest
the height of her beauty, worth, and understanding; for by
this only notice I have received of her devotion to books of
knighthood, I do confirm her for the most fair and accom-
plished woman for all perfection in the world; and I would
to God, good sir, that you had also sent her, together with
Amadis, the histories of the good Don Rugel of Grecia; for
I am certain the Lady Lucinda would have taken great de-
light in Darayda and Garaya, and in the witty conceits of
the shepherd Darinel, and in those admirable verses of his
Bucolics, sung and rehearsed by him with such grace, dis-
cretion, and liberty. But a time may come wherein this fault
may be recompensed, if it shall please you to come with me
to my village; for there I may give you three hundred books,
which are my soul's greatest contentment, and the entertain-
ment of my life, — although I do now verily believe that none
of them are left, thanks be to the malice of evil and envious
enchanters. And I beseech you to pardon me this trans-
gression of our agreement at the first promised, not to in-
terrupt your discourses ; for when I hear any motion made
of chivalry or knights-errant, it is no more in my power to
omit to speak of them than in the sunbeams to leave off warm-
ing, or in the moon to render things humid. And therefore
CARDENIO'S RAGE 219
I entreat pardon, and that you will prosecute your history,
as that which most imports us.'
Whilst Don Quixote spoke those words, Cardenio hung
his head on his breast, giving manifest tokens that he was
exceeding sad. And although Don Quixote requested him
twice to follow on with his discourse, yet neither did he lift
up his head or answer a word, till at last, after he had stood
a good while musing, he held up his head and said : 'It can-
not be taken out of my mind, nor is there any one in the
world can deprive me of the conceit, or make me believe the
contrary, and he were a bottlehead that would think or be-
lieve otherwise, than that the great villain. Master Elisabat
the barber, kept Queen Madasima as his leman.'
'That is not so, I vow by such and such !' quoth Don
Quixote, in great choler (and as he was wont, rapped out
three or four round oaths) ; 'it is great malice, or rather
villany, to say such a thing; for Queen Madasima was a very
noble lady, and it ought not to be presumed that so high a
princess would fall in love with a quack-salver; and whoso-
ever thinks the contrary lies like an errant villain, as I will
make him understand, a-horseback or afoot, armed or dis-
armed, by night or by day, or as he best liketh.' Cardenio
stood beholding him very earnestly as he spoke these words,
whom the accident of his madness had by this possessed, and
was not in plight to prosecute his history; nor would Don
Quixote give ear to it, he was so mightily disgusted to hear
Queen Madasima detracted.
A marvellous accident ! for he took her defence as earnestly
as if she were verily his true and natural princess, his
wicked books had so much distracted him. And Cardenio
being by this furiously mad, hearing himself answered with
the lie, and the denomination of a villain, with other the like
outrages, he took the rest in ill part, and, lifting up a stone
that was near unto him, gave Don Quixote such a blow there-
withal as he overthrew him to the ground on his back.
Sancho Panza, seeing his master so roughly handled, set
upon the fool with his fist shut ; and the ragged man received
his assault in such manner, as he likewise overthrew him at
his feet with one fist, and, mounting afterward upon him,
di'd work him with his feet like a piece of dough; and the
220 DON QUIXOTE
goatherd, who thought to succour him, was like to incur the
same danger. And after he had overthrown and beaten them
all very well, he departed from them, and entered into the
wood very quietly. Sancho arose ; and with rage to see him-
self so belaboured without desert, he ran upon the goatherd
to be revenged on him, saying that he was in the fault, who
had not premonished them how that man's raving fits did
take him so at times ; for, had they been advertised thereof,
they might have stood all the while on their guard.
The goatherd answered that he had already advised them
thereof, and if he had not been attentive thereunto, yet he
was therefore nothing the more culpable.
Sancho Panza replied, and the goatherd made a rejoinder
thereunto; but their disputation ended at last in the catching
hold of one another's beards, and befisting themselves so
uncompassionately, as if Don Quixote had not pacified them,
they would have torn one another to pieces, Sancho, holding
still the goatherd fast, said unto his lord, 'Let me alone, sir
Knight of the Ill-favoured Face ; for on this man, who is a
clown as I am myself, and no dubbed knight, I may safely
satisfy myself of the wrong he hath done m.e, by fighting with
him hand to hand, like an honourable man.' 'It is true,'
quoth Don Quixote ; 'but I know well that he is in no wise
culpable of that which hath happened.' And, saying so, ap-
peased them, and turned again to demand of the goatherd
whether it were possible to meet again with Cardenio ; for he
remained possessed with an exceeding desire to know the end
of his history.
The goatherd turned again to repeat what he had said at
the first, to wit, that he knew not any certain place of his
abode ; but if he haunted that commark any while, he would
some time meet with him, either in his mad or modest
humour.
CHAPTER XI
Which Treats of the Strange Adventures That Hap-
pened TO the Knight of the Mancha in Sierra
Morena; and of the Penance He Did There, in Imi-
tation of Beltenebros
DON QUIXOTE took leave of the goatherd, and,
mounting once again on Rozinante, he commanded
Sancho' to follow him, who obeyed but with a very
ill will: and thus they travelled by little and little, entering
into the thickest and roughest part of all the mountain ; and
Sancho went almost burst with a desire to reason with his
master, and therefore wished in mind that he would once
begin, that he might not transgress his commandment of
silence imposed on him, but growing at last wholly impotent
to contain himself speechless any longer : 'Good sir Don
Quixote, I pray you give me your blessing and licence ; for I
mean to depart from this place, and return to my house, my
wife and children, with whom I shall be, at least, admitted
to reason and speak my pleasure ; for that you would desire
to have me keep you company through these deserts night
and day, and that I may not speak when I please, is but to
bury me alive. Yet, if fortune had so happily disposed our
affairs as that beasts could speak, as they did in Guisopete's
time, the harm had been less; for then would I discourse a
while with Rozinante (seeing my niggardly fortune hath not
consented I might do it with mine ass) what I thought good,
and in this sort would I waive my mishaps ; for it is a stub-
born thing, and that cannot be borne with patience, to travel
all the days of our life, and not to encounter any other thing
than tramplings under feet, tossings in coverlets, blows of
stones and buffets, and be besides all this forced to sew up
our mouths, a man daring not to break his mind, but to
stand mute like a post' 'Sancho, I understand thee now,'
221
222 DON QUIXOTE
quoth Don Quixote; 'thou diest with longing to speak that
which I have forbidden thee to speak; account, therefore,
that commandment revoked, and say what thou pleasest, on
condition that this revocation be only available and of force
whilst we dwell in these mountains, and no longer.'
'So be it,' quoth Sancho ; 'let me speak now, for what may
after befall, God only knows.' And then, beginning to take
the benefit of his licence, he said, 'I pray you, tell me what
benefit could you reap by taking Queen Madasima's part?
or what was it to the purpose that that abbot was her friend or
no? For, if you had let it slip, seeing you were not his
judge, I verily believe that the fool had prosecuted his tale,
and we should have escaped the blow of the stone, the tramp-
ling under feet, and spurnings ; yea, and more than five or
six good buffets.' 'In faith, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote,
'if thou knewest as well as I did how honourable and prin-
cipal a lady was Queen Madasima, thou wouldst rather say
that I had great patience, seeing I did not strike him on
the mouth out of which such blasphemies issued; for it is a
very great dishonour to aver or think that any queen would
fall in love with a barber. For the truth of the history is,
that Master Elisabat, of whom the madman spoke, was very
prudent, and a man of a sound judgment, and served the
queen as her tutor and physician; but to think that she was
his leman is a madness worthy the severest punishment; and
to the end thou mayst see that Cardenio knew not what he
said, thou must understand that when he spoke it he then
was wholly beside himself.'
'That's it which I say,' quoth Sancho, 'that you ought not
to make account of words spoken by a fool ; for if fortune
had not assisted you, but addressed the stone to your head,
as it did to your breast, we should have remained in good
plight, for having turned so earnestly in that my lady's de-
fence, whom God confound. And think you that Cardenio
would not escape the dangers of the law, by reason of his
madness?' 'Any knight-errant,' answered Don Quixote, 'is
bound to turn for the honour of women, of what quality
soever, against mad or unmad men; how much more for
queens of so high degree and worth as was Queen Madasima,
to whom I bear particular affections for her good parts?
SAKCHO REBELS 223
For, besides her being marvellous beautiful, she was, more-
over, very prudent and patient in her calamities, which were
very many ; and the company and counsels of Master Elisabat
proved very beneficial and necessary, to induce her to bear
her mishaps with prudence and patience: and hence the
ignorant and ill-meaning vulgar took occasion to suspect and
affirm that she was his friend. But I say again they lie, and
all those that do either think or say it, do lie a thousand
times.'
'Why,' quoth Sancho, 'I neither say it nor think it. Let
those afiirm any such thing, eat that lie and swallow it with
their bread; and if they of whom you speak lived lightly,
they have given account to God thereof by this. I come
from my vineyard; I know nothing. I am not afraid to
know other men's lives ; for he that buys and lies shall feel
it in his purse. How much more, seeing I was born naked,
and am now naked, I can neither win nor lose ! A man is
but a man, though he have a hose on his head; but howso-
ever, what is that to me? And many think there is a sheep
where there is no fleece. But who shall bridle a man's under-
standing, when men are profane?' 'Good God!' quoth Don
Quixote, 'how many follies hast thou inserted here ! and how
wide from our purpose are those proverbs which thou hast
recited! Honest Sancho, hold thy peace; and from hence-
forth endeavour to serve thy master, and do not meddle with
things which concern thee nothing; and understand, with all
thy five senses, that whatsoever I have done, do, or shall do,
is wholly guided by reason, and conformable to the rules of
knighthood, which I know better than all the other knights
that ever professed them in the world.' 'Sir,' quoth Sancho,
'and is it a good rule of chivalry that we go wandering and
lost among these mountains in this sort, without path or way,
in the search of a madman, to whom peradventure, after he
is found, will return a desire to finish what he began, not of
his tale, but of your head and my ribs, by endeavouring to
break them soundly and thoroughly?'
'Peace, I say, Sancho, once again,' quoth Don Quixote ; 'for
lliou must wit that the desire of finding the madman alone
brings me not into these parts so much, as that which I have
iix my mind to achieve a certain adventure, by which I shall
224 DON QUIXOTE
acquire eternal renown and fame throughout the universal
face of the earth ; and I shall therewithal seal all that which
may render a knight-errant complete and famous.' 'And is
the adventure very dangerous?' quoth Sancho Panza. 'No/
answered the Knight of the Ill-favoured Face, 'although the
die might run in such sort as we might cast a hazard instead
of an encounter; but all consists in thy diligence.' 'In mine?'
quoth Sancho. 'Yes/ quoth Don Quixote; 'for if thou re-
turnest speedily from the place whereunto I mean to send
thee, my pain will also end shortly, and my glory commence
very soon after. And because I will not hold thee long sus-
pended, awaiting to hear the effect of my words, I would
have thee to know that the famous Amadis de Gaul was one
of the most accomplished knights-errant, — I do not say well
saying he was one; for he was the only, the first, and prime
lord of as many as lived in his age. An evil year and a worse
month for Don Belianis, or any other that shall dare presume
to compare with him, for I swear that they all are, question-
less, deceived. I also say, that when a painter would become
rare and excellent in his art, he procures to imitate the pat-
terns of the most singular masters of his science; and this
very rule runs current throughout all other trades and exer-
cises of account which serve to adorn a well-disposed com-
monwealth; and so ought and doth he that means to obtain
the name of a prudent and patient man, by imitating Ulysses,
in whose person and dangers doth Homer delineate unto us
the true portraiture of patience and sufferance; as likewise
Virgil demonstrates, under the person of Aeneas, the duty
and valour of a pious son, and the sagacity of a hardy and
expert captain, not showing them such as indeed they were,
but as they should be, to remain as an example of virtue to
ensuing posterities. And in this very manner was Amadis
the north star and the sun of valorous and amorous knights,
whom all we ought to imitate which march under the ensigns
of love and chivalry. And this being so manifest as it is, I
find, friend Sancho, that the knight-errant who shall imitate
him most shall likewise be nearest to attain the perfection of
arms. And that wherein this knight bewrayed most his pru-
dence, valour, courage, patience, constancy, and love, was
when he retired himself to do penance, being disdained by his
DON QUIXOTE'S RESOLVE 225
lady Oriana, to the Poor Rock, changing his name unto that
of Beltenebros : a name certainly most significative and proper
for the life which he had at that time willingly chosen. And I
may more easily imitate him herein than in cleaving of giants,
beheading of serpents, killing of monsters, overthrowing of
armies, putting navies to flight, and finishing of enchantments.
And seeing that this mountain is so fit for that purpose, there
is no reason why I should overslip the occasion, which doth
so commodiously proffer me her locks.'
'In effect,' quoth Sancho, 'what is it you mean to do in these
remote places?' 'Have not I told thee already,' said Don
Quixote, 'that I mean to follow Amadis, by playing here the
despaired, wood, and furious man? To imitate likewise the
valiant Orlando, where he found the tokens by a fountain that
Angelica the fair had abused herself with Medozo; for grief
whereof he ran mad, and plucked up trees by their roots,
troubled the waters of clear fountains, slew shepherds, de-
stroyed their flocks, fired the sheepfolds, overthrew houses,
trailed mares after him, and committed a hundred thousand
other insolences, worthy of eternal fame and memory. And
although I mean not to imitate Roldan, or Orlando, or Row-
land (for he had all these names), exactly in every mad prank
that he played, yet will I do it the best I can in those things
which shall seem unto me most essential. And perhaps I may
rest contented with the only imitation of Amadis, who, with-
out endamaging, and by his ravings, and only using these of
feeling laments, [arrived] to as great fame thereby as anyone
whatsoever.'
