the strange half-naked man he had seen, and the goatherd told what he
knew of him and the mystery of the knapsack.

The stranger, he said, was a youth of good looks and no doubt of high
birth, who had lost his wits because of the faithlessness of a friend.
His behavior was such that they had never seen the like of it. In fits
of madness he would approach people, snatch away food offered him out
of their hands, and then run away with the speed of a deer. Then
again he would come begging for food, the tears flowing down his
cheeks.

Now, while they were standing there discussing the young man, chance
would have it that he came along, and greeted them courteously. Don
Quixote returned his greeting with grand gestures, descended from
Rocinante's tired back, and advanced to the youth with open arms. He
held him in his embrace for some time, as if he had known him forever.
Finally the youth tore away and, placing his hands on the shoulders of
the Knight of the Rueful Countenance, the youth, who might be called
the Ragged One of the Sorry Countenance, looked into his eyes and
spoke to him.

CHAPTER XXIV

IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE ADVENTURE OF THE SIERRA MORENA

The Ragged One thanked Don Quixote for being so kind and courteous;
and Don Quixote replied that his duty to the world consisted in giving
succor to those in despair and need. He implored the youth to tell him
the name of the one who had caused his misfortune, that he might
revenge him. The Ragged One stared at him strangely and said: "If you
will give me to eat, I will tell you my story."

Sancho and the goatherd gave the youth something to appease his
hunger; and he ate it ravenously. When he had finished, he motioned
to them to follow him, and they came to a spot where green grass grew
and all stretched themselves on the ground in silence. Before he began
his story, the youth warned them not to interrupt him, for then it
would come to an end. Don Quixote promised solemnly for all of them.

The youth told of his love for one Luscinda, and how his best friend,
Don Fernando, son of a grandee of Spain, had stolen her love away from
him; but suddenly he was interrupted by Don Quixote, and refused to
continue. Whereupon Don Quixote nearly lost his senses--for his
curiosity was aroused beyond words--and called the Ragged One a
villain.

The Ragged One broke into a violent fit when he heard himself called
names and picked up a stone which he hurled against the knight
errant's breast with such force that it placed him flat on his back.
Seeing this, Sancho Panza flew at the madman; but the youth seemed to
possess supernatural strength, for he felled Sancho to the ground with
one single blow, and then jumped on his chest and buckled his ribs.
Having also beaten the old goatherd, he went into the woods again.

When Sancho had seen the last of him, he turned loose his rage on the
poor old goatherd, whom he cursed for not having warned them that the
youth might be taken with fits. Words led to blows; the two grabbed
each other by their beards, and had it not been for Don Quixote, their
fray might have had a sad ending. He calmed his squire by absolving
the old man of all blame. Then he asked him--for he was still aching
with curiosity to learn the end of the story--whether he knew where
he might find Cardenio (that being the youth's name). The goatherd
answered that if he remained in the neighborhood long enough he could
not help meeting him; but as to his mood, he could not answer for
that.

CHAPTER XXV

WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO THE
STOUT KNIGHT OF LA MANCHA IN THE SIERRA MORENA

Don Quixote and Sancho Panza now made their way into unknown regions
of the mountains, Sancho trailing behind his master, on foot, silent,
and in bad humor. Finally he requested his master's permission to say
what was in his heart, and Don Quixote removed the ban under which his
squire was suffering. Sancho asked for the knight's blessing and
begged leave to return to his wife and home; but his master could not
make up his mind until he hit upon a great inspiration, the carrying
out of which made necessary his using Sancho as a messenger to his
incomparable Dulcinea.

Don Quixote, in short, had decided to go mad, in emulation of other
bold knights, such as Roland and Amadis--a decision that extracted
from Sancho Panza some muttered words to the effect that any one who
could mistake a barber's basin for a gold helmet could not go much
madder. And then Don Quixote explained to what sufferings, sorrow,
penance, and folly he would subject himself; and quite unintentionally
he revealed to Sancho the real identity of his famous Lady Dulcinea,
whom Sancho had always thought a princess. Now the good squire learned
to his dismay that the famous Dulcinea was no other than Lorenzo
Corchuelo's daughter, Aldonza Lorenzo, a lady with manners like a man,
and a man's ability to handle a crowbar easily.

When Don Quixote had determined upon his penance in the wilderness, all
for the sake of Dulcinea, he thought it would be a good idea to make
known to her the sacrifices and sufferings he was about to undergo for
her sake. Therefore he granted his squire the requested permission to
return to his family, and bade him speed homeward on Rocinante, so that
he himself, horseless, might undergo an even greater penance. He sent a
letter by Sancho to his fair one, relating to her the pain of his wounded
heart; a pain enhanced by self-inflicted absence and to be ended only by
death, to satisfy her cruelty.

Sancho's covetousness did not permit his master to forget the three
promised ass-colts; so Don Quixote wrote an order to his niece in the
notebook of the ill-starred Cardenio.

Before they parted, Don Quixote asked Sancho to stay and see some of
the insanities he meant to perform in his absence. He then stripped to
the skin and went through some remarkable capers before his squire.
This exhibition nearly brought tears to Sancho's eyes, and he besought
him to stop. And when he expressed a fear that he would not be able to
find his way back, Don Quixote assured him that he would remain in
that very spot, or thereabouts, until the squire returned from El
Toboso; and he told him also to cut some branches and strew them in
his path. Furthermore he said he would be on the lookout for him from
the peak of the highest cliff.

When Sancho finally took leave of his master, he felt that he could
swear with unprotesting conscience that his beloved master was quite
mad.

CHAPTER XXVI

IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE REFINEMENTS WHEREWITH DON QUIXOTE
PLAYED THE PART OF A LOVER IN THE SIERRA MORENA

Soon after Sancho had gone, Don Quixote came to the conclusion that
the exercises he was putting himself through were much too hard and
troublesome. So he decided to change them, and instead of imitating
Roland and his fury, he turned to the more melancholy Amadis, whose
madness was of a much milder form and needed a less strenuous outlet.
But to imitate Amadis, he had to have a rosary, and he had none. For a
moment he was in a quandary; but a miracle gave him the inspiration to
use the tail of his shirt--which was too long anyhow--and tearing off
a long piece, on which he made eleven knots, he repeated quantities of
credos and ave-marias on it, there in the wilderness. His love would
at times drive him to write verses to his cruel and beloved one on the
bark of the trees, all the while he would make moaning sounds of
lovesickness. Again he would go about sighing, singing, calling to the
nymphs and fauns and satyrs, and, of course, looking for herbs to
nourish himself with.

But while Don Quixote exiled himself in the wilds, his servant Sancho
Panza was making for El Toboso. On the second day he found himself at
the inn at which the incident of his blanket journey had taken place.
The smell of food reminded him that it was dinner time; yet he
hesitated about entering. As he was standing there, along came two
men; and one of them was heard to say: "Is not that Sancho Panza?" "So
it is," said the other one; and it turned out to be the curate and the
barber of Don Quixote's own village.

At once they approached him. They asked him about his master, but it
was not until they had threatened to believe that he had robbed and
murdered Don Quixote--for was he not mounted on Rocinante?--that he
divulged the secret of his master's hiding-place. He told them of
everything; even about his master's strange and unbounded love for the
daughter of Lorenzo Corchuelo and the letter he had written to her.
When the curate asked to see it, Sancho could not find it; and then he
suddenly remembered that Don Quixote had given him neither the letter
nor the order for the ass-colts. He turned pale and green, and beat
his chest frantically, but it produced no miracle. The curate and the
barber told him that the only thing to do was to find Don Quixote and
get him to write them anew; and the thought of losing the ass-colts
made Sancho only too anxious to return.

When the squire had been comforted somewhat, he tried to recite Don
Quixote's epistle of love; and his recital amused the two friends to
such a degree that he had to repeat it thrice, each time adding new
absurdities. Finally they invited him to come into the inn and eat,
while they talked over the journey to their friend's wilderness
paradise of penitence. Sancho was quick to refuse; but he gave no
reason for so doing. He said he preferred to eat outside and asked
that they bring him the food, and also some barley for Rocinante.

While the barber was serving Sancho and Rocinante, the curate was
developing a plan of strategy which was unanimously adopted by all
concerned. It was arranged that the curate should invade the region of
knightly penitence, dressed as an innocent-looking maiden with a
masked countenance; while his friend the barber should appear on the
scene behaving like a squire. The bogus maiden should be in great
distress and ask for protection, when Don Quixote, valiant knight that
he was, would be sure to give it. She would then beg him to shield her
on her journey, and, as a favor, to ask her no questions regarding her
identity, until she was safely at home. Once they had him there, they
would try to find a cure for his strange madness.

CHAPTER XXVII

OF HOW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER PROCEEDED WITH THEIR SCHEME;
TOGETHER WITH MATTERS WORTHY OF RECORD IN THIS GREAT HISTORY

The curate proceeded to borrow the needed dress from the landlady, whose
curiosity he satisfied by explaining Don Quixote's madness and their
mission in the mountains. The landlady recognized Don Quixote by the
description the curate gave, and willingly furnished the clothes, and an
ox-tail out of which the barber made himself a beard. As security for
these things the curate left behind a brand-new cassock.

When the curate's transfiguration was completed, however, his conscience
began to trouble him; so it was agreed that he and the barber were to
change rôles. The curate shed his female attire, and the barber decided
not to don it until they approached the mountainside. Meanwhile Sancho
was instructed as to how to act and what to say, when he saw his master.

The day after they set out, they came to the place where Sancho's
branches were strewn. The curate thought it best that they send Sancho
ahead to take to his master Lady Dulcinea's reply; this was agreed to,
and Sancho left.

While the two conspirators were resting in the shade of some trees
they were suddenly startled by hearing a man singing in the distance.
It was clearly a voice trained in the art of singing, and the verses
he sang were not of rustic origin. Soon they perceived the singer, and
it was no other than Cardenio, the Ragged One. Now he was untouched by
madness, for he spoke quite sanely, telling them of his woeful
misfortune, the memory of which, he said, would sometimes overpower
and strangle his senses. The curate and the barber were both eager to
know the story of the comely youth's life, and he then told them of
the faithlessness of his friend. This time he was not interrupted, and
he finished his story, which was one of a great love as much as one of
misfortune. He had just reached the end, when from no great distance
came the sound of a lamenting voice.

CHAPTER XXVIII

WHICH TREATS OF THE STRANGE AND DELIGHTFUL ADVENTURES THAT
BEFELL THE CURATE AND THE BARBER IN THE SAME SIERRA

When Cardenio and the curate and the barber looked about they
discovered a youth with exquisite, delicate features bathing his feet
in the brook below them. His garb was that of a peasant lad; on his
head he had a _montera_. Having finished bathing, he took from under
the _montera_ a cloth with which he dried his feet. In removing the
cap there fell from under it a mass of auburn hair, and all were
amazed to find that instead of a youth, it was a most lovely maiden.
In their astonishment either the curate or the barber uttered a cry;
and frightened at the sight of them, the girl took to flight, but soon
stumbled and fell.

The curate was the first one to reach her. He spoke some kind words
and told her that they were there to help her, to fulfill any wish she
might express. And he begged her to cast away any pretence, for he was
certain that she was there because of some misery that had befallen
her.

At first the maiden seemed bewildered, but after a while she showed
that the curate had gained her confidence, and she spoke to him in a
beautiful, melancholy voice. She seated herself on a stone, while the
three gathered around her, and confided to them with tears in her eyes
the reasons for her being there. She told them of a certain grandee of
Spain, living in Andalusia, of whom her father, lowly in birth but
rich in fortune, was a vassal. This grandee had two sons. She had been
betrothed to the younger one of these, Don Fernando, and he had jilted
her in favor of a lady of noble birth, whose name was Luscinda.

When Cardenio heard his own lady's name, he bit his lips and tears
came to his eyes. Dorothea--for that was the maiden's name--wondered
at such interest and such emotion, but she continued her story. She
told of how, upon Don Fernando's marriage to lady Luscinda, she had
fled in despair from house and home. A herdsman in the heart of the
Sierra had given her employment as a servant; but when he had
discovered that she was a woman, she was forced to leave. While she
was bemoaning her evil fate, and praying to God in the woods, she had
cut her feet on the stones; and she was bathing them in the brook when
she encountered the present gathering.

CHAPTER XXIX

WHICH TREATS OF THE DROLL DEVICE AND METHOD ADOPTED TO
EXTRICATE OUR LOVE-STRICKEN KNIGHT FROM THE SEVERE PENANCE
HE HAD IMPOSED UPON HIMSELF

Dorothea had told her story with great simplicity. When she had ended
it, the curate arose to console her; but Cardenio was already at her
side.

"Are you not the daughter of the rich Clenardo?" he asked of her
eagerly.

She gazed at him in wonder, for she had not spoken her father's name.
She asked the youth who he might be, and he told her that he was the
Cardenio who had been wronged by Don Fernando, the faithless friend
and faithless lover; and he swore then and there a holy oath that he
should see her married to Don Fernando or the latter would perish by
his, Cardenio's, sword. Dorothea was moved to tears by the youth's
words and thanked him profusely. The curate then made the suggestion
that both of them return with him and the barber to their village
where they could make further plans as to what to do to set things
aright. And Dorothea and Cardenio accepted this kind offer gratefully.

