The Story of Don Quixote
by Arvid Paulson, Clayton Edwards, and Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
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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 Dona 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 Dona 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 Dona 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 Dona 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."



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!"



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. Dona 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.



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?

"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 Dona 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, senor curate, senor 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?"



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.



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.



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.



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, Senor 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.




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.



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.



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.



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, Senor Samson," Sancho sustained him. "My master will attack a hundred men as a greedy boy would half a dozen melons. Body of the world, Senor 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 master was to do all the fighting. He would willingly look after his master's and Rocinante's comfort, and keep them clean, but when it came to drawing sword, he would leave that honor to Don Quixote, he declared. He would do his duty so well that it would be worth a kingdom as well as an island, both of which he would gladly accept.

The bachelor, having recommended Saragossa and the kingdom of Aragon as hotbeds of adventure, Don Quixote thanked him and asked him whether he was a poet; to which the bachelor replied that he was not one of the famous ones. Don Quixote explained that he wanted a most original idea of his carried out in poetry. Could Samson write a poem of love in such a manner as to have the first letters of each line, reading downward, form the name of his beloved one, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso? Samson promised he would try, but Don Quixote replied: "It must be done by some means or other, for unless the name stands there plain and manifest, no woman would believe the verses were made for her." And so the bachelor promised to do it, and to have them ready before the day of the departure, which would be on the third day.

Don Quixote extracted a promise from Samson to keep his intentions a secret; and he and Sancho took leave of him, Don Quixote promising he would not fail to send him word of his conquests. Sancho in the meantime went home and began preparations for their second quest of adventure.



When Sancho came home that evening, his wife noticed at once by his mood that something out of the ordinary had happened to him. After much persuasion, he finally told her that he had made up his mind to go out in the world again with his master, looking for strange adventures, during which, he said, he hoped to come across another hundred crowns that he would bring home to her. Then Sancho proceeded to tell his wife of his great plans for the future, when he became ruler of his island. Their daughter, Maria, he was going to marry off to some great count; his wife would be Dona Teresa Panza, and he pictured her already, dressed according to richest fashion, sitting in her pew in church, surrounded by cushions and pillows, and walking on a red plush carpet. And as to his son, he should, of course, as was the custom, follow his father's trade; so what was he to do but be a ruler?

But everything that her illustrious husband proposed, Teresa Panza only sneered at; and this angered Sancho, who thought she might be more appreciative. Certainly not every husband in their village offered to do as much for his wife and family. And so they began to quarrel with each other, Sancho using—as he invariably did with his master—all the proverbs he had ever heard, to defeat the arguments his wife put forward, enforced in the same manner. But when her good Sancho finally lost his patience with her entirely, she gave in and promised to go so far as to send their young son to him—that his father might train him in the business of government—as soon as Sancho, as the governor of the island, should send his wife the necessary money. Sancho charged her particularly with the task of seeing that the son on his departure should be dressed as a prince of the blood.

And all the while poor Teresa Panza was receiving her husband's instructions as to herself and her two children, she was bemoaning and struggling against their fate in her heart; and at last she burst into bitter tears. Seeing her in such agony because he had predestined that their daughter Maria was to marry a mighty count instead of a poor peasant boy, Sancho tried to soothe her feelings by telling her that he would try to put off the day of the wedding as long as possible; and this promise seemed to cheer Teresa Panza to some extent, for she dried her tears.

Having accomplished so much, Sancho then went back to his master's house to talk over some things of importance with him.



While Sancho and his wife were flinging proverbs at each other at home, there was another scene of unrest at Don Quixote's house. The housekeeper had had a premonition of her master's impending expedition, and soon perceived by his actions that she had not been alarmed in vain. She and the niece employed all possible means to restrain him from faring forth; but to all their admonitions and advice and prayers he made the same reply: that there must be knights errant in the world to defend the weak and virtuous and to punish arrogance and sin, and that he was the one to set the world aright on that score. And when his niece began to bewail his stubbornness and called down the wrath of heaven upon all tales of chivalry, he threatened to chastise her for uttering such blasphemies. Then he burst into a tirade on things and usages pertaining to chivalry, a discourse so saturated with knowledge that it called forth a cry of astonishment, a wail of disappointment, and a sigh of pity from the niece, to whom it suddenly seemed that her uncle had missed his vocation in life when he did not become a preacher.

This drove Don Quixote to discourse on almost everything under the sun, and he finished up by reciting poetry, at which the niece became terror-stricken from superstition, and exclaimed that her uncle knew everything in the world. She even dared to suppose he knew something about masonry and could build a house. This daring thought of hers he immediately corroborated by saying that if he were not so occupied with dealing out justice to the world, there would be nothing he could not do, from building cages to making toothpicks.

