The Story of Don Quixote
by Arvid Paulson, Clayton Edwards, and Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
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Don Quixote told his squire he was certain that the inn was an enchanted castle, and blamed his transgressions of the laws of chivalry for all their mishaps; for he imagined that, had he abstained from laying hands on the rabble and base folk, these would not have occurred. His being unable to get out of the saddle and climb over the wall, he ascribed to enchantment as well. Sancho thought this might be the moment for reforming his master. He suggested that it was harvest time at home; and reminded the knight of the fact that of all his battles he had come out victorious but once, when he fought with the Biscayan, and then with half of his ear lost, not to speak of all the damage done to his armor.

But Don Quixote was in no mood to contemplate past disasters, for in the distance he suddenly perceived rising clouds of dust, and what could it be but two opposing armies making ready for battle; since the clouds were seen on either side of the road! He made Sancho believe they were the great armies of the mighty emperor Alifanfaron and his enemy, the king of the Garamantas, Pentapolin of the Bare Arm, explaining—on seeing a bare-armed shepherd—that this lord always went into battle in this manner.

Sancho Panza asked what they should do. His master replied that their duty was clear: they should, of course, help the weak and needy. Then he went on to explain that the reason for the feud was the pagan Alifanfaron's wish to marry the beautiful and Christian daughter of Pentapolin, and her father's refusal to sanction the marriage unless the emperor became a convert. Immediately Sancho's instinct for righteousness made him declare himself for Pentapolin, and he wanted to fight for him. This spirit pleased Don Quixote tremendously, for, he said, it was not required of dubbed knights to engage in feuds of this sort; thus Sancho would have a chance to distinguish himself all alone.

Scratching his head, Sancho now began to worry about his faithful donkey, for he believed it was not good taste to go into battle mounted on an ass, and if he dismounted, he was afraid his Dapple would be lost in the ensuing tumult. Don Quixote, however, calmed his fears. There would be hundreds of riderless horses after the battle, from which both of them might choose; and he asked Sancho to follow him to a hill nearby that he might point out to his valiant squire the great and illustrious knights of the two armies. He cried out name after name, the last one always more illustrious than the previous one. But Sancho could see nothing but the two flocks of sheep and the shepherds, and he said so.

"How can you say that!" cried Don Quixote. "Do you not hear the neighing of the steeds, the braying of the trumpets, the roll of the drums?"

Sancho answered in despair that he could hear nothing but the bleating of ewes and sheep. To this his master explained that often fear deranged the senses and made things appear different from what they were. Therefore, being certain that Sancho had suddenly become possessed of fear, he put the spurs in Rocinante and charged down the hill like a flash of lightning, determined to down the pagan emperor.

Lifting his lance, he galloped into the midst of the sheep, and commenced spearing right and left. The shepherds, panic-stricken, used their slings. Stones hit his head and body, but it was not until a large one struck him in the ribs that he imagined himself really wounded. He stopped in the midst of the furious battle, and suddenly remembering his flask of balsam, drew it out, put it to his mouth, and was about to swallow a quantity of it when there came a stone that took the flask out of his hand, and another one that smashed out three or four of his teeth. Don Quixote was so astonished and the force of the blow was so sudden that he lost his reins and fell backwards off his horse. When the shepherds came up and saw what they had done to him, they quickly gathered their flocks and hastened away, taking with them the seven sheep that Don Quixote killed with his spear.

During this rampage, Sancho Panza was nearly beside himself where he stood on the hill. He was tearing his hair and beard, wishing he had never laid eyes on his master, and berating himself for ever having joined in his mad adventures. When the shepherds had disappeared, he ran to his master's side.

"Did I not tell your worship," he reproached the prostrate knight, "that they were not armies, but droves of sheep!"

But again our hero blamed his misfortune on his arch-enemy, that cursed Sage Friston, who had falsified the armies in such a way that they looked like meek and harmless sheep. Then he begged his squire to pursue the enemy by stealth that he might ascertain for himself that what he had said was true; for he was sure that ere they had gone very far they would resume their original shape.