Sancho was now seen arriving, and the curate told the youth and the
maiden the reason for his being there. He explained to them the
curious nature of Don Quixote's madness, and Cardenio mentioned to the
curate his meeting with the knight.

Sancho had found Don Quixote nearly dead with hunger, crying aloud for
his Dulcinea; and when his squire entreated him in her name to return
to El Toboso, he refused, declaring that his penitence was not yet
complete; that he was not yet worthy of her favor. Sancho was quite
worried lest he should lose his island and his titles and all the
other honors he had expected, and the curate did his best to calm his
fears. The good man then explained to Cardenio and Dorothea how they
had planned to take Don Quixote back to his home by persuading him to
go there on an adventure in aid of a distressed damsel.

Dorothea at once offered to play the part of the damsel. Having read a
good many books of chivalry, herself, she thought she could qualify in
asking favors of our knight. She had brought with her a complete
woman's dress, with lace and rich embroidery, and when Sancho Panza
saw her in her new array, he asked, in astonishment, what great lady
she might be. The curate replied that she was the ruler of the great
kingdom of Micomicon, and after having been dethroned by an evil giant
had come all the way from Guinea to seek the aid of Don Quixote.
Immediately Sancho's hope for his titles and possessions was revived,
for the thought of his master's fame having spread to such distant
parts seemed most encouraging.

While Sancho Panza was entertaining these visions, Dorothea mounted
the curate's mule, and the barber decorated himself with the ox-tail
for a beard. Sancho was told to lead the way, and the curate explained
to him that the success of their mission depended on him. He was
warned that he must not give away the identity of the curate and the
barber; if he did, the empire would be lost. And then they started
out, leaving the curate and Cardenio behind, as that was thought best.

They had gone almost a league when they saw Don Quixote on a rock,
clothed, but wearing no armor. Dorothea was helped from her horse. She
walked over to Don Quixote and knelt before him; and she told him the
errand that had brought her there, saying that she would not rise
until he had granted her the boon she was asking. While she was
kneeling before him, Sancho Panza was anxiously whispering to Don
Quixote bits of information about her and her kingdom, afraid that his
master might refuse her; but, demented though he was, rank and riches
mattered little to Don Quixote, for he drew his sword, he said, in
defense of anything that was righteous, and the meek and downtrodden
always found in him a ready and courteous defendant. When he learned
from the Princess that a big giant had invaded her kingdom, he at once
granted her the promise of his services. Dorothea wanted to kiss his
hand as a proof of her gratitude; but Don Quixote would not permit her
to do this, being ever a respectful and courteous knight. He commanded
his squire to saddle his horse immediately, while he put on his armor,
mounted, and was ready for the crusade.

They set out, Sancho on foot, cheerfully grinning to himself at the
covetous thought of all the possessions that would be his in a short
time. Soon they passed the place where Cardenio and the curate were
hiding. The curate had by this time conceived the idea of shearing
Cardenio of his beard that Don Quixote would be unable to recognize
him; and he had furnished him with his own grey jerkin and a black
cloak, so that he himself appeared in breeches and doublet only.
Having effected the change, they took a short-cut through the woods
and came out on the open road ahead of Don Quixote.

As he approached them, the curate feigned astonishment beyond words at
seeing his old friend; and Don Quixote was so surprised that he hardly
recognized the curate. He courteously offered Rocinante to him, but
the curate remonstrated and finally accepted the long-bearded squire's
mule, inviting the squire to sit behind him. This arrangement did not
please the mule, however, for he commenced to kick with his hind legs.
Luckily the beast did not damage the barber, but the demonstration
frightened him so that he turned a somersault in a ditch. In so doing,
his beard came off, but he had enough presence of mind to cover his
face at the same moment, crying that his teeth were knocked out. When
Don Quixote saw the beard on the ground without any sign of flesh or
blood, he was struck with amazement, and thought that the barber had
been shaved by a miracle.

The curate hastened breathlessly to the barber's side, and began to
mumble incomprehensible words, while the barber was groaning on the
ground in an uncomfortable position. When the barber finally rose, Don
Quixote's eyes nearly fell out of their sockets, for he beheld the
barber bearded again. He begged the curate to teach him the charm that
could produce such a miracle, and the curate promised he would. Then
they proceeded on the journey.

The curate now began to wonder about the road (all this was pre-arranged)
and said that in order to go to the kingdom of Micomicon, they had to
take the road to Cartagena, where they would embark on a ship. That, he
said, would take them through his own village, and from there it was a
journey of nine years to Micomicon. Here the Princess corrected him,
saying that it had taken her only two years to make the journey here,
in quest of the noble and famous knight who had now sworn to restore
her kingdom to her.

Don Quixote at this moment happened to observe the light attire of the
curate, and was curious to know the reason for it. Whereupon the
curate (having learned of the incident through Sancho) related how he
and Master Nicholas, on their way to Seville, had been held up by a
gang of liberated galley-slaves. These criminals, it was said, had
been set free by a man on horseback, as brave as he was bold, for he
had fought off all the guards, single-handed. The curate criticized
this man heartlessly, called him a knave and a criminal for having set
himself against law and order and his king, and expressed a belief
that he could not have been in his right mind. The Holy Brotherhood,
he said further, was searching for him now, and he himself was afraid
that the man's soul would be lost. He finished his story by calling
upon the Lord to pardon this unregenerate being who had taken away the
galley-slaves from the punishment that had been meted out to them by
justice.

Don Quixote seemed to take the curate's sermon to heart, and bent his
head humbly, not daring to admit that he was the culprit, and not
knowing that the curate knew it.

CHAPTER XXX

WHICH TREATS OF THE ADDRESS DISPLAYED BY THE FAIR DOROTHEA,
WITH OTHER MATTERS, PLEASANT AND AMUSING

When Sancho heard the harsh sermon of the curate, he, being a good
Christian, became afraid that his own soul might be lost too; for was
he not an accomplice? So he confessed then and there his own and his
master's guilt, much to the shame and anger of Don Quixote. The
Princess was quick to sense the danger, and she calmed our hero before
his anger had risen to any great height, by reminding him of his
promise, and how he had sworn to engage in no conflict of any kind
until her kingdom had been saved. He answered her with infinite
courtesy and expressed his regrets for having let his anger get the
better of him; he would stand by his word. Then he asked her to tell
him all that she could about herself and her kingdom. She would
willingly do that, she said, and began her story.

But she came very near ending it then and there, for she could not
remember the name she had assumed. Luckily the curate--who had
invented her long and difficult name--was there to prompt her, and the
situation was saved. Having told Don Quixote that her name was
Princess Micomicona, she continued her story, relating how she was
left an orphan, how a certain giant and lord of an island near her
kingdom had asked for her hand in marriage and she had refused, how
his forces had overrun her country and she had fled to Spain, where it
had been predicted by a magician she would find a certain great knight
errant by the name of Don Quixote, otherwise called the Knight of the
Rueful Countenance, who would be recognized by a gray mole with hairs
like bristles under the left shoulder.

Immediately upon hearing this, Don Quixote wanted to strip, but Sancho
assured them that he did have just such a mark. Dorothea said she was
quite sure he must, for in other respects the description that the
magician had given fitted him; and she hastened to relate to him how
she had first heard of him on her landing at Osuna. But evidently the
pretended Princess had not been as careful a student of geography as
Don Quixote, who was quick to ask her: "But how did you land at Osuna,
señorita, when it is not a seaport?" Again the curate displayed proof
of rare presence of mind, for he broke in: "The Princess meant to say
that after having landed at Malaga, the first place where she heard of
your worship was Osuna." And Dorothea immediately corroborated the
curate's explanation with great self-assurance.

However, she thought it best to end her story here, for fear of
complications, and only added how happy she was to have found him so
soon. She also pointed out, demurely enough, that it had been
predicted if after having cut off the giant's head the knight should
ask her to marry him, she would accept. But Don Quixote said he would
be true to his Dulcinea; and this made Sancho exclaim with dismay
that he was out of his head, for Dulcinea could never come up to this
fair princess.

Sancho's remark angered his master so intensely that he knocked him to
the ground with his spear; and if the Princess had not interfered the
unfortunate squire might never again have been able to say his
ave-marias or credos or, more to the point, have eaten another square
meal. He was quick to cry out that he had meant no ill by what he
said, and acting upon the suggestion of the Princess, he kissed his
master's hand.

At this moment a man, mounted on an ass, was seen on the road, and
Sancho, no doubt feeling instinctively the proximity of his beloved
animal, recognized in the man Gines de Pasamonte. Wildly shouting, he
set out after the galley-slave, who threw himself off the ass at
Sancho's first shout. Sancho, crying with joy, was so glad to have his
faithful donkey returned to him that he did not pursue the thief. And
Don Quixote himself was so pleased that he entirely forgot about his
quarrel with Sancho. He called him to his side, and asked him to
repeat everything his Dulcinea had told him, over and over again.

CHAPTER XXXI

OF THE DELECTABLE DISCUSSION BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO
PANZA, HIS SQUIRE, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS

Don Quixote was anxious to know what jewel his fair one had bestowed
on Sancho before the leave-taking. Sancho replied that the only jewel
Dulcinea had given him was some bread and cheese; whereupon Don
Quixote remarked that no doubt she had had no jewels at hand. He
expressed wonder at the speedy trip Sancho had made, to which Sancho
replied that Rocinante had gone like lightning; and Don Quixote then
was sure some friendly enchanter had carried him through the air.

CHAPTERS XXXII-XXXIV

WHICH TREATS OF WHAT BEFELL ALL DON QUIXOTE'S PARTY AT THE INN

The following day they reached the inn. The landlady at once wanted
her ox-tail back, so it was decided that the barber should hereafter
appear in his own true character, having supposedly arrived at the inn
after the galley-slaves' hold-up.

Don Quixote was tired, and was given a bed in the garret where he had
slept once before. While the others were having dinner, the landlady
was confidentially telling all who would listen of Don Quixote's
absurdities during his previous visit, and also of Sancho Panza's
being juggled in the blanket. And while the curate was discussing Don
Quixote's madness, the innkeeper confided to him that he himself had a
weakness for reading about deeds of the past, particularly stories of
chivalry. Often, he said, he would read aloud from these books to his
family and servants. He had just read a novel entitled "Ill-Advised
Curiosity," which he had found very interesting. He showed the
manuscript of it to the curate, who seemed to think it might make very
good reading and expressed a desire to copy it. Whereupon the
innkeeper asked him whether he would not read it aloud to them; and as
they were all eager to hear it, the curate commenced the reading of
the manuscript.

CHAPTER XXXV

WHICH TREATS OF THE HEROIC AND PRODIGIOUS BATTLE DON QUIXOTE
HAD WITH CERTAIN SKINS OF RED WINE, AND BRINGS THE NOVEL OF
THE "ILL-ADVISED CURIOSITY" TO AN END

The curate had almost finished the reading of the novel, (which
consumed all of the two chapters which are omitted here) when Sancho
Panza burst into the room, excitedly shouting that his master was
having the wildest battle he had ever seen, up in the garret. He
pleaded for reinforcements, and wanted them all to join in conquering
the enemy who, he declared, was no other than the fierce giant that
had invaded the kingdom of Micomicon. He said he had left just as his
master had cut the giant's head clean off with his sword, leaving the
beast to bleed like a stuffed pig.

While Sancho was relating his blood-curdling story, a tremendous noise
and loud exclamations poured forth from the garret, and the innkeeper,
suddenly remembering all the many wine-skins he had hung up there on
the previous night sprang out of his chair and toward the scene of
action, followed by the rest.

The worst that the innkeeper might have feared was true; for there, on
the garret floor, was a sea of red wine, with hosts of empty skins
floating about upon it. In the middle of the sea stood Don Quixote,
sword in hand, slashing right and left, dressed in nothing but his
shirt. But the strangest thing of all was not his attire, but the fact
that he was fast asleep, his eyes shut tightly, dreaming that he had
already arrived in the distant realm of the Princess Micomicona and
had encountered the giant enemy.

Seeing all his precious wine floating away, the innkeeper became
enraged and set upon Don Quixote with his bare fists; but the beating
had no effect on the knight except, perhaps, that it made him sleep
more soundly. It was not until the barber had drenched him in cold
water that he came to his senses.

The Princess Micomicona, who had been listening to the saving of her
kingdom outside the door, became eager, after she had heard the
tempest subside, to enter and see the conquered giant; but she retired
hastily and with a slight exclamation of horrified modesty on seeing
the abbreviated length of her defender's night-shirt, the tail of
which had been sacrificed to his prayers in the wilderness.

The landlord, cursing his luck, swore that this time the knight errant
and his squire should not escape without paying. But Don Quixote,
whose hand the curate was holding in an endeavor to calm him, merely
fell on his knees before the curate, exclaiming: "Exalted and
beautiful Princess! Your Highness may now live in peace; for I have
slain the giant!" He imagined that he was at the feet of Micomicona.
Soon after having spoken thus, he showed signs of great weariness, and
the curate, the barber and Cardenio carried him to his bed, where he
fell asleep.

Next they had to console Sancho, who was grief-stricken because he had
been unable to find the giant's head. He swore he had seen it falling
when his master cut it off, and imagined that if it could not be
produced there would be no reward for either him or his master; but
Dorothea, in her rôle of Princess, calmed and comforted him.