'I believe,' replied Sancho, 'that the knights which per-
formed the like penances were moved by some reasons to do
the like austerities and follies ; but, good sir, what occasion
hath been offered unto you to become mad? What lady hath
disdained you? Or what arguments have you found that the
Lady Dulcinea of Toboso hath ever dallied with Moor or
Christian?' 'There is the point,' answered our knight, 'and
therein consists the perfection of mine affairs; for that a
knight-errant do run mad upon any just occasion deserves
neither praise nor thanks ^ the wit is in waxing mad without
cause, whereby my mistress may understand, that if dry I
could do tiiis, what would I have done being watered? How
226 DON QUIXOTE
much more, seeing I have a just motive, through the prolix
absence that I have made from my ever surpremest Lady
Dulcinea of Toboso? For, as thou mightest have heard read
in Marias Ambrosio his Shepherd, —
"To him that absent is,
All things succeed amiss."
So that, friend Sancho, I would not have thee lavish time
longer in advising to let slip so rare, so happy, and singular
an imitation. I am mad, and will be mad, until thou return
again with answer upon a letter, which I mean to send with
thee to my Lady Dulcinea; and if it be such as my loyalty
deserves, my madness and penance shall end; but if the con-
trary, I shall run mad in good earnest, and be in that state
that I shall apprehend nor feel anything. So that, howsoever
I be answered, I shall issue out of the conflict and pain
wherein thou leavest me, by joying the good thou shalt bring
me, as wise; or not feeling the evil thou shalt denounce, as
mad. But tell me, Sancho, keepest thou charily yet the helmet
of Mambrino, which I saw thee take up from the ground the
other day, when that ungrateful fellow thought to have broken
it into pieces, but could not, by which may be collected the
excellent temper thereof?'
Sancho answered to this demand, saying, 'I cannot suffer
or bear longer, sir Knight of the Ill-favoured Face, nor take
patiently many things which you say; and I begin to suspect,
by your words, that all that which you have said to me of
chivalry, and of gaining kingdoms and empires, of bestowing
islands and other gifts and great things, as knights-errant are
wont, are all matters of air and lies, all cozenage or cozening,
or how else you please to term it ; for he that shall hear you
name a barber's basin Mambrino's helmet, and that you will
not abandon that error in more than four days, what other
can he think but that he who affirms such a thing doth want
wit and discretion? I carry the basin in my bag, all battered
and bored, and will have it mended, and dress my beard in it
at home, if God shall do me the favour that I may one day see
my wife and bairns.'
'Behold, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 'I do likewise swear
that thou hast the shallowest pate that ever any squire had or
PREPARATIONS FOR MADNESS 227
hath in the world. Is it possible that, in all the time thou hast
gone with me, thou couldst not perceive that all the adven-
tures of knights-errant do appear chimeras, follies, and des-
perate things, being quite contrary ? Not that they are indeed
such; but rather, by reason that we are still haunted by a
crew of enchanters, which change and transform our acts,
making them seem what they please, according as they like to
favour or annoy us; and so this, which seems to thee a bar-
ber's basin, is in my conceit Mam.brino his helmet, and to
another will appear in some other shape. And it is doubt-
lessly done by the profound science of the wise man my
friend, to make that seem a basin which, really and truly, is
Mambrino's helmet; because that, in being so precious a
jewel, all the world would pursue me to deprive me of it; but
now, seeing that it is so like a barber's basin, they endeavour
not to gain it, as was clearly showed in him that thought to
break it the other day, and would not carry it with him, but
left it lying behind him on the ground; for, in faith, he had
never left it did he know the worthiness thereof. Keep it,
friend ; for I need it not at this present, wherein I must rather
disarm myself of the arms I wear, and remain as naked as I
was at the hour of my birth, if I shall take the humour rather
to imitate Orlando in doing of my penance than Amadis.'
Whilst thus he discoursed, he arrived to the foot of a lofty
mountain, which stood like a hewn rock divided from all the
rest, by the skirt whereof glided a smooth river, hemmed in
on every side by a green and flourishing meadow, whose ver-
dure did marvellously delight the greedy beholding eye ; there
were in it also many wild trees, and some plants and flowers,
which rendered the place much more pleasing. The Knight
of the Ill-favoured Face made choice of this place to accom-
plish therein his penance; and therefore, as soon as he had
viewed it, he began to say, with a loud voice, like a distracted
man, these words ensuing: 'This is the place where the
humour of mine eyes shall increase the liquid veins of this
crystal current, and my continual and deep sighs shall give
perpetual motion to the leaves of these mountainy trees, in
testimony of the pain which my oppressed heart doth suffer.
O you, whosoever you be, rustical gods ! which have your
mansion in this inhabitable place, give ear to the plaints of
HC XIV — 8
228 DON QUIXOTE
this unfortunate lover, whom a long absence and a few im-
agined suspicions have conducted to deplore his state among
these deserts, and make him exclaim on the rough condition
of that ingrate and fair, who is the top, the sun, the period,
term, and end of all human beauty. O ye Napeas and Dryads !
which do wontedly inhabit the thickets and groves, so may
the nimble and lascivious satyrs, by whom (although in vain)
you are beloved, never have power to interrupt your sweet
rest, as you shall assist me to lament my disasters, or at least
attend them, whilst I dolefully breathe them. O Dulcinea of
Toboso ! the day of my night, the glory of my pain, north of
my travels, and star of my fortunes; so Heaven enrich thee
with the highest, whensoever thou shalt demand it, as thou
wilt consider the place and pass unto which thine absence
hath conducted me, and answer my faith and desires in com-
passionate and gracious manner. O solitary trees (which,
shall from henceforward keep company with my solitude),
give tokens, with the soft motion of your boughs, that my
presence doth not dislike you. O thou my squire, and grateful
companion in all prosperous and adverse successes ! bear well
away what thou shalt see me do here, to the end that thou
mayst after promptly recount it as the total cause of my ruin.'
And, saying so, he alighted from Rozinante, and, taking off
in a trice his bridle and saddle, he struck him on the buttock,
saying, 'He gives thee liberty that wants it himself, O horse !
as famous for thy works as thou art unfortunate by thy fates.
Go where thou pleasest ; for thou bearest written in thy fore-
head, how that neither the Hippogriff of Astolpho, nor the
renowned Frontino, which cost Bradamante so dearly, could
compare with thee for swiftness.'
When Sancho had viewed and heard his lord speak thus, he
likewise said, 'Good betide him that freed us from the pains
of unpannelling the grey ass ; for if he were here, in faith, he
should also have two or three claps on the buttocks, and a
short oration in his praise. Yet if he were here, I would not
permit any other to unpannel him, seeing there was no oc-
casion why; for he, good beast, was nothing subject to the
passions of love or despair, no more than I, who was his
master when it pleased God. And, in good sooth, sir Knight
of the Ill-favoured Face, if my departure and your madness be
PREPARATIONS FOR MADNESS 229
in good earnest, it will be needful to saddle Rozinante again,
that he may supply the want of mine ass ; for it will shorten
the time of my departure and return again. And if I make
my voyage afoot, I know not when I shall arrive there, or re-
turn here back unto you ; for, in good earnest, I am a very ill
footman.'
'Let it be as thou likest,' quoth Don Quixote; 'for thy de-
sign displeaseth me nothing ; and therefore I resolve that thou
shalt depart from hence after three days; for in the mean
space thou shalt behold what I will do and say for my lady's
sake, to the end thou mayst tell it to her.' 'Why,' quoth
Sancho, 'what more can I view than that which I have seen
already ?' 'Thou art altogether wide of the matter,' answered
Don Quixote ; 'for I must yet tear mine apparel, throw away
mine armour, and beat my head about these rocks, with many
other things of that kind that will strike thee into admiration.'
'Let me beseech you,' quoth Sancho, 'see well how you give
yourself those knocks about the rocks; for you might happen
upon some one so ungracious a rock, as at the first rap would
dissolve all the whole machina of your adventures and pen-
ance; and, therefore, I would be of opinion, seeing that you
do hold it necessary that some knocks be given with the head,
and that this enterprise cannot be accomplished without them,
that you content yourself, seeing that all is but feigned, coun-
terfeited, and a jest, — that you should, I say, content yourself
with striking it on the water, or on some other soft thing, as
cotton or wool, and leave to my charge the exaggeration
thereof; for I will tell to my lady that you strike your
head against the point of a rock which was harder than a
diamond.'
'I thank thee, Sancho, for thy good will,' quoth Don
Quixote; 'but I can assure thee that all these things which
I do are no jests, but very serious earnests; for otherwise we
should transgress the statutes of chivalry, which command us
not to avouch any untruth, on pain of relapse ; and to do one
thing for another is as much as to lie. So that my head-
knocks must be true, firm, and sound ones, without any so-
phistical or fantastical shadow: and it will be requisite that
you leave me some lint to cure me, seeing that fortune hath
deprived us of the balsam which we lost.' 'It was worse to
230 DON QUIXOTE
have lost the ass,' quoth Sancho, 'seeing that at once, with
him, we have lost our lint and all our other provision; and I
entreat you most earnestly not to name again that accursed
drink ; for in only hearing it mentioned, you not only turn my
guts in me, but also my soul. And I request you, moreover,
to make account that the term of three days is already ex-
pired, wherein you would have me take notice of your follies ;
for I declare them already for seen, and will tell wonders to
my lady : wherefore, go write yovir letter, and despatch me
with all haste ; for I long already to return, and take you out
of this purgatory wherein I leave you.'
'Dost thou call it a purgatory, Sancho ?' quoth Don Quixote.
'Thou hadst done better hadst thou called it hell; or rather
worse, if there be anything worse than that.' 'I call it so,'
quoth Sancho ; ' "Quia in inferno nulla est retentio," as I
have heard say.'
'I understand not,' said Don Quixote, 'what retentio mean-
eth.' 'Retentio' quoth Sancho, 'is that, whosoever is in hell,
never comes, nor can come, out of it. Which shall fall out
contrary in your person, or my feet shall go ill, if I may carry
spurs to quicken Rozinante, and that I may safely arrive be-
fore my Lady Dulcinea in Toboso ; for I will recount unto her
such strange things of your follies and madness (for they be
all one) that you have, and do daily, as I will make her as
soft as a glove, although I found her at the first harder than a
cork-tree; with whose sweet and honey answer I will return
in the air as speedily as a witch, and take you out of this
purgatory, which is no hell, although it seems one, seeing
there is hope to escape from it ; which, as I have said, they
want which are in hell ; and I believe you will not contradict
me herein.'
'Thou hast reason,' answered the Knight of the Ill-favoured
Face; 'but how shall I write the letter?' 'And the warrant
for the receipt of the colts also?' added Sancho. 'All shall
be inserted together,' quoth Don Quixote; 'and seeing we
have no paper, we may do well, imitating the ancient men of
times past, to write our mind in the leaves of trees or wax;
yet wax is as hard to be found here as paper. But, now that
I remember myself, I know where we may write our mind
well, and more than well, to wit, in Cardenio's tablets, and
PREPARATIONS FOR MADNESS 231
thou shalt have care to cause the letters to be written out
again fairly, in the first village wherein thou shalt find a
schoolmaster; or, if such a one be wanting, by the clerk of
the church ; and beware in any sort that thou give it not to a
notary or court-clerk to be copied, for they write such an en-
tangling, confounded process letter, as Satan himself would
scarce be able to read it.' 'And how shall we do for want of
your name and subscription?' quoth Sancho. 'Why,' an-
swered Don Quixote, 'Amadis was never wont to subscribe
to his letters.' 'Ay, but the warrant to receive the three asses
must forcibly be subsigned ; and if it should afterward be
copied, they would say the former is false, and so I shall rest
without my colts.' 'The warrant shall be written and firmed
with my hand in the tablets, which, as soon as my niece shall
see, she shall make no difficulty to deliver thee them. And as
concerning the love-letter, thou shalt put this subscription to
it, "Yours until death, the Knight of the Ill-favoured Face."
And it makes no matter though it be written by any stranger;
forasmuch as I can remember Dulcinea can neither write nor
read, nor hath she seen any letter, no, not so much as a char-
acter of my writing all the days of her life; for my love and
hers have been ever Platonical, never extending themselves
further than to an honest regard and view the one of the
other, and even this same so rarely, as I dare boldly swear,
that in these dozen years which I love her more dearly than
the light of these mine eyes, which the earth shall one day
devour, I have not seen her four times, and perhaps of those
same four times she hath scarce perceived once that I beheld
her — such is the care and closeness wherewithal her parents,
Lorenzo Corcuelo and her mother Aldonza Nogales, have
brought her up.' 'Ta, ta,' quoth Sancho, 'that the Lady Dul-
cinea of Toboso is Lorenzo Corcuelo his daughter, called by
another name Aldonza Lorenzo?' 'The same is she,' quoth
Don Quixote, 'and it is she that merits to be empress of the
vast universe.' 'I know her very well,' replied Sancho, 'and
I dare say that she can throw an iron bar as well as any the
strongest lad in our parish. I vow, by the giver, that 'tis a
wench of the mark, tall and stout, and so sturdy withal, that
she will bring her chin out of the mire, in despite of any
knight-errant, or that shall err, that shall honour her as his
232 DON QUIXOTE
lady. Out upon her ! what a strength and voice she hath ! I
saw her on a day stand on the top of the church-steeple, to
call certain servants of her father's, that laboured in a fallow
field; and although they were half a league from thence, they
heard her as well as if they were at the foot of the steeple.