Just then there was a knock at the door. It was Sancho Panza. As soon as the housekeeper learned it was he, she fled from the room, for she had grown to detest him like sin itself. The niece opened the door for him, and he hastened to his master's room, where he was welcomed by Don Quixote. And soon they were in the midst of a conversation, which took place behind locked doors.



As soon as the housekeeper heard Don Quixote turn the key in the door, she realized the urgency of the situation, put on her shawl, and ran to the house of the bachelor Samson Carrasco. She knew that her master had taken a fancy to this learned young man and thought he might be able to persuade him to give up the crazy idea. She fell on her knees before Samson and told him in excited language that her master had broken out again.

"Where is he breaking out?" asked the roguish bachelor.

"He is breaking out at the door of his madness," replied the bewildered housekeeper. "I mean he is going to break out again, for the third time, to hunt all over the world for what he calls adventures."

And then she went on to say that his first sally ended in his being brought back home, slung across the back of a donkey. The second time he made his entry into the village in an ox-cart, shut up in a cage, and looking so worn and emaciated that his own mother would not have known him. The last escapade had been an extremely expensive one, for it had taken no less than six hundred eggs to cover up his bones again.

The bachelor quieted the housekeeper, and promised her to do all he could for her master. Then he advised her to return home and prepare something hot for breakfast, and on her way home to repeat the prayer of Santa Appolonia. He himself would be there in time for breakfast, he said. The housekeeper remonstrated with the bachelor for prescribing the prayer of Santa Appolonia, which, she declared, was for toothache and not for brains; but Samson told her to do as he bade her, reminding her that he was a learned bachelor of Salamanca and knew what he was talking about. The housekeeper then left, saying her prayer, and the bachelor went to look for the curate that they might decide what to do.

In the meantime Don Quixote and Sancho were discussing what the future was holding for them, and Sancho gave the glad news to his master that he had induced his wife to sanction his departure and his becoming governor. Sancho was very much annoyed by his master's continual interruptions and corrections. Whenever Sancho would misuse or abuse a word, as he did in almost every sentence, Don Quixote would stop and ask him what he meant, until poor Sancho was so confused that he did not know what he had meant. Finally Don Quixote asked him to tell him all that his wife had said, and as soon as Sancho had a chance to use proverbs again, he felt more at home. "Teresa says," he repeated, "that I should make sure with your Worship, and let papers speak and beards be still. One take is better than two I'll give thee's."

"And so say I," said Don Quixote. "Continue, Sancho my friend. Go on; thou talkest pearls to-day."

"The fact is," continued Sancho, "that, as your Worship knows better than I do, we are all of us liable to death, and to-day we are, and to-morrow we are not. The lamb goes as soon as the sheep, and nobody can promise himself more hours of life in this world than God may be pleased to give him; for death is deaf, and when it comes to knock at our life's door, it is always insistent, and neither prayers, nor struggles, nor scepters, nor miters, can keep it back, as they tell us from the pulpits every day."

Here Don Quixote felt he ought to ask a question. "Sancho," said he, "all that is true; but what art thou driving at?"

And then came the reason for all these long-winded preliminaries. Sancho wanted his master to make definite arrangements with him for compensation. But here was the drawback. Don Quixote could recall no incident in any of the many books he had read, when a knight errant had given his squire fixed wages. How could he possibly establish a precedent now? And so it became his sad and solemn duty to refuse his squire's miserly request, and inform him that his services were no longer wanted. Not only that, but our valiant hero was cruel enough to remark that there would be any number of people who would be only too eager to serve him; and, what was more, he was convinced that no one could be less careful and diligent, or more thick-headed and talkative than Sancho.

Poor Sancho stood thunderstruck. He had expected his master would address him in a much more gracious manner; and had taken for granted that his own person was indispensable to his master. As he stood there gaping in amazement, the bachelor, Samson, suddenly entered, followed by the niece and the housekeeper. Samson threw himself on his knees before the knight, passionately declaiming:

"O flower of knight-errantry! O shining light of arms! O honor and mirror of the Spanish nation! May God Almighty grant that any person or persons who would impede or hinder thy third sally, may find no way out of the labyrinth of their schemes, nor ever accomplish what they most desire!"

Then he rose and turned to the housekeeper, who was distressed and astonished beyond words, telling her it was no use gainsaying her master; that he had made up his mind, and no Santa Appolonia or any other prayer would cause him to change it. Whereupon he addressed Don Quixote again in the same lofty way, and slyly asked him whether he would deign to accept him as his squire or as his meanest servant.