However, before Sancho Panza had time to make up his mind whether to go or not, his master's sip of the balsam during the battle suddenly began to take effect, and Sancho's presence became for the moment a necessity. Having gone through this ordeal, Don Quixote rose and asked his squire for a remedy for hunger. It was then they discovered that the alforjas had disappeared, with all its precious contents. Both were dejected. Don Quixote tried to impart, out of the abundance of his optimism for the future, new hope to the discouraged Sancho. It was a difficult task, and he might have failed, had not the loss of his teeth and the sorry plight he was in made Sancho sway from his intentions of home-going. When, at his master's request, the squire put his finger in Don Quixote's mouth in order to learn the extent of the damage done in that region of his body, his heart was touched by the terrible devastation there. He could not, of course, leave his master to shift for himself on the highways in such a condition. So he consented to remain, and they proceeded along the road, hoping that they would soon come to a place where they could find shelter for the night, as well as something with which to still their hunger.



Night had fallen, yet they had discovered no place of refuge. Suddenly, in the darkness, they saw a number of lights that came closer and closer without their being able to make out what it was. Sancho commenced to shake like a leaf, and even Don Quixote was frightened and muttered a paternoster between his teeth while his hair stood on end. They withdrew to the roadside, from where they soon distinguished twenty bodies on horseback, all dressed in white shirts, and carrying lighted torches in their hands. With chattering teeth Sancho stared at this awe-inspiring procession, which was not yet at an end, for behind the mounted bodies there came others, these in black and on mule-back, and surrounding a bier, covered with a large black cloth. All the while a quiet, solemn mumbling came from the moving figures, and Sancho Panza was now so stricken with fear that he was almost paralyzed.

Don Quixote's courage—which likewise had been rather shaky at this passing of ghostlike beings, at such a time of the night—suddenly revived and mounted to such heights that he decided he would ask where they were carrying the wounded king on the bier. This he did without delay. But such a question seemed silly and out of place to one of the guardians of the corpse, and he commanded the knight to move on. This angered Don Quixote beyond measure. He seized the man's mule by the bridle; but this, in turn, annoyed the mule, which rose on its hind legs and flung its rider to the ground. Another man came up to Don Quixote and tried to talk reason to him, but to no avail, and in the disturbance that followed the procession was soon scattered over the fields and plains, with torches glimmering from all points like so many eyes in the black night.

While our knight errant was lunging with his spear in all directions, the meek followers of the dead body became ensnared in their skirts and gowns and long white shirts, and fell head over heels wherever they happened to be, in ditch or field. Moans, groans, and prayers were intermingled, and they all were convinced that the procession had been interrupted by the devil himself, come to carry away the body of the dead man.

When the battle had ceased, Don Quixote approached the man who was flung by his mule, to make him his prisoner. The poor man declared that Don Quixote had made a grave mistake; that the dead man was not a king and had not fallen in battle, but a gentleman who had died from fever; and he himself was a poor servant of the Holy Church who could harm no one. On hearing this confession Don Quixote made a slight apology for having mistaken him in the dark for something evil, if not for the very devil, explaining that since it was his sworn duty to right all wrongs, he had only set out to do so. But the worthy ecclesiastic was not easily appeased, and before making his departure, he unceremoniously excommunicated his attacker in flowing and flourishing Latin.

Sancho, moved by a desire to alleviate the sting of the outburst, called out after him: "If the gentleman should wish to know who was the hero who served them thus, your worship may tell them he is the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called the Knight of the Rueful Countenance."

Don Quixote asked his squire why he called him thus; and Sancho replied that the loss of his teeth had given his master a face so sorry looking that he could find no milder name to describe its ugliness. Don Quixote laughed at the compliment; nevertheless he decided to adopt Sancho's meaning name, and also to have his own rueful face commemorated on his shield at the first opportunity.

After this conversation Sancho persuaded his master to continue their journey; although Don Quixote was eager to view the bones of the deceased man, and Sancho had some difficulty in preventing him from doing so.

Sancho had made his coat into a sack and filled it with the provisions of the clergy; and so, when they arrived in a valley where they found an abundance of grass, they ate all the meals they had been missing. Their repast would have been complete had they had some wine; but they did not have even water.