And the best that is in her is that she is nothing coy ; for she
hath a very great smack of courtship, and plays with every
one, and gibes and jests at them all. And now I affirm, sir
Knight of the Ill-favoured Face, that not only you may and
ought to commit raving follies fos* her sake, but eke you may,
with just title, also despair and hang yourself; for none shall
hear thereof but will say you did very well, although the devil
carried you away. And fain would I be gone, if it were for
nothing else but to see her; for it is many a day since I saw
her, and I am sure she is changed by this ; for women's beauty
is much impaired by going always to the field, exposed to the
sun and weather. And I will now, sir Don Quixote, confess
a truth unto you, that I have lived until now in a marvellous
error, thinking well and faithfully that the Lady Dulcinea was
some great princess, on whom you were enamoured, or such a
person as merited those rich presents which you bestowed on
her, as well of the Biscaine as of the slaves, and many others,
that ought to be, as I suppose, correspondent to the many vic-
tories which you have gained, both now and in the time that I
was not your squire. But, pondering well the matter. I can-
not conceive why the Lady Aldonza Lorenzo — I mean the
Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, of these should care whether these
vanquished men which you send, or shall send, do go and
kneel before her; for it may befall that she, at the very time
of their arrival, be combing of flax or threshing in the barn,
whereat they would be ashamed, and she likewise laugh, and
be somewhat displeased at the present.'
'I have oft told thee, Sancho, many times, that thou art too •
great a prattler,' quoth Don Quixote, 'and although thou hast
but a gross wit, yet now and then thy frumps nip; but, to the
end thou mayst perceive the faultiness of thy brain, and my
discretion, I will tell thee a short history, which is this:
There was once a widow, fair, young, free, rich, and withal
very pleasant and jocund, that fell in love with a certain
round and well-set servant of a college. His regent came to
DON QUIXOTE'S DEFENCE 233
understand it, and therefore said on a day to the widow, by
the way of fraternal correction, "Mistress, I do greatly
marvel, and not without occasion, that a woman so principal,
so beautiful, so rich, and specially so witty, could make so ill
a choice, as to wax enamoured on so foul, so base, and foolish
a man as such a one, we having in this house so many masters
of art, graduates, and divines, amongst whom you might have
made choice as among pears, saying, I will take this, and I will
not have that." But she answered him thus, with a very
pleasant and good grace: "You are, sir, greatly deceived, if
you deem that I have made an ill choice in such a one, let
him seem never so great a fool ; for, to the purpose that I
mean to use him, he knows as much or rather more philosophy
than Aristotle." And so, Sancho, is likewise Dulcinea of
Toboso as much worth as the highest princess of the world,
for the effect I mean to use her. For all the poets which cele-
brate certain ladies at pleasure, thinkest thou that they all had
mistresses? No. Dost thou believe that the Amaryllises, the
Phyllises, Silvias, Dianas, Galateas, x^lcidas, and others such
like, wherewithal the books, ditties, barbers' shops, and thea-
tres are filled, were truly ladies of flesh and bones, and their
mistresses which have and do celebrate them thus? No, cer-
tainly; but were for the greater part feigned, to serve as a
subject of their verses, to the end the authors might be ac-
counted amorous, and men of courage enough to be such.
And thus it is also sufficient for me to believe and think that
the good Aldonza Lorenzo is fair and honest. As for her
parentage, it matters but little ; for none will send to take in-
formation thereof, to give her an habit; and I make account
of her as of the greatest princess in the world. For thou
oughtest to know, Sancho, if thou knowest it not already, that
two things alone incite men to love more than all things else,
and those be, surpassing beauty and a good name. And both
these things are found in Dulcinea in her prime ; for none can
equal her in fairness, and few come near her for a good re-
port. And, for a final conclusion, I imagine that all that which
I say is really so, without adding or taking aught away. And
I do imagine her, in my fantasy, to be such as I could wish
her as well in beauty as principality, and neither can Helen
approach, nor Lucrece come near her; no, nor any of those
234 DON QUIXOTE
other famous women, Greek, Barbarous, or Latin, of fore-
going ages. And let every one say what he pleaseth ; for
though I should be reprehended for this by the ignorant, yet
shall I not, therefore, be chastised by the more observant and
rigorous sort of men.'
'I avouch,' quoth Sancho, 'that you have great reason in all
that you say, and that I am myself a very ass — but, alas ! why
do I name an ass with my mouth, seeing one should not men-
tion a rope in one's house that was hanged? But give me the
letter, and farewell; for I will change.' With that, Don
Quixote drew out his tablets, and, going aside, began to indite
his letter with great gravity ; which ended, he called Sancho
to read it to him, to the end he might bear it away in memory,
lest by chance he did lose the tablets on the way; for such
were his cross fortunes, as made him fear every event. To
which Sancho answered, saying, 'Write it there twice or
thrice in the book, and give me it after; for I will carry it
safely, by God's grace. For to think that I will be able ever
to take it by rote is a great folly ; for my memory is so short
as I do many times forget mine own name. But yet, for all
that, read it to me, good sir; for I would be glad to hear it,
as a thing which I suppose to be as excellent as if it were
cast in a mould.' 'Hear it, then,' said Don Quixote; 'for thus
it says :
'the letter of don QUIXOTE TO DULCINEA OF TOBOSO
'Sovereign Lady, — The wounded by the point of absence,
and the hurt by the darts of thy heart, sweetest Dulcinea of
Toboso ! doth send thee that health which he wanteth himself.
If thy beauty disdain me, if thy valour turn not to my benefit,
if thy disdains convert themselves to my harm, maugre all
my patience,. I shall be ill able to sustain this care ; which, be-
sides that it is violent, is also too durable. My good squire
Sancho will give thee certain relation, O beautiful ingrate,
and my dearest beloved enemy ! of the state wherein I remain
for thy sake. If thou please to favour me, I am thine ; and if
not, do what thou likest : for, by ending of my life, I shall both
satisfy thy cruelty and my desires. — Thine until death,
'The Knight of the Ill-favoured Face.'
THE LETTER OF DULCINEA 235
'By my father's life,' quoth Sancho, when he heard the let-
ter, 'it is the highest thing that ever I heard. Good God!
how well do you say everything in it ! and how excellently
have you applied the subscription of "The Knight of the Ill-
favoured Face !" I say again, in good earnest, that you are
the devil himself, and there's nothing but you know it.' 'All
is necessary,' answered Don Quixote, 'for the office that I pro-
fess.' 'Put, then,' quoth Sancho, 'in the other side of that
leaf, the warrant of three colts, and firm it with a legible
letter that they may know it at the first sight.' 'I am pleased,'
said Don Quixote. And so, writing it, he read it after to
Sancho ; and it said thus :
'You shall please, good niece, for this first of colts, to de-
liver unto my squire Sancho Panza, three of the five that I
left at home, and are in your charge ; the which three colts
I command to be delivered to him, for as many others counted
and received here ; for with this, and his acquittance, they
shall be justly delivered. Given in the bowels of Sierra
Morena, the two-and-twentieth of August, of this present
year .'
'It goes very well,' quoth Sancho; 'subsign it, therefore, I
pray you.' 'It needs no seal,' quoth Don Quixote, 'but only
my rubric, which is as valuable as if it were subscribed not
only for three asses, but also for three hundred.' ' My trust
is in you,' answered Sancho; 'permit me, for I will go saddle
Rozinante, and prepare yourself to give me your blessing; for
I purpose presently to depart, before I see any mad prank
of yours ; for I will say that I saw you play so many, as no
more can be desired.' 'I will have thee stay, Sancho (and
that because it is requisite), at least to see me stark naked,
playing a dozen or two of raving tricks; for I will despatch
them in less than half an hour; because that thou, having
viewed them with thine own eyes, mayst safely swear all the
rest that thou pleasest to add; and I assure thee that thou
canst not tell so many as I mean to perform.' 'Let me en-
treat you, good sir, that I may not see you naked ; for it will
turn my stomach, and I shall not be able to keep myself
from weeping; and my head is yet so sore since yesternight,
236 DON QUIXOTE
through my lamentations for the loss of the grey beast, as
I am not strong enough yet to endure new plaints. But, if
your pleasure be such as I must necessarily see some follies,
do them, in Jove's name, in your clothes briefly, and such as
are most necessary; chiefly, seeing none of these things are
requisite for me. And, as I have said, we might excuse time
(that shall now be lavished in these trifles) to return speed-
ily with the news you desire and deserve so much. And if
not, let the Lady Dulcinea provide herself well; for if she
answer not according to reason, I make a solemn vow to him
that I may, that I'll make her disgorge out of her stomach a
good answer, with very kicks and fists ; for how can it be
suffered that so famous a knight-errant as yourself should
thus run out of his wits, without, nor for what, for one
Let not the gentlewoman constrain me to say the rest ; for
I will out with it, and venture all upon twelve, although it
never were sold.'
'In good faith, Sancho,' quoth Don Quixote, 'I think thou
art grown as mad as myself.' 'I am not so mad,' replied
Sancho, 'but I am more choleric. But, setting that aside, say,
what will you eat until my return? Do you mean to do as
Cardenio, and take by the highway's side perforce from the
shepherds?' 'Care thou not for that,' replied Don Quixote;
'for although I had it, yet would I not eat any other thing
than the herbs and fruits that this field and trees do yield ; for
the perfection of mine affair consists in fasting, and the ex-
ercise of other castigations.' To this Sancho replied: 'Do
you know what I fear? that I shall not find the way to you
again here where I leave you, it is so difficult and obscure.'
'Take well the marks, and I will endeavour to keep here
about,' quoth Don Quixote, 'until thou come back again ; and
will, moreover, about the time of thy return, mount to the tops
of these high rocks, to see whether thou appearest. But thou
shouldst do best of all, to the end thou mayst not stay and
miss me, to cut down here and there certain boughs, and strew
them on the way as thou goest, until thou beest out in the
plains, and those may after serve thee as bounds and marks,
by which thou mayst again find me when thou returnest, in
imitation of the clue of Theseus's labyrinth.'
'I will do so,' quoth Sancho; and then, cutting down certain
SANCHO DEPARTS 237
boughs, he demanded his lord's blessing, and departed, not
without tears on both sides. And, mounting upon Rozinante,
whom Don Quixote commended very seriously to his care,
that he should tend him as he would his own person, he made
on towards the plains, strewing here and there on the way his
branches, as his master had advised him ; and with that de-
parted, although his lord importuned him to behold two or
three follies ere he went away. But scarce had he gone a
hundred paces, when he returned and said, 'I say, sir, that
you said well that, to the end I might swear with a safe
conscience that I have seen you play these mad tricks, it were
necessary that at least I see you do one, although that of your
abode here is one great enough.'
'Did not I tell thee so?' quoth Don Quixote. 'Stay Sancho,
for I will do it in the space of a creed.' And, taking off with
all haste his hose, he remained the half of him naked, and did
instantly give two or three jerks in the air, and two tumbles
over and over on the ground, with his head downward, and
his legs aloft, where he discovered such things, as Sancho, be-
cause he would not see them again, turned the bridle and
rode away, resting contented and satisfied that he might swear
that his lord was mad. And so we will leave him travelling
on his way, until his return, which was very soon after.
CHAPTER XII
Wherein Are Prosecuted the Pranks Played by Don
Quixote in His Amorous Humours^ in the Moun-
tains OF Sierra Morena
A ND, turning to recount what the knight of the ill-fa-
L\ voured face did when he was all alone, the history
-^-*~ says that, after Don Quixote had ended his frisks and
leaps, naked from the girdle downward, and from that upward
apparelled, seeing that his squire Sancho was gone, and would
behold no more of his mad pranks, he ascended to the top
of a high rock, and began there to think on that whereon he
had thought oftentimes before, without ever making a full
resolution therein, to wit, whether were it better to imitate
Orlando in his unmeasurable furies, than Amadis in his mel-
ancholy moods : and, speaking to himself, would say, 'If Or-
lando was so valorous and good a knight as men say, what
wonder, seeing in fine he was enchanted, and could not be
slain, if it were not by clapping a pin to the sole of his foot,
and therefore did wear shoes still that had seven folds of
iron in the soles? although these his draughts stood him in
no stead at Roncesvalles against Bernardo del Carpio, which,
understanding them, pressed him to death between his arms.
But, leaving his valour apart, let us come to the losing of his
wits, which it is certain he lost through the signs he found in
the forest, and by the news that the shepherd gave unto him,
that Angelica had slept more than two noontides with the lit-
tle Moor, Medoro of the curled locks, him that was page to
King Argamante. And if he understood this, and knew his
lady had played beside the cushion, what wonder was it that
he should run mad. But how can I imitate him in his furies,
if I cannot imitate him in their occasion? for I dare swear for
my Dulcinea of Toboso, that all the days of her life she hath
not seen one Moor, even in his own attire as he is, and she
is now right as her mother bore her; and I should do her a
238
AMADIS OR ORLANDO? 239
manifest wrong, if, upon any false suspicion, I should turn
mad of that kind of folly that did distract furious Orlando.
On the other side, I see that Amadis de Gaul, without losing
his wits, or using any other raving trick, gained as great fame
of being amorous as any one else whatsoever. For that
which his history recites was none other than that, seeing
himself disdained by his lady Oriana, who had commanded
him to withdraw himself from her presence, and not appear
again in it until she pleased, he retired himself, in the com-
pany of a certain hermit, to the Poor Rock, and there cram-
med himself with weeping, until that Heaven assisted hin»
in the midst of his greatest cares and necessity. And this
being true, as it is, why should I take now the pains to strip
myself all naked, and offend these trees, which never yet did
me any harm? Nor have I any reason to trouble the clear
waters of these brooks, which must give me drink when I
am thirsty. Let the remembrance of Amadis live, and be imi-
tated in everything as much as may be, by Don Quixote of the
Mancha ; of whom may be said what was said of the other,
that though he achieved not great things, yet did he die in
their pursuit. And though I am not contemned or disdained
by my Dulcinea, yet it is sufficient, as I have said already, that
I be absent from her; therefore, hands to your task; and, ye
famous actions of Amadis, occur to my remembrance, and
instruct me where I may best begin to imitate you. Yet I
know already, that the greatest thing he did use was prayer,
and so will I.' And, saying so, he made him a pair of beads
of great galls, and was very much vexed in mind for want of
an Eremite, who might hear his confession and comfort him
in his afflictions ; and therefore did entertain himself walking
up and down the little green field, writing and graving in
the rinds of trees, and on the smooth sands, many verses, all
accommodated to his sadness, and some of them in the praise
of Dulcinea; but those that were found thoroughly finished,
and were legible after his own finding again in that place,
were only these ensuing:
'O ye plants, ye herbs, and ye trees,
That flourish in this pleasant site.