All this time the innkeeper's wife was crying about the ox-tail, which,
she said, had lost its usefulness after having served as beard, and the
innkeeper was demanding that he be paid for the spilt wine and other
losses. The curate assured them that he himself would see to it that they
were reimbursed for everything; and when the excitement in the inn had
simmered down, and everybody had gathered again in the room where they
had heard the curate read from "Ill-Advised Curiosity," he was asked to
resume the reading. This he did; and they all thought it a very
entertaining story and listened intensely to what the curate was reading.

[Illustration: "SLASHING RIGHT AND LEFT, DREAMING THAT HE HAD
ENCOUNTERED THE GIANT ENEMY."--_Page 93_]

CHAPTER XXXVI

WHICH TREATS OF MORE CURIOUS INCIDENTS THAT OCCURRED AT THE INN

At this moment there was a sound of people approaching on horseback,
and the innkeeper rushed to the gate to receive the guests. There were
four men, with lances and bucklers, and black veils for their faces; a
woman, dressed in white and also veiled, and two attendants on foot.
One of the four, a gentleman of distinction, helped the lady to
dismount, and they entered the inn.

As they came into the room where the curate had just finished reading
the novel of "Ill-Advised Curiosity," Dorothea covered her face, and
Cardenio left and went to the garret. As the gentleman seated the lady
in a chair, she heaved a deep sigh. Her arms fell limply by her side.
The curate was curious to know who these people were, so he asked one
of the servants that accompanied them. But none of them knew, for they
had met the travelers on the road, they said, and had been offered
employment at good pay. They added that they feared the lady was being
taken somewhere against her will, as she had done nothing but sigh all
through the journey, and had exchanged no words whatever with her
escort.

Dorothea, hearing the lady sigh repeatedly, felt compassion for her,
and asked her whether there was anything that she could do for her.
But although she asked her the question several times, she got no
reply.

When the gentleman with the distinguished bearing observed that
Dorothea was interested in this lady, he told her it was useless to
bother with her, for her answers were all lies and anything done for
her would be rewarded with ingratitude. This remark was speedily
answered by the lady, who retorted. "I have never told a lie. On the
contrary, it is because I am truthful and cannot lie that I am now in
this miserable condition. And you are the lying one!"

Cardenio was in the adjoining room, just returning from the garret,
and when he heard these words he exclaimed: "Good God! What is this I
hear! It is her voice!"

The lady heard the exclamation, and seeing no one, she became agitated
and rose, but was held back by the gentleman. Her veil suddenly fell
off, and every one could see her face, which was one of alabaster-like
whiteness and great beauty. And while the gentleman was struggling to
keep her from leaving the room, his own veil became unfastened and
Dorothea saw that he was no other than her own lover, Don Fernando.
The moment she recognized him she fainted, and the barber caught her,
or she would have fallen to the floor. The curate was quick to throw
some water on her face, and she soon came to. As soon as Cardenio
heard the commotion, he rushed in from the other room, imagining that
the worst had happened to his Luscinda--for it was no other than
she--and it was a curious thing to see the four suddenly finding
themselves face to face.

Luscinda was the first one to speak, and she implored Don Fernando to
take her life, so that her beloved Cardenio might believe that she
had been true and loyal and faithful to him until the very last.

When Dorothea heard Luscinda speak thus, she fell on her knees before
Don Fernando and implored him to reconsider everything that he had
done that was base and wrong and sinful. She pleaded with tears in her
eyes, begging him to give up Luscinda to her faithful Cardenio, told
him how much she still loved him in spite of his wrong-doing, and said
she would forgive him everything if he would only let his real and
better nature come into its own. And her tears and sincerity moved Don
Fernando so that he himself wept, and he promised to abide by the
ending which Fate itself seemed to have provided for by bringing them
all together in this strange way.

He told Luscinda that when he had found the paper in which she
declared she could never be the wife of any other man than Cardenio,
he was tempted to kill her, but was prevented by chance. He had left
the house in a rage, and had not returned home till the following day,
when he found that she had disappeared. Some months later he learned
that she had taken refuge in a convent. He gathered the companions
they had seen at the inn, and with their help he carried her from the
convent. Now he repented of what he had done, prayed he might be
permitted forever to live with his Dorothea, and asked them all for
forgiveness. Then he gave his blessing to the overjoyed Cardenio and
Luscinda, who were both so affected at their reunion that they shed
tears. Even Sancho was weeping, although for quite another reason. He
was grieved to find his Princess Micomicona suddenly lose her royal
identity and turn out to be a mere lady.

CHAPTER XXXVII

IN WHICH IS CONTINUED THE STORY OF THE FAMOUS PRINCESS
MICOMICONA, WITH OTHER DROLL ADVENTURES

Sancho thought it his solemn duty to go to his master at once and
inform him of the catastrophe. Dejected, he approached Don Quixote,
who had just awakened, and said: "Sir Rueful Countenance, your Worship
may as well sleep on, without troubling yourself about killing or
restoring her kingdom to the Princess; for that is all over and
settled now."

Don Quixote agreed with his squire enthusiastically, and then told him
of the tremendous battle he had just had with the giant, dwelling
particularly upon the great amount of blood that flowed when the
giant's head was cut off.

"Red wine, your Worship means," said Sancho, "and no less than
twenty-four gallons, all of which has to be paid for! The Princess
your Worship will find turned into a private lady named Dorothea; and
there is much more that will astonish your Worship."

Whereupon there ensued a rich and varied conversation between master
and servant. When Don Quixote heard his squire confound blood with
wine, he called him a fool. And when he heard that his Princess had
turned into a simple Dorothea, the fears he had entertained during
his past visit to the inn, began to return, and he decided that the
place was enchanted. But of that his squire could not be convinced,
for the episode of the blanketing still remained a most vivid reality
to him. Had it not been for that, he repeated, he could have believed
it readily.

Meanwhile the curate had been telling Don Fernando and the others of
Don Quixote's strange malady; he described how they had succeeded in
taking him away from the wilderness and his self-inflicted penance,
and told them all the strange adventures he had heard Sancho relate.
They were greatly amused and thought it the most remarkable craze they
had ever heard of. Don Fernando was eager that Dorothea should
continue playing her part, and they all decided to come along on the
journey to the village in La Mancha.

At this moment Don Quixote entered in his regalia, the barber's basin
on his head, spear in hand, and with the buckler on his arm. Don
Fernando was struck with astonishment and laughter at the sight of the
mixed armament and the peculiar long yellow face of the knight. After
a silence, Don Quixote turned to Dorothea and repeated his vow to
regain her kingdom for her. He said he approved heartily of the magic
interference of the spirit of the king, her father, who had devised
this new state of hers, that of a private maiden, in which guise she
would no doubt be more secure from evil influence on her journey to
her home.

His ignorant squire broke in when his master related of his battle in
the garret, and inferred irreverently and rather loudly that he had
attacked wine-skins instead of giants, but Don Fernando quickly made
him be quiet. Dorothea rose and thanked our rueful knight at the end
of his speech for the renewed offer of his sword.

Having listened to her lovely voice, Don Quixote turned angrily to his
squire and reprimanded him for being a disbeliever, saying that he
could now judge for himself what a fool he had made of himself. Sancho
replied that he hoped he had made a mistake about the Princess not
being a princess, but that as to the wine-skins, there could be no
doubt, for the punctured skins he had seen himself at the head of Don
Quixote's bed--and had not the garret floor been turned into a lake of
wine? Whereupon his master swore at his stupidity, until Don Fernando
interrupted and proposed that they spend the evening in pleasant
conversation at the inn instead of continuing their journey that
night.

While that was being agreed upon, two travelers, a man and a woman,
dressed in Moorish fashion, came to the inn. They asked for rooms
overnight, but were told there were none to be had. Dorothea felt
sorry for the strange lady--whose face was covered with a veil--and
told her that she and Luscinda would gladly share their room with her.
The lady rose from her chair, bowed her head and made a sign with her
hands as if to thank them; and they concluded, because of her silence,
that she could not speak their language. At this moment her companion
returned to her and, seeing her surrounded by the guests at the inn,
he confirmed what they had thought, for he made the remark that it was
useless to address any questions to her as she could speak no other
tongue than her own. They explained that they had asked no questions,
but had only offered her quarters for the night. When the stranger
learned this, it seemed to please him very much, and he thanked them
profusely.

As they were all curious to know who the lady was, they asked the
stranger whether or not she was a Christian. He replied that while she
was not, she wished to become one; and he informed them that she was a
lady of high rank from Algiers. This excited a desire to see her face
as well as to know whom she might be, and Dorothea could not resist
the temptation of asking her to remove her veil. When her companion
had told her Dorothea's desire, and the Moorish lady had removed her
veil, they all stood in awe, for they beheld a face that seemed to
them lovelier than any they had ever beheld before. Don Fernando asked
her name, and the stranger replied it was Lela Zoraida; but when the
fair lady heard him speak this name, she exclaimed emphatically that
she was called Maria and not Zoraida. Luscinda embraced her in a
loving way and said they would call her by that name.

The supper was now ready and all placed themselves at a long table, at
the head of which Don Quixote was asked to seat himself. At his
request Dorothea--as the Princess Micomicona in disguise--sat on his
right. All were merry and content and many pleasantries were passed.
But suddenly Don Quixote stopped eating, rose, and with inspiration in
his eyes and voice, began a long discourse on knight-errantry,
reviewing the great good it had done for mankind. The language he used
was so perfect, his manners so free and easy, and his delivery
possessed of such charm, that his listeners could hardly make
themselves believe they were in the presence of one who was demented.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

WHICH TREATS OF THE CURIOUS DISCOURSE DON QUIXOTE DELIVERED
ON ARMS AND LETTERS

Don Quixote told them in his discourse of that age in which victory in
battle depended on personal courage and good swordsmanship, before the
use of such devilish contrivances as lead and powder. These things
almost made him despair of success for his revival of chivalry in this
age, he said; for while guns and artillery could instill no fear in
his breast, they did make him feel uneasy, as one never knew when a
bullet, intended for some one else, might cut off one's life. The very
worst of such a death, he maintained, was that the bullet might have
been discharged by a fleeing coward. And so he pledged himself again,
in spite of all the things he had to struggle against, not to give up
what he had undertaken to do: to set the world aright in accordance
with the principles of knight-errantry.

All the while that Don Quixote was discoursing, Sancho was much
concerned because he neglected his food. He broke in whenever he had
an opportunity, and admonished his master that he would have much time
for talking after he had eaten.

When they had finished their supper, the landlord informed them that
he had re-arranged their quarters in order to accommodate all, and
that the three women might sleep in the garret, as Don Quixote
gallantly had given up his quarters to them. Their interest then
turned again to the stranger. Don Fernando asked him some questions
about his life, and he replied that while his life-story would be
interesting, it might not afford them much enjoyment. However, he
said, he would tell it if they so wished. The curate begged that he do
so; and, seeing the interest of all, the stranger mentioned by way of
introduction that while his was a true story, many a story of fiction
would seem tame and less strange in comparison. And while all of the
company expectantly turned their eyes toward the strange traveler in
Moorish garb, he began the following tale.

CHAPTERS XXXIX-XLI

WHEREIN THE CAPTIVE RELATES HIS LIFE AND ADVENTURES

As a young man, the stranger said, he had left Spain, bent on adventure
and on becoming a soldier. He had served with the Duke of Alva in
Flanders, and in the wars of the Christians against the Turks, the Moors,
and the Arabs. In one of these wars he was taken prisoner by King El
Uchali of Algiers; he had previously advanced to the rank of captain. He
was held a captive for a long time, first at Constantinople, then at
Tunis, then at Algiers. At Constantinople he encountered a good many
other Christian prisoners. Particularly he remembered one Don Pedro de
Augilar, a brave soldier and a native of Andalusia, who, he said, had
written some very excellent poetry. He especially spoke of two sonnets
which he had liked so well that he had learned them by heart. One day Don
Pedro succeeded in making his escape, but what had become of him he had
never heard.

As soon as the captive had spoken Don Pedro's name, the ladies and Don
Fernando exchanged glances and smiled, and Don Fernando could not
refrain from informing the narrator that Don Pedro was his brother.
Furthermore, he said, he was safe in Andalusia, where he was happily
married, in the best of health, and had three robust children. Then he
touched on his brother's gift for composing poetry, and said that the
very two sonnets the captive had mentioned, he himself knew by heart.
Whereupon every one asked him to recite them, and so he did with fine
feeling and intelligence. Then the captive resumed his story.

At Algiers, he said, there lived, overlooking the prison, a great
alcaide named Hadji Morato, a very rich man, who had but one child, a
daughter of great beauty. She had learned the Christian prayer from a
slave of her father's, when she was a child; the things that this
Christian woman had taught her had made her long to know more about
the religion and to become a Christian herself. This beautiful
Algerian maiden had seen the captive from her window, and she liked
him, and one day she managed to get a message to him, begging him to
escape and to take her with him. From time to time she would throw to
him gold coins wrapped in cloth, and these he would hide until finally
he had enough to buy not only himself but some other prisoners free
from their slavery.