Sancho's thirst drove him to use his instincts in search for drink. He judged by the rank grass that there must be water nearby. So, leading their mounts, Don Quixote and Sancho came in the darkness to a meadow, and they had gone only a short distance when they heard the welcome sound of falling water. Then suddenly a most tremendous, ear-splitting noise came out of the darkness, a din like the beating of gigantic hammers, and added to this a shifting wind. All these furious sounds, the mystery of them, and the blackness of the night, might have intimidated any heart, however stout; but it only made Don Quixote leap like a flash upon his horse. Turning to Sancho, he cried: "I am he who is to revive the Knights of the Round Table, the Twelve of France, and the Nine Worthies; he who is to consign to oblivion the whole herd of famous knights errant of days gone by; he for whom all great perils and mighty deeds are reserved. Therefore, tighten Rocinante's girth a little, and God be with thee! Wait for me three days and no more. If in that time I come not back, thou canst return to our village, and thence thou wilt go to El Toboso, where thou shalt say to my incomparable Lady Dulcinea that her captive knight hath died in attempting things that might make him worthy of being called her own."

These words made Sancho weep copious tears, and he begged his master not to undertake so dreadful an adventure. He even offered to sacrifice himself to such an extent as to go without water for three days, if his master would only return. When Don Quixote was firm in his resolve, Sancho decided that this was a case where the ends justified the means; therefore while tightening Rocinante's girth, he tied the horse's forelegs, so that when Don Quixote was going to ride off, his charger could move only by fits and starts. The more his rider spurred him, the more impossible it became for Rocinante to stir. Sancho had no great difficulty in persuading his master that this was a sign from above that he ought not to pursue any phantom adventure at that hour of the night, but wait until daybreak. Don Quixote resigned himself to do so, although it nearly made him weep, while Sancho tried to soothe his outraged feelings by telling amusing stories in a laborious way.

At daybreak Sancho stole over to Rocinante and untied his legs. The horse immediately became spirited, and when Don Quixote saw this, he believed it a sign from heaven. Again he took a touching leave of his squire—who began to cry, as he had done before—and gave the spur to his steed. Sancho was resolved to follow his master to the end, so he took his donkey by the halter, as was his custom, and led him on foot in pursuit of his knight errant.

They passed through a meadow that was fringed with trees, then came upon some huge rocks with cascades of water pouring over them. Below stood a row of dilapidated houses. It was from these houses that the din and noise emanated. As Rocinante came close to the racket, he began to make hysterical movements, pirouetting backward and forward, and Don Quixote crossed himself, commending himself to God and his Lady Dulcinea.

Coming up cautiously from behind the houses, Don Quixote peered around the corner, and there beheld the cause of the awe-inspiring din—six hammers of the kind that were used in mills.

Sancho could not help himself. He burst into uncontrollable laughter, shaking from head to foot. Don Quixote was mortified with shame and astonishment. And when he heard Sancho's laughter behind him, he broke into a rage, during which he repeated almost every word he had spoken the night before, when he was about to ride away to adventure on a three-legged horse. But Sancho was helpless. Four distinct times he broke into a fit of mirth, and finally his master struck him a blow on the body with his spear. Then he calmed down, and Don Quixote scolded him for his hilarity, saying that no such familiarity would be tolerated in the future. He quoted various chapters from books of chivalry, and cited Gandalin, squire to Amadis of Gaul. There, he said, was a model squire, for he would always address his lord with cap in hand, his head bowed down and his body bent double. And there were many others to look to. He mentioned a few, the most shining examples. Then he decreed that from that day on respect must be the barrier between squire and knight in all their intercourse. He spoke also about his squire's wages and the treasures and islands that were to be his in time to come. He told Sancho not to worry, for if he should not pay him his wages, he had at any rate mentioned him in his will. From the first he had considered everything; he knew the world, and what a hazardous task he had set before himself.



It started to rain, and Sancho suggested the fulling-mills as a place of refuge; but Don Quixote had taken such an aversion to them that he would not listen to it, and they continued riding, taking the roadway.

Suddenly they saw a man on horseback, who had on his head something that shone like gold, and at once Don Quixote exclaimed: "There comes towards us one who wears on his head the helmet of Mambrino, concerning which I took the oath thou rememberest."