In lofty and verdant degrees,
If my harms do you not delight.
240 DON QUIXOTE
Hear my holy plaints, which are these.
And let not my grief you molest,
Though it ever so feelingly went,
Since here for to pay your rest,
Don Quixote his tears hath addrest,
Dulcinea's want to lament
Of Toboso.
'In this very place was first spied
The loyallest lover and true,
Who himself from his lady did hide ;
But yet felt his sorrows anew.
Not knowing whence they might proceed.
Love doth him cruelly wrest
With a passion of evil descent
Which robb'd Don Quixote of rest.
Till a pipe with tears was full prest,
Dulcinea's want to lament
Of Toboso.
'He, searching adventures, blind,
Among these dearn woods and rocks,
Still curseth on pitiless mind ;
For a wretch amidst bushy locks
And crags may misfortunes find.
Love with his whip, wounded his breast.
And not with soft hands him pent,
And when he his noddle had prest,
Don Quixote his tears did forth wrest,
Dulcinea's want to lament
Of Toboso.'
The addition of Toboso to the name of Dulcinea did
not cause small laughter in those which found the verses
recited; because they imagined that Don Quixote conceived
that if, in the naming of Dulcinea, he did not also add that
of Toboso, he rime could not be understood; and in truth
it was so, as he himself did afterward confess. He com-
posed many others ; but, as we have related, none could be
well copied or found entire, but these three stanzas. In
this, and in sighing, and invoking the fauns and sylvans of
these woods, and the nymphs of the adjoining streams,
with the dolorous and hollow echo, that it would answer
and they comfort and listen unto him, and in the search
of some herbs to sustain his languishing forces, he enter-
SANCHO'S EMBASSAGE 241
tained himself all the time of Sancho his absence ; who, had
he stayed three weeks away, as he did but three days, the
Knight of the Ill-favoured Face should have remained so
disfigured as the very mother that bore him would not have
known him.
But now it is congruent that, leaving him swallowed in
the gulfs of sorrow and versifying, we turn and recount
what happened to Sancho Panza in his embassage ; which
was that, issuing out to the highway, he presently took
that which led towards Toboso, and arrived the next day
following to the inn where the disgrace of the coverlet
befel him ; and scarce had he well espied it, but presently
he imagined that he was once again flying in the air ; and
therefore would not enter into it, although his arrival was
at such an hour as he both might and ought to have stayed,
being dinner-time, and he himself likewise possessed with
a marvellous longing to taste some warm meat — for many
days past he had fed altogether on cold viands. This de-
sire enforced him to approach to the inn, remaining still
doubtful, notwithstanding, whether he should enter into it
or no. And as he stood thus suspended, there issued out
of the inn two persons which presently knew him, and the
one said to the other, 'Tell me, master licentiate, is not
that horseman that rides there Sancho Panza, he whom our
adventurer's old woman said departed with her master for
his squire?' Tt is,' quoth the licentiate, 'and that is our
Don Quixote his horse.' And they knew him so well, as
those that were the curate and barber of his own village,
and were those that made the search and formal process
against the books of chivalry; and therefore, as soon as
they had taken full notice of Sancho Panza and Rozinante,
desirous to learn news of Don Quixote, they drew near
unto him ; and the curate called him by his name, saying,
'Friend Sancho Panza, where is your master?' Sancho
Panza knew them instantly, and, desirous to conceal the
place and manner wherein his lord remained, did answer
them, that his master was in a certain place, withheld by
affairs for a few days, fhat were of great consequence, and
concerned him very much, and that he durst not, for both
his eyes, discover the place to them. 'No, no/ quoth the
242 DON QUIXOTE
barber, 'Sancho Panza, if thou dost not tell us where he
sojourneth, we must imagine (as we do already) that thou
hast robbed and slain him, specially seeing thou comest thus
on his horse ; and therefore thou must, in good faith, get
us the horse's owner, or else stand to thine answer.' 'Your
threats fear me nothing,' quoth Sancho; 'for I am not a
man that robs or murders any one. Every man is slain
by his destiny, or by God that made him. My lord remains
doing of penance in the midst of this mountain, with very
great pleasure.' And then he presently recounted unto
them, from the beginning to the end, the fashion wherein
he had left him, the adventures which had befallen, and
how he carried a letter to the Lady Dulcinea of Toboso,
who was Lorenzo Corcuelo his daughter, of whom his lord
was enamoured up to the livers.
Both of them stood greatly admired at Sancho's relation ;
and although they knew Don Quixote's madness already,
and the kind thereof, yet as often as they heard speak
thereof, they rested newly amazed. They requested San-
cho to show them the letter that he carried to the Lady
Dulcinea of Toboso. He told them that it was written in
tablets, and that he had express order from his lord to
have it fairly copied out in paper, at the first village where-
unto he should arrive. To which the curate answered,
bidding show it unto him, and he would write out the copy
very fairly.
Then Sancho thrust his hand into his bosom, and searched
the little book, but could not find it, nor should not, though
he had searched till Doomsday; for it was in Don Quix-
ote's power, who gave it not to him, nor did he ever re-
member to demand it. When Sancho perceived that the
book was lost, he waxed as wan and pale as a dead man,
and, turning again very speedily to feel all the parts of his
body, he saw clearly that it could not be found ; and there-
fore, without making any more ado, he laid hold on his own
beard with both his fists, and drew almost the one half
of the hair away, and afterward bestowed on his face and
nose, in a memento, half a dozen such cuffs as he bathed
them all in blood; which the curate and barber beholding,
they asked him what had befallen him, that he entreated
THE LOST TABLETS 243
himself so ill. 'What should befall me/ answered Sancho,
'but that I have lost at one hand, and in an instant, three
colts, whereof the least was like a castle?' 'How so,' quoth
the barber. 'Marry,' said Sancho, 'I have lost the tablets
wherein were written Dulcinea's letter, and a schedule of
my lord's, addressed to his niece, wherein he commanded
her to deliver unto me three colts, of four or five that re-
mained in his house.' And, saying so, he recounted the
loss of his grey ass. The curate comforted him, and said
that, as soon as his lord were found, he would deal with
him to renew his grant, and write it in paper, according
to the common use and practice, forasmuch as those which
were written in tablets were of no value, and would never
be accepted nor accomplished.
With this Sancho took courage, and said, if that was so,
he cared not much for the loss of Dulcinea's letter; for he
knew it almost all by rote. 'Say it, then, Sancho,' quoth
the barber, 'and we will after write it.' Then Sancho stood
still and began to scratch his head, to call the letter to mem-
ory ; and now would he stand upon one leg, and now upon
another. Sometimes he looked on the earth, other whiles
upon heaven ; and after he had gnawed off almost the half
of one of his nails, and held them all the while suspended,
expecting his recital thereof, he said, after a long pause :
'On my soul, master licentiate, I give to the devil anything
that I can remember of that letter, although the beginning
was this : "High and unsavoury lady." ' T warrant you,'
quoth the barber, 'he said not but "superhuman" or "sov-
ereign lady." '
'It is so,' quoth Sancho, 'and presently followed, if I
well remember: "He that is wounded and wants sleep,
and the hurt man doth kiss your worship's hands, ingrate
and very scornful fair" ; and thus he went roving until he
ended in, "Yours until death, the Knight of the Ill-favoured
Face." ' Both of them took great delight to see Sancho's
good memory, and praised it to him very much, and re-
quested him to repeat the letter once or twice more to them,
that they might also bear it in memory, to write it at the
due season. Sancho turned to recite it again and again,
and at every repetition said other three thousand errors.
244 DON QUIXOTE
And after this he told other things of his lord, but spoke
not a word of his own tossing in a coverlet, which had be-
fallen him in that inn into which he refused to enter. He
added besides, how his lord, in bringing him a good de-
spatch from his Lady Dulcinea of Toboso, would forthwith
set out to endeavour how he might become an emperor,
or at the least a monarch ; for they had so agreed between
themselves both, and it was a very easy matter for him to
become one, such was the valour of his person and strength
of his arm; and that when he were one, he would procure
him a good marriage; for by that time he should be a wid-
ower at the least; and he would wive him one of the em-
peror's ladies to wife, that were an inheritrix of some great
and rich state on the firm land, for now he would have
no more islands. And all this was related so seriously
by Sancho, and so in his perfect sense, he scratching his
nose ever and anon as he spoke, so as the two were stricken
into a new amazement, pondering the vehemence of Don
Quixote's frenzy, which carried quite away with it in that
sort the judgment of that poor man, but would not labour
to dispossess him of that error, because it seemed to them
that, since it did not hurt his conscience it was better to
leave him in it, that the recital of his follies might turn to
their greater recreation : and therefore exhorted him to pray
for the health of his lord ; for it was a very possible and
contingent thing to arrive in the process of time to the dig-
nity of an emperor, as he said, or at least to that of an arch-
bishop, or other calling equivalent to it.
Then Sancho demanded of them, 'Sirs, if fortune should
turn our affairs to another course, in such sort as my lord,
abandoning the purpose to purchase an empire, would take
in his head that of becoming a cardinal, I would fain learn
of you here, what cardinals-errant are wont to give to their
squires?' 'They are wont to give them,' quoth the curate,
'some simple benefice, or some parsonage, or to make them
clerks or sextons, or vergers of some church, whose living
amounts to a good penny-rent, beside the profit of the altar,
which is ofttimes as much more.' 'For that it is requisite,'
quoth Sancho, 'that the squire be not married, and that he
know how to help mass at least; and if that be so, unfor-
SANCHO AND THE CURATE 245
tunate I ! that both am married, and knows not besides the
first letter of the ABC, what will then become of me, if
my master take the humour to be an archbishop, and not
an emperor, as is the custom and use of knights-errant?'
'Do not afiflict thy mind for that, friend Sancho,' quoth the
barber; 'for we will deal with thy lord here, and we will
counsel him, yea, we will urge it to him as a matter of con-
science, that he become an emperor, and not an archbishop;
for it will be more easy for him to be such a one, by reason
that he is more valorous than learned.'
'So methinks,' quoth Sancho, 'although I know he hath
ability enough for all. That which I mean to do for my
part is, I will pray unto our Lord to conduct him to that
place wherein he may serve Him best, and give me great-
est rewards.' 'Thou speakest like a discreet man,' quoth
the curate, 'and thou shalt do therein the duty of a good
Christian. But that which we must endeavour now is, to
devise how we may win thy lord from prosecuting that
unprofitable penance he hath in hand, as thou sayst; and to
the end we may think on the manner how, and eat our
dinner withal, seeing it is time, let us all enter into the
inn.' Sancho bade them go in, and he would stay for them
at the door, and that he would after tell them the reason
why he had no mind to enter, neither was it in any sort
convenient that he should; but he entreated them to bring
him somewhat forth to eat that were warm, and some pro-
vand for Rozinante. With that they departed into the lodg-
ing, and within a while after the barber brought forth unto
him some meat. And the curate and the barber, after hav-
ing pondered well with themselves what course they were
to take to attain their design, the curate fell on a device
very fit both for Don Quixote's humour, and also to bring
their purpose to pass ; and was. as he told the barber, that
he had bethought him to apparel himself like a lady ad-
venturess, and that he therefore should do the best that
he could to fit himself like a squire, and that they would
go in that habit to the place where Don Quixote sojourned,
feigning that he was an afflicted and distressed damsel,
and would demand a boon of him, which he, as a valorous
knight-errant, would in no wise deny her, and that the gift
246 DON QUIXOTE
which he meant to desire, was to entreat him to follow her
where she would carry him, to right a wrong which a
naughty knight had done unto her; and that she would be-
sides pray him not to command her to unmask herself, or
inquire anything of her estate, until he had done her right
against that bad knight. And by this means he certainly
hoped that Don Quixote would grant all that he requested
in this manner. And in this sort they would fetch him
from thence and bring him to his village, where they would
labour with all their power to see whether his extravagant
frenzy could be recovered by any remedy.
CHAPTER XIII
How THE Curate and the Barber Put Their Design in
Practice, with Many Other Things Worthy to Be
Recorded in This Famous History
THE curate's invention disliked not the barber, but rather
pleased him so well as they presently put it in execu-
tion. They borrowed, therefore, of the innkeeper's wife
a gown and a kerchief, leaving her in pawn thereof a fair
new cassock of the curate's. The barber made him a great
beard of a pied ox's tail, wherein the innkeeper was wont to
hang his horse's comb. The hostess demanded of them the
occasion why they would use these things. The curate re-
counted in brief, reasons of Don Quixote's madness, and how
that disguisement was requisite to bring him away from the
mountain wherein at that present he made his abode.
Presently the innkeeper and his wife remembered them-
selves how he had been their guest, and of his balsam, and
was the tossed squire's lord ; and then they rehearsed again to
to the curate all that had passed between him and them in
that inn, without omitting the accident that had befallen
Sancho himself; and in conclusion the hostess tricked up the
curate so handsomely as there could be no more desired ; for
she attired him in a gown of broadcloth, laid over with guards
of black velvet, each being a span breadth, full of gashes and
cuts; the bodice and sleeves of green velvet, welted with white
satin; which gown and doublet, as I suspect, were both made
in the time of King Bamba. The curate would not permit
them to veil and bekerchief him, but set on his head a white
quilted linen nightcap, which he carried for the night, and
girded his forehead with a black taffeta garter, and with the
other he masked his face, wherewithal he covered his beard
and visage very neatly ; then did he encasque his pate in his
hat, which was so broad, as it might serve him excellently for
247
248 DON QUIXOTE
a quitasol; and lapping himself up handsomely in his long
cloak, he went to horse, and rode as women use. Then
mounted the barber likewise on his mule, with his beard hang-
ing down to the girdle, half red and half white, as that
which, as we have said, was made of the tail of a pied-col-
oured ox; then taking leave of them all, and of the good
Maritornes, who promised (although a sinner) to say a ro-
sary to their intention, to the end that God might give them
good success in so Christian and difficult an adventure as
that which they undertook. But scarce were they gone out of
the inn, when the curate began to dread a little that he had
done ill in apparelling himself in that wise, accounting it a
very indecent thing that a priest should dight himself so,
although the matter concerned him never so much. And ac-
quainting the barber with his surmise, he entreated him that
they might change attires, seeing it was much more just that
he, because a layman, should feign the oppressed lady, and
himself would become his squire, for so his dignity would be
less profaned; to which, if he would not condescend, he re-
solved to pass on no farther, although the devil should carry
therefore Don Quixote away. Sancho came over to them
about this season, and seeing them in that habit, he could
not contain his laughter. The barber (to be brief) did all
that which the curate pleased, and making thus an exchange
of inventions, the curate instructed him how he should be-
have himself, and what words he should use to Don Quixote
to press and m.ove him to come away with him, and forsake
the propension and love of that place which he had chosen
to perform his vain penance.