Sancho's eyes nearly bulged out of his head at this, and filled with tears. Fearing that he might lose both his master and his island, he embraced Don Quixote's knees and kissed his hand, begging Don Quixote not to give him up. Then he began to plead with him to leave the village at once. Don Quixote, having taken the squire into his fold again, embraced him, and then conferred with the bachelor and decided that they would set out three days hence. Samson promised to obtain a helmet for Don Quixote before the departure.

In the meantime the bachelor had daily conferences with the curate and the barber. The niece and the housekeeper were cursing the evil and learned bachelor of Salamanca, and hardly slept at night for fear that Don Quixote would steal away in the darkness.

Finally the night of the third day arrived, and Don Quixote and Sancho, accompanied by Samson, quietly and secretly stole out of the village, in the direction of El Toboso. When they had ridden half a league, Samson wished the knight errant godspeed, embraced him tenderly, begged him to let him hear of his good fortune, and then he returned to the village.



Scarcely had Samson departed before Rocinante began to neigh, and Dapple, Sancho's donkey, to bray; and these animal expressions, considering the time, and the road they were taking, were interpreted by their respective masters to be omens of good luck. But it so happened that Dapple kept up his braying. As a matter of fact he brayed so much louder than the emaciated Rocinante could neigh that the superstitious Sancho took it for a sign that his own good fortune would be ever so much greater than that of his master, though he was considerate enough to say nothing about it to him.

Night soon began to fall, and the conversation between master and squire turned to Don Quixote's incomparable love, whom he had never seen in the flesh, and to whose abode he was now making this pilgrimage in the dark, that he might be blessed by her before going into new battles.

Sancho was beginning to worry that his imagination, with which he was not overburdened, would give out; for with every new question of his master's he had to give a fresh answer, and he was in a deadly fear that Don Quixote might discover that he had never been at El Toboso with the letter to his Lady Dulcinea. Again Don Quixote asked his squire to repeat how he had been received when he had brought her the message of his master's penance in the wilderness, but it infuriated him that Sancho should insist on her having been sifting wheat instead of pearls on that occasion. The courtyard wall mentioned by his squire must, of course, have been a portico, or corridor, or gallery of some rich and royal palace, only Sancho's language was so limited he could not express himself or describe things properly. Or perhaps that infernal enchanter had been busy again, and made things appear in different shapes before his squire's eyes.

What his master said made Sancho's thought suddenly turn to the book which the bachelor Samson had spoken of, and he began to worry that some enchanter might have misrepresented his true character in its pages. He felt it his place and duty to defend himself aloud against any such evil; and having his master as audience, he proceeded to carry out this thought, which, however, he abandoned towards the end in favor of a careless independence: "But let them say what they like; naked was I born, naked I find myself. I neither lose nor gain. When I see myself put into a book and passed on from hand to hand all over the world, I don't care a fig. Let them say what they like of me!"

Perhaps what Sancho had just said made Don Quixote's thoughts drift out into the world, which was now being stirred by the accounts of his greatness, for he fell into contemplation on all the tombs and monuments to the great men of past ages. He touched upon the tombs of some who had become saints, when suddenly Sancho shot this question to him out of a clear sky: "Tell me, which is the greater work, to bring a dead man to life or to kill a giant?"

Don Quixote was dumfounded by his squire's suddenness, but replied: "The answer is easy. It is a greater work to bring to life a dead man."

"Now I have got you!" Sancho exclaimed. Then he divulged his longing, which he wanted his master to share, to become a saint; viewing a saint's life from all sides, he had come to the conclusion that it was a much more peaceful life than that of a roving knight errant, who had to be up at all hours and out in all sorts of weather.

But his master answered laconically: "We cannot all be friars." And then he went on to say that the number of knights errant in the world, deserving that name, was a very small one; that, as a matter of truth, knight-errantry, was a religion. But Sancho, stubborn as usual, insisted that there were more friars in heaven than knights errant. In this way they passed that night and the following day, without any trace of excitement or adventure.

Finally, at daybreak on the second day, they approached the great city of El Toboso; and Sancho's worries increased as they came closer to the place where the heart of the peerless Dulcinea was beating—for what was he going to say or do when his master wanted to meet his beloved one? Don Quixote decided to await dusk before entering the city, and they spent the day resting in the shade of some oak-trees outside the town.