Sancho's only reply to this was that he did not want anything more to do with any fulling-mills; and his master entirely failed to fathom the connection. Sancho then said he could plainly see that the man's horse was an ass and that the man had something on his head that shone.

The truth of the matter was that in the neighborhood were two villages so small that the apothecary and barbershop in one of them had to serve for both. The village barber had just been summoned to shave and bleed a patient in the adjoining community, so he mounted his ass, armed with a brass basin for the bleeding, and set off. He had got about half-way, when it commenced to rain. Having a new hat, he covered it with the clean basin, that glittered like gold.

But Don Quixote had more sense than his squire, of course, and pursued the unknown knight with the helmet at Rocinante's wildest gallop. When the fear-stricken barber realized that Don Quixote's uplifted spear was aimed at him, he promptly threw himself from his ass and ran all the way home without stopping, leaving his brass basin behind as a trophy for our hero, who could not understand why this helmet had no visor.

"That pagan must have had a very large head," remarked Don Quixote, turning the basin round and round, trying to fit it to his own head, now this way, now that.

"It looks exactly like a barber's basin," said Sancho Panza, who had all he could do to keep from bursting into laughter.

Don Quixote treated this blasphemous thought with scorn, and said he would stop at the next smithy to have its shape changed. His next concern was his stomach; and when they found that the barber's ass carried ample supplies, they soon satisfied their appetites. Sancho now turned the conversation to the rest of the spoils of war; but Don Quixote was unable to make up his mind that it was chivalrous to exchange a bad ass for a good one, as was his squire's wish; so Sancho had to satisfy himself with the barber's trappings.

Then they set out again. Soon Sancho felt the need of unburdening something he had had on his heart for some time. He suggested that instead of roaming about seeking adventures which no one ever witnessed and which therefore remained unsung and unheralded, they go and serve some great emperor engaged in war, so that their achievements and valor might go down to posterity. This struck a resonant chord in his master's heart. In fact, he went into raptures over it, and commenced to rant about all the great honors the future had in store for the Knight of the Rueful Countenance. He cunningly surmised that their first task would be to find a king who had an uncommonly beautiful daughter, for of course he had to marry a princess first of all. The plan excited him to such an extent that for a moment he forgot about the existence of his Dulcinea. The only thing that worried him was his royal lineage; he could not think of any emperor or king whose second cousin he might be. Yet he decided not to trouble too much about that; for were there not two kinds of lineages in the world? And Love always worked wonders: it had since the beginning of time. What would the princess care, if he were a water-carrier's son? And if his future father-in-law should object, all he would have to do would be to carry her off by force.

As Don Quixote went on picturing himself in the most romantic roles in the history of this as yet unknown kingdom, Sancho began to think it was time for him to be considered as well, when it came to bestowals of honor. Once he had been beadle of a brotherhood, and he had looked so well in a beadle's gown, he said, that he was afraid his wife would burst with pride when she saw him in a duke's robe, with gold and lace and precious stones. Don Quixote thought so, too, but admonished him that he would have to shave his beard oftener, as it was most unkempt. Sancho replied that would be an easy matter, for he would have a barber of his own, as well as an equerry; he knew that all men of fame kept such a man, for once in Madrid he had seen a gentleman followed by a man on horseback as if he had been his tail. He inquired why the gentleman was being followed in that manner and learned it was his equerry. Don Quixote thought Sancho's idea to have a barber was an excellent one, and Sancho urged his master to make haste and find him his island, that he might roll in his glory as a count or a duke.



Hardly had they finished their conversation, when a gang of convicts came along on the road, guarded by two men on horseback and two on foot.

"Galley-slaves," remarked Sancho Panza laconically.

"If they are going against their own free will, it is a case for the exercise of my office," answered Don Quixote.

He approached their custodians and asked to know what crimes these men had committed against his majesty the King. They answered it was not his business.

"Nevertheless, I should like to know," insisted Don Quixote, and he used such choice and magic language that one of the guards was induced to give him permission to ask each one of the men about his crime and sentence.