The barber answered, that he would set everything in his
due point and perfection, though he had never lessoned him,
but would not set on the array until they came near to the
place where Don Quixote abode ; and therefore folded up his
clothes, and master parson his beard, and forthwith went on
their way ; Sancho Panza playing the guide, who recounted at
large to them all that had happened with the madman whom
they found in the mountain ; concealing, notwithstanding, the
booty of the malet, with the other things found therein ; for,
although otherwise most simple, yet was our yotmg man an
ordinary vice of fools, and had a spice of covetousness.
SANCHO RETURNS 249
They arrived the next day following to the place where
Sancho had left the tokens of boughs, to find that wherein his
master sojourned; and having taken notice thereof, he said
unto them that that was the entry, and therefore they might
do well to apparel themselves, if by change that might be a
mean to procure his lord's liberty ; for they had told him al-
ready, that on their going and apparelling in that manner con-
sisted wholly the hope of freeing his lord out of that wretched
life he had chosen; and therefore did charge him, on his
life, not to reveal to his lord in any case what they were, nor
seem in any sort to know them; and that if he demanded (as
they were sure he would) whether he had delivered his let-
ter to Dulcinea, he should say he did, and that by reason she
could not read, she answered him by word of mouth, saying
that she commanded, under pain of her indignation, that pres-
ently abandoning so austere a life, he would come and see
her; for this was most requisite, to the end that moved there-
withal, and by what they meant likewise to say unto him, they
made certain account to reduce him to a better life, and would
besides persuade him to that course instantly, which might
set him in the way to become an emperor or monarch ; for as
concerning the being an archbishop, he needed not to fear it
at all.
Sancho listened to all the talk and instruction, and bore
them away well in memory, and gave them great thanks for
the intention they had to counsel his lord to become an em-
peror, and not an archbishop ; for, as he said, he imagined in
his simple judgment, that an emperor was of more ability to
reward his squire than an archbishop-errant. He likewise
added, that he thought it were necessary he went somewhat
before them to search him, and deliver his lady's answer ; for
perhaps it alone would be sufficient to fetch him out of that
place, without putting them to any further pains. They liked
of Sancho Panza's device, and therefore determined to ex-
pect him until his return with the news of finding his master.
With that Sancho entered in by the clefts of the rocks (leav-
ing them both behind together), by which ran a little smooth
' stream, to which other rocks, and some trees that grew near
unto it, made a fresh and pleasing shadow. The heats, and
the day wherein they arrived there, was one of those of the
250 DON QUIXOTE
month of August, when in those places the heat is intolerable ;
the hour, about three in the afternoon : all which did render
the place more grateful, and invited them to remain therein
until Sancho's return. Both, therefore, resting there quietly
under the shadow, there arrived to their hearing the sound of
a voice, which, without being accompanied by any instru-
ment, did resound so sweet and melodiously, as they remained
greatly admired, because they esteemed not that to be a place
wherein any so good a musician might make his abode ; for,
although it is usually said that in the woods and fields are
found shepherds of excellent voices, yet is this rather a poet-
ical endearment than an approved truth ; and most of all
when they perceived that the verses they heard him singing
were not of rustic composition, but rather of delicate and
courtly invention. The truth whereof is confirmed by the
verses, which were these :
'Who doth my weal diminish thus and stain?
Disdain.
And say by whom my woes augmented be?
By jealousy.
And who my patience doth by trial wrong?
An absence long.
If that be so, then for my grievous wrong,
No remedy at all I may obtain,
Since by best hopes I cruelly find slain
By disdain, jealousy, and absence long.
'Who in my mind those dolors still doth move?
Dire love.
And who my glory's ebb doth most importune?
Fortune.
And to my plaints by whom increase is giv'n?
By Heav'n.
If that be so, then my mistrust jumps ev'n,
That of my wondrous evil I needs must die ;
Since in my harm join'd and united be,
Love, wavering fortune, and a rigorous Heaven.
'Who better hap can unto me bequeath ?
Death.
From whom his favours doth not love estrange ?
From change.
And his too serious harms, who cureth wholly?
Folly.
A HIDDEN SINGER 251
If that be so, it is no wisdom truly.
To think by human means to cure that care,
Where the only antidotes and med'cines are
Desired death, light change, and endless folly.'
The hour, the time, the solitariness of the place, voice,
and art of him that sung, struck wonder and delight in
the hearers' minds, which remained still quiet, listening
whether they might hear anything else; but, perceiving that
the silence continued a pretty while, they agreed to issue
and seek out the musician that sung so harmoniously ; and
being ready to put their resolution in practice, they were
again arrested by the same voice, the which touched their
ears anew with this sonnet:
A Sonnet.
'Holy amity ! which, with nimble wings.
Thy semblance leaving here on earth behind.
Among the blessed souls ot heaven, up-flings.
To those imperial rooms to cheer thy mind :
And thence to us, is (when thou lik'st) assign'd
Just Peace, whom shady veil so covered brings ;
As oft, instead of her, Deceit we find
Clad in weeds of good and virtuous things.
Leave heaven, O amity ! do not permit
Foul Fraud thus openly thy robes to invest ;
With which, sincere intents destroy does it :
For if thy likeness from it thou dost not wrest.
The world will turn to the first conflict soon.
Of discord, chaos, and confusion.'
The song was concluded with a profound sigh, and both
the others lent attentive ear to hear if he would sing any
more ; but perceiving that the music was converted into
throbs and doleful plaints, they resolved to go and learn
who was the wretch, as excellent for his voice as dolorous
in his sighs. And after they had gone a little, at the doub-
ling of the point of a crag, they perceived one of the very
same form and fashion that Sancho had painted unto them
when he told them the history of Cardenio ; which man es-
pying them likewise, showed no semblance of fear, but stood
still with his head hanging on his breast like a malcontent,
252 DON QUIXOTE
not once lifting up his eyes to behold them from the first
time when they unexpectedly arrived.
The curate, who was a man very well spoken (as one
that had already intelligence of his misfortune; for he knew
him by his signs), drew nearer to him, and prayed and
persuaded him, with short but very forcible reasons, to
forsake that miserable life, lest he should there eternally
lose it, which of all miseries would prove the most miser-
able. Cardenio at this season was in his right sense, free
from the furious accident that distracted him so often ; and
therefore, viewing them both attired in so strange and un-
usual a fashion from that which was used among those
deserts, he rested somewhat admired, but chiefly hearing
them speak in his affair, as in a matter known (for so much
he gathered out of the curate's speeches) ; and therefore
answered in this manner: 'I perceive well, good sirs (who-
soever you be), that Heaven, which hath always care to
succour good men ; yea, even, and the wicked many times,
hath, without any desert, addressed unto me by these des-
erts and places so remote from the vulgar haunt, persons
which, laying before mine eyes with quick and pregnant
reasons the little I have to lead this kind of life, do labour
to remove me from this place to a better; and by reason
they know not as much as I do, and that after escaping
this harm I shall fall into a far greater, they account me
perhaps for a man of weak discourse, and what is worse,
for one wholly devoid of judgment. And were it so, yet is
it no marvel; for it seems to me that the force of the im-
agination of my disasters is so bent and powerful in my
destruction, that I, without being able to make it any re-
sistance, do become like a stone, void of all good feeling
and knowledge. And I come to know the certainty of this
truth when some men do recount and show unto me tokens
of the things I have done whilst this terrible accident
overrules me; and after I can do no more than be grieved,
though in vain, and curse, without benefit, my too froward
fortune, and render as an excuse of my madness the rela-
tion of the cause thereof to as many as please to hear it;
for wise men perceiving the cause will not wonder at the
effects, and though they give me no remedy, yet at least
CARDEXIO AND THE CURATE 253
will not condemn me ; for it will convert the anger they
conceive at my misrules into compassion for my disgraces.
And, sirs, if by chance it be so that you come with the
same intention that others did, I request you, ere you en-
large further your discreet persuasions, that you will give
ear awhile to the relation of my mishaps ; for perhaps, when
you have understood it, you may save the labour that you
would take, comforting an evil wholly incapable of con-
solation.'
Both of them, which desired nothing so much [as] to
understand from his own mouth the occasion of his harms,
did entreat him to relate it, promising to do nothing else in
his remedy or comfort but what himself pleased. And with
this the sorrowful gentleman began his doleful history,
with the very same words almost that he had rehearsed it
to Don Quixote and the goatherd a few days past, when, by
occasion of Master Elisabat and Don Quixote's curiosity in
observing the decorum of chivalry, the tale remained im-
perfect, as our history left it above. But now good for-
tune so disposed things, that his foolish fit came not upon
him, but gave him leisure to continue his story to the end;
and so arriving to the passage that spoke of the letter Don
Fernando found in the book of Amadis de Gaul, Cardenio
said that he had it very well in memory, and the sense
was this :
* "lucinda to cardenio.
' "I discover daily in thee worths that oblige and enforce
me to hold thee dear; and therefore, if thou desirest to
have me discharge this debt, without serving a writ on my
honour, thou mayst easily do it. I have a father that
knows thee, and loves me likewise well, who, without forc-
ing my will, will accomplish that which justly thou ought-
est to have, if it be so that thou esteemest me as much as
thou sayst, and I do believe."
'This letter moved me to demand Lucinda of her father
for my wife, as I have already recounted; and by it also
Lucinda remained in Don Fernando's opinion crowned for
one of the most discreet women of her time. And thir.
254 DOy QUIXOTE
billet letter was that which first put him in mind to destroy
me ere I could effect my desires. I told to Don Fernando
wherein consisted all the difficulty of her father's protract-
ing of the marriage, to wit, in that my father should first
demand her; the which I dared not to mention unto hinx
fearing lest he would not willingly consent thereunto; noi.
for that the quality, bounty, virtue, and beauty of Lucinda
were to him unknown, or that she had not parts in her
able to ennoble and adorn any other lineage of Spain what-
soever, but because I understood by him, that he desired
not to marry me until he had seen what Duke Ricardo
would do for me. Finally, I told him that I dared not re-
veal it to my father, as well for that inconvenience, as for
many others that made me so afraid, without knowing what
they were, as methought my desires would never take effect.
*To all this Don Fernando made me answer, that he
would take upon him to speak to my father, and persuade
him to treat of that affair also with Lucinda's. O ambitious
Marius ! O cruel Catiline ! O facinorous Sylla ! O treach-
erous Galalon ! O traitorous Vellido ! O revengeful Ju-
lian ! O covetous Judas ! Traitor, cruel, revengeful, and
cozening, what indeserts did this wench commit, who with
such plaints discovered to thee the secrets and delights of
her heart? What offence committed I against thee?
What words did I speak, or counsel did I give, that were
not all addressed to the increasing of thine honour and
profit? But on what do I (the worst of all wretches!)
complain? seeing that when the current of the stars doth
bring with it mishaps, by reason they come down precipi-
tately from above, there is no earthly force can withhold,
or human industry prevent or evacuate them. Who would
have imagined that Don Fernando, a noble gentleman, dis-
creet, obliged by my deserts, and powerful to obtain what-
soever the amorous desire would exact of him, where and
whensoever it seized on his heart, would (as they say)
become so corrupt as to deprive me of one only sheep,
which yet I did not possess? But let these considera-
tions be laid apart as unprofitable, that we may knit up
again the broken thread of my unfortunate history. And
therefore I say that, Don Fernando believing that my pres-
CARDENIO'S STORY 255
ence was a hindrance to put his treacherous and wicked
design in execution, he resolved to send me to his eldest
brother, under pretext to get some money of him for to
buy six great horses, that he had of purpose, and only to
the end I might absent myself, bought the very same day
that he offered to speak himself to my father, and would
have me go for the money, because he might bring his
treacherous intent the better to pass. Could I prevent this
treason? Or could I perhaps but once imagine it? No,
truly; but rather, glad for the good merchandise he had
made, did make proffer of myself to depart for the money
very v^allingly. I spoke that night to Lucinda, and ac-
quainted her with the agreement passed between me and
Don Fernando, bidding her to hope firmly that our good
just desires would sort a wished and happy end. She an-
swered me again (as little suspecting Don Fernando's trea-
son as myself), bidding me to return with all speed, because
she believed that the conclusion of our affections should
be no longer deferred than my father deferred to speak
unto hers. And what was the cause I know not, but as
soon as she had said this unto me, her eyes were filled with
tears, and somewhat thwarting her throat, hindered her
from saying many other things, which methought she
strived to speak.
'I rested admired at this new accident, until that time
never seen in her; for always, as many times as my good
fortune and diligence granted it, we conversed with all
sport and delight, without ever intermeddling in our dis-
courses any tears, sighs, complaints, suspicions, or fears.