However, in order to effect the escape of the maiden, the captive was
obliged to take into his confidence an old Algerian renegade who
turned out to be a believer in Christ. With this man the captive sent
messages to Zoraida. Now, this renegade was a sly fellow, and he
bought a small vessel with which he began to ply to and fro between
the city and some islands nearby, bringing back fruit each time, in
order to alleviate all suspicions of his having acquired the vessel
for any other purpose than trading. Finally it was decided the time
had come for the escape, and the captive had himself ransomed.

That night the renegade had the ship anchored opposite the prison and
Zoraida's garden, and, with the help of a number of Christians whom
they had gathered as rowers, and who were eager to return to Spain,
they secured the ship and put the Moorish crew in irons and chains.

Zoraida witnessed the proceedings from her window, and when she saw
her captive and the renegade return in the skiff of the vessel, she
hastened below into the garden. She was bedecked with a fortune in
pearls and precious stones. She asked the renegade to follow her into
the house, and when they returned, they brought with them a chest
laden with gold. Just then her father was awakened and he began to
shout in Arabic as loudly as he could that he was being robbed by
Christians. Had it not been for the quick action of the renegade all
might have been lost. He bound and gagged the father and carried him
downstairs, where Zoraida had fainted in the captive's arms. Then they
hastened back to the ship and set sail for Majorca.

It was some time before the old alcaide realized that his daughter had
gone with the captive of her own free will, and when he learned it, he
flung himself into the sea, but was rescued by one of the rowers. When
he found himself then on board the ship, he began to curse his
daughter, calling her a Christian dog and other vile names. Finally it
was deemed best to set him and the other Moors ashore; and when the
old man saw the ship sail away with his daughter, he began to sob and
cry aloud in the most heartrending way, threatening to kill himself if
she did not return to him. The last words that she heard were, "I
forgive you all!" and they made her weep so bitterly that it seemed as
if her tears would never cease flowing.

They were then less than a day's voyage from the coast of Spain. As
they were breezing along with all sails set, over a moonlit sea, they
saw a large ship appear in the distance. It turned out to be a French
corsair from Rochelle out for plunder, for when it came closer it
suddenly fired two guns that took terrible effect and wrecked their
vessel. As the ship began to sink, they begged to be taken aboard the
corsair, to which the captain was not averse. Once aboard they were
told that if they had been courteous enough to reply to the question
shouted from the corsair as to what port they were bound for, their
own vessel would still have been intact. The covetous crew stripped
them of all their valuable belongings, the pearls and jewels, money
and adornments of Zoraida. The chest of gold, however, the renegade
stealthily lowered into the sea without any one seeing it.

The next day when the Spanish coast was sighted the captain put them
all in a skiff, gave them some bread and water for their voyage, and
set out to sea. Before letting them depart, moved by some strange
impulse, he gave Zoraida forty crowns; and he had not robbed her of
her beautiful gown. They steered their skiff towards the shore, where
they landed soon after midnight. Immediately they left the shore,
eager to know where they were. They climbed the mountain--for the
shore was a rocky one--and there they rested until dawn, then went on
into the country.

Soon they met a young shepherd; but when he saw their strange garbs,
he ran away from them like a frightened lamb, crying that the Moors
had invaded the country. And not so long after that they encountered
fifty mounted men of the coast guard, but as soon as these saw their
Moorish costumes and had heard the captive's explanation, they
realized that the boy's vivid imagination had disturbed them
needlessly. And when one of the Christian captives recognized in one
of the guards an uncle of his, these men could not do enough for the
returned slaves. They gave them their horses, some of them went to
rescue the skiff for them, and when they arrived at the nearby city
they were welcomed by all the inhabitants.

At once they went to the church to return thanks to the Lord for their
marvelous escape, and Zoraida was impressed beyond expression with the
hosts of praying worshippers. She, the renegade, and the captive
stayed at the house of the returned Christian, and the rest were
quartered throughout the town. After six days the renegade departed
for Granada to restore himself to the Church through the means of the
Holy Inquisition. One by one the other captives left for their own
homes, and finally only Zoraida and he himself remained. He then
decided to go in search of his father, whom he had not seen for so
many years, and he did not know whether he was alive or not. His
journey had brought him to this inn, and it was here that his story
came to an end.

CHAPTER XLII

WHICH TREATS OF WHAT FURTHER TOOK PLACE IN THE INN, AND OF
SEVERAL OTHER THINGS WORTH KNOWING

The captive having finished his strange and interesting story, Don
Fernando rose and thanked him, and all were eager for an opportunity
to show him their goodwill. Don Fernando begged the stranger to allow
him to provide for his comfort, and offered to take him to his
brother, the Marquis, who, he said, would be most eager to act as
Zoraida's godfather at her baptism. But the stranger declined
graciously all the offers that were made.

Night was now setting in, and each one was contemplating going to his
room, when suddenly a coach with attendants on horseback arrived at
the inn. The landlady told the one demanding lodging that there was
none to be had at any price. Whereupon the man replied that room
_must_ be found for his lordship, the Judge, his master. As soon as
the landlady learned she was dealing with the law, she nearly fainted
from exertion to please, and offered to give up their own room and bed
to his lordship. By this time the Judge, attired in a long robe with
ruffled sleeves, had stepped out of the coach, accompanied by a
beautiful girl of about sixteen years of age. There were exclamations
from all when they saw the young lady, for she possessed beauty and
grace that were really rare.

The first one to greet the strangers was no other than Don Quixote,
who, with a grave air and the most exalted and flowery language, bade
them welcome to the castle. He finished his speech by saying: "Enter,
your worship, into this paradise, for here you will find stars and
suns to accompany the heaven your Worship brings with you. Here you
will find arms in their supreme excellence, and beauty in its highest
perfection."

The Judge looked for a moment as if he hesitated about entering with
his daughter after such an unusual reception; he seemed to wonder
whether he was at an inn or an asylum. He scrutinized Don Quixote's
curious armor, then turned his attention to the rest of the company,
which evidently made him feel more at ease.

It was arranged that the young lady should sleep with the other
ladies; which pleased her greatly, for it was evident that she was
very much taken with them and their beauty. The Judge was as much
pleased with the presence of so many people of quality as he was
puzzled by Don Quixote and his strange appearance and behavior.

The moment the former captive and captain had laid eyes on the Judge,
he was stirred by the conviction that here was his own younger
brother. He asked the Judge's name of one of the servants, and was
told he was called the Licentiate Juan Perez de Viedma, lately
appointed Judge of the Supreme Court of Mexico, to which country he
was now on his way. The Captain inquired whether the servant knew from
which part of Spain the Judge came, and got the reply that he had
heard it rumored he was a native of a little village in the mountains
of Leon. The Captain was then certain it was his brother, and he
hastened to tell the curate, Don Fernando, and Cardenio, saying he
felt diffident about making himself known too abruptly for fear his
brother might refuse to acknowledge him because of his poverty and
ill-fortune.

The curate understood the Captain's way of thinking, and asked that he
trust him to manage it in a discreet way. So when the Judge invited
them all to keep him company while he supped, the curate told the
story of the captive at the table. In telling it he pretended to have
been a captive in the hands of the Turks and the Algerians and a
comrade-in-arms of the Captain. When he had finished the story, tears
rolled down the Judge's cheeks, and he begged the curate to help him
to find his beloved brother, for whom their aged father was ever
praying, ever asking, hoping that he might see him once more before he
closed his eyes in death. It was then that the Captain, himself in
tears, stepped forward and, the Judge having recognized him, embraced
his brother. Then the Judge embraced Zoraida, offering her all the
worldly goods he possessed. His daughter, the lovely young girl, now
joined them, and all the others were moved to tears by the brothers'
happiness in finding each other after so many years of separation.

Don Quixote stood gazing in silence at what passed before his eyes,
ascribing the two brothers' luck to magic.

When the first emotion of the unexpected meeting had subsided, the
Judge asked his brother and Zoraida to return with him to Seville,
from where he would send a messenger to the father, telling him of the
good news and begging him to come to the joint marriage and baptismal
ceremony. As the Judge was obliged to leave for New Spain within a
month, it was agreed that a speedy return to Seville was necessary.

It was now early morning, though still dark, and all were tired, so it
was decided that every one should go to bed. But Don Quixote,
sacrificing himself in spite of his fatigue, appointed himself to keep
guard for the remainder of the night, fearing attack of some evil
giant or beast upon all the beauty that was slumbering within. They,
who were aware of his peculiar weakness, returned thanks in their most
gracious manner; and when they were alone with the Judge they hastened
to explain the knight's mental state. The Judge was much amused by the
accounts of his adventures and his attempts to revive knight errantry
in Spain.

There was only one unhappy being in the inn that night: that was
Sancho Panza. He was not at all pleased with his master's staying up
at such a late hour. But there seemed nothing he could do about it, so
he retired and spread himself comfortably on the trappings of his
donkey.

While Don Quixote was guarding the castle, and dawn was approaching,
Dorothea, who had lain awake, was suddenly stirred by the sound of a
man's voice, a voice so beautiful that it seemed to her there could be
none sweeter in the world. Then Cardenio was awakened by it, and he
felt that he ought to share the joy of hearing it with the ladies, so
he went to the garret to call their attention to it. When he knocked
on the door and told them, Dorothea called out that they were already
listening. The only one not awake at that time was Doña Clara, the
Judge's fair daughter.

CHAPTER XLIII

WHEREIN IS RELATED THE PLEASANT STORY OF THE MULETEER, TOGETHER
WITH OTHER STRANGE THINGS THAT CAME TO PASS IN THE INN

Dorothea and the other ladies were in a quandary as to whether to
awake Doña Clara or not. Finally they decided that she would be sorry
if she had to learn what she had missed and would regret that they had
not awakened her; so they shook her until she opened her eyes and then
asked her to sit up in bed and listen. But scarcely had she heard one
note, before she began to sob hysterically. She threw her arms around
Dorothea and cried: "Why, oh, why did you wake me, dear lady? The
greatest kindness fortune could do me now would be to close my eyes
and ears so that I could neither see nor hear that unhappy musician!"

Dorothea was at a loss to know what had happened to the child. All the
while she was trying to soothe her, the tears were streaming down the
young girl's face, and she was trembling like a leaf. Finally she
quieted her feelings sufficiently to be able to confide to Dorothea in
a whispering voice the story of her romance with the singer, who, she
said, was not a muleteer as his garb would indicate, but the only son
and heir of a rich noble of Aragon. This gentleman's house in Madrid
was situated directly opposite her father's, and having once seen Doña
Clara the youth proceeded to declare his love for her. She, being
motherless and having no one to whom she could confide her love
secrets, had to leave Madrid with her father, when he was given his
appointment to New Spain, without an opportunity to see her lover. But
as soon as the youth, who was not much older than herself, learned of
their departure, he dressed himself up as a muleteer and set out on
foot to pursue her. At every inn where they had stopped overnight she
had found him awaiting their departure in the morning, and she was
always in dread, she said, lest her father learn of their love for
each other.

With her arms tight around Dorothea, she confessed to her how great
her love was for the youth, saying that she could never live without
him. Dorothea kissed the girl, and promised her that with God's help
all would end well, telling her to put her trust in Him; and before
another day had passed she hoped to have good news for Doña Clara.
Dorothea's assurances calmed and put new faith in the young girl's
heart; and soon they all were fast asleep again.

Now, all this time the one-eyed Asturian maid, and the landlady's
daughter, both bent on deviltry, were keeping their eyes open. It was
impossible for them to forget Don Quixote, and they were determined to
play a joke on him before the night was over. They posted themselves
in the hayloft, where there was a hole in the wall; and when Don
Quixote passed on Rocinante, he heard some one calling: "Pst! Come
here, señor!"

As Don Quixote turned to see who it might be, he discovered the hole
in the wall and it seemed very much like a marvelously decorated
window, in keeping with the beautiful castle he had made out of the
inn. He beheld at this window the two maidens, and immediately they
became to him the daughter of the lord of the castle and her
attendant. Wistfully he gazed at them, certain, however, that they had
designed to destroy his faithful and stubborn allegiance to Dulcinea,
to whom he had just been sending up prayers and salutations under the
influence of the moon. Then he spoke to them, regretting that they
should let themselves be so overcome by love for him that they could
no longer master their feelings. He told them of that great and only
mistress of his soul, the incomparable one of El Toboso of La Mancha,
to whom he had sworn eternal love and undying admiration. And at last
he admonished the innkeeper's daughter to retire to her beauteous
apartment, lest he should be forced to prove himself ungrateful. If,
he said, she would demand any other thing than love, he would
willingly grant her the favor, even unto a lock of Medusa's hair.

The wench immediately realized that her opportunity had come, so she
quickly said that she cared for no lock of Medusa's or any other, but
would be satisfied to feel the touch of his hand.

Before sanctioning this demand, Don Quixote asserted his virtuousness
again by stipulating that she must not kiss it, only touch it. He
understood, of course, that any woman would be likely to ask such a
favor of him at any time (for who would not be proud to have touched
the sinewy hand of so remarkable and famous a knight errant as
himself?) but he insisted on being discreet at all times. So he
climbed up and stood on the saddle of his hack, reaching his lean arm
through the hole in the wall.