Don Quixote had questioned every one but the twelfth, and when he came to him he found that he was chained in a way different from the rest. This prisoner was a man of thirty, and crossed-eyed. His body was weighted down by very large irons and especially heavy chains, his hands were padlocked and so secured he could not raise them. Don Quixote asked why he was thus overburdened, and got the reply that he had committed more crimes than all the rest together. The guard then told the knight that the man had written a story of his unfinished life, and that he was no other than the famous Gines de Pasamonte. The culprit strongly objected to hearing his identity mentioned, and there ensued a furious battle of words between him and the guard. The latter lost his temper and was about to strike the slave a blow, when Don Quixote interfered, and pleaded for more kindly treatment. It seemed only fair to him that they, with their hands tied, might be permitted a free tongue. He grew fiery in his defense of them, reminded the guard that there was a God in heaven who would punish all sinners. He ended by requesting their immediate release.

This demand seemed worse than absurd to the guard, who wished him godspeed on his journey, advised him to put the basin straight on his head, and told him not to go looking for trouble. This was too much for our knight. He set upon his jesting adversary with such speed and suddenness that the musket fell out of the guard's hand. And the other guards were so taken aback at what was going on, and there was such confusion, that they did not notice Sancho untying the arch-criminal Gines. They suddenly saw him free, and with him the rest of the slaves, who had broken the chain; whereupon the guards fled in all directions as fast as their legs could carry them.

When the fray was over, Don Quixote asked the galley-slaves to gather around him, and to show him reverence for the deed he had done. He further demanded that they, armed with their chains, proceed in a body, to El Toboso to pay their respects to the fair Dulcinea. Gines attempted to explain the necessity of each one hiding himself, separately, in order to escape the pursuers, and offered to send up prayers for her instead; but Don Quixote would not listen to any argument. At last Gines decided he was quite mad, and when Don Quixote started to abuse him, he lost his temper, and they all attacked the knight with a rain of stones, until Rocinante and he both fell to the ground. There they belabored him savagely. Sancho had taken refuge behind his donkey, but the convicts found him, stripped him of his jacket, and left him shivering in the cold.

While Don Quixote lay there, fearing the vengeance of the law and the Holy Brotherhood for what he had done, he was also reviewing in rage the ingratitude of mankind and the perversity of the iron age.



Sancho at last convinced his master that they had best hide in the Sierra Morena mountains for a few days, in case a search should be made for them; and Don Quixote was pleased to find that the provisions carried by Sancho's ass had not disappeared. When night fell they took refuge under some cork-trees between two rocks. Fate would have it that to this very place should come that night the convict Gines. While Sancho was slumbering peacefully, Gines stole his ass; and by daybreak the thief was already far away. Don Quixote, awakened by sorrowful wailing, in order to console his squire, promised him three of his ass-colts at home in exchange. Then Sancho's tears stopped. But he now had to travel on foot behind his master, and he tried to keep up his humor by munching the provisions it had become his lot to carry.

Suddenly he observed that his master had halted, and was poking with his lance into some object lying on the road. He quickly ran up to him and found an old saddle-pad with a torn knapsack tied to it. Sancho opened it covetously and came upon four shirts of excellent material, articles of linen, nearly a hundred gold crowns in a handkerchief, and a richly bound little memorandum book. The little volume was all that Don Quixote kept for himself. Brimful of curiosity, he read it through and learned that it contained the bemoanings of a rejected lover.

Meantime Sancho Panza's great discovery of the gold coins had entirely banished from his memory all the suffering and pain and humiliation he had had to go through since he had became a squire. But Don Quixote was anxious to find out something about the owner of the knapsack, for he was convinced there was some very strange adventure connected with his disappearance. And as he was planning what to do, he perceived on the summit of a great height, a man, half-naked, jumping with remarkable swiftness and agility from rock to rock.

Don Quixote saw no way of getting there, so he stood for some time pondering what to do. Then he saw above him on the mountainside a flock of goats, tended by an elderly goatherd. Calling to him, the knight asked him to come down, and the old man descended, amazed at seeing human beings there. Don Quixote immediately began to ask about 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.



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.



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.



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.



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 roles. 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.



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.



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.



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, senorita, 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.



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.



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.



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 role 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.



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.



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.



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.



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.



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 Dona Clara, the Judge's fair daughter.



Dorothea and the other ladies were in a quandary as to whether to awake Dona 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 Dona 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 Dona 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, senor!"

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.



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.

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