All my speech was to advance my fortune for having re-
ceived her from Heaven as my lady and mistress ; then
would I amplify her beauty, admire her worth, and praise
her discretion. She, on the other side, would return me
the exchange, extolling in me what she, as one enamoured,
accounted worthy of laud and commendation. After this
we would recount a hundred thousand toys and chances
befallen our neighbours and acquaintance ; and that to
which my presumption dared furthest to extend itself, was
sometimes to take her beautiful and ivory hands perforce,
and kiss them as well as I might, through the rigorous
256 DON QUIXOTE
strictness of a niggardly iron grate which divided us. But
the precedent night to the day of my sad departure, she
wept, sobbed, and sighed, and departed, leaving me full of
confusion and inward assaults, amazed to behold such new
and doleful tokens of sorrow and feeling in Lucinda. But
because I would not murder my hopes, I did attribute all
these things to the force of her affection towards me, and
to the grief which absence is wont to stir in those that love
one another dearly. To be brief, I departed from thence
sorrowful and pensive, my soul being full of imaginations
and suspicions, and yet knew not what I suspected or im-
agined : clear tokens, foretelling the sad success and mis-
fortune which attended me. I arrived to the place where
I was sent, and delivered my letter to Don Fernando's
brother, and was well entertained, but not well despatched;
for he commanded me to expect (a thing to me most dis-
pleasing) eight days, and that out of the duke his father's
presence, because his brother had written unto him to send
him certain moneys unknown to his father. And all this
was but false Don Fernando's invention ; for his brother
wanted not money wherewithal to have despatched me
presently, had not he written the contrary.
'This was so displeasing a commandment and order, as
almost it brought me to terms of disobeying it, because it
seemed to me a thing most impossible to sustain my life so
many days in the absence of my Lucinda, and specially
having left her so sorrowful as I have recounted ; yet,
notwithstanding, I did obey like a good servant, although
I knew it would be with the cost of my health. But on
the fourth day after I had arrived, there came a man in my
search with a letter, which he delivered unto me, and by
the endorsement I knew it to be Lucinda's ; for the hand
was like hers. I opened it (not without fear and assail-
ment of my senses), knowing that it must have been some
serious occasion which could move her to write unto me,
being absent, seeing she did it so rarely even when I was
present. I demanded of the bearer, before I read, who
had delivered it to him, and what time he had spent in the
way. He answered me, "that passing by chance at mid-
day through a street of the city, a very beautiful lady did
CARDENIO'S STORY 257
call him from a certain window. Her eyes were all be-
blubbered with tears, and said unto him very hastily,
'Brother, if thou beest a Christian, as thou appearest to be
one, I pray thee, for God's sake, that thou do forthwith
address this letter to the place and person that the super-
scription assigneth (for they be well known), and therein
thou shalt do our Lord great service ; and because thou
mayst not want means to do it, take what thou shalt find
wrapped in that handkerchief.' And, saying so, she threw
out of the window a handkerchief, wherein were lapped up
a hundred reals, this ring of gold which I carry here, and
that letter which I delivered unto you ; and presently, with-
out expecting mine answer, she departed, but first saw me
take up the handkerchief and letter, and then I made her
signs that I would accomplish herein her command. And
after, perceiving the pains I might take in bringing you it
so well considered, and seeing by the endorsement that
you were the man to whom it was addressed, — for, sir, I
know you very well, — and also obliged to do it by the
tears of that beautiful lady, I determined not to trust any
other with it, but to come and bring it you myself in per-
son ; and in sixteen hours since it was given unto me, I
have travelled the journey you know, which is at least
eighteen leagues long." Whilst the thankful new mes-
senger spake thus unto me, I remained in a manner hang-
ing on his words, and my thighs did tremble in such man-
ner as I could very hardly sustain myself on foot; yet,
taking courage, at last I opened the letter, whereof these
were the contents:
' "The word that Don Fernando hath passed unto you to
speak to your father, that he might speak to mine, he hath
accomplished more to his own pleasure than to your profit.
For, sir, you shall understand that he hath demanded me
for his wife ; and my father (borne away by the advan-
tage of worths which he supposes to be in Don Fernando
more than in you) hath agreed to his demand in so good
earnest, as the espousals shall be celebrated within these
two days, and that so secretly and alone as only the heav-
ens and some folk of the house shall be witnesses. How
258 DON QUIXOTE
I remain, imagine, and whether it be convenient you should
return, you may consider; and the success of this affair
shall let you to perceive whether I love you well or no.
I beseech Almighty God that this may arrive unto your
hands before mine shall be in danger to join itself with his,
which keepeth his promised faith so ill."
'These were, in sum, the contents of the letter, and the
motives that persuaded me presently to depart, without
attending any other answer or other moneys; for then I
conceived clearly that it was not the buyal of the horses,
but that of his delights, which had moved Don Fernando
to send me to his brother. The rage which I conceived
against him, joined with the fear to lose the jewel which
I had gained by so many years' service and desires, did set
wings on me, for I arrived as I had flown next day at
mine own city, in the hour and moment fit to go speak to
Lucinda. I entered secretly, and left my mule whereon I
rode in the honest man's house that had brought me the
letter, and my fortune purposing then to be favourable to
me, disposed so mine aft'airs, that I found Lucinda sitting
at that iron grate which was the sole witness of our loves.
Lucinda knew me straight and I her, but not as we ought
to know one another. But who is he in the world that
can truly vaunt that he hath penetrated and thoroughly
exhausted the confused thoughts and mutable nature of
women? Truly none. I say, then, to proceed with my
tale, that as soon as Lucinda perceived me, she said, "Car-
denio, I am attired with my wedding garments, and in the
hall doth wait for me the traitor Don Fernando, and my
covetous father, with other witnesses, which shall rather
be such of my death than of mine espousals. Be not
troubled, dear friend, but procure to be present at this
sacrifice, the which if I cannot hinder by my persuasions
and reasons, I carry hidden about me a poniard secretly,
which may hinder more resolute forces by giving end to
my life, and a beginning to thee, to know certain the af-
fection which I have ever borne and do bear unto thee."
I answered her troubled and hastily, fearing I should not
have the leisure to reply unto her, saying, "Sweet lady, let
CARDENIO'S STORY 2S9
thy works verify thy words; for if thou carriest a poniard
to defend thy credit, I do here Hkewise bear a sword
wherewithal I will defend thee, or kill myself, if fortune
prove adverse and contrary." I believe that she could
not hear all my words, by reason she was called hastily
away, as I perceived, for that the bridegroom expected her
coming. By this the night of my sorrows did thoroughly
fall, and the sun of my gladness was set, and I remained
without light in mine eyes or discourse in my understand-
ing. I could not find the way into her house, nor could
I move myself to any part ; yet, considering at last how
important my presence was for that which might befall in
that adventure, I animated myself the best I could, and
entered into the house; and as one that knew very well
all the entries and passages thereof, and specially by reason
of the trouble and business that was then in hand, I went
in unperceived of any. And thus, without being seen, I had
the opportunity to place myself in the hollow room of a
window of the same hall, which was covered by the ends
of two encountering pieces of tapestry, from whence I
could see all that was done in the hall, remaining myself
unviewed of any. Who could now describe the assaults
and surprisals of my heart while I there abode? the
thoughts which encountered my mind? the considerations
which I had? which were so many and such, as they can
neither be said, nor is it reason they should. Let it suffice
you to know that the bridegroom entered into the hall
without any ornament, wearing the ordinary array he was
wont, and was accompanied by a cousin-german of Lu-
cinda's, and in all the hall there was no stranger present,
nor any other than the household servants. Within a while
after, Lucinda came out of the parlour, accompanied by
her mother and two waiting-maids of her own, as richly
attired and decked as her calling and beauty deserved, and
the perfection of courtly pomp and bravery could afford.
My distraction and trouble of mind lent me no time to note
particularly the apparel she wore, and therefore did only
mark the colours, which- were carnation and white ; and
the splendour which the precious stones and jewels of her
tires and all the rest of her garments yielded; yet did the
Hc XIV — y
260 DON QUIXOTE
singular beauty of her fair and golden tresses surpass
them so much, as being in competency with the precious
stones, and flame of four links that lighted in the hall, yet
did the splendour thereof seem far more bright and glo-
rious to mine eyes. O memory ! the mortal enemy of mine
ease, to what end serves it now to represent unto me the
incomparable beauty of that my adored enemy? Were it
not better, cruel memory ! to remember and represent that
which she did then, that, being moved by so manifest a
wrong, I may at least endeavour to lose my life, since I
cannot procure a revenge? Tire not, good sirs, to hear
the digressions I make; for my grief is not of that kind
that may be rehearsed succinctly and speedily, seeing that
in mine opinion every passage of it is worthy of a large
discourse.'
To this the curate answered, that not only they were
not tired or wearied hearing of him, but rather they re-
ceived marvellous delight to hear him recount each minuity
and circumstance, because they were such as deserved not
to be passed over in silence, but rather merited as much
attention as the principal parts of the history.
'You shall then wit,' quoth Cardenio, 'that as they thus
stood in the hall, the curate of the parish entered, and,
taking them both by the hand to do that which in such an
act is required at the saying of, "Will you. Lady Lucinda,
take the Lord Don Fernando, who is here present, for
your lawful spouse, according as our holy mother of the
Church commands?" I thrust out all my head and neck
out of the tapestry, and, with most attentive ears and a
troubled mind, settled myself to hear what Lucinda an-
swered, expecting by it the sentence of my death or the
confirmation of my life. Oh, if one had dared to sally
out at that time, and cry with a loud voice, "O Lucinda !
Lucinda! see well what thou doest; consider withal what
thou owest me ! Behold how thou art mine, and that thou
canst not be any other's; Note that thy saying of Yea
and the end of my life shall be both in one instant. O
traitor, Don Fernando, robber of my glory! death of my
life ! what is this thou pretendest ? what wilt thou do ?
Consider that thou canst not, Christian-like, achieve thine
CARDENIO'S STORY 261
intention, seeing Lucinda is my spouse, and I am her hus-
band." O foolish man ! now that I am absent, and far
from the danger, I say what I should have done, and not
what I did. Now, after that I have permitted my dear
jewel to be robbed, I exclaim on the thief, on whom I might
have revenged myself, had I had as much heart to do it as
I have to complain. In fine, since I was then a coward
and a fool, it is no matter though I now die ashamed, sorry,
and frantic. The curate stood expecting Lucinda's answer
a good while ere she gave it; and in the end, when I hoped
that she would take out the poniard to stab herself, or
would unloose her tongue to say some truth, or use some
reason or persuasion that might redound to my benefit, I
heard her instead thereof answer, with a dismayed and
languishing voice, the word "I will." And then Don Fer-
nando said the same; and, giving her the ring, they re-
mained tied with an indissoluble knot. Then the bride-
groom coming to kiss his spouse, she set her hand upon
her heart, and fell in a trance between her mother's arms.
'Now only remains untold the case wherein I was, see-
ing in that Yea, which I had heard, my hopes deluded,
Lucinda's words and promises falsified, and myself wholly
disabled to recover in any time the good which I lost in
that instant. I rested void of counsel, abandoned (in mine
opinion) by Heaven, proclaimed an enemy to the earth
which upheld me, the air denying breath enough for my
sighs, and the water humour sufficient to mine eyes; only
the fire increased in such manner as I burned thoroughly
with rage and jealousy. All the house was in a tumult
for this sudden amazement of Lucinda; and as her mother
unclasped her bosom to give her the air, there appeared in
it a paper, folded up, which Don Fernando presently seized
on, and went aside to read it by the light of a torch ; and
after he had read it, he sat down in a chair, laying his
hands on his cheek, with manifest signs of melancholy dis-
content, without bethinking himself of the remedies that
were applied to his spouse to bring her again to herself.
I, seeing all the folk of the house thus in an uproar, did ad-
venture myself to issue, not weighing much whether I
were seen or no, bearing withal a resolution (if I were
262 DON QUIXOTE
perceived) to play such a rash part, as all the world should
understand the just indignation of my breast, by the re-
venge I would take on false Don Fernando and the mu-
table and dismayed traitress. But my destiny, which hath
reserved me for greater evils (if possibly there be any
greater than mine own), ordained that instant my wit
should abound, whereof ever since I have so great want;
and therefore, without will to take revenge of my greatest
enemies (of whom I might have taken it with all facility,
by reason they suspected so little my being there), I de-
termined to take it on myself, and execute in myself the
pain which they deserved, and that perhaps with more
rigour than I would have used toward them if I had slain
them at that time, seeing that the sudden death finisheth
presently the pain; but that which doth lingeringly tor-
ment, kills always, without ending the life.
'To be short, I went out of the house, and came to the
other where I had left my mule, which I caused to be
saddled; and, without bidding mine host adieu, I mounted
on her, and rode out of the city, without daring, like an-
other Lot, to turn back and behold it; and then, seeing
myself alone in the fields, and that the darkness of the
night did cover me, and the silence thereof invite me to
complain, without respect or fear to be heard or known, I
did let slip my voice, and untied my tongue with so many
curses of Lucinda and Don Fernando, as if thereby I
might satisfy the wrong they had done me. I gave her
the title of cruel, ungrateful, false, and scornful, but espe-
cially of covetous, seeing the riches of mine enemy had
shut up the eyes of her affection, to deprive me thereof,
and render it to him with whom fortune had dealt more
frankly and liberally; and in the midst of this tune of
maledictions and scorns, I did excuse her, saying. That it
was no marvel that a maiden kept close in her parents'
house, made and accustomed always to obey them, should
at last condescend to their will, specially seeing they
bestowed upon her for husband so noble, so rich, and
proper a gentleman, as to refuse him would be reputed in
her to proceed either from want of judgment, or from
having bestowed her affections elsewhere, which things
CARDENIO'S STORY 263
must of force greatly prejudice her good opinion and re-
nown. Presently would I turn again to say, that though
she had told them that I was her spouse, they might easily
perceive that in choosing me she had not made so ill an
election that she might not be excused, seeing that before
Don Fernando offered himself, they themselves could not
happen to desire, if their wishes were guided by reason, so
fit a match for their daughter as myself; and she might
easily have said, before she put herself in that last and
forcible pass of giving her hand, that I had already given
her mine, which I would come out to confess, and confirm
all that she could any way feign in this case ; and concluded
in the end, that little love, less judgment, much ambition,
and desire of greatness caused her to forget the words
wherewithal she had deceived, entertained, and sustained
me in my firm hopes and honest desires.