By this time the Asturian maid had procured from the stable the halter
of Sancho's donkey, on which her young mistress quickly made a running
knot and passed it over Don Quixote's wrist. As soon as she had
proceeded thus far in her deviltry, she jumped down from the hole and
made fast the other end of the halter to the bolt of the door. Then
she and her maid swiftly made off, bursting with laughter, leaving the
knight to complain of the roughness of her touch.

But after a while Don Quixote began to realize that no one was there to
listen to his complaints, and also that he was not standing too securely
on his Rocinante's back; for should Rocinante move without being urged--a
most unusual event--he would be left to hang in the air by one arm. It
suddenly came to him that he was a victim of enchantment, and he called
on all the saints, and Dulcinea, and Sancho Panza, on all kind magicians
and sages, and every one else he could think of, to come to his aid.

But no one came, until the morning brought four travelers on horseback.
They found the gate still shut, so they called to Don Quixote, who by
this time was almost exhausted. But although wearied, his spirit had not
left him. He reprimanded the strangers for their insolence; asked whether
they were so stupid they failed to realize that as yet the castle gates
were not open, that all were asleep. He commanded them to withdraw to a
distance and to approach the fortress after daylight; then he could
better tell whether they should be permitted to enter or not.

One of the travelers mistook Don Quixote for the innkeeper, and was
immediately reprimanded for this. The offended knight then began to
talk about knight errantry and its revival in the world, until finally
the men tired of his discourse. Again they knocked at the gate, this
time with such force and fury that the innkeeper woke up and came out
and admitted them in a hurry. They entered violently on their horses,
enraged because of their long waiting at the gate, and dismounted,
leaving their horses free. The moment the horses saw Rocinante and the
curious position of his master, they went to investigate him, and the
unsuspecting Rocinante leaped from under Don Quixote with such
suddenness that the poor knight's arm was nearly wrenched from his
body. There he was left to dangle, while the shouts that forced their
way from his throat rent the air fiercely.

CHAPTER XLIV

IN WHICH ARE CONTINUED THE UNHEARD-OF ADVENTURES AT THE INN

When the landlord heard the terrible outcries of Don Quixote, he ran,
greatly excited, to see who could be giving vent to such agony. The
travelers joined him; and the Asturian maid was stirred to quick
action by a bad conscience, as well as by the excited state of her
master. She untied the halter, and Don Quixote fell so suddenly that
his meager body landed like a dead weight on the ground.

The landlord and the travelers found him there, and asked him
impatiently why he was making such a tremendous noise. He ignored
their question entirely, pulled the rope off his wrist, and mounted
his charger with as much nonchalance and elegance as his stiff limbs
would permit. Then he haughtily raised his head, after having adjusted
all his knightly paraphernalia, and circled down the field, returning
in a canter. Having halted Rocinante, he bellowed out to those
assembled "Whoever shall say that I have been enchanted with just
cause, provided my lady the Princess Micomicona grants me permission
to do so, I give him the lie, challenge him and defy him to single
combat."

The landlord saw at once the effect these words of the poor demented
knight had on his newly arrived guests, so he hastened to explain Don
Quixote's condition to them. They then asked whether the innkeeper had
seen a youth dressed like a muleteer. He replied that he had not; but
just then one of the men exclaimed that the youth must be there, since
the Judge's coach--which he had suddenly observed--was there. They
then decided to dissemble, each one going to a different entrance of
the inn, so there would be no chance for the youth to escape.

The landlord was curious to know what it was all about, but could
arrive at no conclusion. The truth was that these men were servants of
the young muleteer's father. And it was not long ere they had
discovered him, lying asleep, never thinking that he would himself be
pursued. The servant who roused him made a few caustic remarks to the
young Don Luis--for this was his name--about his bed and the luxury of
his surroundings, as particularly befitting a youth of his rank and
breeding.

Don Luis could not at first believe that he was really awake. He
rubbed his eyes in astonishment, and failed to find a reply to the
servant's remarks. The man then continued, advising his young master
to return to his home at once, saying that his father, as a result of
his disappearance, was dangerously ill. The youth was curious to learn
how his father had found out what road he had taken and that he had
disguised himself as a muleteer. The servant answered that a student
to whom Don Luis had confided his love for Doña Clara, had told his
master everything, when he saw how he suffered.

Now, it chanced that another muleteer, who had been sleeping with Don
Luis, could not keep what he was hearing to himself; besides, he
deemed it best to disappear from the scene. He informed some of the
guests of what had occurred, and thus it happened that Don Fernando
and Cardenio learned of the plight of the young singer, whose voice
they had so admired a short time before; and when the muleteer told
them that his comrade was a young nobleman in disguise, they decided
to go and help him in his quandary.

They found the four men entreating Don Luis to return to his father;
and the youth emphatically refusing to do so, saying that they might
take him dead, but never alive.

At this moment Dorothea saw Cardenio from her window, and she called
him and told him the story of the lad and Doña Clara. He in turn
related to her how the servants of the youth's father had come to take
him back to his home. In telling Dorothea this news Cardenio was
overheard by Doña Clara who would have swooned had not Dorothea
supported her.

By this time the servants had brought Don Luis into the inn,
threatening to take him back by force should he not go willingly.
Again he protested, and at last the argument attracted all the guests,
including Don Quixote, who had ceased his duties as guard for the
present. The Judge was there too, and when one of the servants
recognized in him their neighbor in Madrid, he pleaded with him to do
all he could to make the young man return to his ill father.

The Judge turned to the young muleteer, and saw that it was his
neighbor's son; whereupon he embraced him and asked in a fatherly way
what had brought him there dressed in such a manner. With his arm
around the youth's neck, the Judge withdrew with the lad to discuss
the reasons for his disguise and for his leaving his father.

While the kindly Judge was thus occupied with Don Luis, a tumult suddenly
arose at the gate of the inn. It was the landlord, trying to hold back
two guests who had attempted to get away without paying. The innkeeper
was stubbornly clinging to the garb of one of the adventurers, and in
return was being pummeled mercilessly, until his face was a study in dark
and fast colors, except his nose, which was tinted a running red. As soon
as the landlady perceived her mate's distress, the thought struck her
that this would be a most worthy opportunity for our valiant knight
errant to show his skill as a swordsman and a wielder of the lance. So
she dispatched her daughter, the fair young lady of the castle, to bring
the knight her message of distress.

Don Quixote received the young lady calmly and courteously, but said
that he was in honor bound to engage in no combat except by the
express permission of her Royal Highness the Princess Micomicona; she
having granted it, there could be no doubt as to the outcome of any
battle in which he chose to draw his sword. Seeing this, in her
opinion, ill-timed hesitancy, the one-eyed Asturian muttered that by
the time the Princess was found, her master would have passed the
heavenly border. The Princess, however, was quickly summoned, and Don
Quixote knelt on his stiff knees before her; but ere he had finished
his long harangue of request, she--having been advised of the urgency
of the situation--had already given him permission and wished him
godspeed.

Don Quixote arose and drew his sword, paced toward the gate, and then
suddenly stopped short. All wondered what had happened to cause his
hesitating thus, and the Asturian maid expressed her wonder aloud. Don
Quixote was not long about the answer. He replied at once that this
was no business for him; they had best call his squire. It was for
Sancho, he said, that he reserved the task and joy of fighting such
lowly people as the ones he saw before him here and now.

Now, while all of this was taking place, Don Luis, with tears in his
eyes, was confessing to Doña Clara's father his great and indomitable
love for her. This placed the Judge in a curious predicament, for he
found himself forced to sit in judgment on the welfare of his own
child. He was so taken with the charm and intelligence of the youth
that he was anxious to have him for a son-in-law, particularly as his
family was one of distinction, and extremely rich. Yet his better
judgment told him that it would be wise to wait another day before
giving his consent. He would have preferred to have Don Luis' father
approve of the marriage, although he thought it almost certain that
this gentleman would like to see his son married to a titled lady.

And while the fate of the young lovers was being weighed by the Judge,
peace had been declared between the innkeeper and the two travelers
who, persuaded by the chivalrous words of Don Quixote, and the
summoning of Sancho, had been made to see the light and pay the bill.
By this time everything was settled amicably, the landlord having
demanded no special indemnity for his battered, many-colored face.

But who should loom up on the scene, now that everything was peaceful
again, but the owner of Mambrino's golden helmet! This particular
barber was now leading his donkey to the stable, when he suddenly
discovered Sancho Panza hard at work repairing the barber's own
trappings, which our Sancho had taken as booty at the time his master
fell heir to the helmet. The barber left his donkey at no slow speed
and ran towards Sancho, to whom he exclaimed threateningly "There, you
thief, I have caught you! Give me my basin and my pack-saddle, and
everything you robbed me of!"

But Sancho was not willing to give up so easily things that he had gained
as spoils in righteous warfare. He refuted with his fists, as well as by
argument, the barber's coarse suggestion that he was a common highwayman;
and his master, coming up at this instant, was proud and pleased to hear
his faithful squire talk like that, and also to see the barber's teeth
gone, which the force of Sancho's blow evidently had carried away. As a
matter of fact, Sancho's demonstration of physical strength made such a
profound impression on Don Quixote, that he decided his squire was not
far from being eligible to knighthood.

As soon as the barber was able to make himself heard again, he began
to arraign both master and squire. He was not to be subdued. He told
all that quickly gathered round them that they could assure themselves
of the truth of what he said by fitting Sancho's saddle to his own
steed; furthermore, he said, they had plundered him of a basin.

When Don Quixote heard this ridiculous accusation, his lips twisted
into a scornful smile. He dispatched Sancho to fetch the helmet--which
seemed to Sancho a dangerous move--and when Sancho returned with the
basin, Don Quixote held it up with great self-assurance before
everybody.

"Your worships," said he, "may see with what face this squire can
assert that this is a basin and not the helmet I told you of; and I
swear by the order of chivalry I profess, that this helmet is the
identical one I took from him, without anything added to or removed."

This statement was corroborated in detail by Sancho, who added: "Since
that battle my master has fought in the helmet only once. That was
when he let loose the unfortunate ones in chains. And if it had not
been for this basin-helmet he might have been killed in that
engagement, for there were plenty of stones raining down on him at
that time."

CHAPTER XLV

IN WHICH THE DOUBTFUL QUESTION OF MAMBRINO'S HELMET AND THE
PACK-SADDLE IS FINALLY SETTLED, WITH OTHER ADVENTURES THAT
OCCURRED IN TRUTH AND EARNEST

The barber appealed to those present and asked them what they thought
about Don Quixote's nonsense; and it was then that it occurred to Don
Quixote's friend, the barber of his village to play a joke on his
fellow barber. He solemnly asked the other barber whether he was out
of his head, for of course anybody could see that it was a helmet,
although, he admitted, not a complete one.

The poor barber was so taken aback, so perplexed that a learned
barber, and a seemingly sane one otherwise, could not tell the
difference between a basin and a helmet that he nearly toppled over.
But when the worthy curate, Cardenio, Don Fernando, and all--for they
realized at once the barber's joke--insisted that he was wrong, and
that it was not a basin, the perspiration began to trickle down his
face, and he exclaimed: "God bless me! Is it possible that such an
honorable company can say that this is not a basin but a helmet? Why,
this is a thing that would astonish a whole university, however wise
it might be! And if this basin is a helmet, then the pack-saddle must
be a horse's caparison!"

Some one present was quick to assert that it most certainly was a
caparison and not a pack-saddle at all; that no one but a fool could
take it for a pack-saddle. And when a gentleman of quality like Don
Fernando offered to take the votes of those present and they turned
out to be in favor of the pack-saddle's remaining a caparison, the
barber thought he had gone completely mad.

By this time the group of spectators had been increased by the arrival
of the four servants of Don Luis, Don Luis himself, and three new
guests--officers of the Holy Brotherhood, to whom the proceedings and
the amusement of those present seemed utter foolishness. One of these
uninitiated newcomers, one of the officers of the Brotherhood, dared
to say that any one who maintained that it was a helmet instead of a
basin must be drunk. But he should not have said it, for our knight
lifted his lance and let it fly out of his hand with such ferocity and
such sure aim that if the officer had not been lucky enough to be able
to dodge it, it would have pierced his body.

The tumult that followed was indescribable. The landlord came to the
rescue of his Brotherhood comrades. His wife fell into hysterics for
fear he would be beheaded by Don Quixote's vicious sword. The women
were all screaming, wailing, weeping and fainting. Then this
tremendous din and noise was suddenly rent by the voice of Don
Quixote; and like a flash there was peace, when the knight errant
began to appeal in soft lucid tones for a cessation of hostilities. It
was a curious thing to observe how willingly the demented man's appeal
to reason was listened to by all. The confusion had struck most of
them with terror and they were glad to heed in such a moment even the
will of unreason.

But as soon as there was quiet again, the grudge against Don Quixote
that had established itself in the heart of one of the Brotherhood,
began to assert itself. It suddenly came to his mind that among his
warrants he had one for a man of Don Quixote's description who was
accused of having set free a chain of galley-slaves. As soon as he had
convinced himself that there could be no mistake about the identity,
he strode forth and seized Don Quixote so abruptly by the collar that
the knight nearly choked.

"Help for the Holy Brotherhood!" the officer yelled aloud. "And that
you may see that I demand it in earnest, read this warrant which says
this highwayman is to be arrested!"