It was midnight when they rode into El Toboso. It was a very dark night, so Sancho could not be blamed for not finding the house in the darkness. They were greeted by a multitude of noises: barking dogs, braying asses, mewing cats, and grunting pigs; noises that seemed like an ill omen to Don Quixote. He suddenly turned to Sancho and said: "Sancho, my son, lead on to the place of Dulcinea. It may be that we shall find her awake."

"Body of the sun! What palace am I to lead to, when what I saw Her Highness in was only a very little house?" exclaimed the squire.

"Most likely she had then withdrawn into some small apartment of her palace," said Don Quixote, "to amuse herself with her damsels, as great ladies and princesses are accustomed to do."

Here Sancho told his master to have it his own way, but asked him whether he thought it in conformity with the behavior of a gentleman to go around in the middle of the night knocking at people's doors. Don Quixote dispensed with the discussion of this particular point; all he wanted to do, he said, was to find the house. Then they could discuss how to proceed. So they roamed about the city, Don Quixote insisting that first one house and then another was the palace of his love, until they finally hit upon the great tower of the church. At last he had found it, he declared. Here was where she dwelt, he was quite sure.

But Sancho, hearing this and seeing it was a church, began to feel ill at ease, for his superstitious soul did not like the idea of walking across a graveyard at such an hour of the night. He quickly told his master, he was now certain that the Lady Dulcinea lived in an alley, a kind thought which was rewarded by a fierce outburst from Don Quixote.

"The curse of God on thee for a blockhead!" he exclaimed. "Where hast thou ever heard of castles and royal palaces being built in alleys?"

"I wish I saw the dogs eating it for leading us such a dance," was all that Sancho said in reply.

But evidently this was not a pleasing answer to Don Quixote, for he admonished his squire: "Speak respectfully of what belongs to my lady; let us keep the feast in peace, and not throw the rope after the bucket!"

Sancho muttered something about how he could be expected to find, in the dark of night, a house he had only seen once in his lifetime, when his master, who must have seen it hundreds of times, could not recognize it. To this his master retorted wearily that he had told him a thousand times that he was enamored only by hearsay, and had never visited Dulcinea in her palace.

At this moment a laborer on his way to his work came along on the road, singing a dreary song. It was only another omen to Don Quixote that his efforts to approach his lady would not be crowned with success that night. He asked the man to direct him to the palace of his princess, but the laborer turned out to be a stranger, having only just come to the city.

Don Quixote was grieved that he could not find Dulcinea, and when Sancho suggested that they withdraw from the city and develop a plan for seeing her, he was ready to accept it. So they left El Toboso and hid in a forest nearby. There it was decided that Sancho should return to the city as the messenger of love for his master.



Don Quixote instructed Sancho to ask his lady for an audience for him, and he begged his squire to observe every little change in her expression and demeanor, that he might tell him about it afterward. Sancho then set off on Dapple; but as soon as he was out of sight, he dismounted, seated himself on the ground, and took measure of the situation aloud. In a meditative soliloquy he discussed with himself the problem that was his, and he finally reasoned that there was a remedy for everything except death. If his master could take windmills for giants, and a flock of sheep for an army, why could he not take black for white, and any country lass that came along, for his princess? Having reached this satisfactory conclusion, he decided to remain where he was till in the afternoon, in which time he could reasonably have gone to El Toboso and returned.

As the afternoon arrived, three country girls came along on their donkeys, on the road from the city. The moment Sancho saw them, he mounted his ass and returned to find his master, who nearly went out of his head with joy, and promised Sancho the three next foals from his three mares, when his squire told him that the Lady Dulcinea was coming to see him, accompanied by two of her ladies-in-waiting. And then the lying Sancho went on to describe them: how they were robed in richest brocade, and weighted down with jewels—precious stones and pearls. But when Don Quixote saw the three peasant girls approach, he said he could see nothing but three jackasses and three girls. Any princess, or any one like one, he failed to see. Finally Sancho persuaded him to believe that those he saw were really three ladies, one of them being the Peerless One, who had come to bestow her blessing upon him. And so Don Quixote fell on his knees in the dust of the road before the girls, giving vent to his immeasurable gratitude to her, his queen, who had come all this distance to give him her blessing.

When the ugly peasant girl heard herself called a queen and Dulcinea, she thought that Don Quixote was trying to play a joke on her, so she got angry, and yelled to him: "Get out of the way, bad luck to you, and let us pass, for we are in a hurry!" and left the astonished knight crawling in the dust.

Sancho had also fallen to his knees, to help his master in his plea for blessing, and he called out after the peasant girls: "Oh, princess and universal lady of El Toboso, is not your heart softened by seeing the pillar and prop of knight-errantry on his knees before your sublimated presence?"