'Using these words, and feeling this unquietness in my
breast, I travelled all the rest of the night, and struck
about dawn into one of the entries of these mountains,
through which I travelled three days at random, without
following or finding any path or way, until I arrived at
last to certain meadows and fields, that lie I know not in
which part of these mountains; and finding there certain
herds, I demanded of them which way lay the most craggy
and inaccessible places of these rocks, and they directed me
hither; and presently I travelled towards it, with purpose
here to end my life ; and, entering in among those deserts,
my mule, through weariness and hunger, fell dead under
me, or rather, as I may better suppose, to disburden him-
self of so vile and unprofitable a burden as he carried of
me. I remained afoot, overcome by nature, and pierced
through and through by hunger, without having any help,
or knowing who might succour me, and remained after
that manner I know not how long, prostrate on the ground,
and then I rose again without any hunger, and I found
near unto me certain goatherds, who were those doubtlessly
that fed me in my hunger ; for they told me in what
manner they found me, and how I spake so many foolish
and mad words as gave certain argument that I was devoid
of judgment; and I have felt in myself since that time that
264 DON QUIXOTE
I enjoy not my wits perfectly, but rather perceive them
to be so weakened and impaired, as I commit a hundred
follies, tearing mine apparel, crying loudly through these
deserts, cursing my fates, and idly repeating the abhorred
name of mine enemy, without having any other intent or
discourse at that time than to endeavour to finish my life
ere long; and when I turn to myself, I am so broken and
tired as I am scarce able to stir me. My most ordinary
mansion-place is in the hollowness of a cork-tree, suffi-
ciently able to cover this wretched carcase. The cowherds
and the goatherds that feed their cattle hetc in these moun-
tains, moved by charity, gave me sustenance, leaving meat
for me by the ways and on the rocks which they suppose
I frequent, and where they think I may find it; and so, al-
though I do then want the use of reason, yet doth natural
necessity induce me to know my meat, and stirreth my
appetite to covet, and my will to take it. They tell me,
when they meet me in my wits, that I do other times
come out to the highways and take it from them violently,
even when they themselves do offer it unto me willingly.
After this manner do I pass my miserable life, until
Heaven shall be pleased to conduct it to the last period,
or so change my memory as I may no more remember the
beauty and treachery of Lucinda or the injury done by
Don Fernando; for, if it do me this favour, without de-
priving my life, then will I convert my thoughts to better
discourses; if not, there is no other remedy but to pray
God to receive my soul into His mercy, for I neither find
valour nor strength in myself to rid my body out of the
straits wherein for my pleasure I did at first willingly in-
trude it.
'This is, sirs, the bitter relation of my disasters; where-
fore judge if it be such as may be celebrated with less
feeling and compassion than that which you may by this
time have perceived in myself; and do not in vain labour
to persuade or counsel me that which reason should afford
you may be good for my remedy, for it will work no other
effect in me than a medicine prescribed by a skilful physi-
cian to a patient that will in no sort receive it. I will
have no health without Lucinda; and since she pleaseth to
CARDENIO'S STORY 265
alienate herself, being or seeing she ought to be mine, so
do I also take delight to be of the retinue of mishap, al-
though I might be a retainer to good fortune. She hath
ordained that her changing shall establish my perdition;
and I will labour, by procuring mine own loss, to please
and satisfy her wilU And it shall be an example to ensu-
ing ages, that I alone wanted that wherewith all other
wretches abounded, to whom the impossibility of receiving
comfort proved sometimes a cure; but in me it is an occa-
sion of greater feeling and harm, because I am persuaded
that my harms cannot end even with very death itself.'
Here Cardenio finished his large discourse and unfortu-
nate and amorous history; and just about the time that the
curate was bethinking himself of some comfortable reasons
to answer and persuade him, he was suspended by a voice
arrived to his hearing, which with pitiful accents said what
shall be recounted in the Fourth Part of this narration; for
in this very point the wise and most absolute historiogra-
pher, Cid Hamet Benengeli, finished the Third Book of
this history.
THE FOURTH BOOK
CHAPTER I
Wherein Is Discoursed the New and Pleasant Adven-
ture That Happened to the Curate and the
Barber in Sierra Morena
MOST happy and fortunate were those times wherein
the thrice audacious and bold knight, Don Quixote
of the Mancha, was bestowed on the world, by whose
most honourable resolution to revive and renew in it the al-
ready worn-out and well-nigh deceased exercise of arms, we
joy in this our so niggard and scant an age of all pastimes,
not only the sweetness of his true history, but also of the
other tales and digressions contained therein, which are in
some respects no less pleasing, artificial, and true than the very
history itself; the which, prosecuting the carded, spun, and
self-twined thread of the relation, says that, as the curate began
to bethink himself upon some answer that might both comfort
and animate Cardenio, he was hindered by a voice which came
to his hearing, said very dolefully the words ensuing:
'O God ! is it possible that I have yet found out the place
which may serve for a hidden sepulchre to the load of this
loathsome body that I unwillingly bear so long? Yes, it may
be, if the solitariness of these rocks do not illude me. Ah,
unfortunate that I am! how much more grateful companions
will these crags and thickets prove to my designs, by affording
me leisure to communicate my mishaps to Heaven with
plaints, than that of any mortal man living, since there is
none upon earth from whom may be expected counsel in
doubts, ease in complaints, or in harms remedy?' The curate
and his companions heard and understood all the words
clearly, and forasmuch as they conjectured (as indeed it was)
that those plaints were delivered very near unto them, they
266
A MAID IN DISGUISE 267
did all arise to search out the plaintiff; and, having gone
some twenty steps thence, they beheld a young youth behind
a rock, sitting under an ash-tree, and attired like a country
swain, whom, by reason his face was inclined, as he sat wash-
ing of his feet in the clear stream that glided that way, they
could not perfectly discern, and therefore approached to-
wards him with so great silence, as they were not descried
by him, who only attended to the washing of his feet, which
were so white, as they properly resembled two pieces of clear
crystal that grew among the other stones of the stream. The
whiteness and beauty of the feet amazed them, being not
made, as they well conjectured, to tread clods, or measure
the steps of lazy oxen, and holding the plough, as the youth's
apparel would persuade them; and therefore the curate, who
went before the rest, seeing they were not yet spied, made
signs to the other two that they should divert a little out of the
way, or hide themselves behind some broken cliffs that were
near the place, which they did all of them, noting what the
youth did with very great attention. He wore a little brown
capouch girt very near to his body with a white towel, also
a pair of breeches and gamashoes of the same coloured cloth,
and on his head a clay-coloured cap; his gamashoes were
lifted up half the leg, which verily seemed to be white ala-
baster. Finally, having washed his feet, taking out a linen
kerchief from under his cap, he dried them therewithal, and
at the taking out of the kerchief he held up his face, and
then those which stood gazing on him had leisure to discern
an unmatchable beauty, so surpassing great, as Cardenio,
rounding the curate in the ear, said, 'This body, since it is
not Lucinda, can be no human creature, but a divine.' The
youth took oft' his cap at last, and, shaking his head to the
one and other part, did dishevel and discover such beautiful
hairs as those of Phoebus might justly emulate them; and
thereby they knew the supposed swain to be a delicate wo-
man; yea, and the fairest that ever the first two had seen in
their lives, or Cardenio ' himself, the lovely Lucinda ex-
cepted; for, as he after affirmed, no feature save Lucinda's
could contend with hers. The long and golden hairs did
not only cover her shoulders, but did also hide her round
about in such sort as (her feet excepted) no other part of
268 DON QUIXOTE
her body appeared, they were so near and long. At this time
her hands served her for a comb, which, as her feet seemed
pieces of crystal in the water, so did they appear among her
hairs like pieces of driven snow. All which circumstances did
possess the three which stood gazing at her with great ad-
miration and desire to know what she was, and therefore re-
solved to show themselves ; and with the noise which they
made when they arose, the beautiful maiden held up her head,
and, removing her hairs from before her eyes with both
hands, she espied those that had made it; and presently aris-
ing, full of fear and trouble, she laid hand on a packet that
was by her, which seemed to be of apparel and thought to
fly away without staying to pull on her shoes, or to gather
up her hair. But scarce had she gone six paces when her del-
icate and tender feet, unable to abide the rough encounter
of the stones, made her to fall to the earth; which the three
perceiving, they came out to her, and the curate arriving
first of all, said to her, 'Lady, whatsoever you be, stay and
fear nothing; for we which you behold here come only with
intention to do you service, and therefore you need not pre-
tend so impertinent a flight, which neither your feet can en-
dure, nor would we permit.'
The poor girl remained so amazed and confounded as she
answered not a word; wherefore, the curate and the rest
drawing nearer, they took her by the hand, and then he pros-
ecuted his speech, saying, 'What your habit concealed from
us, lady, your hairs have bewrayed, being manifest arguments
that the causes were of no small moment which have thus
bemasked your singular beauty under so unworthy array, and
conducted you to this all-abandoned desert, wherein it was a
wonderful chance to have met you, if not to remedy your
harms, yet at least to give you some comfort, seeing no evil
can afflict and vex one so much, and plunge him in so deep
extremes (whilst it deprives not the life), that will wholly
abhor from listening to the advice that is offered with a good
and sincere intention ; so that, fair lady, or lord, or what else
you shall please to be termed, shake off your affrightment,
and rehearse unto us your good or ill fortune; for you shall
find in us jointly, or in every one part, companions to help
you to deplore your disasters.'
DOROTHEA'S STORY 269
Whilst the curate made this speech, the disguised woman
stood as one half asleep, now beholding the one, now the
other, without once moving her lip or saying a word; just like
a rustical clown, when rare and unseen things to him before
are unexpectedly presented to his view.
But the curate insisting, and using other persuasive reasons
addressed to that effect, won her at last to make a breach
on her tedious silence, and, with a profound sigh, blow open
her coral gates, saying somewhat to this effect: 'Since the
solitariness of these rocks hath not been potent to conceal me,
nor the dishevelling of my disordered hairs licensed my
tongue to belie my sex, it were in vain for me to feign that
anew which, if you believed it, would be more for courtesy's
sake than any other respect. Which presupposed, I say,
good sirs, that I do gratify you highly for the liberal offers
you have made me, which are such as have bound me to sat-
isfy your demand as near as I may, although I fear the re-
lation which I must make to you of my mishaps will breed
sorrow at once with compassion in you, by reason you shall
not be able to find any salve that may cure, comfort, or be-
guile them; yet, notwithstanding, to the end my reputation
may not hover longer suspended in your opinions, seeing you
know me to be a woman, and view me young, alone, and
thus attired, being things all of them able, either joined or
parted, to overthrow the best credit, I must be enforced to un-
fold what I could otherwise most willingly conceal.'
All this she, that appeared so comely, spoke without stop
or staggering, with so ready delivery, and so sweet a voice,
as her discretion admired them no less than her beauty; and,
renewing again their compliments and entreaties to her to ac-
complish speedily her promise, she, setting all coyness apart,
drawing on her shoes very modestly, and winding up her
hair, sat her down on a stone, and the other three about her,
where she used no little violence to smother certain rebel-
lious tears that strove to break forth without her permis-
sion, and then, with a reposed and clear voice, she began
the history of her life in this manner :
'In this province of Andalusia there is a certain town from
whence a duke derives his denomination, which makes him
one of those in Spain are called grandees. He hath two
270 DON QUIXOTE
sons — the elder is heir of his states, and likewise, as may be
presumed, of his virtues; the younger is heir I know not of
what, if he be not of Vellido, his treacheries or Galalon's
frauds. My parents are this nobleman's vassals, of humble
and low calling, but so rich as, if the goods of nature had
equalled those of their fortunes, then should they have had
nothing else to desire, nor I feared to see myself in the mis-
fortunes wherein I now am plunged, for perhaps my mishaps
proceed from that of theirs, in not being nobly descended.
True it is that they are not so base as they should therefore
shame their calling, nor so high as may check my conceit,
which persuades me that my disasters proceed from their low-
ness. In conclusion, they are but farmers and plain people,
but without any touch or spot of bad blood, and, as we
usually say, old, rusty Christians, yet so rusty and ancient as
yet their riches and magnificent port gain them, by little and
little, the title of gentility, yea, and of worship also ; although
the treasure and nobility whereof they made most price and
account was to have had me for their daughter; and there-
fore, as well by reason that they had none other heir than
myself, as also because, as affectionate parents, they held me
most dear, I was one of the most made of and cherished
daughters that ever father brought up. I was the mirror
wherein they beheld themselves, the staff of their old age,
and the subject to which they addressed all their desires,
from which, because they were most virtuous, mine did not
stray an inch; and even in the same manner that I was lady
of their minds, so was I also of their goods. By me were ser-
vants admitted or dismissed ; the notice and account of what
was sowed or reaped passed through my hands; of the oil-
mills, the wine-presses, the number of great and little cat-
tle, the bee-hives — in fine, of all that so rich a farmer as my
father was, had, or could have, I kept the account, and was
the steward thereof and mistress, with such care of my side,
and pleasure of theirs, as I cannot possibly endear it enough.
The times of leisure that I had in the day, after I had given
what was necessary to the head servants and other labour-
ers, I did entertain in those exercises which were both com-
mendable and requisite for maidens, to wit, in sewing, making
of bone lace, and many times handling the distaff; and if
DOROTHEAS STORY 271
sometimes I left those exercises to recreate my mind a lit-
tle, I would then take some godly book in hand, or play on the
harp; for experience had taught me that music ordereth dis-
ordered minds, and doth lighten the passions that afflict the
spirit.