Hardly did Don Quixote feel himself handled in so undignified a
manner, when he clutched the villain's throat, foaming at the mouth
like a wild beast. Luckily they were separated in time by Don Fernando
and the rest, or they would have torn each other to pieces. Yet the
officer was not willing to give up his claim on Don Quixote's person:
a claim that our knight errant laughed at, for who had ever heard of
members of the knighthood being dependent on jurisdiction? Did he,
this base knave, this ill-born scoundrel, not know that the law of
knights was in their swords, their charter in their prowess, and their
edicts in their will? And then he calmly rambled on, his speech of
denunciation culminating in this last crushing remark: "What knight
errant has there been, is there, or will there ever be in the world,
not bold enough to give, single-handed, four hundred cudgellings to
four hundred officers of the Holy Brotherhood if they come in his
way?"

While his master was thus discoursing in his usual vein, Sancho was
reviewing past events at the inn, and he could not help but make this
sad exclamation: "By the Lord, it is quite true what my master says
about the enchantments of this castle, for it is impossible to live an
hour in peace in it!"

CHAPTER XLVI

OF THE END OF THE NOTABLE ADVENTURE OF THE OFFICERS OF THE
HOLY BROTHERHOOD; AND OF THE GREAT FEROCITY OF OUR WORTHY
KNIGHT, DON QUIXOTE

The curate had to argue for some time with the officers of the
Brotherhood before he could finally persuade them that it would serve
no purpose to arrest Don Quixote, for, being out of his senses, he
would in the end be released as a madman. Furthermore, he warned them,
Don Quixote would never submit to force.

Sancho Panza and the barber were still quarreling over the pack-saddle
and the other booty, and at last the officers agreed to act as
mediators, and the differences were adjusted by arbitration. The
curate settled for the basin by paying eight reals, and received a
receipt for payment in full from the barber.

Don Fernando, in the meantime, extracted a promise from three of the
servants of Don Luis to return to Madrid, while the other one agreed
to remain and accompany his young master to where Don Fernando wanted
him to go. Doña Clara was sparkling with happiness; and Zoraida seemed
to feel at home with the Christians, in spite of the noise and tumult
she had had to live through during her short stay at the inn.

The landlord did not forget the reckoning for the wine-skins and all
the other things whose loss he could attribute to Don Quixote, for he
had witnessed the curate's paying off the debt for the barber's
helmet. Don Fernando paid all the innkeeper's demands generously,
after the curate had decided the claims were just.

But when Don Quixote felt no discord in the air, he betook himself to
the presence of Dorothea, knelt before her, and told her how willing
and anxious he was to serve her and conquer her giant. And he
requested that they make ready to leave. Her reply was simple and
direct, for she told him that his will was hers. So Don Quixote
ordered his squire to saddle Rocinante and his own donkey; but Sancho
only shook his head in sorry fashion.

"Master," he said, "there is more mischief in the village than one
hears of." And as his master begged him to speak freely, he burst out:
"This lady, who calls herself ruler of the great kingdom of Micomicon,
is no more so than my mother; for, if she was what she says, she would
not go rubbing noses with one that is here every instant and behind
every door."

Though it was merely with her husband, Don Fernando, that she had, as
Sancho said, rubbed noses, the crimson in her royal blood came to the
surface, and her face turned as red as a beet. Sancho, fearing that
the Princess was a courtesan, wanted to save his master the two years'
journey to Micomicon, if at the end of it it should turn out that
another one than Don Quixote or himself should reap the fruits of
their labor.

It is impossible to describe the terrible wrath of the knight when he
heard the Princess thus slandered. His indignation and fury knew no
bounds. He began to stammer and stutter, inarticulate with rage,
until Sancho was scared out of his wits, afraid of being cut open by
his raving master's sword. He was just about to turn his back on his
master and disappear till the storm had passed, when Dorothea came to
his rescue. She suggested that Sancho's strange behavior could only be
ascribed to one thing: enchantment. How else could he have seen such
diabolical things as he described, how could he have been made to bear
false witness against her, and how could he have spoken words so
offensive to her modesty? Knowing the heart of Sancho, Don Quixote at
once thought her explanation a most ingenious one, for what else could
have put into Sancho's head such disrespect for a royal personage? Don
Fernando, too, pleaded in Sancho's behalf; and Sancho meekly stumbled
to his knees before his master, and kissed his hand frantically,
begging him for forgiveness. Whereupon our knight errant with many
gestures pardoned and blessed him.

"Now, Sancho, my son," he said, "thou wilt be convinced of the truth
of what I have many a time told thee, that everything in this castle
is done by means of enchantment."

To which Sancho Panza replied meekly but firmly: "So it is, I believe,
except the affair of the blanket, which came to pass in reality by
ordinary means."

But Don Quixote as usual was not in a mood to listen to nonsense, and
he replied that if such were the case he would have avenged him, but
seeing no one to avenge himself upon, how could it have been anything
else but enchantment?

Those who were there were eager to know what had happened to Sancho, and
the landlord was most obliging in giving a graphic description of all
that had occurred. They all seemed to enjoy the account enormously, for
they laughed hilariously. Had Don Quixote not again assured Sancho that
it most certainly had happened by enchantment, there is no doubt that he
would have interrupted their hilarity.

It was now two days since they had arrived at the inn, and Don
Fernando and Dorothea were becoming anxious to depart. In order that
they might not have to go out of their way, it was arranged that they
should go by themselves; meanwhile a scheme was devised whereby the
curate and the barber could restore Don Quixote to his native village.

An ox-cart passed that day, and the curate, hearing it was going in
the direction of El Toboso, made arrangements with the owner to make
the journey with him. Then he ordered some of the servants to make a
cage, large enough to hold Don Quixote, and provided it with bars. He
then asked Don Fernando and his companions, the officers of the Holy
Brotherhood, the servants of Don Luis, and the innkeeper to cover
their faces and change their appearance so that Don Quixote would
think they were quite different people.

When this had been done they tiptoed to the valiant knight errant's
room, where they found him fast asleep, bound him, without waking him,
hand and foot; then they stood about the room silently. When the
knight awoke, he was startled to find that he could not move, and
seeing all these strangely conjured-up figures before him, it struck
him they must be phantoms of the enchanted castle. He was absolutely
helpless, and the men had no difficulty in stuffing him into the cage.
The bars were nailed on securely, and the cage was then carried out of
the inn and placed in the ox-cart.

While the procession slowly proceeded from the inn to the ox-cart, the
men supporting the cage on their shoulders, the barber chanted strange
words in a weird and hollow voice. The barber took it upon himself to
become the prophet of the occasion, and he proclaimed to the Knight of
the Rueful Countenance that he ought not to consider his present
imprisonment an affliction. It was in a way a sort of penance, he
said, through which he would be humbled to be in readiness for a still
greater, sweeter imprisonment, the bond of matrimony. This prediction
would come true, he avowed, when the fierce Manchegan lion and the
tender Tobosan dove met again. They would be joined in one, and the
offspring of this union would be of such stuff as to set the world
aflame.

When Don Quixote heard these words, he was stirred into an exalted
emotion. Had he not been well bound it would have been expressed by
kneeling. He raised his eyes toward Heaven and thanked the Lord for
having sent this prophet to him in this needy moment. He prayed that
he should not be left to perish in the cage, and also implored of the
prophet not to let his faithful Sancho Panza abandon him, saying that
if by chance the promise of the island should not come true, he had
made provision for him in his will. Sancho was much moved by what his
encaged and enchanted master had said, and he bent down and kissed
his hands--he had to kiss both since they were tied together. By that
time the procession had arrived at the ox-cart, and all was ready for
the departure.

CHAPTER XLVII

OF THE STRANGE MANNER IN WHICH DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA WAS
CARRIED AWAY ENCHANTED, TOGETHER WITH OTHER REMARKABLE
INCIDENTS

Don Quixote was greatly perplexed and, indeed, somewhat impatient with
the slow speed of the cart carrying away this enchanted knight. The
cart had rolled only a few paces and then stopped; there was nothing
exciting or heroic in being carried off in such a way! Never had he
read anywhere of so ridiculously slow and tame a proceeding. And on an
ox-cart! However, times had changed, and he realized that until he had
established the new era of knight-errantry, the most plebeian ways of
being captured by enchantment would have to serve. Yet, he did not
consider it beneath his dignity to ask Sancho what he thought on the
subject.

"I don't know what to think," answered Sancho, "not being as well read
as your Worship in errant writings; but for all that, I venture to say
and swear that these apparitions that are about us are not quite
Catholic."

Don Quixote could not refrain from laughing aloud at his squire's
simplicity. How could they be Catholics when they were devils, made
of no substance whatever, nothing but air?

[Illustration: "HE PRAYED THAT HE SHOULD NOT BE LEFT TO PERISH IN THE
CAGE."--_Page 131_]

"By the Lord, Master," interrupted Sancho excitedly, "I have touched
them already, and one of the devils, I swear, has firm flesh.
Furthermore, I have always heard it said that all devils smelled of
sulphur and brimstone, but this one smells of amber half a league
off."

Here Sancho was referring to Don Fernando, who, like most nobles, used
a perfume; but Don Quixote explained to his squire that this
particular devil was so besprinkled in order to give people the
impression he was not a devil.

While Don Quixote and his squire were thus exchanging thoughts on the
subject of devils and their religion and what stuff they were made of,
the curate and the barber were saying farewell to Don Fernando, his
bride, Dorothea, Cardenio, Luscinda, the Judge and Doña Clara, as well
as to the Captain and the Captain's bride, Zoraida. All of them
promised to write to the curate, so that he in return might let them
know how his and Don Quixote's journey had ended.

After many embraces, the curate and the barber were ready to make
their departure when the landlord came running out with some papers
which he handed to the curate as a gift. The landlord said it was the
manuscript of the novel, "Rinconete and Cortadillo," a part of the
contents of the valise in which he had found the story of "Ill-Advised
Curiosity," which the curate had read aloud at the inn.

The curate thanked the innkeeper, saying that he hoped it was as good
as the other novel. Then he and the barber covered their faces that
they might not be recognized by Don Quixote, and took their places
behind the cart, mounted on their mules. The three officers of the
Brotherhood had been brought by the curate to escort them to El
Toboso, armed with muskets. And then Sancho Panza, mounted on his
donkey, led Rocinante by the reins. As the procession started, the
landlady came out to weep make-believe tears for Don Quixote, who
begged her to shed none, for in the end, he said, virtue would
triumph.

At the head of the procession came the ox-cart, the officers of the
Brotherhood marching beside it, then followed Sancho Panza on his ass,
leading Rocinante by the bridle, and in the rear trailed the curate
and the barber on their mules. The slow pace of the oxen had to be
imitated by the rest, so the whole procession took on a solemn and
mysterious aspect, which was enhanced by the encaged Don Quixote's
stiff and stone-like form leaning against the wooden bars.

They had traveled several leagues, when the curate heard the sound of
riders approaching from behind. Turning in his saddle he perceived six
or seven men, mounted on mules, and riding at a quick pace. They had
soon overtaken the procession, and exchanged greetings with the curate
and the barber. One of the travelers was a canon of Toledo, and on
observing the fettered Don Quixote, with the armed officers of the
Brotherhood as an escort, he took it for granted that the knight was
some dangerous highwayman. Yet, scrutinizing the strange parade, he
could not help asking questions. So when he inquired of one of the
officers why Don Quixote was being transported in that way, the
officer did not know what to say but referred him for an explanation
to Don Quixote himself.

The knight errant had heard the canon's question, and he offered to
give him the information if he knew anything about errantry. As the
canon said he had read a good deal about knights errant and their
deeds, Don Quixote was quick to tell of his misfortune--how he had
been encaged and made helpless by enchantment. At this moment the
curate, seeing that the canon was talking to Don Quixote, and fearing
a mishap in the carrying out of their plan, came up and joined in the
conversation. He corroborated what the knight errant had just said,
and added that it was not for his sins that he was enchanted, but
because of his enemies' hatred of virtuous deeds, of which this famous
Knight of the Rueful Countenance was the strongest champion in their
age.

When the good canon heard the two of them talk like that, he was at a
loss for words and felt he had to cross himself, in which action his
attendants joined him. But as luck would have it, Sancho Panza had
been listening, and seeing the curate disguised by a mask, the
suspicion crept into his head that he was trying to play a joke on his
master. So he burst into the conversation with a grudge against them
all.

"Well, sirs, you may like it or not," he declared, "but my master is
as much enchanted as my mother! He is in his full senses; he can eat,
and sleep, and drink. Then why do they want me to believe that he is
enchanted? I have heard it said that when you are enchanted you cannot
do any of these things, nor talk. And my master will talk more than
thirty lawyers would if you do not stop him." Then turning to the
curate, he exclaimed: "And, señor curate, señor curate! Do you think I
do not know you? Well, I can tell you I do, for all your face is
covered; and I can tell you I am up to you, however you may hide your
tricks. If it had not been for your Worship, my master would be
married to the Princess Micomicona this minute, and I should be a
Count at least--for no less was to be expected."

And then the faithful Sancho went on to say that he had told all this
that the curate might weigh in his conscience the pranks he had played
on Don Quixote, and for which he would have to pay in heaven (if he
ever should come there) unless he did penance now. Here the barber
thought it best to put an end to Sancho's communications, and offered
him a place in the cage beside his master, but Sancho was quick to
retort: "Mind how you talk, master barber, for shaving is not
everything; and as to the enchantment of my master, God knows the
truth!"