When the wenches were out of sight, Don Quixote turned to his squire and bemoaned, cast-down, his evil fate, and the length his sage enemy would go to gain his ends. The very worst thing of all, he said, was that the evil enchanter had turned his Dulcinea into an ugly peasant, who smelled of garlic. And while Don Quixote was thus complaining, Sancho struggled to hide his laughter, happy to have saved himself and to have played such a joke on his master.

At last Don Quixote was ready to mount his hack, and they steered their beasts in the direction of Saragossa.



Sancho did his best to imbue his master with a new inspiration; for Don Quixote was a sorry sight as he was riding along on his hack. The enchantment of his Dulcinea had been a great blow to him. He fell into a sort of meditative slumber, from which he would rouse himself only now and then. Suddenly, however, he was fully awake, for on the road he saw before his very eyes a cart with Death on the front seat, and drawn by mules that were being led by the Devil himself.

As soon as the knight could gather his senses, he distinguished the rest of the strange company that occupied the cart. Next to Death sat an ugly angel with wings, and on the other side Don Quixote observed an emperor with a crown of gold on his head. Then he discovered Cupid—who was a god—and a knight with plumes in his hat. There were a number of other figures, all weird and awe-inspiring, in strange costumes and with curious faces, and when Sancho saw them he turned as pale as Death himself, and his teeth began to chatter from fright. Even Don Quixote was more than startled, but his heroism soon asserted itself, and he was quickly himself again, glad to sense another adventure. He gave Rocinante the spur, the lean hack sprang forward to the cart at a sickly gallop, and Don Quixote exclaimed: "Carter or coachman, or devil or whatever thou art, tell me at once who thou art, whither thou art going, and who these folk are thou carriest in thy wagon, which looks more like Charon's boat than an ordinary cart!"

To this challenge the devil responded on behalf of himself and his fellow-travelers, explaining that they were harmless players of Angulo el Malo's company; that they had been acting the play of "The Cortes of Death" in the village from which they had just come; and since they had to act the same play in a village nearby in the afternoon, they wished to save themselves the trouble of making up twice, by remaining in their costumes. The devil was extremely polite and offered to give Don Quixote any information he could, adding that, being the devil, he was up to everything; besides he played the leading parts, he said. Don Quixote told them how disappointed he was that this had not turned out to be another adventure; then he wished them a happy journey, saying that ever since he was a child he had been an admirer of the actor and fond of his art.

As they were about to take leave, one of the mummers, with three blown ox-bladders at the end of a stick, came up and banged them against the ground under Rocinante's nose; and the frightened animal set off across the plain as if he had been shot out of a cannon, taking the bit in his teeth. Sancho was so certain his master would be thrown that he left his donkey and ran as fast as he could after Rocinante. But when he reached Don Quixote, the knight was already on the ground and with him Rocinante, whose legs always seemed to give away after a sudden strain.

Now, as soon as Sancho had run away from Dapple, the crazy devil with the bladders was on his back tickling his ears with them, and the donkey flew across the fields toward the village as if beset.

Seeing his faithful one running away, Sancho was in mortal agony, as well as in a quandary, for he did not know whether to attend to the donkey or his master first. Finally he found his love for human beings was the greater, and rushed to his master's side. When he had helped him to mount, he told him that the devil had run away with Dapple. Immediately Don Quixote was ready to pursue the enemy; but just then the squire saw his Dapple come running back, and cautioned his master to be meek.

But Don Quixote was eager to give the mummer a lesson in courtesy, even, as he said, if he had to visit his sin upon the rest of the company, not barring the Emperor himself. Sancho did his best to warn his master that there was great danger in meddling with actors, as they were a favored class; but had the King himself interfered in their behalf, it would not have stayed the hand of the errant revenger.

So Don Quixote drew forth, and caught up with the cart as it was close to the village. He commanded the players to halt, saying he wanted to teach them how to be courteous to donkeys and animals that served squires and knights errant for steeds. The merrymakers could tell by his stentorian tone that he was not jesting, so they all quickly jumped out of the cart and armed themselves with stones.

By this time Sancho had reached the scene of action, and as soon as he saw the threatening attitude of the strollers, he begged his master not to fight against either Death or the angels, particularly since neither one of them was a knight errant; nor was there any one in the whole company who was. This point Don Quixote thought was wisely taken, and he ordered his squire to fight the battle himself. But Sancho said he preferred to show a Christian spirit and forgive, and promised his master he would come to an agreement with his donkey to leave his end of the grievance to the squire's goodwill.

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