'This was the life which I led in my father's house, the
recounting whereof so particularly hath not been done for
ostentation, nor to give you to understand that I am rich, but
to the end you may note how much, without mine own fault,
have I fallen from that happy state I have said, unto the un-
happy plight into which I am now reduced. The history,
therefore, is this, that passing my life in so many occupa-
tions, and that with such recollection as might be compared
to a religious life, unseen, as I thought, by any other person
than those of our house; for when I went to mass it was
commonly so early, and so accompanied by my mother and
other maid-servants, and I myself so covered and watchful
as mine eyes did scarce see the earth whereon I trod; and
yet, notwithstanding, those of love, or, as I may better term
them, of idleness, to which lynx eyes may not be com-
pared, did represent me to Don Fernando's affection and care ;
for this is the name of the duke's younger son of whom I
spake before.'
Scarce had she named Don Fernando, when Cardenio
changed colour, and began to sweat, with such alteration of
body and countenance, as the curate and barber which be-
held it, feared that the accident of frenzy did assault him,
which was wont (as they had heard) to possess him at
times. But Cardenio did nothing else than sweat, and stood
still, beholding now and then the country girl, imagining
straight what she was; who, without taking notice of his
alteration, followed on her discourse in this manner:
'And scarce had he seen me, when (as he himself after
confessed) he abode greatly surprised by my love, as his ac-
tions did after give evident demonstration. But to conclude
soon the relation of those misfortunes which have no conclu-
sion, I will overslip in silence the diligences and practices
of Don Fernando, used to declare unto me his affection. He
suborned all the folk of the house; he bestowed gifts and
favours on my parents. Every day was a holiday and a day
272 DON QUIXOTE
of sports in the streets where I dwelt ; at night no man could
sleep for music. The letters were innumerable that came to
my hands, without knowing who brought them, farsed too full
of amorous conceits and offers, and containing more promises
and protestations than characters. All which not only could
not mollify my mind, but rather hardened it so much as if
he were my mortal enemy ; and therefore did construe all the
endeavours he used to gain my goodwill to be practised to
a contrary end : which I did not as accounting Don Fernando
ungentle, or that I esteemed him too importunate ; for I took
a kind of delight to see myself so highly esteemed and beloved
of so noble a gentleman; nor was I anything offended to see
his papers written in my praise ; for, if I be not deceived in this
point, be we women ever so foul, we love to hear men call
us beautiful. But mine honesty was that which opposed it-
self unto all these things, and the continual admonitions of
my parents, which had by this plainly perceived Don Fer-
nando's pretence, as one that cared not all the world should
know it. They would often say unto me that they had de-
posited their honours and reputation in my virtue alone and
discretion, and bade me consider the inequality that was be-
tween Don Fernando and me, and that I might collect by it
how his thoughts (did he ever so much affirm the contrary)
were more addressed to compass his pleasures than my profit;
and that if I feared any inconvenience might befall, to the
end they might cross it, and cause him to abandon his so un-
just a pursuit, they would match me where I most liked, either
to the best of that town or any other town adjoining, say-
ing, they might easily compass it, both by reason of their
great wealth and my good report. I fortified my resolution
and integrity with these certain promises and the known truth
which they told me, and therefore would never answer to Don
Fernando any word that might ever so far off argue the least
hope of condescending to his desires. All which cautions
of mine, which I think he deemed to be disdains, did in-
flame more his lascivious appetite (for this is the name where-
withal I entitle his affection towards me), which, had it been
such as it ought, you had not known it now, for then the
cause of revealing it had not befallen me. Finally, Don
Fernando, understanding how my parents meant to marry me,
DOROTHEA'S STORY 273
to the end they might make void his hope of ever possessing
me, or at least set more guards to preserve mine honour, and
this new^s or surmise was an occasion that he did what you
shall presently hear.
'For, one night as I sat in my chamber, only attended by
a young maiden that served me, I having shut the doors very
safe, for fear lest, through my negligence, my honesty might
incur any danger, without knowing or imagining how it might
happen, notwithstanding all my diligences used and preven-
tions, and amidst the solitude of this silence and recollection,
he stood before me in my chamber. At his presence I was
so troubled as I lost both sight and speech, and by reason
thereof could not cry, nor I think he would not, though I had
attempted it, permit me ; for he presently ran over to me, and,
taking me between his arms (for, as I have said, I was so
amazed as I had no power to defend myself), he spake
such things to me as I know not how it is possible that so
many lies should have ability to feign things resembling in
show so much the truth ; and the traitor caused tears to
give credit to his words, and sighs to give countenance to his
intention.
'I, poor soul, being alone amidst my friends, and weakly
practised in such affairs, began, I know not how, to account
his leasings for verities, but not in such sort as his tears or
sighs might any wise move me to any compassion that were
not commendable. And so, the first trouble and amazement
of mind being past, I began again to recover my defective
spirits, and then said to him, with more courage than I
thought I should have had, "If, as I am, my lord, between
your arms, I were between the paws of a fierce lion, and that
I were made certain of my liberty on condition to do or say
anything prejudicial to mine honour, it would prove as im-
possible for me to accept it as for that which once hath been
to leave off his essence and being. Wherefore, even as you
have engirt my middle with your arms, so likewise have I
tied fast my mind with virtuous and forcible desires that
are wholly different from yours, as you shall perceive, if,
seeking to force me, you presume to pass further with your
inordinate design. I am your vassal, but not your slave ; nor
hath the nobility of your blood power, nor ought it to harden,
274 DON QUIXOTE
to dishonour, stain, or hold in little account the humility o£
mine; and I do esteem myself, though a country wench and
farmer's daughter, as much as you can yourself, though a
nobleman and a lord. With me your violence shall not pre-
vail, your riches gain any grace, your words have power to
deceive, or your sighs and tears be able to move; yet, if I
shall find any of these properties mentioned in him whom my
parent shall please to bestow on me for my spouse, I will
presently subject my will to his, nor shall it ever vary from
his mind a jot; so that, if I might remain with honour, al-
though I rested void of delights, yet would I willingly be-
stow on you that which you presently labour so much to ob-
tain : all which I do say to divert your straying thought from
ever thinking that any one may obtain of me aught who is
not my lawful spouse." "If the let only consists therein,
most beautiful Dorothea" (for so I am called), answered
the disloyal lord, "behold, I give thee here my hand to be
thine alone; and let the heavens, from which nothing is con-
cealed, and this image of Our Lady, which thou hast here
present, be witnesses of this truth !"
When Cardenio heard her say that she was called Doro-
thea, he fell again into his former suspicion, and in the end
confirmed his first opinion to be true, but would not interrupt
her speech, being desirous to know the success, which he
knew wholly almost before, and therefore said only, 'Lady,
is it possible that you are named Dorothea? I have heard
report of another of that name, which perhaps hath run the
like course of your misfortunes ; but I request you to con-
tinue your relation, for a time may come wherein I may
recount unto you things of the same kind, which will breed
no small admiration.' Dorothea noted Cardenio's words and
his uncouth and disastrous attire, and then entreated him very
instantly if he knew anything of her affairs he would ac-
quaint her therewithal; for if fortune had left her any good,
it was only the courage which she had to bear patiently any
disaster that might befall her, being certain in her opinion
that no new one could arrive which might increase a whit
those she had already.
'Lady, I would not let slip the occasion,' quoth Cardenio,
*to tell you what I think, if that which I imagine were true;
DOROTHEA'S STORY 275
and yet there is no commodity left to do it, nor can it avail
you much to know it.' 'Let it be what it list,' said Dorothea;
'but that Vv^hich after befel of my relation was this: That
Don Fernando took an image that was in my chamber for
witness of our contract, and added withal most forcible words
and unusual oaths, promising unto me to become my husband ;
although I warned him, before he had ended his speech, to
see well what he did, and to weigh the wrath of his father
when he should see him married to one so base and his vas-
sal, and that therefore he should take heed that my beauty
(such as it was) should not blind him, seeing he should not
find therein a sufficient excuse for his error, and that if he
meant to do me any good, I conjured him, by the love that
he bore unto me, to licence my fortunes to rule in their own
sphere, according as my quality reached; for such unequal
matches do never please long, nor persevere with that delight
wherewithal they began.
'All the reasons here rehearsed I said unto him, and many
more which now are fallen out of mind, but yet proved of
no efficacy to wean him from his obstinate purpose ; even like
unto one that goeth to buy, with intention never to pay for
what he takes, and therefore never considers the price, worth,
or defect of the stuff he takes to credit. I at this season
made a brief discourse, and said thus to myself, "I may do
this, for I am not the first which by matrimony hath as-
cended from a low degree to a high estate; nor shall Don
Fernando be the first whom beauty or blind affection (for
that is the most certain) hath induced to make choice of a
consort unequal to his greatness. Then, since herein I
create no new world nor custom, what error can be com-
mitted by embracing the honour wherewithal fortune crowns
me, although it so befel that his affection to me endured no
longer than till he accomplished his will? for before God I
certes shall still remain his wife. And if I should disdain-
fully give him the repulse, I see him now in such terms as,
perhaps forgetting the duty of a nobleman, he may use vio-
lence, and then shall I remain for ever dishonoured, and also
without excuse of the imputations of the ignorant, which
knew not how much without any fault I have fallen into this
inevitable danger; for what reasons may be sufficiently forci-
276 DON QUIXOTE
ble to persuade my father and others that this nobleman did
enter into my chamber without my consent?" All these
demands and answers did I, in an instant, revolve in mine
imagination, and found myself chiefly forced (how I cannot
tell) to assent to his petition by the witnesses he invoked,
the tears he shed, and finally by his sweet disposition and
comely feature, which, accompanied with so many arguments
of unfeigned affection, were able to conquer and enthrall
any other heart, though it were as free and wary as mine own.
Then called I for my waiting-maid, that she might on earth
accompany the celestial witnesses.
'And then Don Fernando turned again to reiterate and
confirm his oaths, and added to his former other new saints
as witnesses, and wished a thousand succeeding maledictions
to light on him if he did not accomplish his promise to me.
His eyes again waxed moist, his sighs increased, and
himself enwreathed me more straitly between his arms, from
which he had never once loosed me ; and with this, and my
maiden's departure, I left to be a maiden, and he began to be
a traitor and a disloyal man. The day that succeeded to the
night of my mishaps came not, I think, so soon as Don Fer-
nando desired it; for, after a man hath satisfied that which
the appetite covets, the greatest delight it can take after is
to apart itself from the place where the desire was accom-
plished. I say this, because Don Fernando did hasten his de-
parture from me : by my maid's industry, who was the very
same that had brought him into my chamber, he was got in
the street before dawning. And at his departure from me he
said (although not with so great show of affection and vehe-
mency as he had used at his coming) that I might be secure
of his faith, and that his oaths were firm and most true;
and for a more confirmation of his word, he took a rich ring
off his finger and put it on mine. In fine, he departed, and
I remained behind, I cannot well say whether joyful or sad;
but this much I know, that I rested confused and pensive,
and almost beside myself for the late mischance; yet either
I had not the heart, or else I forgot to chide my maid for
her treachery committed by shutting up Don Fernando in my
chamber ; for as yet I could not determine whether that which
had befallen me was a good or an evil.'
DOROTHEA'S STORY 277
*I said to Don Fernando, at his departure, that he might
see me other nights when he pleased, by the same means he
had come that night, seeing I was his own, and would rest
so, until it pleased him to let the world know that I was
his wife. But he never returned again but the next night
following, nor could I see him after, for the space of a month,
either in the street or church, so as I did but spend
time in vain to expect him; although I understood that he
was still in town, and rode every other day a-hunting, an ex-
ercise to which he was much addicted.
'Those days were, I know, unfortunate and accursed to
me, and those hours sorrowful ; for in them I began to doubt,
nay, rather wholly to discredit Don Fernando's faith; and
my maid did then hear loudly the checks I gave unto her for
her presumption, ever until then dissembled; and I was,
moreover, constrained to watch and keep guard on my tears
and countenance, lest I should give occasion to my parents
to demand of me the cause of my discontents, and thereby en-
gage me to use ambages or untruths to cover them. But all
this ended in an instant, one moment arriving whereon all
these respects stumbled, all honourable discourses ended, pa-
tience was lost, and my most hidden secrets issued in public;
which was, when there was spread a certain rumour through-
out the town, within a few days after, that Don Fernando had
married, in a city near adjoining, a damsel of surpassing
beauty, and of very noble birth, although not so rich as could
deserve, by her preferment or dowry, so worthy a husband ;
it was also said that she was named Lucinda, with many
other things that happened at their espousals worthy of ad-
miration.' Cardenio hearing Lucinda named did nothing
else but lift up his shoulders, bite his lip, bend his brows, and
after a little while shed from his eyes two floods of tears.
But yet for all that Dorothea did not interrupt the file of her
history, saying, 'This doleful news came to my hearing; and
my heart, instead of freezing thereat, was so inflamed with
choler and rage, as I had well-nigh run out to the streets, and
with outcries published the deceit and treason that was done
to me ; but my fury was presently assuaged by the resolution
which I made to do what I put in execution the very same
night, and then I put on this habit which you see, being given
278 DON QUIXOTE
unto me by one of those that among us country-folk are called
swains, who was my father's servant ; to whom I disclosed all
my misfortunes, and requested him to accompany me to the
city where I understood my enemy sojourned. He, after he
had reprehended my boldness, perceiving me to have an in-
flexible resolution, made offer to attend on me, as he said,
unto the end of the world ; and presently after I trussed up in
a pillow-bear a woman's attire, some money, and jewels, to
prevent necessities that might befal ; and in the silence of
night, without acquainting my treacherous maid with my pur-
pose, I issued out of my house, accompanied by my servant
and many imaginations, and in that manner set on towards
the city, and though I went on foot, was yet borne away
flying by my desires, to come, if not in time enough to hinder
that which was past, yet at least to demand of Don Fer-
nando that he would tell me with what conscience of soul
he had done it. I arrived where I wished within two days
and a half; and at the entry of the city I demanded where
Lucinda her father dwelt; and he of whom I first demanded
the question answered me more than I desired to hear.