Soon after Sancho had commenced his tirade, the curate thought it
best, having listened to his own denunciation, to explain everything
concerning the knight errant and his squire to the canon. Therefore he
asked him to ride on ahead with him. When the canon had heard the
whole story, he remarked that he thought that books of chivalry were
really harmful, for not one of them was truthful. He was amused when
the curate related how he and the barber had burned nearly all of Don
Quixote's treasures in literature of this sort.

"But what mind," asked the canon, "that is not wholly barbarous and
uncultured can find pleasure in reading of how a great tower full of
knights sails away across the sea like a ship with a fair wind, and
will be to-night in Lombardy and to-morrow morning in the land of
Prester John of the Indies?"

CHAPTER XLVIII

IN WHICH THE CANON PURSUES THE SUBJECT OF THE BOOKS OF
CHIVALRY, WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTHY OF HIS WIT

The curate and the canon had become very much interested in their
subject, and the canon after a while confided to the curate that he
himself had once started to write a book on chivalry, with the
intention of making each incident in it a plausible one. It was his
view that fiction was all the better the more it resembled the truth.
Furthermore, he believed in adhering to good taste and to the rules of
art; these things, it seemed to him, had been ignored in the writing
of these books. From fiction the conversation drifted to playwriting,
and here again the curate and the canon were of the same mind. The
actors of their age chose plays that appealed to people of nonsense
and with bad taste. Instead of trying to improve the national taste,
they produced tawdry plays. The canon cited three excellent plays,
however, that he had seen at Madrid, which had earned great profits
for their producers; this proved to the canon that the great mass of
the public did appreciate a really good play if it was only produced.

While the two clergymen were thus whiling away the time, the barber
approached and told the curate they had reached a place which to him
seemed a good pasture for the oxen. It was now noon, and the canon
decided to join them in their rest. He offered them food out of the
provisions that he had brought along on a pack-mule. The rest of the
canon's mules were sent to an inn, which was seen nearby, to be fed
there.

Seeing his master unguarded, Sancho decided the time had come when he
could speak undisturbedly to him, so he hastened to tell him of the
plot that the curate and the barber had hit upon. He told his master
he was certain it was out of envy and malice, for his having surpassed
them in fame and brave deeds. Don Quixote, however, calmly told his
squire that if he saw two shapes that resembled the barber and the
curate there, they could be nothing but devils having taken on the
appearance of his friends in order to be able to do their black deeds
so much the more safely and cruelly.

CHAPTER XLIX

WHICH TREATS OF HOW OUR KNIGHT IS PERMITTED TO DESCEND FROM
HIS CAGE, AND OF THE CANON'S ATTEMPT TO CONVERT HIM FROM HIS
ILLUSIONS

During his conversation with Sancho, Don Quixote suddenly felt it an
absolute necessity to leave the cage, and to stretch himself in the
open. So Sancho went to the curate to ask his permission, which he
received upon promising to answer for his master's not disappearing.
The curate and the canon went to the cage, and Don Quixote swore as a
knight that he would not run away, whereupon they untied his hands and
feet.

The first thing Don Quixote did was to go to his Rocinante; and then
the canon thought he would try to talk sense into him, to see whether
he could not persuade him to give up his crazy notions and ideas. Don
Quixote listened courteously and attentively, but when the canon had
finished, he turned to him and said he rather thought it was the canon
and not he who was afflicted and out of his wits, since he had the
audacity to blaspheme the order of knighthood. And then he went on,
describing the deeds of all the famous knights he had read of; and the
canon was really amazed at the great ease and clearness of mind with
which he related these tales of adventure. He thought it a pity that
so much knowledge of a wrong kind should be heaped into one brain.

CHAPTERS L-LI

OF THE SHREWD CONTROVERSY WHICH DON QUIXOTE AND THE CANON
HELD, TOGETHER WITH OTHER INCIDENTS

What the canon had tried on the knight, Don Quixote now decided to try
on him. Was that not the great mission he had undertaken in the
world--to revive the spirit of chivalry? So he told the canon of the
many fine qualities he had developed since he was dubbed a knight,
such as courtesy, generosity, valor, good breeding, patience, and many
others that he mentioned; how he had learned to bear hardships of all
kinds, and now, of late, enchantment. He ended his long discourse by
expressing a desire that he might soon be an emperor, for, he said, he
wished to do good to some of his faithful friends, especially his
squire Sancho Panza.

Sancho heard his master's last words, and reminded him again of the
island that he was to govern. On hearing this, the canon broke in with
a few remarks about administration and government, and their
difficulties, and Sancho interrupted the canon to say it would be very
easy to find some one to do all that for him. In reply to this the
canon came forward with a good many arguments phrased in philosophical
language which the squire could make neither head nor tail of. So he
took up the thread of his own mind, and replied: "I have as much soul
as another, and as much body as any one, and I shall be as much king
of my realm as any other of his; so let the country come, and God be
with you, and let us see one another, as one blind man said to the
other."

All the canon could do when he realized how badly both master and
servant were in the clutch of their beliefs and superstitions, was to
wonder at it. But by the time Sancho had finished his words, the
repast was being served on the grass.

As they were about to seat themselves, a goat came running from
between the trees, pursued by a man whose clear voice could be heard
distinctly from the distance. Soon he came up, and he caught the goat
by the horns and began to talk to her, calling her daughter, as if she
had been a child. The goat seemed to understand everything, and the
canon was so impressed with the scene that he asked the goatherd not
to be in a hurry, but to sit down and eat with them.

The goatherd accepted the invitation; and when they had finished the
repast, they had found that he was by no means a fool. When he asked
them if they would like to hear a true story, they were all anxious to
have him tell it to them. Only Sancho Panza withdrew, that he might
get a chance to load himself brimful of food; for he had heard his
master once say that a knight errant's squire should eat until he
could hold no more. The goatherd began his story, after having told
the goat to lie down beside him. She did so, and while the goatherd
was telling the story of his unfortunate love for Leandra, a rich
farmer's daughter, who had jilted both him and his rival Anselmo for
the good looks of a braggard by the name of Vicente de la Roca, the
goat was looking up into his face with an expression as it seemed of
understanding and sympathy.

CHAPTER LII

OF THE QUARREL THAT DON QUIXOTE HAD WITH THE GOATHERD,
TOGETHER WITH THE RARE ADVENTURE OF THE PENITENTS, WHICH
WITH AN EXPENDITURE OF SWEAT HE BROUGHT TO A HAPPY CONCLUSION

All had enjoyed the goatherd's story, and they thanked him for it. Don
Quixote offered him the aid of his sword for the future, and said that if
he had not been enchanted at this moment he would at once set out to free
his Leandra. When the goatherd perceived Don Quixote's strange behavior
and appearance and heard his remarkable language, he was struck with
amazement, and asked the barber what madness was his, who talked like the
knights he had read about in the books of knight-errantry. Scarcely had
Don Quixote heard that he was being taken for a madman by the goatherd
than he flew at him in a raging fit. The most fierce battle ensued,
during which the faces of both men were scratched until they could hardly
be recognized. They fought in the midst of the setting for the meal, and
plates and glasses were smashed and upset. Both were urged on like dogs
by the rest of the company, and soon blood began to flow. Finally Don
Quixote stumbled, and the goatherd managed to get him on his back, while
Sancho was held off by one of the canon's servants, moaning all the while
because he could not go to his master's rescue.

Just then a trumpet blew a solemn note, and all listened in surprise.
Don Quixote was all eagerness: there was no doubt in his mind but that
he was being summoned by one in distress, so he asked for and received
an hour's truce from the goatherd. As soon as he was on his feet, he
ran to Rocinante, whom he bridled in great haste, and set off, armed
with lance, buckler, sword and helmet, in the direction of the sound.

What Don Quixote saw when he had ridden a short distance at his
charger's usual comfortable canter was a procession of penitents, clad
in white, some of whom were carrying an image, draped in black. The
procession had been called for by the priests who desired to bring
relief to the country, which had been suffering that year from a
terrific heat and a lack of rain. They were now marching to a nearby
hermitage, where they wanted to do penance, praying in silence to God
that he might have pity on them.

But what could such a procession have suggested to an imaginative mind
like Don Quixote's but one of the many incidents that he had read of
in his books of chivalry, where some great and worthy lady was being
carried away by evil forces? To the knight the covered image easily
became the worthy lady. Violently kicking Rocinante in the sides, for
he had not had time to put on his spurs, he tried to increase his
steed's canter to a gallop that he might attack in real knight errant
fashion.

The faithful squire, the curate, the canon and the barber all did
their best to stop the knight by their yells. Sancho was frantic, and
cried after him: "Where are you going, Señor Don Quixote? What devils
have possessed you to set you against our Catholic faith? Plague take
me! It is a procession of penitents!" And then he asked him, filled
with horror and almost choking with tears, whether he knew what he was
doing. Why, he was charging the blessed image of the immaculate and
holy Virgin Mary! Sancho, seeing his master's lifted lance, could not
know that his master wanted to release her.

When Don Quixote had reached the penitents, he abruptly halted his
horse and demanded in no uncertain, though flowery, language that the
fair lady--whom, he said, he could plainly see they were carrying away
against her will--be released at once.

One of four priests, who had just begun to chant the Litany, stopped
on a high note and answered the knight that he must not hold up the
singing or the procession, for the marchers were doing penitence by
whipping themselves and could not stop once they had commenced the
ceremony. Again Don Quixote put forth his demand, this time in
language that seemed much more ludicrous to the penitents so that some
of them could not resist bursting into laughter. This sign of
disrespect was too much for our errant, who started his attack but was
prevented from finishing it by the blow of a stick carried by one of
the penitents. With one thwack of it he was felled to the ground.

Sancho had now come up, and when he saw his master stretched out, with
no sign of life, his eyes filled with tears, and he thrust himself
over his master's body, crying and wailing like a little child. It was
pitiful to see the sorrow and the devotion of the poor, simple-minded
fellow, bewailing his master's fall from the blow of a mere stick.
And he ended his tribute by thanking him for the great generosity he
had always shown; for Don Quixote, for but eight months of service,
had given him the best island that was afloat in the sea.

Sancho was suddenly called from his grief by the weak voice of the
knight, who implored his squire to mount him on the ox-cart, as his
shoulder was in a dilapidated condition. Then he commended himself to
his Lady Dulcinea, while Sancho recommended that they return with
their friends to their village, where they could prepare for another
sally at a more favorable time. The knight seemed inclined to take his
squire's advice, for he remarked that it was not a bad idea: that in
the meantime the prevailing evil influence of the stars might
disappear.

By this time the curate, the canon and the officers of the Brotherhood
had arrived at the spot, and the curate found that he knew one of the
priests in the procession. This simplified matters considerably, for
he found it easy to explain to his friend the malady and peculiarities
of Don Quixote, which had been the cause of so much disturbance in so
short a time. After the curate had taken leave of the canon, the
goatherd and those in the procession, he paid off the officers, who
considered it unwise to accompany the party any further. The canon
begged the curate to keep him informed of any change in Don Quixote's
behavior, as he was most interested in his case. Then Don Quixote was
heaved into the cart where a stack of hay served as a softer
resting-place this time; and after six days of travel, the oxen and
the cart and the whole procession entered the La Mancha village. When
they passed the square, it being Sunday, the people crowded around
them, and all were amazed at what they saw.

Soon Don Quixote's niece and his housekeeper got word of his
homecoming. When they saw him, and observed his pallor and leanness,
they began to weep and beat their breasts, and curse all books of
chivalry.

Then Sancho Panza's wife learned the news, and as soon as she saw her
husband the first thing she asked him was whether the donkey was well. To
this greeting he replied that the donkey was better than he himself. And
then she pestered him with questions as to what he had brought back with
him for her and the children; to which he impatiently remarked that she
would have to wait until he got his island or empire, when she would be
called Her Ladyship. Of course, it was not to be expected that Teresa
Panza should understand this; and she did not. Sancho attempted to give
her an insight into the intricacies of knight-errantry by telling her of
some of his remarkable experiences, such as the blanketing, which stood
out in his mind's eye as the culmination of suffering in his career as a
squire.

While this was going on in the Panza household, Don Quixote had been
undressed and put to bed by his niece and the housekeeper. The curate
had told them what troubles and tribulations he had been forced to
undergo in order to restore him to his community and his loved ones.
So they decided, with fear in their hearts, to be ever watchful, lest
he escape and depart on another rampage. And again and again they
would curse the books that they had burned too late.

VOLUME II

CHAPTER I

OF THE INTERVIEW THE CURATE AND THE BARBER HAD WITH
DON QUIXOTE ABOUT HIS MALADY

Don Quixote had been at home almost a month. During that time neither
the curate nor the barber had been to see him for fear that the sight
of them would remind him of his days of knight-errantry and make him
long for another campaign. They did visit the niece and housekeeper,
however, and advised them from time to time what to do; and at last
the women began to think that there was hope for our knight's being
restored to his right mind, for his conversation never touched upon
deeds of chivalry, and when he spoke on other subjects he always
talked most sanely.

Finally the curate and the barber decided to pay their friend a visit,
firmly resolved not to let the subject of conversation turn to
knight-errantry. They found him in bed, with a red Toledo cap on his
head. His face had changed greatly; it was so withered and yellow that
it resembled parchment rather than human flesh. He greeted them
cordially, however, and soon they engaged in an animated conversation,
which finally turned to such an intricate subject as government. So
unusually sane and clear was Don Quixote's reasoning that his friends
were amazed at the change that had taken place, and they felt quite
certain that he was cured. Then they began to discuss the news from
the capital, and the curate mentioned that the Turk was expected to
attack. Nobody knew when, he said, but in order to safeguard the
island of Malta and the coasts of Naples and Sicily, His Majesty had
already made provisions for the defense of these provinces.

Here Don Quixote interrupted and said that His Majesty could easily
settle the whole thing if he would only follow his advice. Both the
curate and the barber began to wonder and worry about what his plan
might be, but before divulging it Don Quixote insisted upon absolute
secrecy, which of course they promised. And then he began in the old,
familiar strain, citing the examples of the innumerable heroes of his
condemned books of chivalry, heroes who, single-handed, had conquered
armies of millions. He finished with a tirade about God's providing
such a knight errant to-day to save the nation and Christianity
against the onslaught of the heathen Turk, with an inference in his
last words that he was to be the chosen savior.

When the two women heard Don Quixote again rave in this manner, they
burst into tears, and the curate and the barber were as sorry and
concerned as the women. The curate turned in bewilderment to his poor
friend and asked him whether he truly believed that the heroes of these
tales of chivalry were men of flesh and blood. He himself, he said, was
convinced that these stories were nothing but fables and falsehoods, and
that none of the personages in them ever lived. Whereupon Don Quixote
began to ridicule the curate, and went on to describe his heroes,
saying that his faith was so strong that he could almost swear he had
seen Amadis of Gaul and some of the others he worshiped. Then he embarked
on a description of these knights, giving the color of their eyes, of
their beards and hair, their height, complexion, all according to his own
crazy imagination. Much of what he said seemed so amusing to his two
friends that they nearly went into hysterics from laughter. His mind's
image of Roland was particularly laughable, for he saw him as a
bow-legged, swarthy-complexioned gentleman with a hairy body, courteous
and well-bred.

On hearing Roland so pictured, the curate remarked it was no wonder
that he was jilted by the fair lady Angelica. To this Don Quixote
retorted that lady Angelica was a giddy and frivolous damsel with
desires that smacked of wantonness. He only regretted that Roland had
not been a poet that he might have libeled her in poetry for all
eternity.

Here the knight was interrupted by the sound of loud talking in the
courtyard, intermingled with screams, and when he and the curate came
running they saw the two women struggling to keep a man from entering
the house.

CHAPTER II

WHICH TREATS OF THE NOTABLE ALTERCATION WHICH SANCHO PANZA
HAD WITH DON QUIXOTE'S NIECE AND HIS HOUSEKEEPER, TOGETHER
WITH OTHER DROLL MATTERS

The man turned out to be no other than Sancho, who wanted to see his
master. But the housekeeper and the niece were bent on not admitting
him, for they considered Sancho the arch enticer and felt that he was
to blame for Don Quixote's expeditions into the country. When Sancho
heard himself thus accused, he defended himself with accusations
against Don Quixote, who, he said, had been the one to hypnotize him;
and then he added that he had come to find out about his island.

As soon as Don Quixote recognized his squire, he quickly took him
inside, being afraid that he would tell the women all the little
details of the knight's adventures, such as the galley-slave episode
and others not tending to reflect honor on his shield. Whereupon the
barber and the curate left, both of them in despair of their friend's
ever being cured. The curate remarked that it would not surprise him
to learn before many moons that Don Quixote and Sancho had set off
again on another sally. They were curious to know what the master and
the servant might be discussing at that very moment. However, the
curate was of the firm belief that they could rely upon the two women
to keep their ears to the door. They would learn from them what had
been the topic, and what had been said.

When Don Quixote was alone with his squire, he expressed dismay over
his having told the housekeeper the knight had taken him from house
and home, when he knew perfectly well that he had gone of his own free
will. They had shared everything, he said; everything except blows,
where he had had a distinct advantage over his squire, having taken
ninety-nine out of a hundred beatings. This dividing of fortune,
Sancho thought, was quite as it should be, for of course knights
errant ought to share the greater benefits of the battle. Here Don
Quixote interrupted with a Latin quotation, which had an evil effect
on Sancho, for it made him retaliate with the blanket episode which to
him still seemed the height of all his suffering in the world. But
this attempt to belittle the fairness of his master's division of
honors in battle was speedily parried by Don Quixote, who maintained
that his squire's bodily suffering in the blanket was as nothing
compared with the painful agony of his own heart and soul when he had
seen his squire in such a predicament. And then he proceeded to
question Sancho as to public opinion of his deeds and valor.

Sancho was inclined to be reticent; but urged by Don Quixote--and
having been forgiven in advance for any vexation he might cause him by
telling the truth--he told of the variety of opinions that existed in
the village. This his master thought only natural; for when had the
world ever given full recognition to a genius or a great hero until
after he was dead? He pointed to all the great names he could
recollect in history that had been persecuted.

But Sancho had not come to the worst; and at last he found sufficient
courage to tell his master of a book entitled "The Ingenious Gentleman,
Don Quixote of La Mancha," which had already, he said, been spread
abroad. In this book not only Don Quixote, but he himself--under his own
name!--and the Lady Dulcinea del Toboso figured; and he was so stupefied
that he had to cross himself, for he could not imagine how everything
that had been told in the book--the most intimate happenings between Don
Quixote and himself--had come to be known to the author. Don Quixote
thought it was very plain that the adventures must have been reported by
some sage and enchanter; but Sancho told him that the author was one Cid
Hamet Berengena (meaning eggplant). It was no other than the son of
Bartholomew Carrasco, who had been a student at Salamanca, who had told
him all this, he said. He asked his master whether he should like to see
the young bachelor, and Don Quixote begged him to run and fetch him at
once, for, he said, he would be unable to digest a thing until he had had
a talk with him.

"Cid Hamet Berengena," repeated Don Quixote to himself. "That is a
Moorish name."

"Yes, I have heard the Moors like eggplant," added Sancho.

And then his lord and master asked: "Didst thou not mistake the
surname of this 'Cid,' which means in Arabic 'lord,' Sancho?"

"Perhaps," said Sancho; "but the bachelor can tell you that."

And he ran to fetch him.

OF THE LAUGHABLE CONVERSATION THAT PASSED BETWEEN DON
QUIXOTE, SANCHO PANZA, AND THE BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO

While Sancho was gone, Don Quixote sat and worried about what the book
might be like; for what justice could be expected from the pen of a
Moor writing history? But perhaps it was not true that such a
chronicle had been written. It seemed almost an impossibility, for it
was only a short time since he returned from his achievements. What
worried him most was the thought that this Cid Hamet Berengena might
have made public in some odious way that great love and sacred passion
of his for the beautiful and virtuous Lady Dulcinea del Toboso.

As he was thus meditating Sancho returned, bringing with him the
younger Carrasco, who went by the strong name of Samson, in defiance
of his unpretentious size. But what he lacked in this respect, he made
up for in wit and humor. He was about twenty-four years of age, had a
round jovial face, a large mouth and a flat nose. What more need one
know to be inclined to think he might be mischievous? He gave proof of
it as soon as he entered, for he fell on his knees and kissed the
hero's hand respectfully, pronouncing him the first and foremost
warrior and knight of the age. Then he called down a blessing on the
name of Cid Hamet Benengeli, his noble biographer, and on the worthy,
learned man who had translated the work from the difficult Arabic into
their pure Castilian for the edification of all the Spanish people who
knew how to read their own language.

"So then there _is_ a history of me--and written by a Moor and a
sage?" asked Don Quixote, as he bade Samson rise.

The bachelor assented and went on to tell how the world was clamoring
for this remarkable chronicle of heroism and sacrifices. Don Quixote
remarked here what a great source of joy and inspiration it should
prove to a man with achievements to his credit to see himself in print
before being dead. The bachelor's opinion on the subject coincided
with his own; and Samson took the opportunity to pay homage to the
marvelous courage, intrepidity, gallantry, gentleness and patience of
Don Quixote, as the author had described it in the book. He also spoke
feelingly of the beautiful, platonic courtship of our knight errant;
and the mention of this caused Don Quixote to ask which of his many
acts of chivalry were most appealing to the reader. The bachelor
replied that that depended greatly upon the reader's taste: some liked
the adventure of the windmills that were enchanted giants; others
preferred reading about the two armies that suddenly turned into
droves of sheep; then again there were those who seemed to think the
victorious assault on the Biscayan made a thrilling chapter; while
many would swear they had never read anything that excited them
quite as much as the account of the liberation of the galley slaves.

Sancho interrupted him here, asking what was said of their experience
with the Yanguesans, when the good Rocinante went looking for
adventure and was bitten by the ponies. Samson replied that the sage
had forgotten nothing; not even the capers that Sancho himself had cut
in the blanket. Whereupon Sancho said: "I cut no capers in the
blanket. In the air I did, and more of them than I liked!" But Don
Quixote interposed here, saying that history must of necessity be more
than one-sided. It must take into its pages adversities as well as
good fortune.

Some people, the bachelor held forth, had expressed a desire that the
author might have eliminated some of the cruel thrashings he had given
the hero; but Sancho differed with these people and supported the
author unqualifiedly, saying, with a glance at Don Quixote, "That is
where the truth of the history comes in!"

Of course Don Quixote saw it in a different light, for he thought that
the thrashings tended to bring the hero of the book into contempt. The
author should have passed them over in silence, he said. Sancho
muttered something to himself, and Don Quixote admonished him to be
quiet so that the bachelor might tell him more of what was said of him
in the book.

"And about me!" broke in Sancho, "for they say that I am one of the
principal presonages in it."

"Personages," corrected Samson, adding that Sancho was the second
person in the chronicle, although many thought he was even first. He
also remarked that the author had been criticized for having inserted
a story called "Ill-Advised Curiosity," which had nothing to do with
Don Quixote whatever. This Don Quixote thought was an infringement on
the hero's rights, and corroborated the justification of the
criticism.

Thus Don Quixote learned from the bachelor all about his own deeds and
exploits, as they had been given to the world by the great Moorish
sage Cid Hamet Benengeli. And when he had asked about himself again
and again, and had been satisfied by the replies of Samson, he found
it was nearly dinner time. Sancho took a hurried leave, fearing the
wrath of his wife if he were late for his meal, and Don Quixote asked
the bachelor to stay and keep him company.

All the while they were eating, Don Quixote entertained his guest with
tales of chivalry. When they finished their repast, they took a nap,
and when they awoke, Sancho was there waiting for them to return to
their conversation concerning the famous chronicle.

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH SANCHO PANZA GIVES A SATISFACTORY REPLY TO THE
DOUBTS AND QUESTIONS OF THE BACHELOR SAMSON CARRASCO
TOGETHER WITH OTHER MATTERS WORTH KNOWING AND MENTIONING

Samson was anxious to learn what Sancho had done with the hundred
crowns he had found in the knapsack. Sancho replied that he had spent
them for the benefit of himself, his wife and children; adding that,
had he come back to his wife without riches of any sort, he would have
had a doubtful reward waiting for him. Now, he said, if anybody wanted
to know anything about him, he was ready to answer the King himself.

"It is no one's business," said he, "whether I took the money, or did
not; whether I spent it or did not spend it, for if every beating I
have received in my master's service were to be valued at no more than
four maravedis, another hundred crowns would not pay me for half of
them. Let each look to himself and not try to make out white, black;
and black, white; for each of us is as God made us--aye, and often
worse."

Don Quixote was curious to know whether there was to be a second part
to the book; and Samson replied that the author was diligently looking
for one, but had as yet found none; so it remained only a possibility.
Yet, inspired by the profits he had made out of the first book, he was
anxious to find a second part, he said.

"The author looks for money and profit, does he?" asked Sancho. "Well,
let Master Moor, or whoever he is, pay attention to what he is doing,
and I and my master will give him adventures and accidents of all
sorts, enough to make up not only a second part but a hundred. The
good man fancies, no doubt, we are asleep in the straw here, but let
him hold up our feet to be shod and he will see which foot it is we go
lame on. All I say is, that if my master would take my advice, we
would now be afield, redressing outrages and righting wrongs, as is
the use and custom of good knights errant."

Scarcely had Sancho spoken these words, when Rocinante commenced to
neigh; and how could this be interpreted to be anything else than a
good omen? In an instant Don Quixote had resolved to sally forth again
in a few days. The bachelor warned him this time to expose himself to
no such tremendous risks as on his previous sallies, and begged him to
remember always, his life was no longer his own, but was dedicated to
those in need and in despair.

"There is what I abominate, Señor Samson," Sancho sustained him. "My
master will attack a hundred men as a greedy boy would half a dozen
melons. Body of the world, Señor bachelor, there is a time to attack
and a time to retreat!"

And here it was that Sancho felt it a solemn duty to himself and his
wife and offspring to come to a definite understanding with his master
regarding his position in battle. He wanted it stipulated that his